Текст книги "The System"

Автор книги: Shelbi Wescott

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Scott moved Grant back into the lab, keeping a firm hand on the boy’s elbow as he directed him into the bright, sterile room. He bypassed securing Grant to the table, but Lucy’s father still seemed hesitant and on-edge, as if Grant might bolt. Which was a ridiculous worry, since Grant knew he was trapped. He’d been in the supply closet at least a few days, but maybe even longer, and Scott ventured down during strange and unpredictable hours to help Grant eat, go to the bathroom, and then he’d run his tests. Bruises formed along his arm from the poking and prodding after blood draws and other needle pricks. While Grant had never been squeamish about medical procedures, and he didn’t intend on starting now, he’d certainly taken a beating under Scott’s careful watch.

Whatever those tests were telling Scott King, Grant had not been privy to the details—but while he still tried to engage Grant in shallow conversations about books and movies, his entire demeanor suggested that he was a world away. Detached and distant, Scott treated Grant like a talking monkey: A fascinating specimen with intriguing ideas, worthy of basic conversation, but perhaps not human decency.

At the end of the day, here in the System, Grant was only a lab rat.

A lab rat with acute self-awareness.

His video collection pile was dwindling and during the hours of solitary confinement ennui was Grant’s most overwhelming emotion.

“I brought you some new books,” Scott said as Grant hopped up and walked out toward the lab, the schedule of events rooted firmly into place.

“You have a library in this place?” Grant asked.

Scott nodded. “Very well stocked, too,” he added.

Grant shrugged. “Did you have to decide what to bring? Was it like some committee of the best minds in literature sitting around some table all arguing with each other?” He sat up a little straighter and assumed a deep-announcer voice, “If you’re about to annihilate the world and live underground, what five books would you take with you?”

“Something like that,” Scott replied. “The difference is that over the course of time, we will have access to everything again. The books left above ground are not lost forever…just for a time,” he explained.

“Can I make requests then?” Grant asked. He thought maybe he’d try to read through all those books his high school teachers said were important, but he hadn’t ever tried to read. It was a start. The idea had come to him while he thought of Lucy—he remembered her trying to read through Fahrenheit 451 while they had been trapped together. He thought maybe she’d be proud of him.

“Certainly,” Scott replied. He organized his tools and counted vials. He wasn’t too chatty and it made Grant feel awkward and more inclined to start a conversation. They had endured long silences in the lab before, but only when Grant was feeling woozy from the experiments. Scott was the only person Grant had left to talk to.

“Whatcha got for me today?” Grant asked, glancing at Scott’s usual assortment of medical equipment.

Scott walked over and put Grant’s arm flat against his own. He inserted a small needle into the flesh of his upper arm. Then he pulled the needle out and inspected the injection site. The shots rarely hurt, but this one ached instantaneously. Grant felt a little lightheaded and he looked at Scott askew, rubbing his arm.

“That’s a new one,” Grant said.

“A direct injection of the virus.”

Grant shot up and opened his mouth to protest. The word took a bit to form as he felt himself starting to panic. “I told you,” he said, his voice rising. “I want to know. You don’t get to do it without warning. I need a chance to prepare. It’s all I’ve asked for.” He felt close to tears. Passing away on the table in the middle of talking about books was not how he needed it to happen. He’d asked Scott numerous times to let him know if the end was near; besides incidentals, it was the only legitimate thing he had asked of Lucy’s father, even though he could think of a million more things he truly wanted instead.

“This won’t kill you,” Scott said matter-of-factly.

“Direct injection? Of the virus that killed everybody?”

“It won’t kill you. You’re immune. Finding out why is the next step. But I need to see if your cells respond at all. If the virus multiplies at all. It’s crucial.”

“Why?” Grant asked.

“Lots of reasons. Are you still a carrier? How does your body respond? Where does the virus become inhibited? At what point in the process does that happen? I have many questions and no answers. You’re puzzling, Grant.”

Grant nodded and rubbed the injection site. When Scott looked down for a second, he wiped his eyes and tried to make it look like he was just scratching an itch.

“I wrote Lucy a letter with the paper you gave me,” Grant said after a moment. The light-headedness passed, but his arm still ached. He hadn’t wanted to tell Scott about the letter yet, but the end seemed closer—more tangible. He’d hate to have his words go to waste.

