I DO END UP SLEEPING, WHICH SURPRISES ME when I wake up the next day. I rub tear crusts off my face, shudder as my arm is exposed to the cold, and wrap my thermal blanket around me so I can grope for my flashlight.
I sweep the room with the light, as if hoping to find something other than what I know is there. The room stares back, empty.
My head is clearer, but I feel every bit as tense as I did last night. With the flashlight clenched between my knees, I dig through my bag for breakfast. Spice bread. A water bottle.
"You're up," Mom says from the doorway.
I make a noncommittal sound.
She steps inside and sits at the foot end of my sad imitation of a bed—she learned that much over the years, at least: never sit near the head—and watches me eat.
"I'm … ," she starts.
"You're sorry. I know." I hunch down, surprised I've even said the words. I'm so angry I could hit her, and she doesn't even realize it.
"It's not like I did it on purpose, Denise. Don't treat me like a villain."
I say nothing.
"Start thinking about what you want us to do next. We'll discuss later. I'm going to"—she makes a wild gesture—"explore. I already found bathrooms nearby, though the water's cut off, of course. And I think there's a wildfire in the distance. Did you know?"
I shrug.
"If you go up a couple of stairs and head west, you can see it flickering at the horizon. It's blurry and kind of dark—because of all the dust, I guess—but it makes the dust glow, and it's … it's nice to see some light."
"Burning ejecta," I say. That's what causes the wildfires.
Mom smiles wanly. "I'll go explore further. OK, honey?"
"OK," I say, since she may not go if I don't.
"I'm sorry," she says again.
She leaves.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I tell myself: Not now.
I can't break down.
Instead, I clean my hands and face with a glob of soap from my bag. The suds on my little square towel come back dark as charcoal. I wish I could let my hair spill over my shoulders, but I just wrap it in my scarf anew and eat, though without butter the stale spice bread is dry.
If I can't break down, I'll have to stay busy and think about what's next. We can try to beg our way into a permanent shelter, or find a temporary one and hook up with survivors once they leave. The temporary shelters have food for only two or three days. Once the immediate danger is over, they'll release people to fend for themselves.
Iris comes first, though.
We can walk southeast. My tab won't have enough juice to act as a compass and map for so long, but maybe I can somehow connect with Max or Mirjam or even Els and have them sneak it into the ship and charge it.
(I check the battery status. Then I delete the article I was reading last night, and every related file I'd stored. Do what's necessary.)
The more immediate question is: Do we really walk all the way to Gorinchem, or do we walk home and wait for Iris there? It'd be fourteen hours or three hours, respectively, based on the times I looked up, and we can easily double those estimates, given the state of the roads. The bridges might not be intact, either, and we're guaranteed to need to cross water. By the time we reach the shelter, they might've already cleared out. Where would Iris go after that? Would she have working transport to reach Amsterdam?
I'm mulling that over and carefully repacking my bag when I hear footsteps. Multiple sets. I swallow the last crumbs of the spice bread, put my gloves back on, zip my backpack closed, and snatch up my flashlight. I slide into the hall and follow the sound of the footsteps. They're joined by voices now, ones I recognize—Max and Mirjam.
Good. I can ask about the tab.
Before I can change my mind, I step around the corner, then stop dead in my tracks. Between my flashlight and the two they have, there's plenty of light to see by. Even with their hoods drawn up, I recognize Max and Mirjam, but there's also Sanne, another girl, and two younger boys who must be twins.
"Denise! We were just coming to check on you." Max smiles that languid smile of his, like nothing happened last night. "You OK? Couch OK?"
"Comfy. Right?" Sanne says.
"It was fine. Thank you." My gaze flickers to Mirjam, but I choose to focus on Max. "I need a favor. Can you charge my tab for me?" I raise my arm, as though he wouldn't know what I mean otherwise.
"Well … we're not supposed to. The ship can only generate so much power right now. Until we're flying—"
"Until you're flying," I correct him. A moment later, I realize that's not the best way to ask for a favor. I take an automatic step back, the beam from my flashlight withdrawing from theirs.
Mirjam closes the distance. "Why'd you get kicked off? Did you tell your sister about the ship?"
She was already direct yesterday, but now that she's turned accusatory, I don't know where to look. Are they seeing me the same way Els did? Rude and difficult and flouting the rules? "No," I say harshly. "My mother made a mistake."
"A mistake?" Sanne sounds skeptical.
