Page 90 of Mayflower

Kat laughs.

Margot is trying to hide a smile. “I do, by the way.”

“Do what?” Kat asks.

“Have a joint.”

Kat stalls, but Margot motions for her to follow. “But we have work to do first.”

“Margot?” Kat warns.

“Yeah, yeah. Later. Time to do some work. Though you are not used to it.”

Kat rolls her eyes, then notices me watching and mouths, “Bitch.”

30

MADDY

Butcher’s gang was taken out. Several hundred men were arrested and put in jail. They are still being transferred to the mainland for prosecution, a dozen at a time. They’ve gotten their first punishment—getting expelled from their home island.

Over a hundred special forces men and another fifty aid workers were brought to Port Mrei from mainland to start “readjustment.” That’s what they call it until this program that’s already getting funding from many of my dad’s partners and affiliates will officially roll out.

Turning a slum town back into a well-functioning urban center is a lot of work.

Shepherd is in charge of Port Mrei. Zion is busy and noisy, but this is another kind of noisy—not war-like. It’s the noise of dealing with the aftermath. This noise is laced with hope. It’s the noise of families finally able to walk outside their homes safely. It’s the noise of emergency supplies being distributed in Port Mrei. Military trucks and army men are everywhere, but this time, they are bringing order and peace.

I’ve been at the medical center for three days now. Ayana residents, for the first time, came together to help each other. Communal kitchens are set up in several restaurants. Food is being brought up to the medical ward and the Center to feed everyone. There’s no place in the medical ward for all the injured, mostly the guards, but we set up cots and mattresses, lying them everywhere all throughout the building. Most children were relocated to the guest houses. Some kids are here on IVs. They are malnourished, some dealing with the injuries from the Molotovs they were ordered to use. But they are doing great. This is the first time someone has paid so much attention to them.

And Raven is still unconscious.

Three nurses and two hours—that was how long it took to pull glass shards out of Raven’s hands and knees while he was in surgery, unconscious, and the doctor was fixing his wounds while Raven was on the blood transfusion.

I never thought I’d end up in a situation like this, lying next to his unconscious body, connected by tubes, praying that I could give him all my will to live as my blood pumped into him.

The sight was heartbreaking. His beautiful eyes closed, his dark hair was in stark contrast with the light-blue hospital sheets. His body was motionless, jerked like a puppet by nurses and the doctor who were working on it.

My heart ached with every tiny glass piece pulled out of his flesh, the pressured disinfectant spray washing out the rest. Blood everywhere, like some macabre art. His hands were so big and swollen, blood dripping from them, his body so motionless under the sedative. His ring had to be cut with the surgical saw to release the pressure.

But after the blood transfusion and the surgery were completed, turned out the wounds were treated just in time. No bones or vitals were damaged.

I was ready to kiss Dr. Hodges’s hands when he said, “He is out of danger.”

But I still couldn’t hold back tears afterward, sitting by Raven’s bedside, my heart syncing with the beeping of his heart monitor and squeezing hard with love for this magnificent man.

Three days later, I still hardly ever leave his side, only to help the other injured.

Little spends most of his time attending to his friends, sorting out accommodations. He spends nights in the armchair by Raven’s side. In the mornings, he curates breakfast for the kids in the guest pavilions. Then, he darts like the wind into the medical center, eyes blazing, chest puffed out with pride, as he comes to check on Raven. Back to the guest pavilion for lunch to feed his friends. Then he comes back to see Rave. Every time he comes in, he leans really close to Raven’s face to check, as if Rave is pretending to be asleep. This kid will grow up into a wonderful human.

It’s late afternoon as I stand by Raven’s bed and study him so peaceful in his sedated sleep.

The monitor beeps quietly. His heart is beating—I feel blessed.

Little is by his side, reading aloud. “Dr. Hodges said Rave can hear us,” he announced, determined, the other day. He insists on reading books to Raven.

Raven should come to any time today, the doctor said. And I keep checking on him. I wish I could sit by his side all the time so that I’m the first person he sees when he wakes up.

This afternoon, Little reads one of Raven’s favorite books, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. He is much better at reading these days, though he is not a patient learner and still stumbles over difficult words.

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