“A public apology. You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”
“What can I say?” said Leyla, shrugging. “But I guess the message worked. Except it didn’t reach Priti. It reached someone far more important.” She rested her hand on Adeem’s shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze. “I know my explanation’s shit, and honestly, I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing. But I guess the universe has a weird way of pointing us in the right direction.”
“Idiot.”
“I know.”
It was strange. All the anger he’d held toward her for leaving him behind, for being so selfish, dissipated in an instant. Maybe that was the magic of siblings. They shared more than just blood, they shared roots. Home. Fighting with one was the equivalent of fighting with a more accurate mirror.
“If we survive whatever happens,” said Adeem, “we should go see Priti. If you want. I’m sure you both have a lot to talk about, and after the last time I saw her, I kind of owe her an apology. She’s, uh, probably not too far from us now.” At least, she couldn’t have gotten too far from the police station. If Cate were around, she’d probably be giving Adeem a death stare. Leyla’s eyes glistened in the dark. They were wet. “I’d like that.”
Adeem swallowed, let out a long breath.
Maybe he didn’t know what the future held, or, soon, what home would look like—what home even was anymore. But at least they were alive.
At least now, they were together.
33
Jesse
Jesse must have passed out for a bit, because when he awoke, he was back at Tom’s radio station, propped up by pillows on the carpet. It was still dark out. Someone had taken off his jacket and laid it over him like a blanket.
The girl, Cate, immediately noticed him awaken. She was at his side in half a second.
“Are we dead?” he asked. His voice was raspy.
She chuckled. “No. Alma hasn’t killed us—yet. We still have a couple more hours until dawn, and then . . . who knows.”
“Good.” Jesse closed his eyes. “My mom’s at the planetarium. I want to go see her.”
And then, after a moment, he opened them again.
“Where’d you get that key chain?” he asked.
“Oh, this?” She tugged the key chain off her bag. He hadn’t hallucinated: it was a crow made of wood—walnut, maybe—and exquisitely carved. But its beak had been chipped off. “My mom gave it to me. And my dad gave it to her. He’s the guy I was talking about. Garrett. The one I’m trying to find.”
He looked at her. Searched her face.
She had Dad’s eyes. His eyes: big and round and dark. It was surreal. Was it even possible? The more Jesse searched his memories, the more he realized it was: all those “business” trips to California Dad had taken, all those promises he’d made to Mom to take her, but conveniently never fulfilling them. Who was to say he hadn’t fathered another child on one of those trips?
But then, that would mean this girl . . .
Jesse swallowed painfully. “What’s your name?”
Cate’s eyebrows furrowed. “Um, Cate Collins.”
“Cate Collins,” Jesse repeated, testing the name in his mouth. “I’ll remember that. What about your mom? Where is she?”
Cate looked away. “She’s home. In San Francisco.”
“You’re a long way from home, Cate.” Carefully, Jesse sat up.
“Yeah,” she said, laughing a little. There was a tinge of sadness mixed up in there. “I guess I am.”
Jesse still had the fifteen thousand dollars. More than enough for one plane ticket to San Francisco.
He made a mental note: If they were all still standing tomorrow, he’d make sure she got back to her mom. Spend some more time with his own mom, too.
He gingerly threaded his arms into his jacket sleeves.
Cate’s eyes widened in recognition. “That blackbird. It looks like mine.” She ran her finger against the patch on his pocket.
Jesse smiled. “It’s a crow, actually.” He slipped his hands in his pockets. “The family crest of one Garrett Hewitt. My dad.”
Cate looked confused. Jesse didn’t explain. Instead, he stood tall on his trembling, nervous legs. “Hey, do you think you could help me get to the hospital downtown? There’s someone I need to see.”
He wanted to see his mom. He wanted to talk to Cate more. But there was something else he had to do first.
Cate got to her feet and let him lean on her. Slowly, her face broke into a smile. “Then I guess we’d better hurry, huh?”
Jesse found Corbin in the upstairs atrium in the hospital. He was sitting on the carpet with Mari in a wheelchair beside him.
Jesse greeted her first with a small, folded-up piece of paper.
“I never had a chance to get this to you,” said Jesse. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
Mari gasped. Her tiny fingers carefully unfolded the paper, as though it were a bird that could come to life in her hands.
Jesse had written out a letter from Alma, with some suggestions from Ms. K. He was pretty proud of the final product.
He glanced over at Corbin shyly.
“You’re here,” said Corbin, matter-of-factly.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
He took a seat next to Corbin, not even caring that his face was probably a mess, or that Corbin was still disappointed in him—for good reason. And Jesse tried not to think about how good it felt to see Corbin’s warm smile again. But then he took a deep breath and counted to five and let himself settle into the feeling. Let himself feel.
Corbin shifted on the floor. “Tonight’s the night.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Not gonna lie,” said Corbin, chuckling sadly. “I’m actually really scared.”