"She said there was a misunderstanding?" Max squints.
"We weren't—weren't really on the ship as passengers." I don't want to explain the situation, but I need that favor. At least it doesn't seem like Anke told either of her children about the state Mom was in before we left. Or the state I was in. It's a small comfort.
"Ohhh," Max says once I've explained.
Sanne whistles. "So you were wasting your own power last night, not the ship's. That helps."
Max elbows her.
"Jeez," Mirjam says. "It's normally something bad."
All Mirjam's hostility is gone, replaced with a laugh and a roll of her eyes. The twins are arguing about something silly in the background, and the other girl hasn't said a word, but I feel like I've passed some sort of test. I breathe easier.
"So the captain has kicked off others?" Sanne says, eyeing Mirjam.
"Yeah, before you came on board. One woman who told her brother the ship's location. And a man who was caught sneaking into storage. When they searched his room, they found food he'd hoarded from dinner, too—enough for several days. That's when they made that rule about not taking food from the dining halls."
The other girl adds, "I heard something about an entire family stowing away, but I was never clear on whether someone on board helped them."
"A shower does seem silly in comparison," Max says.
Mirjam nods. "Charging your tab is the least we can do."
"We do have energy rations for a reason," he protests.
"Ignore my brother. He's easily scandalized. Hey, you want to tag along? We'll take your tab back to the ship afterward."
"We can tell people that you helped, in case it makes a difference," the other girl says. "They want more young people on board, anyway."
"Really?" I stand a little straighter. I still need to find Iris, but possibly having a spot on the ship to come back to—we'd need to find her before launch tomorrow, but—"Yes! Yes. Thank you. I'll help. Thank you."
She offers a tentative smile. "I'm Fatima."
"Captain of our soccer team," Mirjam chimes in.
"It'll be hard to convince the captain to let anyone else on," Max says. "You know … the supplies …"
"Oh, we know," Sanne says.
"Max, shut up." Mirjam's voice is mild; it doesn't fit her hard eyes or the way she snapped at me yesterday. It's as though she doesn't even remember that. "Here, Denise. I have an extra crowbar."
She slings her backpack around. My eyes flit over the rest of the group. The twins at the back seem impatient, but the others are focused on me. I don't know how to act. All of a sudden, they're being so … nice. My hand squirms around the flashlight, eager to tap or flap, and I settle for lightly swishing it past my thigh.
"My brother is a handy dude," Mirjam says, handing me the crowbar, "but he is a clueless dude."
"What did I do?" Max seems beyond confused.
"First lesson," Sanne announces. She steps forward, leaving Mirjam and Max to bicker. "Crowbar. Doors. We already pried these open the other day. Look."
I watch her demonstrate where they pried open the nearest office door. Is this her way of making amends? Or is she faking it to please Max?
I focus on what she tells me. Afterward, I dart into Mom's office and scribble a note, then catch up with the others to move farther into the airport. At the back of the group, the twins yell and balance atop piles of rubble where the ceiling caved in. Mirjam leads the way, Max and Sanne right behind her. Max shortens his stride to keep pace with Sanne. He tells her something I can't quite hear and tugs at her hood. She laughs, muffled, and for the first time I wonder if maybe Sanne's snarkiness was less about me and more about Max and her own jealousy.
They take me halfway across the airport. The cracked-open doors show how much they've already covered. I linger at the back with the twins and Fatima, quiet, feeling only half there. I didn't pay much attention to the airport last night. Aside from the glass, which is everywhere except in the actual window frames, the building isn't too bad. It's still standing, at least, though the ceiling has collapsed in places, and all over there's dirt that must've blown in. At first, it feels like we're breaking in and should be looking out for security guards. Then, it feels like VR, an apocalyptic world with zombies ready to burst from each gap in the wall.
The weird part comes when I recognize things. Mirjam's flashlight swoops over projector units, smashed to the ground. Stores, the windows broken and the stock gone, but the shelves still in place. Signs for passport control. Painted arrows on the floor, pointing at different concourses. Security domes. Body and luggage scanners.
I've walked on these exact tiles, looked at those exact signs, Iris by my side, our bags packed for Dad's home in sunny Paramaribo. I'd been nervous and excited, and I'd had not a single clue of what was waiting for us years down the line.
Maybe Americans are used to this, having seen their cities destroyed a dozen times on film. I've just never seen it happen to my airport.
The others are starting to fan out. I shake off my thoughts and get to work.