December 2, Monday. 9:03 p.m.

Unease is rampant. Daddy hasn't come home yet, and I'm starting to think he never will. I'm starting to forget what he even looked like. The impending apocalypse is driving me nuts. I just need to tell someone.

Adam's working, so I haven't called him. Dylan is always an option, though. He doesn't work as often as Adam, nor does he work as late. As a matter of fact, I don't even know where he works. My thumb hovers over the call button for a moment before I decide to just go with it. I mean, what do I stand to lose?

   It rings a few times before Dylan picks up. "What's up?"

   "Hey, uh, I was just wondering if I could come over."

   "My parents aren't home. Sure."

   "Identity check?"

   On the other end, he huffs frustratedly. "Okay, that came out wrong."

   If he says anything else, I can't hear it. My heart seems to thud in my ears, wondering if the information I just received was dropped nationwide. Wondering how many people know about it.

   "Amber?"

   "Yeah?"

   "You can come over anytime you like. Oh, and in case you're hungry, I'm making ramen."

   "This time of night?" What I really want to know is why you have such a fascination with ramen.

   "..."

   "Okay, never mind. I'll be there. Give me fifteen minutes."

   "They're all yours. See you then."

Hanging up, I take a deep breath and try to mentally prepare myself for anything Dylan might have in store. He's a good guy and I'm pretty sure he'd never do anything to hurt me. He sounded really puzzled, concerned, and awkward all at once.

At least I won't be alone.

  
9:19 p.m.

Sopping wet, I stand in front of Dylan's apartment and knock shakily on the door. It's cold out here and I still don't have an umbrella. I should really get one. In the crying darkness, the neon lights are distorted into streaks of vibrant color that give off vibes of desperation and unrest. Swallowing hard, I take a deep breath and pull myself together as Dylan opens the door to let me in. His eyes widen at my condition but he doesn't speak, quickly bolting the locks and taking my coat from me. Dripping onto the linoleum, I shiver and slowly shuck my sneakers off, following Dylan into the small living room. I'm surprised to see a fireplace in here, albeit a faux one. Most apartments don't have fireplaces.

   "You can dry off here." He gestures to the fireplace before stepping into the kitchen to attend his pot of boiling water. My feet silently move over the carpet, drawing close to the faux fire's warmth. It seeps through my wet clothes, penetrates my skin until my bones are basking in the comforting heat. Slowly turning, I manage to toast all sides evenly, feeling better the more moisture is wicked away. With hypothermia surely no longer a risk, I can turn my attention to more trivial things, like the fact that this apartment is very bare. Beige walls, minimal furniture, no artwork.

   My slow movements have caught Dylan's attention, and he walks to the edge of the kitchen space with his head tipped curiously to one side. "Uh, Shortie?"

   "Yeah?" Head snapping to look at him, I attempt to focus.

   "Is...is everything okay?"

   "Yes. No. I dunno...why?"

   "You don't look so good. You didn't sound so good over the phone, either."

Involuntarily, I begin wringing my hands. My right arm, though functional, is still quite numb. So many things are plaguing me inside and I just want to let it all out. I stare at him through wide eyes, as though pleading him to read my mind and understand. He gets me a chair and I drop into it, trembling. Pulling up a seat of his own, he calmly asks me to start from the beginning.

   Everything comes tumbling out in an incoherent mess, and he just sits there patiently. I shake my head, realizing I've also broken out in a sweat while crying. When I've finished spilling my fears, Dylan scrunches his eyebrows confusedly. "How come this is the first I've heard of such a thing?"

   "What do you mean? It's all over the media! They even talked about it in school!"

   "They never said anything about an apocalypse at school," Dylan shakes his head. "You're crazy. Shortie, there's no apocalypse. Where'd you even get an idea like that?"

"My dad called me the other night! He told me about it!"

"Your dad?"

"Duh."