Mari said nothing; her eyes were trained on the window, staring intently at the predawn darkness.
“You think we’re not going to make it?” The thought of Corbin being worried made Jesse even more worried.
Corbin rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t even know if I’m afraid of dying anymore. I just keep thinking about all the things I have left to do. All the things I have left to say.”
It didn’t seem fair that the world could end like this. Jesse felt like he’d only just begun. He actually wanted to live.
Suddenly, Corbin started to laugh. “You know our neighbors—the Jarvises? In their backyard, their son keeps this stupidly huge, twelve-foot-tall playpen he made for his cat. But Mrs. Jarvis is really big on doing catch-and-release programs for feral cats, and I guess she does animal rehabilitation once in a while, so sometimes, they use the big pen for injured wild animals. Grandpa told me they had a fox in there last year, a family of orphaned racoons a couple months before that.
“Anyway, Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis went out last night thinking, Well, if the whole catch-and-release thing works on feral cats, what if it works on other animals? Bigger animals? They met up with some guy, a vet from Indiana, staying in the tent city down by Roswell City Hall, and long story short, they and a couple volunteers caught the wolves from Spring River Zoo.
“And it’s amazing, right? What people can do. The good people can do. Maybe it doesn’t sound like much, and maybe it makes no difference in the end, but when I heard about it, I felt so . . . relieved, you know? I felt so bad about the poor things out there, like—like because I’m human, it’s partially my fault they were out there suffering. But now we have wolves for neighbors, and they’re chilling in the playpen, safe and growing fat on cat food until the zoo can take them back.”
Jesse let out a shaky laugh. He almost couldn’t believe the wolves were together, were safe. He’d been so sure they’d be hunted down, one by one. It was practically a miracle.
Corbin continued, “If we all survive this thing, if Alma decides to spare us, I want to do stuff like that. I have to keep reminding myself that I don’t have to sit here and feel helpless, for Mari’s sake. I can do something—like the Jarvises.”
He turned to look at Jesse. “Like what you did for so many people. Whether you realize it or not.”
“It’s not over,” said Jesse.
His fingers found Corbin’s.
“Look!” Mari cried suddenly. She was pointing out the window.
Jesse couldn’t see it at first. An impenetrable silence nestled comfortably between them as he and Corbin looked to the horizon line, hand in hand.
And then, light.
Mari—
Intergalactic beings have watched Earth envelop itself in darkness for millennia. But in every shroud of darkness, there are small beings such as yourself who, when dealt a cruel hand by fate, still carry the strength to smile.
Your smile breaks through the dark. Your pain is where the light enters you. And your kindness is a guiding light for others.
And that holds a power that even we fear.
Small being, no matter what happens, never let that power go.
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the countless number of people who dragged my tired soul across these pages.
I owe so much to Rosemary Brosnan and Alexandra Cooper at HarperTeen, who supported me when I needed it most. I also owe a world of gratitude to the rest of the wonderful team at Harper who’ve brought this book to life: Alyssa Miele, Allison Weintraub, Jon Howard, Janet Rosenberg, Monique Vescia, Allison Brown, Ebony LaDelle, Michael D’Angelo, and Jacquelynn Burke. You are all so magical to me.
Genius designers Erin Fitzsimmons and Catherine San Juan have truly humbled me with this cover, and having the illustration of living, breathing art god Adams Carvalho grace my debut is nothing short of amazing.
Endless thanks to my sensitivity readers, whose insight and advice helped make my book—make all books—just a little bit kinder. The work sensitivity readers do is invaluable.
I’m so lucky to have been able to work with the awe-inspiring fairy godqueens at Glasstown Entertainment, past and present: Lauren Oliver, Lexa Hillyer, Deeba Zargarpur, Emily Berge-Thielmann, Kat Cho, Lynley Bird, Rebecca Kuss, Diana Sousa, Kamilla Benko, Alexa Wejko, and Jessica Sit. Words cannot describe how thankful I am, which is a problem, because words are supposed to be my job now. Alas, you are all just that wonderful. Stephen Barbara and Lyndsey Blessing have also been behind the scenes, kindly guiding this little story on its own publishing road trip. Thank you for believing in me.
When I was still in law school and unsure of whether I should chase my writing dream, I found Marri and Kate, who gave me the support I needed to find my way. Thank you for being there, quietly and lovingly cheering me on through our shared writing adventures.
If my books are any good, it is because I learned from Jeanne Cavelos, wise sage of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and patron saint to all aspiring writers. Even as I write now, it’s your voice I hear in my mind, helping me grow. A special thank you to Mary Robinette Kowal, whose fierce reassurance during the workshop is the reason why I kept writing.
