Genesis. Volume 2

February 7, 1987. Brookfield. The hill outside town. 6:30 a.m. The February dawn comes cold, gray, without ceremony. The sun doesn't rise—it develops, like a photograph in a developer: first a pale spot, then an edge, then half a disk, but no warmth. The wind blows from the west, tearing the last snow from the branches, carrying it down the slope in small, prickly needles. Snowflakes sting the face like sand. Lisa reached the hill first. She walked slowly, because the path was slippery—a crust covered with fresh snow that didn't hold every step. Her left hand clutched her sketchbook, her right—still in its cast—hung in its sling. The cast was supposed to come off in a week, but her arm still wouldn't obey. She didn't know if it ever would. The doctors had said, "We'll see." And that "we'll see" made her want to scream, but she didn't scream. At the top, the wind was stronger. Lisa turned her back to it, took out her sketchbook, and opened it to a blank page. The pencil—soft, 2B—was in her jacket pocket. Her fingers didn't tremble. She was used to it. Arthur came second. He carried a backpack—not empty, with supplies, maps, the iron coin. The coin lay in his inner pocket, and he could feel its weight. Not physical—another kind. As if the metal pressed on his chest from inside. "You're early," he said. "I wanted to see the sunrise." "It doesn't rise. It appears." "That's beautiful too." He stood beside her. He looked down at the town below—gray rooftops, smoke from chimneys, a few streetlights still burning from the night. Brookfield was asleep. Sunday, seven in the morning. "How many of us are going?" Lisa asked. "All of us." "Jack?" "Jack can't. He's the anchor." "Then not all of us." Arthur didn't answer. Max came third. Behind him—Jenny, then Emma, then Liam. Sasha—last, as always. She'd left the house a minute after the others but walked slower, scanning her surroundings. A habit. "Everyone here?" Arthur asked. "Everyone," Max replied. "Jack?" "He's in the square. He said he can't leave." "I know." They stood on the hill, seven figures. The wind whipped their hair, their jacket hems, their scarves. Breathing was cold, but no one left. Lisa opened her sketchbook. She began to draw. Her left hand moved quickly—abruptly, harshly. The lines came out angular, nothing like her old style. She used to draw smoothly, precisely, like watercolors. Now—as if she were cutting the paper. The pencil left deep grooves. She drew them. Seven figures against a gray sky. Arthur—straight, with a backpack over his shoulder. Max—slightly to the side, hands in his pockets. Jenny—wrapped in her scarf, only her eyes visible. Emma—with her bandaged shoulder, but not hunched. Liam—beside her, not touching, but close. Sasha—a little apart, separate. Not because she was an outsider—because she always stood where she could see everyone. And an eighth outline. To the right, where no one stood. Jack. Lisa drew him last—heavy, pressing hard. Many lines, as if he were made of denser material than the others. He was made of it. Not a person—an anchor. "Done," she said. No one asked to see it. She didn't offer. "Why are we here?" Max asked. "To remember," Arthur replied. "Remember what?" "That we were here. That we are here. That we'll come back." "That sounds like an oath." "It is an oath." They stood in silence. The wind died down. The sun rose higher but didn't warm. "I'm cold," Emma said. "Let's go," Liam replied. They walked down. First Emma and Liam, then Jenny and Sasha, then Max. Arthur and Lisa stayed last. "Do you believe we'll come back?" she asked. "We have to." "That's not an answer." "There's no other." He started down. She followed. Below, at the foot of the hill, the road into town awaited them. Gray, wet, with ruts frozen over. They walked in silence. Each thought their own thoughts. Lisa thought about the drawing. About the seven figures and the eighth outline. About how she would never draw them again. Or maybe she would, but not here. Arthur thought about his father. About the wall of faces. About the ticket that lay in his pocket beside the iron coin. Max thought about the knife. About cutting his mother to save her. About not knowing if it was right or wrong. Jenny thought about blood. About how it flowed from her palms, how it stopped shields, how it healed—slowly, leaving scars. Emma thought about the dog tag. About the woman in the square who now wore it. About how it would come back. Not to her—to whoever needed it. Liam thought about the compass. About leading the Sleeper here. About not being able to undo the past, but being able to watch their backs. Sasha thought about the containers. About the notes she passed to Elias. About what they would find when they returned. They reached the headquarters and went to their rooms. An hour later, everyone was in the garage. February 7, 1987. Brookfield. Headquarters, garage. 