World After

3

I SETTLE onto a cot by the corner. Lying with my back against the wall, I can see the entire room by moonlight.

My baby sister lies on a cot against the wall across from me. Paige looks tiny under her blanket beneath the posters of larger-than-life historical figures. Confucius, Florence Nightingale, Gandhi, Helen Keller, the Dalai Lama.

Would she have turned out like them if we weren’t in the World After?

My mother sits cross-legged by Paige’s cot, humming her melody. We’ve tried giving my sister the two things I could get from the disorganized mess in the cafeteria that is supposed to turn into a kitchen by morning. But she couldn’t hold down either the canned soup or the protein bar.

I shift my weight on the canvas cot, trying to find a position where my sword hilt won’t jab into my ribs. Having it on me is the best way to keep anyone from trying to pick it up and finding out that I’m the only one who can lift it. The last thing I need is having to explain how I ended up with an angel sword.

Sleeping with a weapon has nothing to do with my sister being in the room. Nothing at all.

Nor does it have anything to do with Raffe. It’s not like the sword is my only memento of my time with him. I have plenty of cuts and bruises to remind me of the days I spent with my enemy angel.

Who I’ll probably never see again.

So far, no one has asked about him. I guess it’s more common than not to have your group break up these days.

I shut down that thought and close my eyes.

My sister moans again over my mom’s humming.

“Go to sleep, Paige,” I say. To my surprise, her breathing relaxes and she settles down. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

My mother’s melody fades into oblivion.

I DREAM that I am in the forest where the massacre happened. I am just outside the old Resistance camp where soldiers died trying to defend themselves against low demons.

Blood drips off the branches and plops onto the dead leaves like raindrops. In my dream, none of the bodies that should be here are here and neither are the terrified soldiers who huddled together back-to-back with their rifles facing outward.

It’s just a clearing dripping in blood.

In the center stands Paige.

She wears an old-fashioned flower-print dress, like the ones those girls hanging on the tree wore. Her hair is drenched in blood and so is her dress. I’m not sure which is harder to look at, the blood or the bruised stitches crisscrossing her face.

She lifts her arms toward me as if waiting for me to pick her up even though she’s seven years old now.

I’m pretty sure my sister was not part of the massacre but here she is anyway. Somewhere in the forest, my mother says, “Look into her eyes. They’re the same as they’ve always been.”

But I can’t. I can’t look at her at all. Her eyes aren’t the same. They can’t be.

I turn and run from her.

Tears stream down my face and I call out into the woods away from the girl behind me. “Paige!” My voice cracks. “I’m coming. Hang on. I’ll be there soon.”

But the only sign of my sister is the crunching of the dead leaves as the new Paige shadows me through the woods.