Chapter 8 | Dakota Williamson

  It’s embarrassing enough to ask someone to dance, but one thing that would take the embarrassment to the next level is if they say no.

  She’s apologized profusely, but it seems like Athena is too nervous to dance with me. Honestly, I’m relieved; I’m not much of a dancer myself. Instead, we linger by the refreshments table, talking about our lives.

  “So, Athena,” I finish my thought, “that’s how I got here.”

  “Woah, Dakota,” she says, twirling a strand of her straight blonde hair between her fingers, “I’m so sorry. Do you know anything about where your parents are?”

  “My mother passed when I was born, and my father…” I hesitate. Do I know anything? “I’m not sure where he is, but, like I said, I plan to find him now that I’m in the same division he was in when he went missing.”

  Athena nods, absorbing the weight of the situation. “But what if you can’t find anything?”

  I blink, caught off guard. “Huh?”

  “What if,” she raises her hands in a peaceful gesture, “there’s nothing to find? What if you don’t uncover any clues about where he is?”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The thought unsettles me. Could she be right? Am I chasing a ghost? I shake off the doubt. “No,” I say with certainty, “I’m sure, one way or another, I’m going to find something about my dad’s disappearance.”

  She nods, her lips curving into a small smile. “I like the enthusiasm.” She takes a sip of her drink, and for a second, we just stand there in a nice silence.

  “So, what about you?” I ask. “What’s your story?”

  She points at me, smirking. “I thought you might ask that.”

  Pushing her hair behind her ear, she begins explaining. She talks about her mother running away, her father being a scientist, her life in the Center, and her dream of working in military intelligence. I hear the words, but somehow, my focus drifts… not because I’m uninterested, but because there’s something about her that keeps me distracted.

  Is it her green eyes? Her smile? The way she speaks with such confidence? I can’t tell.

  Then, suddenly, she stops talking. I snap back into reality as she tilts her head slightly. “So, thoughts?”

  I scramble to recall what she just said. “Uh… yeah,” I nod quickly, piecing together what I can remember. “Your mom ran away, your dad’s a scientist, you live in the Center, and you want to do military intel. Right?”

  She studies me for a second, then nods. I let out a small breath of relief. Good, I caught enough.

  We continue chatting, the conversation shifting to random things; how I think the food here is way too fancy, how she prefers the streets of the Center at night, how neither of us has ever been to the Eighth Colony but both of us want to see it. It’s easy, effortless.

  For a moment, everything feels warm. Not just warm; hot. The air thickens, my skin prickling as sweat beads along my forehead. It’s not just nerves. Something is wrong.

  My brain races. Why is it so hot?

  Then I see them.

  The bombs. The explosions.