Atlas spent what felt like eternity reigning himself back in. He sat on the ground, the smoke filling his lungs with each breath, his eyes burning with its presence in the air. It didn't seem as bad now. It didn't feel suffocating or smell sour, like it had after they conditioned the cell bars.

Although he ached, he tried his best to cling to that thought. It was grounding. He was safe for now. It was okay if he took his time walking again.

He shoved himself back up to his feet. Exhaustion lingered in every fiber of his being but it was okay, he told himself. Cerberus had yet to find him. He had succeeded in that regard!

He clung to that slight encouragement, and pressed forward with a hand pressed tight to his ribs and a limp in every small step.

The smoke shifted idly around him as he walked, but not like it did around the metal beast. Was it the metal that repelled the smoke?

He continued to count his footsteps, eyes shifting in random directions as he tried to spot even the faintest glimmer of the oil slick colors.

Atlas hit almost two thousand footsteps before he heard something.

His body stilled. He held his breath. The sound came again, though he couldn't identify what it was. It was faint. A susurration between the stark white clouds around him.

Mouth sandpaper dry and throat scratchy enough to make him cough, he followed after it. The best he could, anyway, with his disorientation and weakness. He couldn't tell if he was going in the right direction, either, and as his breaths picked up again, he could hardly hear it over his own sound.

Six hundred steps. It was six hundred steps before he heard it again. Six hundred steps of him sinking in his own self doubt and terror, of him looking behind his shoulder for the faintest sign of Cerberus and knowing that he wouldn't be able to run again if it showed up.

"Atlas!"

His breath caught in his throat.

"Shit, I don't want to go in there after him."

"We might have to."

Atlas pressed a hand to his face. Thank God!

He tried to limp forward a little faster. "I'm right here," he tried to say. It came out scratchy and quiet, but it was all he could muster at that point.

And then the fire fighters came into view. Dizzee's head stuck out into the smoke, his body vanished from sight. The rainbow glow peeked out between wisps of smoke.

He made it out.

~ 

Atlas and the crew stepped out into two feet of hot water. It immediately inhabited his boots, warming against his swollen ankle.

They weren't out yet, though. They still had to get out of the tunnel.

Dizzee prodded Ashe. "Girl, we're out," he said. He jarred her shoulder, and then stopped, propping her up against the wall. Half of her body disappeared in the water they trudged through. "Do we have more of our equipment in the truck?"

"Maybe. I'll look."

"The wall's collapsed up there," Atlas said.

"I think that's the last of our worries," Grayson responded.

Atlas watched him continue down the maintenance-tunnel like crevice.

Twenty-five minutes later, they were out. Chaos hadn't even bothered leaving Ashe's mind until the last second. Atlas could feel the ground rumble beneath their feet with his frustration.

He sat in the trunk of the white SUV, legs dangling down as he limply stared at the chaos that ensued. He pressed snow into his ribs, and stuffed some down his boot, too. It burned against his skin, but he endured the discomfort, knowing it would be the best medical treatment he got for hours.

Although Ashe's mind had been freed, she still didn't awake, and neither had Arrone. When an ambulance finally came, it had been almost two hours. The con about being in the middle of nowhere in Alaska, was that help arrived slowly, but nonetheless, it was help.

The police showed up as well, thanks to whatever magic the firefighters worked. A few stayed behind, and a few came with them to the nearest hospital in Wasilla.

It was surreal.

Atlas had a hard time processing everything as he was bombarded with questions and the bright lights of the hospital. Polite nurses turned the police away while his brain processed what happened. There wasn't much they could do for his injuries beyond giving him pain meds and recommending a brace for his ankle. But that was okay.

And then a couple weeks later, after the whirlwind was over, after the case was turned over to the FBI and the crevice was marked off with caution tape, they finally flew back to Asheville, North Carolina.

He didn't call his father. He didn't really know why, except that he was tired, and he couldn't muster the courage to see him right then. All he could do once he left the airport was get an Uber and drive back to his small apartment and collapse onto his bed, his phone dead and tossed onto the couch beside his suitcase.

Was he really home?

He covered his face with his pillow, a new pair of boots still on his feet, which Dizzee had bought for him at some point within the last few weeks. He breathed deeply, feeling the now less-prominent ache in his ribs and trying to relax to the smell of his laundry detergent.

If he was home, what was he supposed to do?

He could still clearly hear August's voice in the back of his head, and his mother's, and Chaos'.

