“Like a sudden whoop straight to the heart. They just come clean outta nowhere to steal your breath away and we’re just powerless to do anything other than stand there gawping.”

Peter stepped closer. “Marge. Come with me to the town hall. There’s something you’ve got to see.”

“Forget about it.”

“But everything you’ve just said.”

“I said, forget it.”

“And everything you’re wearing.”

“What does it matter now?”

“But it matters a great deal. We’re getting out of here. Back home on the lake, there’s a cabin perched on a boulder right next to my island. If you lived there we could be neighbours. If you let me, we could be friends.”

“Pah,” said Marge, setting her tin cup down on the desk. “Friends.”

“You can watch every season from the islands. The mountains too. And besides, my dad can’t cope with mending the tree houses all by himself.”

Marge’s chest rose deep beneath her sweater as if the promise of all those hopes and dreams returning to her was so close she could almost reach out and feel the scale of a pine cone beneath her fingertips. But it didn’t last. The tips of her doughy fingers clenched the tin cup until they turned red, and the thought left her.

“You’re too late.”

“No,” said Peter. “No, we’re not. We’re rounding everyone up to leave right now. And you have to come. It isn’t just the getting by. We’ve discovered something worse will happen to everyone if we stay.”

Marge narrowed her eyes, scouring inside him for the things he knew. For the things she already suspected. But she didn’t give in to those feelings. She stood up, withdrawing first her excitement and then eye contact, and quietly put the lid back on top of all that could’ve been.

“The bus is already here.”

The hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stood up. “What bus?”

“The military one come to take everyone over the park borders. They’re taking us into the city. Everyone’s already on board.”

“What do you mean, everyone?”

“What part of everyone don’t you understand?”

“But you’re wearing your park clothes.”

Marge glanced at her sleeping bag. And it was only now that Peter saw the bottle of pills beneath her pillow.

“No, Marge. That’s not the way.”

“Well, it’s my way.”

“But we’re here now.”

“And you’re too late.”

“We’ve come to take you back.”

“And so have they.”

“But they can’t have you,” said Peter. “They can’t have any of us. Everyone will die.”

Marge looked at Peter from the other side of the desk and smiled a sad smile. “There you are, dear boy,” she said. “The fight, come at last. What a crying shame you’ve come too late.”