Page 16 of Ezra
I bow my head, overcome with guilt, and lie down, staring at the ceiling. My mind keeps revisiting the bombings. Maybe there was something I missed. If I’d been paying more attention, perhaps I could’ve shouted an alarm or stopped it from happening. I rub my face. I’m no action hero. I’ve never caught a bullet for a friend or lifted a car. But I could’ve pushed harder for safer security measures.
If I continue to dwell on it, I’ll start spiraling. I try to take Diana’s words to heart. I couldn’t have prevented this. I’m not to blame.
I can’t be. Can I?
BioNex is the problem. It always has been. It’s bad enough they’re churning out androids for factories, robbing good people of their livelihoods. But BioNex made TerraPura possible.
One is dead set on money; the other, human subjugation.
It’s like they’re both determined to tear the nation apart, if not the entire world. And we’re caught in the middle, just trying to hold on.
The following morning, I wake up to find Dad alone in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee while he scrolls through theNew Carnegie Times. He’s done that every day since I was a child. He used to tell me about how the news used to be printed on paper and sold at gas stations. Now that most vehicles are powered by a mixture of solar and electric energy, I’ve only seen a few still operating. Most have been remodeled into purely convenience shops.
After pouring myself a glass of orange juice, I sit with him.
“Did you sleep?” His voice is still gravelly from lack of use.
“Barely,” I admit. “I couldn’t shut my mind down.”
“Neither could I.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“You know her,” he replies, sipping his coffee. “Can’t take a day off when you’re running for district attorney.”
Mom is one of the most powerful criminal prosecutors in New Carnegie. Even though she’s humble about it, I have no doubt she’ll win when the time comes.
“There are five dead now,” Dad says gravely, resting his tablet on the table and drumming his fingers next to it. “We’ll need to move quickly to help these families.”
“I had the same idea,” I say. “How can I help?”
“You can help by taking it easy,” Dad says. “I’ve got this handled.”
“What do you mean? I’m fine, Dad.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, about how Humanity First has gotten in the way of your life.” Dad stares down, as though the cup of coffee is heavy in his hand. “This is my fight, Kitty. It doesn’t have to be yours.”
“Dad, I was just venting,” I say. “You really think I could walk away from all of this now? No. I can’t. Yes, I’d like to see a life for me after all this that isn’t about arguing with foolish people about androids, but I’m needed here. And I can help.”
Dad doesn’t look convinced, studying me. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I insist. “I promise.”
He nods a little. “Okay. You work on that fundraiser. Post it everywhere. Let’s mobilize this city to do some good for a change.” He sets his cup down. “We might consider putting off your moving out. Just with how things are.”
“We can’t,” I reply. “I already paid the deposit and signed the lease.”
“We can break it,” he says. “And your mother and I will cover the costs.”
“No. I’m sorry, but no. I told Mom last night, and I’m telling you now.” I rest my hand over my dad’s to still his agitated fingers. “I can’t and won’t put my life on hold. I’ll be fine. Really. I promise.”
Dad sighs. “I just wish you’d reconsider.” He shakes his head. “I can’t shake this guilt. I was going to be there yesterday. Perhaps I could’ve done something to avoid all of this.”
“I felt the same way.” Now that I can think more clearly, I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up my PhotoGram account. “Dad...what ifwewere the reason?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, frowning.
I pull up a selfie of us I made him take with me at his last Humanity First rally, right after we finished speaking to a large crowd in the Astor Arena. I posted it with the caption “looking forward to lunch with Dad today, can’t wait!” I often post things like that. I have a pretty large following, and it’s always been important to me that I humanize my family when the media, at times, loves to paint us like angry folks yelling at nothing in the sky.
