“To be honest, I debated even proposing this as a choice. A friend of mine recently said to me that sometimes we find ourselves in situations that are so life and death, one or two strong leaders need to call the shots. But I think we’re all finished with having our lives controlled. I don’t know how, but we’re going to find our way through this. What it comes down to for me is that I’d rather us make bad decisions as a group, than to live in the absence of freedom. That was the old way. That was Pilcher’s way.

“So all I ask is that you hear me out, and then we’ll decide what to do. Together. Like free human beings.”

X

X

ONE MONTH LATER

ONE MONTH LATER

ETHAN

ETHAN

There were still moments like this one, with the power back on and the smell of Theresa’s cooking emanating from the kitchen, when it all felt normal. Like it could’ve been any weeknight in Ethan’s life before.

Ben upstairs in his bedroom.

Ethan sitting in the study, jotting down notes for tomorrow.

Out the window, in the evening light, he could see Jennifer Rochester’s dark house. She’d been killed in the invasion and the recent cold had murdered her garden as well.

But the streetlamps were back on.

The crickets chirping through speakers in a distant bush.

He missed Hecter Gaither’s piano, the sound of it coming through the radios in all the houses of Wayward Pines.

Would’ve loved to lose himself in the music one last time.

For just a moment, sitting in the oversize chair, Ethan shut his eyes and let the normalcy wash over him.

Tried to push their fragility out of his mind.

But it wasn’t possible.

There was no coming to terms with the fact that he was a member of a species on the verge of extinction.

It filled every moment with meaning.

It filled every moment with horror.

He walked into the kitchen to the smell of pasta boiling and spaghetti sauce thickening.

“Smells amazing,” he said.

Moving up behind Theresa at the stove, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck.

“Last meal in Wayward Pines,” she said. “We’re going big tonight. I’m cleaning out the fridge.”

“Put me to work. I can wash those dishes.”

Stirring the sauce, she said, “I think it’s probably all right to leave them.”

Ethan laughed.

Right.

Of course it was.

Theresa wiped her eyes.

“You’re crying,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

He took hold of her arm and turned her gently around, and asked, “What is it?”

“I’m just scared is all.”

It was the last time they would sit together at this dinner table.

Ethan looked at Theresa.

At his son.

He stood.

He raised his water glass.