His statement caused Scott to freeze, and he closed his eyes. When Lucy’s dad opened them, there was a twinkle. A knowing look. Grant regretted mentioning the letter if teasing was on the menu. When it came to their bizarre relationship, Scott often blurred the lines between his role as torturer and his role as Grant’s solitary companion.

“You did?” Scott asked.

“It’s a goodbye…it’s a—” he wanted to say a manifesto, but that wasn’t the right word. It was his final attempt to say what was in his heart. It was a way to keep himself alive in her heart. He hesitated, “She’s my friend. My only friend, I guess.”

Scott leaned against the metal bed and then put a hand on Grant’s shoulder. The gesture felt awkward—an act of fatherly intimacy that Grant felt like Scott didn’t deserve. He looked at Scott and wondered what he would say, how he would respond, if Lucy ever shared the letter with him. Under different circumstances, he might have met Scott as he picked up Lucy for a date. He’d have shaken his hand at the door and exchanged mumbled conversations about dinner plans. He’d have tried to assess what kind of father Scott was going to turn out to be: relaxed and kind, militant and angry. Would he have waited up until they returned? Or would he have left the post-date spying to his wife? Grant shook all those thoughts away. He tried not to entertain them.

When Salem had kissed him outside the journalism room, Grant wished he had been kissing Lucy. But it never seemed like the right time to bring that up; there was nothing like the worry and threat of disaster to thwart romance. As their days and weeks progressed together, he knew that if he could make it through this, he hoped Lucy would remain by his side. He’d wanted her to give him a signal, anything, to let him know that he wasn’t the only one feeling a connection. But she’d been so focused on her family, on Ethan, on the future—it was never the right time.

Besides, it was stupid to daydream about traditional romance. Stupid to think that there was room in this new life for dating, falling in love, planning for the future.

It all seemed ridiculous. Like a rope from the old world he wanted to hold onto until the last possible moment.

“So, do you confess your undying love for my daughter?” Scott asked and he raised his eyebrows.

“No—no,” Grant stammered, suddenly embarrassed. His cheeks flushed. That was new: blushing was not a normal reaction. The letter was void of romantic intentions because he wasn’t going to use his last dying words to make Lucy feel forever tethered to him. There was unfairness in that. He had let her know how much she had meant to him during their weeks of travel. He had hoped to leave her with something positive.

“I always used to joke with Lucy that if she dated a guy and I didn’t get to meet him first, I’d kill him and she’d never be allowed out of the house,” Scott said to Grant. He laughed. “Apparently I’m prophetic,” he said with a smile. Then he stopped laughing, looked at Grant, and started to laugh again. Inappropriate dark humor was a common theme in their conversations. Usually, Grant thought Scott’s brand of humor was endearing. He lacked a certain self-awareness that made Grant feel more comfortable—like a goofy drunk uncle.

Grant gave Scott a half-smile, but out of politeness. “You can read the letter beforehand, if you want.” It was a bluff, but he hoped the transparency would indicate that he had nothing to hide. “It’s not really like that—Lucy and I never…she’s just my friend…are you sure I’m not going to die?” He pointed at his arm.

“Yes, I’m sure. Not today. You’re not going to die today. I can’t explain it yet, but I’m confident about that,” Scott walked back over to Grant and ran his finger over Grant’s arm. “Is that tender?”

With a sniff, Grant nodded. “I have the letter on me. It’s in my pocket. Just…in case.”

“You really don’t trust me? To keep my word? You thought today you’d wake up and I’d just inject you and we’re done?” Scott shook his head. “It’s okay. We have time.” Then Scott turned his head and eyed Grant carefully; the look made Grant draw back.

“How much time?” Grant looked down at the table. The idea of months upon months in that small closet was worse than the threat of death. He tapped his fingers against the metal frame. Maybe Lucy’s father was on some sort of strict timeline, but it didn’t feel like that most of the time.

To prove that point, Scott merely shrugged and then leaned over and patted Grant on the back. “I think we have a lot in common, you and I,” Scott said. Then he left Grant alone and went to his workstation, where he messed around with vials and slides under a microscope, mumbling little noises of approval or confusion.

“How so?” Grant asked after a while.

“What? Huh?” Scott asked, spinning around, and then he made a face. “Oh, yes. Just…you’re not a complainer. Not a big fighter. It’s funny…there are two camps, even when you work with animals.”

“Animals?”

