At the gate, he typed in the code for the manual power override, and waited as the bolts unlatched.

The fence went silent.

He shoved the gate open with his boot.

“Go on,” Ethan said. “You’re free now.”

The abby watched him warily as she slunk past, squeezing herself through the opening, out into her world.

“Dad, you think we’ll ever be able to live side by side with them?”

Ten feet out, the abby shot a glance back at Ethan.

Her head tilted.

She watched him for a beat, and he could have sworn she had something to say, her eyes brimming with intelligence and understanding.

There were no words.

But Ethan understood.

And all at once, it came to him.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

He blinked—

And she was gone.

Ethan sat with Theresa on one of the park benches, watching Ben, who stood in the middle of the field, staring up at the sky. A couple hundred feet above, a kite skirted along on the breeze. It had taken the boy several tries to get the kite up and out of the still air near the surface, but the patch of red was now a fixture against the perfect blue, twirling around on the currents.

It was a nice thing to sit and watch a child with a kite, and it was the first morning in days, maybe weeks, that didn’t feel like winter.

“Ethan, that’s insane.”

“If we stay in this valley,” he said, “we all die in a matter of years. There’s not even a question. So why put it to a vote?”

“You let the people decide.”

“What if—”

“You let the people decide.”

“People get it wrong.”

“That’s true, but you have to figure out what kind of a leader you’re going to be.”

“I know what the right decision is, Theresa.”

“So sell your idea to them.”

“It’s a hard sell. It’s risky. And what happens if they make the wrong choice? Even you’re on the fence.”

“It’s our wrong choice to make, honey. If you’re willing to force this on people, then what was the point of ever telling them the truth about Wayward Pines?”

“I caused all of this,” Ethan said. “All the death. The suffering and loss. I turned our lives inside out. Now I just want to fix it.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m terrified.” She took his hand into hers. “You’re not just asking me to trust the people with their fate. You’re asking me to trust them with yours. With Ben’s.” Their son sprinted across the field, dragging the kite behind him, laughing. “The day I broke into the superstructure, Pilcher told me that I would come to understand the things he did. The choices he made.”

“And do you now?”

“I’m starting to feel the weight that was on his shoulders.”