“Michael, hey! Don’t go in there, it stinks now. Hi!”
Michael grinned as Bub approached, comforted by Patrick’s excitement to see him. He slipped the torn paper into his pants pocket—and despite his happiness, he felt a sudden gloomy pang in his chest. He’d never been more aware of the gulf that lay between himself and Bub. Michael had just received news that 100 percent validated The Game, that justified all the danger he’d guided them through since Halloween. But Bub was still unaware of the tightrope that they’d run together. And until he had solid earth under his feet in the Actually Safe Zone in Richmond—until they reunited with Mom, and began to remake their lives—Michael couldn’t tell him, Bub, I was scared Mom didn’t make it to the Safe Zone. I was scared that running away didn’t actually save anything, ’cause nothing worked out in the end. The “yes-yes” and “the Game Master”? I was pretty much terrified that they were full of shit.
Michael settled for saying, “Awesome shirt, duder.”
Patrick wore a new hoodie: blue and gold, with a deer silhouetted by a sunrise. The shirt was a little long, but otherwise a good fit. “Bobbie gave it! It’s soft. I drawed this for you.” He handed Michael a piece of paper covered with red and silver scribbles. “It’s Ultraman.”
Michael replied, “Obviously.” As they headed toward the dining room, he could smell something sweet and buttery. Sweet baby Jeezus, cinnamon rolls.
And he’d begun pushing open the cafeteria door when he heard the sound inside—a sound so familiar and so foreign, and it stopped him. Is someone crying? Michael thought.
He cracked the door, peeking through. Hank and Bobbie sat alone at a red cafeteria table; the cafeteria was only half lit, the sections beyond them dark, but there was light enough to see by. Hank leaned forward with his elbows on the table, one hand in his hair, his other holding Bobbie’s hand. And standing at the door, secretly looking in, Michael realized something that left him a little awed:
Hank was crying.
“It’s hard, I know it’s just so hard,” Bobbie was saying softly. “But Richmond, it’s just waiting for us. You have to focus on that, Henry. And you said yourself how smart your father is, you know it? And this captain of ours, he’s a good ma—”
Bobbie paused, as if reconsidering.
“He’s so good at what he does,” she finished.
“Y-yeah. You’re right,” Hank said, his voice warped and throaty. His face looked so weird to Michael, like a little kid’s. “But . . . what if the other soldiers get here before the captain can do it?”
“Do what, sweetie?” asked Bobbie.
“What if the captain can’t find—”
“Why’s Hank crying?” Patrick whispered.
Michael flinched away from the door just as Hank’s head sprang up. Patrick’s brow knitted, confused and troubled by what was happening. “I bet he just has a stomachache,” Michael whispered to him.
A chair scraped in the caf. “Gonna go fill the generators,” Hank said to Bobbie. A moment later, a door (not the one beside Michael) opened somewhere, and the sound of Hank’s footsteps faded away. He must not have seen me, Michael thought. Though, he wondered. . . .
Patrick opened the door to the Governor’s Dining Room. Bobbie was clearing plates from her table, her head down, speaking softly. Michael glanced around, expecting to see Holly (and honestly, really looking forward to it).
There was nobody else in the room, though.
As the door swung shut, Bobbie flinched and looked up, startled. She looked much older than yesterday, somehow.
“Good morning to a handsome sleepyhead,” Bobbie said, trying for lightness, not quite making it. She collected spoons into a bowl half filled with oatmeal. “I did make you breakfast, Michael, but I am so sorry, a puppy named Patrick ate it.”
The bowl of oatmeal suddenly slipped in Bobbie’s hands. It crashed onto the tray, spoons clattering.
Patrick, who had been walking toward a table covered with blank papers and Crayolas, stopped, his shoulders pinching back. Michael could feel Bub’s tension ping through the air, his emotional radar lighting up. Michael considered making an excuse for both of them to leave.
But, no. I don’t want to just leave her by herself, not if she’s upset.
“Miss Bobbie, I can get those,” he said casually as he walked to her. He picked up the tray. “Would you show me where the dishes go?”
Bobbie shook her head absently. “Just back in the kitchen,” she began, but then she understood the meaning behind Michael’s question. Gratitude made her