“Mice. Monkeys. Even the animals…two camps. Very distinct.” Scott pulled a petri dish off of the shelf and added a solution to it; he then slid some of the dish’s contents onto a slide and stuck it under a microscope. “There are those who are born to fight and those who are born to accept. Line up. Kill me, I won’t fight it, types.”

“That sounds like an indictment,” Grant said. He could hear this father’s voice running like an undercurrent through that faint-praise: You’re weak, Grant. You got to get out there and just jump right in. Take some chances. We’re fighters, you and I, and the Trotters don’t give up, we don’t roll over, we don’t quit.

“Not at all. At least I don’t think so.” Scott didn’t look up. “I do think it’s a trait we share. I’ve never been a big complainer either. And I think I’m happier for it.”

There was nothing he could say as a reply. Grant wasn’t happy. He was resigned. There was a marked difference.

“The cells are like little fortified battalions. I’m confused by it entirely,” Scott said, although he didn’t seem to direct this news to anyone in particular. “And if they aren’t responding to the direct injection…” he trailed off.

Grant’s hand went into his back pocket and he pulled out his letter to Lucy. He had written her name across the envelope—he hated his childish scrawl, the ‘y’ of her name looked like a ‘g’, but maybe she wouldn’t inspect her name too closely. Maybe she would just run her finger over the little image he drew in the corner: A hot air balloon, two stick figures sailing through the air. They were holding hands.

He hadn’t noticed Scott walking back up to him, holding a new set of needles.

“Is that the letter?” Scott asked and he leaned over. “To Lucy?”

Grant nodded. He went to put it back in his pocket, but Scott stuck out his hand.

“I’ll put it in the lab safe. Just to be sure.”

There was a moment of hesitation, but then Grant handed the envelope over. The longer it stayed in his pocket, the harder it was to think about the fact that he would never see Lucy again. Resigned, it was the perfect way to describe how he felt. Scott reiterated every day: There was only one way this could end. Kicking, screaming, yelling, may not even prolong his life, and it may make things harder for Lucy and for her family. He rationalized his lack of fight as martyrdom.

“I promise. I’ll keep it safe and I will give it to her to read when the time comes.” Scott tucked the letter into his lab coat and patted his pocket once. Then he reached for Grant’s arm and Grant obeyed by extending it fully. Scott drew four vials of blood and pulled the needle from his arm—with a sad smile, he shuffled off to the counter.

Grant watched as Scott worked. Organizing. Pulling. Pouring. Sorting. A quiet sort of work, mechanical and automated. Occasionally Scott would mutter something under his breath or make a strange sort of clicking noise, but the work was silent.

“So, what are your requests?” Scott asked after a few minutes.

“What?” Grant’s mind went to last requests, but then he realized Scott must have been back at their beginning conversation. Books. He was back to the books. Scott’s mind often worked in large circles, crawling back to a conversation from hours ago without missing a beat. Grant rarely kept up. “Oh, um, maybe…just some classics.”

“You got it,” Scott replied. He pulled over a rolling chair and sat down. Then he popped up, walked over to a refrigerator in the corner and pulled out some additional glass beakers. “The work is lonely, that’s for sure,” Scott said out of nowhere, and Grant looked around, confused.

“In the lab?”

“I used to have a team.”

“Don’t tell me…” Grant grimaced. “You killed them?”

Scott laughed and pointed a finger in jest at Grant. “Funny,” was all he said, but Grant hadn’t been kidding.

“Here. Let’s try this.” Scott walked over to Grant holding a collection of test tubes. “A virus with the same properties as my virus.”

His virus. “Did you name it?”

“The virus? No. Should I have?”

“Something catchy. Like S1K1.”

“Nice. And here comes the pinch.”

He jabbed the needle in Grant’s other arm.

Grant could see the letter to Lucy sticking out of Scott’s pocket. The hot air balloon drawing visible—and the curl of the y. He regretted handing it over to him. Maybe he should get a new envelope. Write her name with a distinct ‘y’. It was a mistake—he realized that now. It was a mistake writing the letter at all. Maybe he should have demanded to see her one last time.

That should have been his last request.

They wouldn’t have honored it, but at least he could have asked. So then Scott could tell her, “Yes. He asked for you.” Maybe then she would know the truth. Why had he wasted an entire letter without telling her the truth?

His head began to pound.