Jumping to his feet, Dylan walks to the kitchen to take the ramen off the stove, and divvy it into a few bowls, swiping his laptop from the kitchen table on the way to the couch. He sets his bowl of ramen on the side table at his right and the laptop in his lap, opening it and typing in an access code before opening a browser. I lean close, the blue light from the screen illuminating our faces in the dimness of the room.

"What's your dad's name?"

"James. James Wolfe."

"Has he won any awards?"

"Yeah, he got one for bravery when we went to war with Nova Scotia in 2043."

Grimacing, muttering about made-up historical events, Dylan types in a search and hits the bar. Nothing pops up. He tries general and specific searches. Nothing.

I'm puzzled. "What're you looking for?"

"Shortie, we never went war with Nova Scotia in 2043."

"Yeah we did, I remember seeing the medal and asking him about it and he told me."

Dylan shakes his head. "It's not true. Either he lied to you, or he doesn't even exist."

"How can you say that? He's my dad!"

"I'll prove it," he sets his jaw determinedly, fingers making rapid movements over the keyboard. Every search he conducts, using all types of information I can give him, comes up empty. I don't understand. For some reason, in the back of my mind there plays an image of my filthy legs as I descend a ladder in a nightgown. The thought makes me cold.

"There's no proof of your dad even existing."

"He exists," I almost whisper, staring into space. "He's real."

"No he's not. All the data proves you have no proof."

"Don't mess with my head."

"I'm not messing with your head! I'm trying to help you!"

My filthy legs leap off the fifth to last rung and I fall into a tangle of bramble, scratching my skin and drawing blood. I feel the impact of the fall jolt my body as I hit the ground. But soon I'm dusted off and I'm running, holding someone's hand.

Tears blur my vision, staring at Dylan's screen. He's wrong. He's lying. He has to be.

"Your house, when did you move there?"

"I've always lived there."

"Do you know when your dad bought it?"

"Before I was born."

"How did your mom die?"

"Bus accident. You can look that up, there's a full report."

He does, and to my relief I'm right.

"Okay...so your mom existed. But it doesn't say anything about a Sergeant James Wolfe, and your mom's last name is different."

"What's her last name?"

"Ashburne."

   "I was in that accident. Does it mention me?"

   "It mentions that she left behind two children, one was a boy in his teens and the other, a four-year-old girl."

   "Does it list names?"

   He scans over a few paragraphs. "Yeah, it does. Ian Chester Ashburne and Serenity Rae Ashburne."

   "Serenity?"

   "That's what it says. What's your birth certificate say?"

   "I... I've never seen it..."

   Standing abruptly, he closes his laptop and narrows his sky-blue eyes at me.

   "Who are you, really?"

   Laughter and sobbing echo in the back of my mind. A stinging presence is felt on my back and I find myself looking into the face of a cruel middle-aged lady. Brimming with tears, my eyes close. I reopen them and Dylan continues to stare at me expectantly. He looks slightly scared but mostly just worried.

Am I insane, or is this just a really weird dream?

"Well? Who are you? Who am I?"

   "You're Dylan. Adam's best friend."

   "I'm Adam's brother."

At this, I pause. Confused. "But I thought he...isn't he...wait. He's adopted?"

"Biological."

"I'm confused."

"I thought you knew he and I were brothers." He cocks an eyebrow.

"No, I did not. Please explain."

He huffs a long sigh, staring up at the ceiling. "It's a long story."

"I'm all ears."

"Well, see, ever since he was young, Adam's been a wild child. Bit of a renegade, you could say. Rebellious, restless, had a thing for running away and getting mixed up in trouble. He got into something bad a few years back and ended up being taken into the foster system because the government didn't trust my parents to be able to restrain him. He was lucky enough to have someone like Tris take him in. And that band on his wrist, y'know? He has to wear that so the system can keep tabs on his whereabouts."

"I thought that was because they didn't know who his biological family is."

Dylan shakes his head. "He had to wear it when he went to juvie for something he never even did. Got out just last year, still has to wear it. Basically, he's been on house arrest this whole time, but with less restrictions."

