A Deathless nurse buzzes around my mom as she checks her vitals and changes the bandages over her wound: a long gash down her chest, outlined in deep purple bruises. When she came in with my clothes, the nurse told me I'd be meeting the Deathless leaders in a few minutes, and ordered me to change back into what I was wearing when they found me: torn jeans and an old blue tank top. I didn't argue, though. I was happy for something to feel normal.

"I've just given her something that should wake her up," the nurse tells me.

"Will she be awake before I have to go to dinner? I think it would be best if she saw me first. She needs to know I'm safe."

"Not likely. We will be leaving once I finish changing this bandage," she says, taping new gauze over the bloodiest part of Mom's gash. Red lines soak through the cotton, and my stomach turns.

"I'd rather stay here, then. I want to make sure she's okay."

"Ms. Blume," she huffs. "Your mother is in the care of the best medical team this world has to offer. She will be fine while you meet with the leaders." She secures the last piece of tape over the already bloodied gauze, then holds out her arm for me. "Ready?"

I stand beside Mom and push some strands of hair from her face. "There's no way I can skip dinner and just wait with her?"

She shakes her head. "But I will sit with her while you're away. Now, c'mon. They are waiting for you."

The nurse's words are tired, so I sigh, reluctantly taking her arm for balance. I wish I didn't need her help, but my ankle is still too swollen to walk without assistance. She helps me down the hall of labs, through the starlit patio, and into the hall of dormitories. As soon as we're back inside, a pair of doors to my left leak smells of food, and my stomach awakes with a grumble. It must be the cafeteria, and as we pass it, the sounds of chatter and silverware clanking diminish.

On either side of us now are metal doors, like the lab doors, with numbers painted on them. They dot the hall all the way to the Immortal's end, but ahead of us on the left is a break in the pattern. After a few more echoed steps, we turn into it and arrive at a large wooden door. It's a deep, rich brown with a cast iron knob and matching door knocker, whose ornate metal design twists and curls outward from the center. In its center is another cast iron form: An eagle spreading its wings, with a metal name plate reading "President McCleary" clutched in its clawed feet. The nurse lifts it to knock three times.

I recognize the name from political science books. He was the last President before the blast. Many of the books suggested that, if the world hadn't ended, he would have been voted out of office that November. Apparently he spent too much money on the space program, and cut a lot of necessary funding to things like education and health care. One of the books called him America's worst President yet.

After the third knock, the nurse twists the knob and pushes against the door to open it. Light pours into the hall from the room I've been told is called the Captain's dining room, and I'm immediately struck by its extravagance. Brick walls, so different from the cement walls outside and so richly red, surround the room. In the middle of the space sits a long table with twelve chairs, each upholstered in burgundy leather that is so polished it reflects the light hanging from the ceiling. The light—my goodness, the light—looks like an imperial octopus with golden tentacles twisting in all directions above the table, like it's trying to escape from a hole in the ceiling, and I'm reminded of the purslane back home.

Inside the room are three people. One sits at the table in gold rimmed, goggle-like glasses—I recognize him as the gray-haired man who helped rescue me—while the other two stand behind chairs. One is the woman who pulled me from the Prowler, though she's not wearing her goggles or hat anymore, and she has since bathed. Her long, blonde hair falls down her back and appears almost yellow against her tailored navy suit. The other person is a man I don't recognize, with dark brown skin, the color of Ben's, and black hair cut close to his scalp. He is the only one who smiles at me.

"Thank you, Nurse," he says, and at his cue, she leaves me alone with them.

I take a few moments to digest the room around me, and I see now that there is a fourth person with a pad of paper and a pen in his hands standing against the wall behind me. Declan. I breathe a sigh of relief.

To my right is a lounge area, adorned with burgundy leather sofas and armchairs around a cast iron coffee table, which looks like it's been repurposed from one of those intricate black fences outside the nicer homes my family and I used to rummage through for supplies. Behind the table is a large circular window draped in burgundy velvet. A map of the United States of America from before the blast hangs on the far left wall, with areas blacked out around most of the cities. I can only assume those places look like Pittsburgh and DC. Decimated.

"Take a seat, Ms. Blume," the dark-skinned man says, pulling out a chair for me. I do as he asks, and he moves to the opposite end of the table, where the gray-haired man and the blonde woman sit on either side of him. Declan stays in the corner, but smiles at me as if to say hello.

In front of me are at least ten bowls filled to the brim with different foods, some I've eaten before and some I only recognize from cookbooks. There are steamed carrots, mashed potatoes, and chicken, at least five chickens worth, displayed on separate white platters. On other platters are asparagus stems, steak, and various cups filled with different colored liquids. Gravies or sauces, perhaps. There are bowls with rainbows of fresh, juicy-looking cubes of exotic fruit, and finally, on a platter all its own, a chocolate cake.

"How did you get all of this food?" I ask.

"We have nutritional engineers on board who have either created the food by growing it or by building it up from a molecular level," the dark-skinned man says. "There was a lot of preparation that went into the securing certain necessities before the end of the world."