It wouldn't be worth returning.

Escaping wouldn't be worth the effort.

If he got out, Chaos' curse would follow him.

Atlas squeezed the pillow in tighter.

He didn't want to find out if it was true. He didn't want to go to his father's house and find out grandma Georgie passed away. He didn't want to hear that maybe their house burned down. The last thing he wanted after everything was to find out that he had been selfish, and that he was the reason for any future misfortune his family would face.

The thoughts were too painful to bear with. But they followed him, and had followed him since the moment he left.

What was he going to do if it were true?

~

Eventually, Atlas had to leave the house to get food. He climbed into the front seat of his little hatchback. It took seven tries and a gentle press on the excelerator to stir up the settled gas and oil and get the vehicle to start up. By the time it started and he placed his hand on the stick shift, he realized that he was in no shape to drive. The stick felt almost foreign in his hand, and by the time he made it out of the apartment parking lot and down the road, he had already stalled his car out once.

With a still-dead cell phone, he knew he was going to put himself in danger if he continued this way.

It took him ten minutes to decide to turn around and go back. His mind felt completely fried, the sunlight too bright in his eyes, the mountains in the distance making him feel claustrophobic.

He unlocked his door—somehow he had managed to do at least that—and searched around his dug-through suitcase for his phone charger.

When he plugged it in, the screen lit up. And then came the barrage of texts and voicemails. His phone had to have fifty messages on it, of all types. A couple were from Arrone, who in the last days in Alaska had finally awoken. Half of them were from his friends Leia and Jonathan, whom he hung out with on his last day in Asheville.

None from his father. But that didn't surprise him. After getting out, Atlas had swiped away any message he had left for him. His father had been texting or calling, asking for Ashe. When he figured out that Ashe had told his father what happened, that's when he first lost his nerve.

But now that he sat there on his couch, his suitcase pressed against his thigh, he felt different.

Maybe it was the hunger, to the stark realization that he would be a danger to himself if he continued on this way, but he finally was able to type in his password and look through them.

Something about reading and listening to people's concern or their oblivious attempts at getting him to go to their next bonfire to try out Jonathan's first attempt at brewing a stout, made him, for the first time, feel like he was finally out. Like it was actually real. Like Chaos wouldn't get out and hunt him down.

Atlas pressed his forehead against his phone, silently thanking them.

Nothing bad had happened. Not yet. Not that he could conceive from the messages. The threat still lingered in the back of his mind, however. He knew he wasn't out of the clear yet. And he knew he'd one day have to go back to Alaska, too. He wasn't sure why. He had already given them plenty of information. They didn't need him anymore.

After what felt like forever, he finally called his father.

~

Atlas paced anxiously, arms crossed tightly across his chest. He was scared. But his father was going to be there soon. And he was also really relieved. Somehow, their conversation had given him the energy to pack up, make his bed, and turn the overhead fans on and open the windows so it was less smoldering in his dark apartment.

It was mid-May now. The day's temperature was in the seventies and it wasn't even slightly overcast. It was leagues different from Alaska. He felt like he'd roast in his apartment if he didn't try to fix it.

The open windows didn't let in enough light to really make it comfortable without turning the overheads on. He hadn't been working, though, and he wanted to save as much electricity as he could. Especially since he now had medical payments to make.

When his father knocked on the door, he had to pause and take a deep breath before he could summon the courage to open it and see his aging face, graying hair pulled back in a bun.

Immediately, he was enveloped in a tight hug.

"I'm so glad you're okay." His father stepped back. "You are okay, right?"

Atlas nodded, though he didn't really feel that way. "Yeah," he lied. And then he realized the irony of it, and he found himself smiling slightly. That was his last interaction with his dad - calling him out for lying to him about what was going on.

His father picked up a canvas grocery bag sitting on the stained carpet outside of his room. "I, uh, brought some stuff for you from home. I didn't want to deal with the grocery store right now."

He followed his father into the tiny kitchen. "Thank you," he said.

They stood in silence as his father unpacked the bag.

It felt drawn out, but the subtle movements and sounds in his apartment felt so overwhelmingly welcome right then. It made the quiet buzzing of electricity go away. It made it feel like his. And most of all, it made it feel real. Like this wasn't the father that would crumble to dust in front of him if he looked too long.

Atlas sat at the small table pressed against a small window. Warm air flowed into the apartment, but it felt nice. He rubbed his face with his hands.