“I’m getting a headache,” Grant mumbled. His chest felt tight. He took in a deep breath of air and felt nauseated.

“Huh,” was all Scott said and he put his hand against Grant’s forehead. With speed and efficiency he drew some blood, as Grant started to feel clammy and weak.

Salem. His last kiss had been Salem. He closed his eyes. And he thought of Lucy. What she would say if she had known about that kiss?

Salem’s lips touched his and he kissed her back, it was true. But it had always been about Lucy.

“I don’t—” Grant started and then he leaned back, reeling. Jagged lightning flashes danced before his eyes. Blues and yellows—pops of stars in his line of vision. “I need to lie down.”

“I didn’t think it would…it’s from the same family…okay, easy now.” Scott placed his hands behind Grant and assisted him down onto the hospital bed. He whispered to himself and even as Grant slipped into sickness, he could hear the worry in his voice.

“I’m co-co-cold,” Grant mumbled. It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Is that how everyone else felt? In the moments before they passed on? That thought caused his heart to tighten more. He wondered what the victims experienced as they walked toward death. He realized now that it wasn’t the peaceful march he’d imagined for himself. No, he was sad and afraid. He felt panicky.

He thought he’d have more time.

“My letter,” Grant said. He reached up and grabbed the first thing he could—the edge of Mr. King’s lab coat. Scott King stumbled away from him. Yanking the fabric and pulling the cloth toward him, Grant repeated his final wishes. “My letter…when I’m gone…my letter…”

“I know, son. I know. You’re not going to die. Hang on.” His words were comforting, but his face was afraid. For the first time Grant could tell that Scott King didn’t sound confident in his assertion that he would live.

“My letter…” Grant said again and then he tumbled into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Her father looked exhausted when he came through their automated apartment door. His eyes were droopy and bloodshot; he hadn’t shaved in over a day and already the whiskers on his chin were thick, casting a dark shadow over his features. Despite his evident exhaustion, Scott smiled when he saw Lucy. She was lying flat against the floor, her arms and legs stretched out away from her body—her eyes still, examining the intricacies of the ceiling.

“What are you up to?” Scott asked.

“Thinking,” was Lucy’s reply.

“Everyone else?”

“Out.”

He shed his white lab coat and draped it over the back of a chair. Then with one hand on the chair and the other shoved into his pocket, he stood without speaking, staring at her outline on the floor.

“You not feeling communicative today?” Scott asked her, but he didn’t glance in her direction.

Lucy rolled her body over and then sat up, crossing her legs in front of her body and placing her hands to her side. She didn’t answer. When her father was away, she knew he was down in the lab working with Grant. His list of betrayals against her was starting to stack up. No variables, her mother had told her in the Sky Room. Every time she looked at him she saw the blood on his hands. She had nothing to say to him.

“Well,” her father continued without waiting for an answer. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Then…you want to take a walk? Get out of this space?”

Lucy shook her head. “No.”

“Think about it. I’ll be back.”

His shoulders drooped as he headed toward the bathroom for his five-minute shower. Back home, Scott would take epically long showers, sometimes twice or three times a day. He’d stand in his master bathroom shower and let the water run cold. It was often a bone of contention with Maxine, who would lament her husband’s bad habit after finding that there was no water to run the scores of dishes through their dishwasher or start a load of laundry—which was just an endless parade of food and grass-stained shirts and jeans.

The restriction on shower time must have been frustrating for her father.

She wished that there were more things for him that felt uncomfortable, because shorter showers were not a big enough punishment.

After the bathroom door shut behind him and locked, Lucy caught sight of the envelope. It would not have interested her or piqued her attention, but it was the image of a hot air balloon, two tiny stick figures standing together, that drew her eye. And immediately, Lucy knew.

The water was running. Her father hummed and his voice echoed.

Lucy scrambled forward and yanked the paper from the lab coat pocket. Her name was written in Grant’s childish scrawl on the outside. Without hesitation, she ripped the envelope open and unfolded the note that had been tucked inside. Scanning the words, Lucy let out a gasp. Then she looked to the bathroom door, looked at the letter, and then clutching it to her chest, she rushed to the safety of her bedroom. Crawling on top of the floral comforter, Lucy started from the beginning and began to drink in Grant’s words. It was difficult to understand, her brain fuzzy with the worry of being caught and the enormity of the letter’s first line. She read and reread, trying to hear Grant’s voice as he wrote down these words, his last words, to her.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried again.