Nothing about the food sounds appetizing, but it all looks and smells delicious and my stomach screams for it. I wait to follow the lead of my three hosts to be polite, but none of them even touch their silverware. They are watching me, like the birds of prey I used to see waiting in the trees around the meadow, biding their time before one of the rabbits or groundhogs made the mistake of leaving their burrow.

"May I...?" I ask, pointing to the plates of food before me.

The two who rescued me remain stoic, but the other man nods, so I leap at the food, shoveling spoonfuls of food I've never had the opportunity to try onto my plate. Finally, no need to be modest and only take one serving. No need for rationing. For the first time in my life, I can eat without guilt until I feel like exploding.

I've nearly cleared my plate when the blonde woman finally breaks her silence. "They don't feed you in the bunker?"

"What?" I ask, my mouth full of cake. I shift my gaze between the three leaders, searching for a smile or a wink or something that would tell me they're joking, but I don't find it in any of their faces.

They look at one another, then back at me. "I told you," the gray-haired man whispers.

The blonde woman ignores him and continues to stare right through me. "How long ago did you leave the bunker? Just after we left? Or was it more recent?"

My thoughts flat line in confusion. "The first I ever heard about any bunker was from Dr. Patel," I say, but she is unmoved. "I've never been to the bunker."

The dark-skinned man holds his hand to her shoulder. "Maybe Alexander was right," he says in her ear, but her stare doesn't falter. She's watching me, waiting for me to make a move in a game I've never played.

"Then how do you explain the transmissions we received last month?" she asks me, her focus steady.

"Phoebe, stop," the man says before turning back to me. "I apologize, Ms. Blume," he says. "My name is Dr. Winston Fowler. I'm the Captain of the Immortal. This charismatic woman to my right is Dr. Phoebe Clark, and this man here is Dr. Alexander Ovis. We—as you know—are the leaders of the Deathless. You may call us by our first names. We were all scientists working for the government before the nuclear holocaust. Alexander specializes in chemistry, Phoebe is our engineer and mechanics expert, and my specialty is physics, the science that studies the laws of matter and energy, particularly concerning itself with motion, light—"

"I know what physics is," I interrupt.

Winston smiles. "Of course you do. You used magnets against the droids. That's very impressive."

"Thanks. I had a friend who was really interested in electromagnetism, and I remembered something he told me about magnets disrupting the dipoles involved in a circular current." They look at me with raised eyebrows. "I grew up around lots of books, so I learned just about everything."

"Good, good," Winston says, nodding and smiling. "What's your favorite book? Wait, let me guess. To Kill a Mockingbird?" he says.

"Yep," I say, smiling. I'm embarrassed that I ever thought giving the name Scout Finch would have worked. "I like the lessons Scout learns, they are good reminders for how you should live your life."

"This world is different from the world in the book, though," Alexander chimes in. His voice is deep and rough, like a cavern.

I don't know how to respond, so I just shrug and say, "I guess."

Winston clears his throat. "Isla, I'd like to be candid with you. Before Dr. Patel shared your name with us, we were already interested in you joining our cause. Your instinct to use magnets against the collector droids is impressive, especially due to your age. Add on the fact that the entire world shut down twenty-five years ago, and it becomes a lot more surprising that you know anything at all. Most of the refugees we pick up don't know much outside of survival." He pauses to take a sip of water. "We would like to invite you to join us, study in one of the sciences, perhaps physics with me, and fight against the government who's trying to find you. The government who took your family."

"You want me to fight? I'm not a fighter," I laugh. "My weapon of choice is a slingshot."

"You underestimate yourself. From what Phoebe and Alexander told me, it seems like a slingshot is the perfect weapon for you."

"Why?" I ask. Winston looks confused, so I continue, "Why do you want me to join you? A few minutes ago you were interrogating me."

Winston laughs. "Can't we just be excited that we've found a young scientist among the survivors?"

I search their faces for any sign of honesty, but Phoebe stares me down, Winston can't stop smiling, and Alexander won't look at me. I want to say, No, you can't just be excited, but these people aren't my parents. I have to watch what I say, so instead, I ask, "It's because of the transmissions, right? So that you have the upper hand? You found Isla Blume first."

Winston's smile fades, and Alexander finally looks at me. For a second, it looks like he might smile, but he remains still.

Winston looks over to Declan, and he hides his face. "Declan didn't tell me about them," I say, "Dr. Patel did." Winston sighs and continues, "It was a pre-recorded message." His tone is now more serious than earlier. Here comes the truth behind his smile. "About a month ago it started playing every few hours, but it has since stopped. When we traced the signal, we found that it was coming from the bunker."

Phoebe peers at me again. "Isla, do you have any idea how they would know your name?"

I shake my head. "Not unless my family is somehow alive and with them at the bunker."

"Time to see," Winston says. He looks over to Declan and nods.

Declan turns to the table beside him, where a clock and a small machine wait for him. He presses a button of the machine, and then I hear it: Daniel's voice, captured in the machine, and calling out to me. His message repeats over and over again: "Find Isla Blume."

I can't stop myself from crying. "He's alive," is all I can get out.