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Chapter Twenty-Five: Answers

The mass of people under the dome turns to Isabel, and by extension to Berend, leaning on her shoulder. They’re packed in side by side, with barely enough room to rotate in place. There’s no room to sit. An old man leans on a younger relative, exhaustion and pain written in the lines of his face. 

The little boy with the grubby face shoves his way out of the foyer. He stops short, pigeon-toed feet in too-large shoes skidding on the smooth marble, and stares at the sky. 

“It’s all right, Jemmy,” Isabel says, but there’s no weight behind her words. It’s not all right. It’s probably never going to be all right again.

Jemmy’s eyes go wide, and he breathes in short gasps. A thin, terrified whine escapes his throat. 

“Are we still safe?” someone asks from inside the foyer. 

Endings

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Isabel can only stare at him. “You’re bleeding out,” she says, uselessly. “I don’t think you can stand.”

Berend takes another breath, thin and shaky. “Sure I can,” he says. 

“Why? Where do you want to go?” She’s got to find some way to stop the bleeding—and keep him where he is before he wanders off, numb from shock. She pushes his left arm aside and puts both hands to the spreading dark stain on his coat. The fabric squelches under her weight. 

“Don’t know. Just would rather die on my feet.” He stops, breathes for a moment, and adds, “If I can help at all, more the better.”