Dear Lucy, the note began, if you are reading this note then I am probably gone. That sounds so dramatic. And also cliché. I tried to word it differently, but then it sounded really casual and stupid. Like: I hope you’re doing well and I wish I could’ve been there when you saw your family again. But you should know that I’m bad at writing letters. I’m not so bad at writing, per se. It’s just letters that I’m no good at. Because you are my only audience and I know that these are the last words I get with you and…well, it’s just so much pressure.

Lucy stopped and stifled her tears. Her hands were shaking and they were turning wet with sweat. She clutched the letter tighter and closed her eyes, and wished for the strength to keep reading Grant’s words, even when those words told her a terrible and awful truth: Grant was gone.

Your father isn’t at all like I pictured him. I thought he’d be more mad scientist-y with white frizzy hair and big plastic gloves up to his elbows laughing maniacally while lightning flashed around him. He’s just odd and kinda goofy. If it weren’t for the whole ‘killing the world thing’ I think I would like him. He’s been kind, if not distant. Sometimes I think he likes me and sometimes I think he’s just trying to make things easier since my time is short. Either way, he’s not so bad. I don’t know what’s been going on with you, but I can imagine that you’re probably all sorts of pissed at him. Don’t be.

Lucy smiled. Leave it to Grant to find the best in her dad. She didn’t know if she could read any more.

Look, I wanted to write you a letter mostly to tell you that I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend the apocalypse with than you.

That’s a unique line—don’t get to use that every day.

Of course, if I had a choice, I’d want to come back as a zombie in the zombie apocalypse with you…but clearly I was wrong about that whole thing, which is really a damn shame, because this whole cross-country story would have been FAR BETTER with zombies chasing us. Hiding in this damn hole in the ground would be better too if there were zombies outside trying to get in. But yeah, zombies.

You’d be cooler if you liked zombies.

No, I don’t mean to make it into a joke. I’m sorry. I’m bad at this.

Your friendship has meant everything to me. So much so, that I wish you’d always been around. I could have used a friend like you when my mom died of cancer. Duhn-duhn-duhn. Big reveal. I know I never told you that—it’s hard to know when to bring it up with people. Especially in the face of so much loss, you know?

The fact that Grant had been carrying around the memory of his mom, not talking about her or her death, during all the time that they were together made Lucy both upset and sad. He’d been so brave, she realized. So brave and so resilient.

Cancer is this devastating thing. It rips you open. You have time to prepare for the death, but you’re never ready when it finally comes for the people you love. In some ways, I understand now what my mom must have been going through. It’s awful to know you’re going to die and know you can’t do anything to help the people you love work through it.

After that though, it’s worse for everyone else. I’m gone. You’re still here, living, dealing with that.

I know because I’ve been through it.

I guess that’s what I really want to say. I want you to be sad. I mean, be a little sad. Give it a week. You can cry and bawl and be mad for three days. Four days, tops. Then…it’s okay. I’ve told you like a million times that I’m not afraid to die. I believe my mom is waiting for me. I know…insert Lucy crying here…but it’s true. 

Lucy laughed through her tears.

She wiped her chin and smiled, then let her tears continue to fall.

I’m in good company.

But I’ll miss your company.

That’s some good writing right there. I’m not trying to joke. You’re here, my mom is there—I don’t get to choose my fate, so I’ll embrace the one that was left for me.

Please just know that I care about you, and of all the people left on the planet you’re the only one whose happiness matters to me. So be happy, Lula.

Be happy for me.

Then he had signed it. Complete with a crude cartoon of a mop-headed boy giving a thumbs-up.

Your partner in crime and zombies. Grant.

Lucy looked up. She had been so absorbed in Grant’s words that she hadn’t realized her father the water was off and her father was out of the shower. She folded the letter and started walking, pushing the paper against her leg as she walked. Flinging the door open, Lucy marched into the open room and looked around. The bathroom door was open and her parents’ bedroom door was closed. Without a thought about her father’s potential level of undress, Lucy grabbed the handle and waltzed straight inside, slamming the door behind her.

Scott King stood in his boxer shorts and a t-shirt, one leg balancing as he slipped on a pair of jeans.

“Lucy, what are you doing?” Scott exclaimed and he stumbled backward toward the bed, hopping on one foot. He looked startled, but then when he saw her face, he looked confused.

