“I don’t think it’s inside the fence,” he said.

“Let’s get out of here anyway,” she said.

She buttoned up, zipped up.

They started back toward town.

Her body was humming and her head was spinning.

They reached the road and walked down the double yellow line.

Buildings appeared in the distance.

In silence, they headed into Wayward Pines.

She felt reckless but she went on with him.

At the intersection of Sixth and Main, Hassler said, “Can we go see it together?”

“Sure.”

They walked down the sidewalk of their neighborhood.

No one out.

The houses empty and dark.

Everything looked cold and gray and void of life.

“Doesn’t smell like us in here anymore,” he said as they stood at the foot of the stairs in what had once been their yellow Victorian.

He moved into the kitchen, through the dining room, and back out into the hallway.

“I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you, Theresa.”

“You have no idea.”

Hassler emerged out of the shadow of the hall, and when he reached her he went down on one knee.

“I think this is how it’s done, right?” he asked.

“What are you doing, Adam?”

He took her hand.

His were rough, not the hands she remembered. They’d become wiry and hard as steel, and there was dirt from beyond the fence embedded so deep underneath his fingernails she couldn’t imagine it ever washing away.

“Be with me, Theresa, whatever that means in this new world we’re living in.”

Tears dripped off her chin onto the floor.

Her voice trembled.

She said, “I’m already—”

“I know you’re married, I know Ethan’s here, but I don’t give a shit and you shouldn’t either. Life is too hard and too short not to be with the one you love. So choose me.”

IX

IX

ETHAN

ETHAN

Francis Leven lived in a stand-alone structure in a far corner of the ark, built into an overhang in the rock wall. Ethan’s keycard didn’t work on the reader, so he banged his fist against the steel door instead.

“Mr. Leven!”

After a moment, the lock retracted.

The door cracked open.

The man who answered stood barely five feet tall, and he was dressed in a bathrobe, which filth and time had degraded to something less than white. Forty-five or fifty, Ethan guessed, although Leven’s advanced state of dishevelment made that approximation iffy. His dishwater hair was shoulder-length and shiny with grease, and through large blue eyes, he regarded Ethan with unveiled suspicion that bordered on malice.

“What do you want?” Leven asked.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I’m busy. Another time.”

Leven tried to shut the door, but Ethan shoved it open hard and forced his way inside.