Why was it so hard to believe that this was real?

He got out. They escaped. Dizzee bought him new shoes. Arrone had texted him. There were so many little things that Chaos never would have bothered with had Atlas still been in his world. Yet he still felt uneasy.

"Are you okay to talk?"

His father didn't turn around when he asked the question. His back continued to face Atlas as he dug in a cupboard for some glasses. He poured some orange juice for them and the jars clinked on the table as he sat them down.

"I really don't know."

"Well, I'm just happy you're back safe." He pulled the chair out across from him. "While you were gone, I did some fixing up around the house. It's been a while. I finally got that moldy ol' deck up to building code. Now your aunt and her kids might be able to come over more."

Atlas cupped his hands around his drink, taking small sips as they talked. The acidity upset his stomach, having had nothing to eat since he arrived, but it was okay. He would be okay. He convinced himself that as they talked about the little things that happened in the last month. The distractions were welcome.

They talked like this for hours. Atlas mentioned the little things over his trip. Like how cold it was, how terrible and metallic northern water was, how they didn't have to hunt and skin antelope for food because Alaska—as mind blowing as it was—actually had fast food restaurants.

Oh, and how Alaska didn't actually have antelope.

After a few laughs, they lapsed into silence once again. Atlas took a small sip from his cup, holding the cold liquid in his mouth for a moment before swallowing.

He knew he couldn't avoid it anymore.

"Dad?"

"Hm?"

He took another sip. "Do you ever miss my mom?"

His father lowered his eyes. "What makes you bring this up?"

"I saw something that looked like her while we were there," he said, his voice dropping low. "I don't really know what happened, but after the earthquake. . ."

Atlas continued on, words struggling to come out of his mouth in any form of coherent sentence. His father looked at him with concerned eyes and a slight head-tilt, which didn't help, either, but he didn't try interrupting him, and that's all he needed right then.

Although it was probably strange, Atlas almost wished he had that photobook still. Something he could sit on his lap and open up and see the strange twisted reality he left behind, if only to show that it was also real. But he didn't.

He just had to accept that whatever was happening right then was as real as life would ever get. It was as close and human and comfortable as any other experience he'd had before, in and out of Chaos' realm.

Eventually, his father felt comfortable enough to ask questions, and Atlas would answer.

"I'm having a hard time understanding, or rather, processing, what you went through. But, maybe it's time we try to wrap things up. Maybe find some closure for you?" His father caught Atlas' eyes. "How about you call August. See what he's been up to the last couple years. And let's open up some of Elena's old photos and poems. Maybe tomorrow when I get out of work."

"I don't know."

His father shrugged. "I can't force you, but I can't help but think it'll be therapeutic for you."

After a long while of sitting in their final, comfortable silence, Atlas finally agreed. His father patted him on the shoulder and hugged him again.

"I'm glad you're back."

Atlas smiled. "Me too."

When his father left, his apartment didn't feel as lonely and foreign anymore. He finished putting away the groceries left on the counter and cleaned the mason jars they drank out of with soap and water, mostly to procrastinate.

It was dark now. He wanted to tell himself that August would be gearing up for bed. That he was having a late dinner with the girlfriend he ran off with. That he had anything else better to do than talk to Atlas. Maybe he had changed phone numbers. Moved.

But he promised his father he would call him.

His apartment was as tidy as it would ever get by the time he finally sat on his couch and unlocked his phone. He stared at the number he hadn't touched since community college. When he scrolled down his contacts list, he had almost hoped he had deleted it.

But he hadn't. It stared back at him.

Atlas sighed and clicked on it. He listened to the dial tone ring out into the quiet of his apartment. It rang for only a few seconds before it clicked off, the auto recording playing shortly after. He shut his screen off. And then turned it back on, and sent August a short text.

Hey. Just wondering how you were doing. Let's meet up some time.

Once more he stared at it, and then he clicked send.

For some reason, it didn't bother him that his old friend sent him over to voicemail. Or that he never responded to the text, either.

His father talked about Atlas finding closure, but somehow, it felt like that's what Chaos had given him below ground.

He cradled the phone in his hand. A street lamp flickered on. White light shined through his window and onto the couch. He turned his phone off and stood up, closing the curtains.

Even though they weren't the same people, it still felt like he finally got to do something he should have done a long time ago, thanks to Chaos. He got to hug his mother and say goodbye to August.

And, honestly, that was enough.