“I know,” Travis says.

“You don't sound as if you believe me,” I say.

“I know,” he responds. “But I do.”

“We will find a way out of this.”

I am about to walk over and grasp his hands, needing him to believe me, when he says, “And then what? What will happen after that?”

“And then we will find a way out of this village and we can go down that path and we can find the outside world,” I say to him in a rush of words. “It's like we always said—”

“It's like you always said,” Travis cuts me off. He won't meet my eyes.

I swallow, the emptiness beginning to fill me again. My heart flutters in my chest; my breath becomes shallow. I let myself fall back against the door.

“Travis, I don't understand. This is what we've talked about since the day on the hill. Since you were at the Cathedral and I told you about the ocean and …” I gesture to his leg and he places a hand over where his wound would be.

“Because I had hoped that it would make you happy,” he says. “Up on that hill, when we finally kissed, I wanted you more than anything else in the world. More than the village or my brother's friendship or my betrothed.” He cringes at the word as if it's bitter on his tongue.

“I still want you more than anything else in the world,” he whispers. “I would still risk it all for you.”

He places his elbows on the table and puts his head in his hands; his fingers dig in his hair. At his side Argos whines, upset at his new master's outburst, upset at the instant instability in the air.

“Then why didn't you come for me?” I say, my voice barely carrying any sound. I clench my fists, the heat and anger and shame of him never coming for me starting to roil in my body.

For a long while he does not speak. And then he asks, “Do you even know how I broke my leg?” I shake my head. He has never told me the story and I never asked, assuming he would tell me when the time was right.

He doesn't raise his head from his hands as he continues. “It was because of the tower. That old watchtower on the hill in the village. I used to climb it and look past the fence and into the Forest and wonder what else was out there in the world. I used to wonder how our little village could be all that was left of the once-great universe. How could we be all that was left? How could we be the ones God would entrust with the future of the human race?” He looks up at me now. “We aren't Noah, we aren't Moses. We aren't prophets. Why us?

“And so I began to wonder why the Sisters would teach us that we were all that was left. That the fence marked the end of the world. And I would climb that tower and I would plan my escape.”