So much of that was mental, and the key difference between the him of the past and the him of this dark dream of glass and broken metal was the mind. He had his memories, and he had the skills he’d learned.

He held out.

“The—” he grunted, his breath a little short from the exertion. “They asked me if I’d put my life on the line, and trust the people we’ve been protecting to wake us up. I realized, all at once, that I’d made a mistake. Ever since the world ended, I’ve been telling myself, we need to slay these demons, face down these monsters, stave off this war for another few months.”

His arm almost gave out. He gripped the seatbelt with his other arm and pulled to alleviate the weight, reasserting his grip.

“If everything turned out alright in the end, then they’d forgive us for being elsewhere for the first few years.”

He could hear the commotion outside. People sliding down the hillside by the road, which was mostly gravel and sand.

“It didn’t turn out alright. I’m not sure they’ll forgive us. I’ve been too focused on the monsters, on the horizons.”

The door was opened, and Zach was seized. A knife cut the seatbelt, freeing him, and hands caught him as he dropped.

“If I’d been paying more attention to the unpowered, the victims, would I be able to see your face? Say a proper goodbye? Would it be better codified? Or can I not see you because I moved on?”

He reached for Zach, and failed to reach past the crumpled, obstructing armrest to his brother’s hand.

“I’m sorry, Zach.”

A hand grabbed his wrist, and the calm, detached perspective fell away. For a moment, he was a child again, in a scary, unfamiliar situation.

He twisted around, looking, and saw another snatcher, holding his wrist, pulling on wrist and door simultaneously.

I forgot this happened.

The shock kept him from piecing together any coherent thoughts, and he fought as best as he could in the situation, upside down, no leverage, still trying to keep himself from slumping the wrong way in his seat—

Panic welled as he slid across the seat, the two things in the car that were meant to reduce harm his biggest enemies in the moment. A seatbelt dragging against his neck, pressing hard and strangling breath and blood flow, and the cushions he couldn’t get traction on. Desperately, he grabbed for broken metal, for the window with glass.

Looked to the front seat at his parents—they had faces, but the faces were two-dimensional.

Learned and stored from photographs.

They were still. Dead.

And he was being grabbed, pulled—they were trying to get him through the window.

He felt the darkness creeping in, his hands scrabbling, where every scrabble both hurt and was necessary—