“Leaving you.”
He shrugs. Shrugs! “You’re coming back, aren’t you?”
There it is: the invitation to a promise I cannot make. I take his hand and say, “Remember that summer you chased the rainbow?” He looks up at me, utterly baffled. “Well, maybe not. I think you were still in diapers. We were in the backyard and I had the sprayer. When the sunlight hit the water . . . you know, a rainbow. And I was making you chase it. Telling you to catch the rainbow . . .” I’m about to let loose with some waterworks of my own. “Kind of cruel when I think about it.”
“Why are you thinking about it, then?”
“I just don’t want . . . I don’t want you to forget things, Sam.”
“Things like what?”
“You need to remember it wasn’t always like this.” Making bombs and hiding in caves and watching everyone you know die.
“I remember things,” he argues. “I remember what Mommy looked like now.”
“You do?”
He nods emphatically. “I remembered right before I shot that lady.”
Something in my expression must give me away. I’m guessing a mixture of shock and horror and a sadness that has no bottom. Because he turns on his heel and barrels back to the weapons chamber only to return after a minute with Bear in his arms.
Oh, that goddamned bear.
“No, Sams,” I whisper.
“He brought you luck last time.”
“He’s . . . he’s Megan’s now.”
“No, he’s mine. He’s always been mine.” Holding him out to me.
I gently push Bear back into his chest. “And you need to keep him. I know you’ve outgrown him. I know you’re a soldier or commando or whatever now. But one day, maybe there’ll be a little kid who really needs Bear. Because . . . well, just because.”
I kneel at his feet. “So hang on to him, understand? You take care of him and protect him and don’t let anybody hurt him. Bear is very important to the grand scheme of things. He’s like gravity. Without him, the universe would fall apart.”
He stares at his big sister’s face for a long, silent moment. Memorize it, Sams. Study every bruised, scratched-up, scarred, crooked inch of it. So you don’t forget. So you never forget. Remember my face no matter what. No. Matter. What.
“That’s crazy, Cassie,” he says, and for an instant—and only an instant—the little boy is back, and I see in his now-face his then-face, hysterical with wonder and laughter, chasing rainbows.
60
RINGER
I HOP DOWN from the chopper. Zombie watches me sling the rucksack over my shoulder and says, “All done?”
“Done.”
“How many you got left?” Nodding at the bag.
“Five.”
He frowns. “Think it’ll be enough?”
“It’ll have to be. So, yes.”
“Time to go, then,” he says.
“Time to go.”