There was darkness.
And then we were back.
We woke up in Riverfront Park, on the side of a hill, above the mouth of the wolves’ tunnel. It was a bright morning out—chilly, but the whole world was bathed in golden sunlight. The grass around us sparkled. My face was damp with dew.
I sat up and saw Taylor standing at the crest of the hill. She had her back toward me, looking out over the city. The city had once again reverted to its normal state, abandoned but not destroyed, neglected but not yet rubble.
It was just the two of us. Everyone else was gone.
“Taylor,” I said. She didn’t respond.
I stood up and started toward her. I rounded her side and saw her hands up against her face. She had wide, shell-shocked eyes. She glimpsed me from behind her fingers, then shook her head and once again turned away. She was remembering, I knew, the horror of our faces crushed together. The horror of that dissolution.
I stood there for a time, watching her—Taylor, in the early-morning light—watching as she tried to hide behind her hands.
Then I raised my fingers to my face and touched my lips.