The notion of winter gave Presley a chill. The phone had gone to voice message, except the response was a crackly, “The voice message service cannot be reached. You may wish to try again, or contact your provider about changing to a different audio channel…”

She hung up. Her hands shook.

Eric went on, “Whether they were okay with this course of action hinged largely on whether they trusted you, collectively. This is about you and them.”

He paused, giving that last segment some weight.

“Others with similar datafobs are visiting the other refugee settlements. If and when you come to a decision, or if you don’t come to a decision and want to give me your input, I’ll take that back to the others. We’ll leave the data with you. Locations of capes, the means of waking them up. It’ll be up to you to carry it out. I can answer any questions now. I can give you clarifications.”

She could hear people talking now.

Frozen, tense, she listened, and she heard the people nearest her talking about relief, hope. Concerns about the winter. Concerns that the red light was still there, even with this supposed plan.

She heard one person say something about saving lives, doing for the heroes what the heroes had done for them.

Then more people jumped in with their own answers. Rebuttals. Arguments. Anti-parahuman sentiment.

The first person didn’t speak up again, staying quiet.

She tried another number on her phone. Immediately, it blinked, telling her there was no service.

Presley stood up, picked up her bag from the chair, and nearly flung the contents out of it while slinging it over her shoulder. She zipped it and fled the room. Toward the stairs, which had cleared some. Up toward the roof.

A part of her wanted to find her parents. To act like a little kid, to plead with them to fix it.

Another part of her just wanted to make a call, to get through to these heroes who had been so good to her. Who might have been part of the sixty or seventy percent who had agreed to this insanity.

They didn’t realize what the people were like. How many people were awful, or untrustworthy, or stupid and shortsighted.

She tried again, as she made her way up the stairs. Then she tried again, at the top of the stairs. A hand brushed her shoulder and it might have been her mom or her dad. She wasn’t sure.

She reached the rooftop, and she stepped outside. Cold, but she still wore her jacket from earlier. Her ears were partially protected by the hair she’d bleached white, which now had brown roots because she hadn’t had the chance to bleach it again.

“Please, pick up Victoria. Please.”

She hit the button for the fourth time, the wind blowing around her.

The ringing started.