“You want to leave? But Isaac and Atticus are still missing, and there’s so much more we can do to change things. Mom would want us to—”

“Your mom didn’t care what I wanted.” His tone is icy calm and sends a chill up my spine. “I don’t have to consider what she would want now. My first and only concern is keeping you safe, and we’ll be leaving as soon as Index makes the arrangements. She says lots of people who were once part of these Stewards have started over and are living good lives. We can forget all of this ever happened.”

He glares at all the books haphazardly jammed onto the shelves that line the room, clenches his fists, and walks out.

Leave? Forget? Impossible. I start to chase after him, but he’s too angry to listen. I just need to give him time, I tell myself. The truth is hard to accept. He’ll realize how important this is and understand why I did what I did when people in the city begin to share the truth we gave them.

Later that evening my father stumbles into the third-floor gathering room as the rest of us are watching the evening news. His eyes are unfocused. His face is flushed, and the smile he gives me makes me want to sink to my knees. Everything has changed between us, but nothing has changed at all.

Dewey comes to stand next to me. “John McCain said ‘The truth is sometimes a hard pill to swallow. It sometimes causes difficulties.’” He gestures toward my father. “He tried several times to leave the station today in order to get a drink. He wants to forget. So we gave him what he needed.”

“You did that to him? You gave him a drink?” I lash out. “How could you?”

Dewey sighs. “He was willing to risk all of us—even you—to get what he required. Would you have had me do anything else?”

I don’t know. I want to say that Dad would have never had another drink if Dewey hadn’t given him alcohol today, but wanting something to be true doesn’t mean it is.

“Your father needs time. He’s not the only one.”

I glance around the room. Several sets of angry eyes glower at the screens. We had all hoped that our message would be immediately felt. Now, for some, the hope they had been operating on is fading.

“Dad wants to leave the city,” I say softly. “He’s insisting I leave with him.”

“Perhaps that is what is meant to happen,” Dewey says, nodding to the newscasts. “I suppose time will tell. I’ll escort your father to his room.”

I watch him take my father by the arm and lead him out. When they’re gone, I cross the room to sit with Atlas—feeling his eyes and everyone else’s on me. They all saw my father drunk. They all now know what I have tried to hide for so long. Having them know it makes the pain even more real.