I scrunch my forehead, mulling this over. It's still confusing and sort of contradicts everything Adam told me, but I'm not sure I even know what's right at the moment.

"He just needs redemption, Amber. He's got a good heart but almost always ends up at the wrong place at the wrong time. The boy's been accused of murder and finally had those charges lifted last year. He wants to be free of all that, but he can't with that stupid government tracker on his wrist."

"Will they really haul him off to be euthanized if he removes it?"

"Yes, Shortie, they will."

At this confirmation, it feels like a landslide has slammed into my gut. I hang my head slightly, disturbed at the thought of such a lively soul being snuffed out.

"I'm gonna ask again: who are you, really?"

"You know who I am!" I scream at him. He tips his head to one side, shaking it negatively.

"No, I don't believe I do. Let's go to your house, Serenity."

Voices flood my head and I clap my hands over my ears, falling to my knees and screaming, "That's not my name!"

"Ssh, I don't want the neighbors to complain."

   Somehow he gets me into a coat, managing to drag me all the way to my house. We stand in front of a very rundown white house, covered in ivy, with an overgrown backyard falling under the brown spell of winter. Dylan steps up to the door. Finding that it's locked, he asks me for the key. Glowering, I hand it to him, still shaking, suddenly able to feel my right arm slightly. I wish I knew what was going on.

   Once unlocked, Dylan flings the door open and hurries inside, heading straight for the attic. I follow him tentatively, noting he bothered to bring his laptop along in a laptop bag, and the thing hits against his side as he scampers up the steps, unzipped leather jacket flying out behind him and scarf whipping around. The attic is empty. What happened to all the boxes? I remember there were so many in here. Boxes of picture frames, old clothes, old toys. Frowning, Dylan rushes past me, down the stairs, all the way into the basement. It's empty.

   There isn't a garden shed, so there's no way he could suggest that as a place to look.

   I sit on the living room couch and wait for him to finish conducting whatever sort of search this may be. He even scours my bedroom, but can't seem to find whatever it is he's looking for.

   After a thorough sweep of the house and the grounds around it, he stands in front of me with arms folded and a serious frown on his face.

   "Please explain."

   "I don't know what you're talking about! Leave me alone!"

   "You do know what I'm talking about. Nobody has lived in this house until about a year or so ago. Explain!" He glares at me, eyes alight, fuming. He looks so terrible. He'd better not say that name again. "Serenity, you're insane. You need help."

"I SAID STOP CALLING ME THAT!"

Shaking his head, he turns on his heel and bolts from the house. At first I start chasing him, but he turns and yells back at me, yelling that name, ordering me to stay put. The use of the name triggers too many things in my head and I wind up curled on the living room floor, screaming with my hands clapped over my ears.

11:17 p.m.

Images blur together, mixing past with present, fantasy with reality. Noises overlap inharmoniously. My head buzzes and my eyes burn. I want this to end. I want it all to leave, I want it to be over.

   I can't handle being here.

   I don't want to be alone.

   I don't want to think.

   I don't want to breathe.

   I don't want to live.

   Otherworldly pounding sounds mark the dramatic entrance of the Vandals. It's been so long since the last incident, I thought they weren't going to mess with me anymore. Green figures move into my vision, seizing and binding me with ropes, taping my mouth shut. They move to find every flammable substance in the house, wasting no time spreading it about. They trash my yard and porch. Smashing windows, laying waste to an already decaying property. Using a lighter, they ignite the curtains downstairs and drop me in my bed. I lie here in terror, rigid with anticipation, awaiting my consumption. As the flames catch and eat at the walls, growing brighter and larger, I can see faces in each flame. Mama. Ian. Adam. The screaming is so loud, I can't tell if it's all in my head or if I'm actually screaming too.

   Smoke chokes me, stings my eyes. Flames lick at my skin. It's terrifying. Though my mouth is taped I start to sob, every piece of me breaking. The smoke clouds my entire being, seeping into my mind. I feel faint, and the brightness of the inferno blinds me.