9 a.m. The garage adjoined the house on the north side—concrete, cold, with rusted doors that hadn't opened since autumn. Inside, it smelled of gun oil, rubber, and something else—gasoline that had been spilled and not wiped up. Old tires hung on the walls; toolboxes sat on the floor. The light was dim: one bulb under the ceiling, yellowed, flickering in time with the boiler's hum. In winter, the garage was cold. Every breath came out as steam; fingers went numb within minutes. But they worked in gloves—thin leather ones that didn't restrict movement. Max laid out knives on the workbench. Three of different sizes. The kitchen knife—the one he'd used to cut his mother—lay apart. Max didn't look at it. He packed the others into a leather case he'd sewn himself—unevenly, without fuss, but sturdy. "Sharpen them?" Arthur asked. "Checked. They're sharp." "Will you give one to Jenny?" "She has her own." "A spare." Max nodded. He set aside a small knife—with a narrow blade, easy to handle. "This one?" "Yes." He placed it in a separate pocket of the case. "You can give it to her yourself." "Fine." Lisa sat on an upturned crate, sorting chalk. White, yellow, red—the last batch had come from London, passed through Sasha from Elias. The chalk was hard, didn't crumble in her fingers. She placed it in her waist pouch—the same canvas one she'd carried since Chicago. "Enough?" Arthur asked. "Enough." "For how many circles?" "I didn't count." "Count." "I don't want to." He didn't ask why. Jenny packed bandages. Sterile, individually wrapped—bought from the pharmacy, with her own money. She'd bought three boxes when she realized the old ones were running out. She packed them into her backpack like bricks. "You're taking a lot," Emma said, looking over her shoulder. "You can't have too many." "We're not going to war." "We are." Emma didn't answer. She was packing her things in another corner of the garage—clothes, a first-aid kit, spare gloves. Her left shoulder ached, but she didn't complain. "Need help?" Liam asked. "No." "You're packing it wrong." "I'm packing it right." "The first-aid kit should go in the side pocket, not on top." "Why?" "So you can reach it without opening the backpack." She moved it. She didn't say thank you. Liam packed his gear—radio, spare batteries, multi-tool, flashlight. Everything in its place, as taught. He wasn't looking at Emma. She was looking at him. "Are you scared?" she asked. "No." "You're lying." "A little." "Me too." He didn't answer. He just took her hand—her right one, the uninjured one. Squeezed it. "We'll come back." "How do you know?" "Because there's nowhere else to go." She smiled. "You're copying Arthur." "He's copying me." Sasha packed her backpack separately, by the far wall. No one approached her. No one pushed her away. They watched her from the corner of their eyes—all this time, since December, since the night Max had found her at the warehouse. "Are you coming with us?" Arthur asked. "I'm coming." "Even if you don't know where?" "Even then." "Why?" "Because Elias said: 'Take care of them.'" "Of who?" "Of you." She zipped her backpack. "Done." Arthur looked at his watch. Ten in the morning. "We leave in two hours." "Where to?" Max asked. "To the airport for now. And then—we'll see." He didn't say the tickets were already bought. Didn't say the destination was Prague, where a group of Keepers was waiting for them. Elias had said: don't say it in advance. Someone might be listening. No one asked. They finished packing. They stood in the garage—seven people, seven backpacks. Three knives, a box of bandages, a piece of chalk Lisa had forgotten remained on the workbench. "That's it," Arthur said. "To the cars." "And Jack?" Lisa asked. "Jack stays." "Did you say goodbye to him?" "He knows." "That's not an answer." "There's no other." She picked up her backpack and walked out. Jack wasn't on the porch. He was in the square, as always. Looking out at the town. Snow fell on his gray hair, his gray face, his gray hands. He didn't brush it off. Lisa walked to him. Snow crunched under her feet. "Jack." He turned his head. "We're leaving." "I know." "You're not coming." "I can't." "I know." She stood before him, clutching her sketchbook in her left hand. "I'll leave you a drawing." "What kind?" "Ours. On the hill." "Why?" "So you remember." He didn't answer. She took out her sketchbook, tore out the page—the one with seven figures and the eighth outline. She placed it on his lap. Snow fell on the paper, but it didn't get wet—Jack held it without looking. "Goodbye," Lisa said. "Goodbye." She walked to the car. She didn't look back. The van stood by the porch, engine running. Liam had warmed it up since morning—in February, engines were hard to start. Inside, it was cold, but warmth was promised. "Everyone in?" Arthur asked. "Everyone," Max replied. "Then let's go." The van pulled away. Slowly, down the snow-covered road, past the porch, past the square where Jack sat with a sheet of paper on his lap. He didn't look up. He didn't wave. Lisa watched through the side window until he disappeared around the bend. "He'll wait," Jenny said. "I know," Lisa replied. She clenched her left hand into a fist. The van drove toward the highway. Outside, fields, forests, scattered houses slid past. The town fell behind. They were leaving for war. And they didn't know if they would return.