Burn (Pure #3)(107)

Beckley walks over and grabs him by the arms. “Get Iralene. We have to go. Now.”

Partridge walks quickly down the hall to the bedroom. He feels robotic. He can’t process Glassings’ death. He grips the cool knob. He opens the door. He thinks of life and death—a thin membrane that separates the two. A doorway…sometimes closed, sometimes open.

Iralene is sleeping peacefully, her light curls covering the silky pillow.

He walks to her, sits on the bed, and gently shakes her shoulder. “Iralene,” he whispers. “Iralene, wake up. Iralene.”

She opens her eyes and rolls to her back. “I was having a dream,” she says. “I’m still not used to how real they are, Partridge. It was so real.”

“A good dream this time?”

She nods.

He rubs his fists together—knuckles bumping over knuckles. “I’m scared, Iralene. Foresteed’s told the people that there’s an uprising coming.”

She sits up and puts her hand on his chest. “We’ll be okay, Partridge. No matter what.”

“No,” Partridge says. “If they come at us, people are going to die, Iralene. Do you know what I’m saying?”

She wraps her arms around him. She whispers, “In the dream, we were happy. We had a house, and it had flowered curtains. You built the house, Partridge. It was in a field, and the wind blew through the grass. I think it was the future.”

“I don’t think that’s how dreams work, Iralene.”

“It was so real. It was better than the orb. We walked from room to room and peered out the windows. What would you say if I made a place like that real?”

He likes the sound of Iralene’s voice. He closes his eyes for a moment and imagines the house.

“Tulips,” she says. “That’s what was stitched on the curtains. Tulips—thousands of them. I could touch the stitches with my fingertips, and then when I looked outside of another window, there was a field of tulips, bobbing their heavy heads in the breezes.”

“It wasn’t just an orb?”

“No, it was real. Do you think I haven’t heard about the home that Lyda made for you, that dark ashen world from the orb? She’s not the only one who can make a home for you, Partridge.”

“Who told you about that?”

“I know things—more than you give me credit for.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I just… What home are you talking about making for us?”

“What if they could create a home for us where we’ll all be together? All of us. Even those you’ve lost, Partridge.”

A world with his mother and Sedge? Not his father—not him, no. “Glassings died in the night.” He can only whisper the words.

“Glassings could be there too,” Iralene says, as if she’s not afraid of death, and maybe she isn’t.

“That’s what they call heaven, Iralene.”

“But what if it could be here, in the Dome?”

“It’s not possible. You’re still dreaming.”

“We could be happy there. It’s the future that we could walk into one day, if we want. Lie back,” she says. “Lie back with me and dream a little.” She looks dreamy. Her eyes are so crystal clear and beautiful.

He can’t dream—not even a little. He has to bring Pressia’s grandfather back up for air. He has to find Pressia and Lyda—that’s who he’s supposed to walk into the future with. “No.” He’s already wasted too much time. “You can’t be here alone. It’s no longer safe. Come with me.”

“Where else would I want to be?”

“I’ll let you get ready,” he says.

She promises to be quick.

He walks to the door, closes it quietly, and jogs down the hall, hoping Beckley’s found a way to get them out of here without being seen.

As he walks into the suite’s living room, he sees a stretcher, covered in white sheets. It’s not logical, but he thinks of Glassings; this stretcher can’t be for him. He’s dead…

The door to the suite opens. Beckley’s talking to someone in the hall, thanking the person in a hushed voice. He shuts the door and, holding two lab coats on hangers, turns to face Partridge, who says, “What’s wrong? Who’s sick?”

“Not sick,” Beckley says. “Dead.”

“Who?”

“For now,” Beckley says, “you.”





PRESSIA





ANOTHER SKY




The air in the bin is close and warm because of their bodies. Pressia and Lyda have shifted so they’re sitting side by side. They hold hands like sisters. Pressia would have liked to have had a sister. She remembers what it was like to hide in the cabinet in the back of the burned-out barbershop, alone.

As Chandry pushes them along, Pressia tells Lyda about Ireland—the boars; the blind, vicious creatures in the woods; the thorned ivy. She confesses what she did to Bradwell, and as she does, she can see his large, dark wings. She says, “I want to get back to him.” In fact, right now, trapped in this bin, moving to some unknown location, she would leave if she could. The vial, the formula, saving lives… Sometimes she wishes someone else could take over for her. Maybe she’s just being a kid, but she misses being protected, watched over. She misses her grandfather.