“Why?” Lucy seethed. “Why couldn’t you do the right thing for once in your life? You had the whole world…the whole world…and all I asked for was one boy. What was one more to you?”

Her father dropped his pants to the floor and stepped out of them. Then he started to walk toward Lucy as she started to charge forward. She had never felt more full of rage. So murderous. As Scott put out his hands to embrace her, Lucy raised her fists and pounded his chest as hard as she could. He flinched, but did not retreat, and eventually he puffed out his chest in an attempt to absorb her blows.

“Lucy, Lucy,” Scott repeated her name, calmly and firmly. “Stop. Sit. Stop!” He raised his voice and Lucy, breathless, sunk to the ground.

“You killed him. You killed him! And you’re going to kill Ethan too? You’re nothing. You’re evil. I wish I’d never been born. That’s better than admitting that I’m your daughter.”

Her words stung him. When she saw him flinch, she couldn’t help it—she wanted to keep going. Hurt upon hurt; she relished being able to tell him what she thought.

“You’re a coward. And I hate you.”

Her father wrapped his arms around her shoulders and tucked her into his chest. His arms were still damp from the shower, his skin warm. She tried to wriggle away, but he only increased his grip; still, Lucy struggled against him. Her tears dampened his shirt and she stomped her legs, hoping to catch his toes or his shins.

“Lucy,” her father repeated. “Lucy. Stop.”

When she wouldn’t calm herself, he raised his voice.

“Stop!”

“Why? Why do you have to be so horrible?” Lucy sobbed. “Why do you have to take away everything I love?”

Her father killed Salem.

Her father killed Grant.

Her family was alive, but what did it matter?

Lucy heard the bedroom door creak open and from the corner of her eye she saw her mother standing there holding two cloth grocery bags by the handles. Her eyes traveled between Scott and Lucy and then she set her bags on the floor and walked over to them, tugging Lucy by the arm.

“I leave for twenty minutes and everything goes straight to hell,” Maxine muttered. She wedged herself between daughter and husband and went to move Lucy away, but Lucy would not be budged.

“You were strong,” Lucy seethed. “You were my role model, my hero.” She looked straight at her mother.

“Careful,” Maxine replied, her voice steeped in warning.

“You’re nothing. You let him do this. You went along willingly.”

Maxine raised her hand. “Enough,” she yelled in protest. But Lucy did not stop. She launched an even greater attack, screaming in hysterics until she saw her mother raise her hand and let her palm fly toward Lucy’s cheek.

The sharp string of betrayal landed squarely on her face. Lucy was shocked into silence. She brought her hand up and placed it over her injury; tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over her hand and her other cheek—silently rolling down. But she did not say another word, or sniff, or dare to move.

“The punishment for insubordination is the tank,” Maxine said calmly. “You’ve already been through that once before. Did you feel like once wasn’t quite enough? If you are so hungry to die, then I’d be happy to walk you down there myself.”

“I don’t want to die,” Lucy mumbled after a period of silence. “No one else should die.”

“Then learn to live. Here.” Maxine slid out from between Lucy and Scott, rubbing her right hand with her left. She then slipped the handles of the grocery bags onto her wrists and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

When Lucy was certain her mother was no longer in hearing range, she turned to her father and lowered her eyes.

“This is not a life,” she said.

“It is the only life I can offer you,” Scott replied, and he sank downward, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“There is food here. Protection. An education. A hope for a better life. A plan for the future. My only other option was to let you die at the hands of a man who wanted to take that from us. Should I have let him?”

Lucy was silent for a long time and then she thought of everything that had happened in the last few weeks, and she simply nodded. “It’s never the right thing,” she said to her father. “It was selfish.” The word popped out of her mouth before she had time to self-censor.

Scott lowered his head. “It was selfish to want to save my family.” She was uncertain if he was asking her or tossing the statement out into the ether.

“At the expense of everyone else?” Lucy nodded a reply to her own rhetorical question.

“But you want to save Grant,” Scott answered and he raised his eyebrows. “What would you risk to accomplish that goal? What sacrifice would you make?”

The tense was not lost on her. “Want to? As in, I still can?”

He shook his head, “Lost on semantics. You’re missing the point. We do everything in our power to protect the people we love. The line between good and evil is not as black and white as you may think.” He raised his finger, but he looked defeated. “Especially when it comes to family. There are no rules.”

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