The Release

“The bombs we heard. They were taking out the bridges. What does that mean?”

Grant stared at the debris, the absence of something they had taken for granted as they journeyed from one section of the city to the other. “To trap people, I suppose. Isolate the neighborhoods. Contain a virus that was uncontainable. Or maybe…just to destroy.”

It was only then that Lucy noticed the full extent of their city’s devastation. She could see the marina and capsized boats and the other vessels adrift on the Willamette River without a captain, unmoored and unanchored. Her eyes traveled to the tram—a bullet shaped vehicle that transported patients, doctors, and tourists to Oregon Health Sciences University. It was suspended above the trees, stopped midway up the track, and it swayed gently with the wind. Someone had written HELP in lipstick on the windows and a crack on one of the windows indicated someone had tried to break through the glass.

She looked away. With the horrors of the school still fresh in her memory, Lucy’s hand shook with the understanding that her own personal terrors were only one small glimpse, one small moment.

The ethereal quality of their ride, combined the visual confirmation of the mass genocide was overwhelming.

“This is like floating…up here,” Lucy whispered as they turned around 360-degrees, slowly, and her eyes surveyed the blue on the horizon and the glory of Mt. Hood in the distance. “All this beauty. Our world is so amazing…and yet…”

“I’m going to concentrate,” Grant interrupted and brushed by her back to the center of the basket. But he only stood there, his eyes outward, his arms by his side, his right hand clutching the bottle of shaving cream.

Lucy watched him and she bit the inside of her lip. “Can you imagine? If you’re a survivor and you look up in the sky today and see a hot air balloon floating past? It would be dreamlike, I suppose. Surreal.”

Grant didn’t answer.

“Grant?”

He didn’t turn toward her, but he lowered his head. “Survivors?” he called back. “This was done to us so there wouldn’t be any survivors. We aren’t meant to be here.” Then after a moment, he added. “No, well. Maybe I’m just not meant to be here.”

“Don’t say that,” Lucy said.

“It’s true, though,” he replied. Then after a moment, “What do you think we’ll find in Brixton, Nebraska?”

“Nothing, maybe.” She waited, then added “or everything.”

The balloon spun and drifted and Grant boosted them higher up. They followed the path of the river and at this height, the tragedies beneath them were easier to ignore.

“Thank you,” Lucy said after they had ridden in silence. He raised an eyebrow. “For coming with me.”

Grant set the shaving cream on the floor of the basket and rubbed his eyes with both hands. Then he smiled, his single-dimple appearing for a brief second. He reached his hand out and Lucy grabbed it. It was an awkward, sideways grab, and she felt how cold and clammy his hand was and the small tremors from his fingers vibrated against her palm. She gave his hand a squeeze and he squeezed back, pinching her fingers down upon each other.

“Together,” he said and his eyes sca

She nodded, biting back tears. “Together,” she repeated. Then she closed her eyes and realized that she could not feel the wind or hear anything beside the hum of the balloon drifting effortlessly into the vast unknown. Lucy thought of her sister and her brothers and she saw their faces as she left them that fateful morning, poised and ready for adventure. Then she thought of her mother.

Strong. Resilient.

And waiting for her.

Lucy opened her eyes toward the horizon and intertwined her fingers with Grant’s and held his hand until she could no longer tell where her hand started and his hand stopped. With her other hand, she grabbed the crucifix and held it inside her palm, pulling the chain tight against her neck.

“Together,” she said again. “Wherever this takes us.”

“Whatever happens.”

“No matter what.”

END OF BOOK ONE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As a reader, I really love the acknowledgments page. It’s like a writer’s Academy Award speech, except no one can play you off with an orchestra and you are likely thanking people who helped you while you are still wearing pajamas instead of a fancy ball gown. And that’s the thing about writing; I can just tell you that I’m writing this in a beautiful bright yellow Oscar de la Renta dress and you could believe me. But you shouldn’t. I am clearly in sweat pants and a maple syrup stained t-shirt.

Here we go:

First of all, thank you Kevin. Thank you for hating every single book I tried to get you to read when you were in the ninth grade; thank you for your never ending barrage of fourteen year-old opinions and your challenge disguised as an insult: “Ms. Wescott, I bet even you could write a better book than this.” Challenge accepted. I hope I did okay. Sorry it took four years, but I’d like to think this is a pretty unique graduation gift. Plus, I feel like I’ve offered you a very cool pick-up line for college girls, “So, my freshman Reading teacher wrote a book for me. You wa

To every other student of mine at Cente

Book Club: You are more than a book club. You are my best friends, my confidants, my support, and my lifeline. You are readers and thinkers and you are my biggest cheerleaders; you challenge me personally and professionally and have proven that there is nothing in this world better than amazing female friendships. Without hyperbole I can tell you that I don’t know where I’d be without you all. I’ve decided that the best decision I can make in my life is protecting my heart. I give my heart to you without reservation or regret. Book Club is the best thing I’ve ever done. Thank you. Words are not enough. But from the bottom of my heart, thank you: Allison, Christy, Claudia, Lorrie, Melissa, Molly, Sunshine, Suzy, and Toni. (I know that Sunshine needs a specific shout-out for forgoing sleep to give me honest feedback that forced me to admit to my semi-colon problem.)

Nicole—we are the dynamic duo. Thank you for reading this first and championing publication. And thank you MOST for thinking of a title. Otherwise this would be called “Swimming Pool Full of Dead Teens” or “Trapped in a School with an Evil Principal” and no one would want to buy it ever. Your questions were the catalyst for major changes that made this book FAR BETTER than it was before and I am eternally grateful that I work with you and can call you a friend. Rana—your laughter and willingness to love me, despite knowing all my deepest and darkest secrets, is the best gift. Thanks for letting me put this book into your student’s hands.