Cole grabbed her wrists and stopped her. He still hadn’t smiled or said a word. He shook his head, and Molly noticed the tear-tracks cutting through the soot on his cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
She wanted to ask what he could mean, then Cole’s gaze drifted to the girl with the fiery hair. Molly turned to her. She noticed for the first time that the girl cradled a man’s head in her lap.
A cold vacuum filled Molly’s lungs.
She tried to breathe, to call out, but could do neither.
Her father was lying in the bent grass, his head turned to the side. Molly could see his lips, barely parted, amid the tangle of his beard. A beard much grayer than she remembered.
“Dad?”
Molly placed her bound hands on Cole’s shoulder and shuffled closer on her knees. Her vision blurred as she groped for her father’s hand. A distant part of her registered the wide stain of blood seeping through his white flightsuit.
“Dad?”
She looked to Cole, and then the girl. This couldn’t be happening. She dropped her father’s limp hand and felt his neck. There was nothing there, but his body was still warm. Molly arranged herself beside him. She placed her palms on top of his chest.
“Molly—”
Cole started to say something, to pull her back, but seemed unable.
Molly performed a series of thrusts.
The girl cradling her father’s head held out a hand. “We’ve tried—”
“So try again!” Molly yelled. She bent forward and blew into her father’s mouth, his lips not cold and lifeless yet. It was those around her that seemed frozen, the dead and the alive alike. They all grounded to a halt as Molly began another round of thrusts.
She pushed down and counted, looking at her father’s face as she did so, which rocked eerily with her compressions. He looked like he was merely asleep. He looked so much like Molly remembered him. She wanted him to wake up, to say something, to make sense of the hurricane her life had become. Molly moved to give him more air, but the other girl stopped her. She slid out from under his head, rested it gingerly on the grass, then bent to do the breaths herself.
As Molly waited, she spotted more crimson by her father’s collar. She undid his flightsuit’s zipper and found, rather than a wound and more blood, a Drenardian headband tucked down by his neck.
Molly ignored it, went to perform another series of thrusts, then felt her mind spin with wild notions.
She grabbed the band and reached for her father’s forehead. The girl seemed to understand; she moved out of the way while Molly arranged the band, working as well as she could with the short length of steel rope between her shackled wrists.
Molly patted her own chest, feeling for the band she’d taken off Byrne’s body. She pulled it out as the girl bent for another round of breaths. Molly checked the fabric for any damage from the Wadi’s burrowing. She felt Cole’s hand on her back as she slipped the band on and spun the seam to the back. The icy hollow in her lungs was matched by a stab through her chest. To have Cole so near after so long—the thought of losing her father—not knowing if the galaxy was doomed or saved—she forced it all out of her mind and concentrated on a single thought, bringing it to the surface, bright and loud:
“Dad? Dad!”
The universe was a dull thumping. Her own pulse filled her ears, the same pounding felt in her chest, muffled wails and shouts a background around her, dim awareness of the bright flashes high above as ships bloomed into fire and then faded to nothingness, the last of the melting snow as the great rift closed up in the hazy Lokian sky, even the flutter of the parched grasses, their beady tips waving in a breeze, brushing against one another—
“Mollie?”
She turned to Cole, but her love’s cheeks were pulsing as he clenched and unclenched his jaw.
He hadn’t spoken.
“Dad?”
“Mollie, is that you?”
She fought the urge to throw herself across his chest.
“Dad, I need you to breathe.”
Arms straight, Molly leaned her shoulders over her hands and gave his chest five more sharp thrusts.
“Dad, I need you to wake up!”
“Where are you? Your voice—It’s my voice—Is it the bands?”
“Dad, I need you to try and wake up. I need you to breathe, damnit.”
Molly fought to keep her words calm. Intelligible. She had to remind herself to breathe as well.
“Oh my sweetest girl, I don’t think that’s possible. I’m—I’m dying. I can feel it—”
“No you’re not!” Molly gave his sternum five more thrusts. The girl with the red hair bent low and gave him more air, her father’s cheeks puffing out in a mimicry of life.
“You’re not gonna die,” Molly thought. She tried to will it true, just like forming loud words out of mere thoughts.
“I already am dead, I think.”
“Don’t say that—” More thrusts. More air, cheeks billowing lifeless.
“Squeeze my hand, baby girl.”
Molly shook her head, and tears leapt off her nose.
She kept her palms on his great chest and heaved down. She watched herself move as if a spectator from some great height. She saw her hands splayed wide, knuckles white from exertion and shock. She saw that the red stain across her father’s chest had spread. She felt a wall of rapt eyes arranged around her. The other girl forced his cheeks wide with more air pushed down into his lungs.
“Squeeze my hand.”
“Dad—”
“Please. Before it’s too late.”
Molly stopped her thrusts and checked for a pulse. She ran her fingers along the edge of her father’s graying beard, probing his neck for any feeble hint of life. The girl with the fiery hair bent over and turned to the side, hovering her cheek above Mortimor’s lips, waiting for a puff of breath. She looked up and met Molly’s questioning gaze out of the corner of her eyes.
Set lips said enough.
“My hand—”
Her father’s words leaked into Molly’s mind, pleading her in her own voice. Reluctantly, she allowed her bound hands to fall from his sternum and her hopeful fingers to retreat from his neck. She clasped her father’s hand with both of her own and held it tight. Some distant sense, some numb awareness, told her that Cole was holding her shoulders and crying, whispering her name, his body shaking with sobs.
“There,” her father thought. “I can feel it. I can feel you. Oh, how I’ve longed for this.”
Molly squeezed his hand harder. “Come back to me,” she pleaded.
“Oh, my sweetheart, I’m so sorry I ever left you—”
Molly shuddered with trapped sobs. Her tears were welling up so thick and fast, the world around her had become a shiny, bulging blur. The only things clear were the words in her head, her father’s and her own.
“How long do we have?” she thought.
“I don’t—Are you still holding my hand?”
Molly looked down where her cream-white hands were wrapped around her father’s. She squeezed as hard as she could, holding him as if she could trap what remained of his life and keep it forever.
“I’m holding it, Dad.”
“Then I suspect our time is short. I—I can’t feel anything.”