by Hanks, Greg
After a few minutes, he released her. He felt the satchel at his side screaming at him. He reached inside and withdrew a small leather notebook, wrinkled and watermarked. He held it in his hands, feeling the stained pages, chock-full of invaluable information.
“What’s that?” asked Tara, wiping her eyes.
“Look, I know this isn’t the best time to do this . . . but we found something.”
Tara narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“This . . . is Slate’s journal.”
Tara’s eyebrows rose. Her blue irises twitched.
“I—er—I want you to have it.” He held out the small book and she leaned back.
“Why me? Why would I want that?”
“Tara, we still haven’t found Repik. What if . . .”
“No.” Tara stood. “I’m not starting this again, Curt.”
“I’m not asking you to. Just see if you can find something helpful.”
She glowered, biting her lip.
“All right. I’ll hold on to it for a little while.” He stuffed it back into the satchel.
“I still haven’t found Savannah, Curtis,” she said. “I have to keep my promise.”
Curtis nodded. “I just . . . don’t want to forfeit everything they died for.”
Tara was quiet. Her eyes grew damp again.
“I’m not ready yet,” she said. “And even if I found Savannah, I don’t know if I will ever be.”
As the two surviving renegades found stirring embers within each other’s eyes, a group of men wearing facemasks stepped out onto the ledge of a Dustslum apartment.
One of the men raised his mask so he could see Manhattan in the faraway horizon. He had an agile nose, a mane of greasy brown hair, and drunken green eyes that captured the pain, loss, and rage of a man betrayed.
Another body stepped outside and approached their leader.
“Jonas,” he said, “we found Tracer and the boy.”
Repik grinned behind yellow teeth and said, “Then let’s get started.”
