to the weather, but that luck will probably balance out with something awful later.
Angry rain lashes at the windows as the train pulls to a smooth stop at Jattapore Station, fat droplets that fall harder than anything we ever get in Kyrkarta. It’s nearly as opaque as fog.
“How are we supposed to get anywhere in this mess?” I ask, expecting to be completely ignored. Ania deigns to provide an overly knowledgeable response, though, as she leads us off the train.
“Jattapore has a rail system we can use,” she says. “The flooding and wind are too bad for anything else. They only started having hurricane problems recently, when the ocean started heating up, so they mostly aren’t built to handle it. The rail is the only thing that still runs consistently.”
“I bet the wind makes RidePods fun,” Jaesin says with a grimace. He can jump off buildings and do backflips in boost shoes, but put him in a bumpy RidePod and he turns totally green.
Once we’re on the platform, the others halt in place with their luggage, taking in the humid, salty air, the crowded train station, and the sheets of water pouring from the sky just beyond the edge of the platform ceiling. The architecture around us is different from the buildings in Kyrkarta, more ornamented, and somehow conjuring the swell and fade of the ocean just beyond. My hands itch to climb all over this building, to explore its hidden back hallways and secret rooftop doorways. Maybe some other time.
I catch Remi looking at me, gray eyes a perfect match for the roiling clouds above, but they quickly glance away. They know me so well, though, that they probably read my thoughts.
I don’t want to be curious about this city, though. I don’t want to feel that need, to run through its abandoned buildings, go everywhere I’m not supposed to go, let everything else fall away other than the next stair, the next rooftop, the next flying leap. It feels like cheating on my home to think it, but even in a strange, unfamiliar city, the thrill of exploration would be glorious.
Pointless to imagine now.
“Come on,” I say, waving the others after me. I spotted a sign that said RAILWAY, with a little train icon next to it. Don’t need to know my way around this city to get that. I lead the way up to the raised platform, never once glancing behind me.
That’s the biggest benefit of being in the lead: you never see all the glares directed at your back.
The University of Jattapore campus is beautiful, waterlogged though it is. The trees (so many more of them than in Kyrkarta) sparkle with hanging droplets of rain, glimmering in the few tentative rays of sun that dare to peek through the angry clouds overhead. The storm is moving on, leaving behind fallen branches, storm drains clogged with leaves, and calf-high water in low-lying areas. The university buildings stand proud and unaffected above it all, built of bright metals and stone carved in beautiful curling waves, and bustling with people even in the wake of the powerful storm. According to the net, it was the lowest category of hurricane, though I don’t exactly have the context to judge. It’s earthquakes and oranges. Or something.
We stop for a quick bite at a café called Speedy’s right as they’re pulling their little red awning back out from its storm-tucked position. Two employees bicker back and forth as they retrieve tumbled tables and chairs from across the bricked courtyard, complaining about some other guy who was supposed to bring everything inside before the wind picked up. I guess the people of Jattapore and Kyrkarta do have one thing in common: we’ve all had to figure out how to structure our lives around disaster.
We order our food, then commandeer one of the outside tables to wait for it. I spend an uncomfortable few minutes trying to watch Remi without looking like I’m watching Remi, scanning for any sign of how they’re feeling after our fight. I get nothing, though. It’s like the fight never happened and I don’t exist. They’re totally normal, except for the fact that they won’t look at me. Eventually they ditch us to run to the bathroom, which of course leaves me sitting around with Mom and Dad. Great.
I manage to endure a whole thirty seconds of strained silence before I crack. Playing nice, making jokes, apologizing—it doesn’t matter what I try, so screw it. Not trying anymore.
“So, this