I throw on my boots, shirt, and underwear before rocketing from the pod. Dean catches up, and we sprint to Level 6 together. Fire Team is already there throwing powder into the flames that are licking the concrete ceiling like tongues grabbing at food stuck between the back teeth. I'm dumbstruck as heat washes over my body. Fire Team members shout instructions, coordinating a pattern.

Their ineffective efforts will be my ruination—the Sink continues burning.

Refusing to be a bystander, I grab a powder sack from the pile and dump it, quelling the flames to the left of the door. The bigger flames are farther in. I can reach them.

"You're going to get burned. You're not wearing anything." Dean pulls me by the arm away from the heat.

This is my fault. I was the last one there. This has to be my fault. "I have to do something!" I rip my arm out of his grasp and push farther into the path of the flames.

"Janika! Get out of there!" Simon's voice carries above the Fire Team's yelling.

I can't even acknowledge him right now. I block him out as I thrust forward with the team.

"Captain, you're not wearing proper equipment, and you are not authorized as part of this team's rotation," the droning voice from the speaker of the yellow suit says.

The intensity of the flames scalds my bare legs and arms. But I have to continue. We can't pause to make sure I'm dressed for the occasion.

The fire blazes as glass shatters and metal structures collapse. Our lives are toast, and it's my fault.

Fire surrounds me. My skin takes the brunt of it, but I'm deep enough in my head that none of the burning registers. None of the black smoke circling us bothers my lungs. I'll think of that later. For now, salvage. Save the Sink. Save our life. I can't lose this, too. Not now.

Dean joins me in the middle of the flames, shielding his face with his arm.

"Come on, we need to get out." He extends his hand.

I frantically drop the last of my powder. I expect something inside it. Something to stop the fire.

"Please, Nika, let's go. There's nothing we can do."

I stare at his outstretched hand. I find nothing in it and wonder what he's doing here. I am about to tell him I'm fine when tongues of fire lick my calves. The pain shocks me out of my stupor, and I clasp his hand tight.

Together, with arms covering eyes, we hunch over to find cleaner air while we stagger out of the Sink. As soon as we're free, black smoke curls out of my throat in coughs that throttle my whole body.

"Are you insane?" Simon's face hovers inches from mine. "I will not let you kill yourself for that pile of junk. Don't you dare go running into danger like that again."

He clutches my hand in his. I whimper at my dad's side as we watch our life burn farther into the ground.

After hours of dispersing the heavy substance around, the fire dies. Thick, black smoke sifts through the air, choking us. Our ventilation system cannot release this much pollutant outside. If it did, we'd be detected immediately. Instead. We live with bearable levels of smoke, toxins, and gases so the Invaders don't find us through our inadvertent smoke signals.

We follow Fire Team inside. The burns blister on my arms and legs.

"It looks like it started in here," one member of the Fire Team declares. She points to what used to be Simon's kitchen. "The hottest scorch marks are from this area."

There's a heap of melted metal where she points. It's where the griddle and stove top were located.

I didn't switch off the griddle. I didn't do it even though Simon asked.

In fact, I may have even thrown a towel on top of it. The realization pummels me as I feel the weight of a thousand pounds of stupid slam into my face. How could I have been so careless? So idiotic?

Simon digs his hands deep into his pockets and kicks at piles of rubble and ash.

"Dad," I say with wavering confidence, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't answer.

"When you left, I was . . . I didn't . . . " My words aren't coming out even though my head is screaming them. It's my fault. Tell me how to fix it, Dad, and I'm going to do it because I get shit done. Dish out the orders. Tell me what to do.

But I don't say a word. We wander through the hot kitchen breathing the smoky air. Dean joins us in the silence.

The ashes and guilt settle at the bottom of my gut, twisting it as I scan the room. I avoid Simon's eyes. I avoid the charred utilities. Everything we slaved and scraped away to buy, upkeep, and maintain is now crumbs—black, charred, flaky crumbs sitting in piles on the floor.

