Page 15 of Evolved

“Yes. Put your shoes on. Car’s just off the Palm Room.”

“Okay.” We’ve planned for this since we talked by the fire. Go-bags always packed, always ready as we check the Capitol one every third day, and Gran tries to use the ham radio on theroof, and Knox goes from government building to government building to confiscates guns, and I fail to write—we’re always ready.

Knox leaves me to sort my shoes and goes to Gran closer to the fire.

“I’d like to see them,” Gran says, voice only slightly groggy.

As if on command, someone shouts on the other side of the building, a loud, victorious holler that would sound deranged if I hadn’t seen footage of soldiers storming into conquered cities during the war.

It echoes and grows, smacking of rationale swallowed away by the joy of destruction.

“We can negotiate,” Gran says. “Who are they?”

“Respectfully, ma’am, this isn’t the time to negotiate. Not with them keyed up on adrenaline like this. There’s too many.”

My feet already in my shoes, I tug on my winter coat, my backpack onto my back. I jog to the door where Knox is hovering like a dark shadow in the doorway. Gran is beside him, quiet now. But I know her; she’s thinking, probably plotting.

“We’ll come back,” I say.

“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps.

He gestures for me to follow them as he bundles her into the hallway.

The shouting and crashing are louder now.

I can make out voices.

A man says, “Dude, is this the oval fucking office?”

It’s not.

Not from the direction of his voice. The Oval is in the West Wing. The bluish beam of artificial light bounces from the Diplomatic Reception Room.

Another louder smash, more voices raised in laughter. That’s coming from the China Room. It’s so close, only thirty or fortyfeet away. And it’s not just one or two people. It’s way more.

Barely daring to breathe, I follow Knox and Gran into the Palm Room.

The door is open there, bringing the sound of rain sloshing from a downspout and falling in heavy sheets, gusts of frigid air.

The sound of smashing plates gets louder.

It’s right then that I remember what I forgot. The medical book—the one that explains dosages and, alternatives, and symptoms.

It was in my arms when I woke.

But I never put it in my bag.

I can’t leave without it.

I won’t.

We’re leaving the dialysis machine; we’re not leaving the only book I know of that explains how to tell if the pills are doing their job.

I turn around, jog back to the Map Room.

Behind me, Knox hisses my name as I dart as silently as I can with my coat on and my boots and my backpack, all of them overly loud, my breathing too, into the Map Room, the voices in the hall growing closer.

A dish smashes closer, and then there’s the distinct sound of a cabinet breaking, like they’ve opened up the glass display covers.

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