I planned Patrick’s funeral as a quiet affair, but looking around at the crowd of men and women at the Rays’ small farm, I realize my efforts were in vain. Neighbors I didn’t think cared are here, including Olivia and Evan King. Julia, too, of course. She and Steven are talking with the tentative air of frightened children, which, I know, is what they are. A few old friends have driven in from the West Coast, since air travel has temporarily come to a halt.

The entire country is in a state of chaotic transition, thanks to Patrick.

In many ways, I still love him. In many ways, I’m sorry he’s gone.

Radios and televisions have stayed quiet these first few days, and newspapers are running already-told stories. Washington, DC, is locked down tighter than a bank vault. The hurricane of terror may be over, but we all know a storm will linger. We all know we’re still not safe.

Del and Sharon have decided to remain, though, and Jackie’s staying on at the farm to help with the resistance, to clear out the rubble and rebuild.

“I’ll stay, too,” I tell her after we put Patrick in the ground. “I want to.”

She treats me with the same heavy hand she always did, back when we were young and stupid. Or back when I was stupid. I don’t think Jackie ever was.

“You need to go,” Jackie says. “Right the hell now.” When I try to protest, she puts a hand to my belly. “You know you do, Jeanie.”

She’s right, of course. Jackie’s always been right about some things. She takes me in her arms, now lithe and sinewy from physical work, and in the hug I feel everything. Gratitude. Pride. Forgiveness. No more bubble around me.

“Go on, girl. Your man is waiting,” she says, and breaks the embrace.

My man.

It seems too soon to think of Lorenzo as my man, as my lover. But I feel his hand on the small of my back as he leads me toward the farmhouse. The gesture is so simple, and complex at the same time. Part of me wants to turn back, run toward the fresh mound of earth where Patrick is buried, but I don’t. I stay with Lorenzo and gather the kids, telling them to start packing.

Maybe, though, a small piece of me will remain here at this farm. To keep Patrick company.

Chris Poe shook his head when I asked him what happened downtown. I insisted, though. It’s nice to be able to insist once again, even if the information I demanded was hard to hear.

Life throws little ironies at us. So the fact that Morgan LeBron, the incompetent little shit I took care of only a few days ago, was the cause of Patrick’s death held less surprise than it might have.