Speaking of Odyssey, I owe all the hugs to my dear friends I made during those six fever-dream weeks: Gigi, Wendy, Rebecca, Mike, Michael, Matthew, Matt, and Hal. And the Tomatoes: thank you, Pablo and Linden, my favorite beautiful goth duo; Richard, a constant source of good cheer and good suggestions; Josh, my forever-favorite “frenemy,” for reminding me the true meaning of strength; Jeremy, my most patient Turtle Sensei; and RK, my soul sister, my Jade Blossom, my behna. I love you all so much.
I would not be here without the work of the Muslim trailblazers before me who have convinced audiences that their stories—our stories—deserve to be told and fought for. Thank you to Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali, whose constant encouragement kept the fire in me alive, and Karuna Riazi, who held my hand and coaxed me down a path I never thought would be mine. Inshallah, I will pay it forward.
So many friends and family have buoyed me through this journey. For always being the first on my doorstep with a fire extinguisher whenever hell broke loose, I am forever grateful to Farheen, who has, for many years, made me a better person. I’m also grateful to Cara (my personal Ms. Takemoto) and Ethan. Thank you for your friendship, and for giving me video-game nights to look forward to in the midst of impending deadlines. Shaan and Alina, my Sea Salt Squad: even if we weren’t related, I’d wish we were.
So much love to Stephen, my best friend, my partner: Thank you for feeding me and watering me and giving me sunlight. Your love keeps me alive. Literally.
I became an orphan while writing this book, but I’d like to think my parents are watching over me. So thank you, Dad, for showing me my capabilities, and Mom, for showing me my limits. Please look after me, okay?
Thank you, dear reader, who holds my heart in your hand. You’ve given me a chance and I will not squander it.
And last but by no means least: thank you, Shaz. If I could, I would drive across the world to find you just to hug you tightly and call you an idiot, one last time. I miss you, little brother. So very much.
About the Author
Photo by Mike Styer
FARAH NAZ RISHI is a Pakistani American Muslim writer and voice actor, but in another life, she’s worked stints as a lawyer, a video game journalist, and an editorial assistant. She received her BA in English from Bryn Mawr College, her JD from Lewis & Clark Law School, and her love of weaving stories from the Odyssey Writing Workshop. When she’s not writing, she’s probably hanging out with video game characters. You can find her at home in Philadelphia, or on Twitter at @far_ah_way.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Books by Farah Naz Rishi
I Hope You Get This Message
Do You Ever Wonder About Us
Praise for I Hope You Get This Message
“The end of the world has never been this mesmerizing. I couldn’t look away from Farah Naz Rishi’s stunning debut that shows humanity in all its many shades of truth.”
—ADAM SILVERA, New York Times bestselling author of They Both Die at the End
“Clear-eyed and grounded, this stellar, startling debut challenges our very humanity, forcing us to grapple with what’s most important in the face of a global crisis. Imaginative, funny, and frank, I Hope You Get This Message is a must-read debut about love, loss, hope, and the real-world choices we make in our final days.”
—SONA CHARAIPOTRA, author of Symptoms of a Heartbreak and coauthor of the Tiny Pretty Things series
“I Hope You Get This Message is a stunning and bold debut, the kind of cinematic, sweeping story that is devoured in a single sitting. Which I did. Part Arrival, part They Both Die at the End, this is an emotional tale of three kids who face their own demise with hope, courage, and a whole lot of bad decisions. A must-read.”
—MARK OSHIRO, Schneider Family Book Award–winning author of Anger Is a Gift
“Thought-provoking and full of heart, I Hope You Get This Message reminds us how fragile and fleeting time can be. One of the best debut novels I’ve read in a long time!”
—AKEMI DAWN BOWMAN, author of Starfish, a William C. Morris Award finalist
“If aliens were to read Farah Naz Rishi’s beautifully written book for clues about our species, they would discover that human beings are gloriously weighed down by gravity—the gravity of love, of memory, and most of all of our connections to each other. This is a vital debut with a big beating heart.”
—ABDI NAZEMIAN, author of Like a Love Story
“Heart-wrenching, absorbingly clever, and beautifully written. Rishi deftly balances a tale of global consequences with riveting, intimate, and deeply personal stories. I Hope You Get This Message is one of the best and freshest YA stories I’ve seen in a long time.”
—R.F. KUANG, author of The Poppy War
Back Ad
DISCOVER
your next favorite read
MEET
new authors to love
WIN
free books
SHARE
infographics, play
lists, quizzes, and more
WATCH
the latest videos
www.epicreads.com
Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
I HOPE YOU GET THIS MESSAGE. Copyright © 2019 by Glasstown Entertainment. Emoji art supplied by EmojiOne. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Cover art © 2019 by Adams Carvalho
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons and Catherine San Juan
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019941390
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-274147-9
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-274145-5 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-298183-7 (special edition)
* * *
1920212223PC/LSCH 10987654321
FIRST EDITION
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
I Hope You Get This Message Page 29
