And the universe accepted her.

A tear seeped out of Wynonna’s closed eyelid, tracing a line down her cheek.

“Whoa, hey,” I said, snapping out of my narration. “Are you okay?”

Wynonna opened her eyes. Gently wiped the tear away. Nodded. “I am now.”

She looked at me—a look with so much meaning, it contained worlds. A universe.

“I was wrong,” she said.

“About what?”

“What I said about drowning and having nothing to hold on to.”

It may have been the deadest of night, but Chicago was electric, pulsating, alive. Skyscrapers jutted from the earth like the long, glassy teeth of some Lovecraftian deep-sea god monster—slowly swallowing us whole. I forced myself into high alert, navigating the jungle of concrete highway ramps, switching lanes to make quick exits.

Finally, we were on a course to O’Hare International Airport, following the signs to the Terminal 5 departure area. The quickest way to do this was to drop everyone off. From there, it was up to the three of them to make it to security in time.

Meanwhile, I would look for parking.

Yeah, it was an anticlimactic end for my leg of the journey. But what can you do?

As I pulled into the drop-off, I didn’t even come to a complete stop. Doors were flying open and everyone was hopping out of the car like it was a parachute drop over enemy territory. Holden even attempted to do a roll as he landed, Jack Bauer–style.

Bad idea. He knocked his head on the concrete as he somersaulted.

“Shit,” he said, cradling his skull, stumbling through the sliding doors of Terminal 5. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Holden, this is no time to concuss yourself!” said Imogen.

“Dumbass.” Wynonna chuckled, clearly in love with his dumb ass.

That was the last thing I heard as the sliding glass doors slid shut behind them.

I sighed. Sank into my seat. Slowly unraveled. Every muscle in my body was a knot, taut with the tension of a four-hour race against time.

I glanced at the time display.

It was 3:14 a.m.

“Oh f—”

Flash.

“—ffffffuck!” I said, out of Wynonna’s mouth.

I screeched to a halt in my combat-boot tracks.

Imogen and Holden looked at me, then looked at each other, and then just dropped their shoulders and looked disappointed.

“Come on, Ezra!” said Holden, exasperated.

“Do you think I have any control over this?” I snapped.

Wynonna’s phone vibrated in my butt pocket. I pulled it out and—of course—it was “Ezra.” I answered it.

“Go, go, go, go, go!” said Wynezra. “I’ll catch up.”

I glanced decisively between Holden and Imogen. They seemed to know exactly what that look meant—because the very next second, we were running.

I lifted the phone back to my ear. “Ditch the car,” I told Wynezra.

“Really?” she said.

“Really-really. Before I change my mind.”

Wynezra chuckled. “Okeydokey, Shrek.”

She hung up.