Simon falls backward onto the bench in the kitchen that miraculously remained unscathed. It's dusted in black to match the room, but it remains whole.

Simon drops his head into his hands. He slumps forward.

We sit beside each other, the silence of the room weighing us down.

"This is quite the pickle, Kiddo."

I have no response.

"I've got some creds saved up, but most of our money was tied up in this dump. But we'll be okay."

"I'm sorry."

"I know, Kiddo." His flat tone lacks the reassurance I'm longing for.

"No, I don't think you do. It's my fault, I—"

Simon snaps his head. "Are you crying?"

There they are. The tears sting my burning eyes and streak my cheeks. I've finally done it. I've cried.

"No," I moan.

He shakes his head and hangs it again.

Instantly, my stomach drops to the floor. His shoulders hunch and tremble. His nine dirty fingers run over the smooth dome of his bald head that's blackened with soot. I realize he might not forgive me. I'm not his daughter. I have no biological ties to this man. At any second, he could throw me aside, and I'd deserve it. I'd deserve everything I got because I ruined his life.

As much as I feel dumping me would be a justified consequence, the thought of abandonment crushes me. The thought of continuing on with this life or this mission without my father drops ice over my skin and heart.

"Dad, I'm sorry." I'm not really apologizing—I'm pleading. Don't leave me. Don't hate me. Let me be your daughter again even though I'm a massive fuck-up and don't deserve it.

He wraps his arm around me and drags me into him.

He holds me close. For the first time in my adult life, I realize I still fit right there in the space his arms and chest make. My perfect size. His chest heaves. His tight voice stutters, "It's not your fault."

I feel the hitch rather than hear it. Simon Lorn doesn't cry. Not even when he talks about his lost love and how he went searching but never found the other half of his soul after the initial invasion. He doesn't cry when he brings up his family nor when he talks about the promises his one love made to him in the quiet of the night.

No matter what, Simon and Janika Lorn do not cry.

I crumple in his arms, dissolving into forceful sobs. I cry out my frustration at myself, at the fire, at the HHP, at the mission, at the hopelessness of our existence, and the life it's my duty to create. I finally release the heavy sadness that has sat in my chest for these long weeks. Simon cries above me for his own reasons. Our lament goes uninterrupted while Dean stands guard at the kitchen entrance.

"Mr. Lorn, Captain, the area is clear. Please return to your pod immediately," the tall woman from Fire Team says through her yellow suit. The speaker distorts her voice.

Soot-covered and downtrodden, we evacuate the Sink realizing we now have nothing except our health. And even that's dubious.

We're about to descend to Level 8 when Simon pulls my sleeve and leads us up the Rotunda instead.

"You're not letting those burns go unattended." Simon drops his hand as soon as I'm headed in the right direction.

We cover our mouths with the collar of our shirts as the other inhabitants of the Rotunda do when we pass. Smoke is thinner here, but it's still wafting in billowing tendrils.

We pass the marketplace. I flinch. What are we going to do for money?

"I can support us." I give a weak smile. "This isn't a big deal. We've got savings, too. You've got plenty of time to job hunt."

Dean clears his throat. When I glance back at him, his brow knits together, and he shakes his head vehemently.

It's the wrong thing to say, isn't it?

"It's going to be okay, Dad. The URE won't let us go hungry. There's always something to do. There's always work."

Dean rolls his eyes and lets out his trademark gust of disapproval.

"You don't need to try and make me feel better, Kiddo." Simon hits an abrupt left and abandons us in the cloud of black smoke and irritated citizens on the Rotunda.

His form disappears into the dark halls of Level 3. "See you at home?" I ask with limp enthusiasm.

Dean waits for me to move, but when I don't, he reminds me we came up here for a reason. "Should we keep going?"

"What's the point?"

"To have someone clean your burns so you don't get sepsis." He pulls his shirt higher over his nose. "Again."

I watch my father's shadow disappear until I'm ready to tend to the wounds that scream for attention.