I wrapped the toolbelt around my waist and tied it twice. The ache in my back reminded me that it was going to be another long day. I cracked the classroom window, letting the rays of the dying sun filter through. It was a pleasant night for Karakul–the air was cool, but not unbearable.

“Ma’am?” Someone called, and I turned to see a student sticking his head around the door frame. He had the awkward look of a middle schooler, with large front teeth and blonde hair that stuck out in every direction. The way he carried himself, with wild energy that shook his legs and hands, reminded me of Owen when he was a kid.

“Will you be ‘ere for the next few hours? My friend is tutoring me, and we need a chaperone to stay.”

His city accent made me smile. “I’ll be here all night, just go ahead and let me know when you’re leaving. And make sure you’re home before curfew.”

“Thanks!”

I waved him off, and he took off down the hall in a jog. It was refreshing to see a student care about school–usually, the kids’ conversations centered around enlisting when they became of age. I’d heard the school curriculum itself had been modified to prepare them for battle, with courses like ‘practical physical education’ and ‘governmental theory’ spreading Keon’s propaganda.

I pulled a screwdriver from my belt and began to fit the new window frame into place. I hope that boy finishes school, I found myself thinking. If his grades are good enough, they won’t send him to the front lines.

I swallowed, feeling a little melancholy. I had never enjoyed school in Historical Amberasta, but I was aware that my knowledge of history and the sciences was sorely lacking. Worse, my status as an eighteen-year-old dropout made it impossible to find any job other than remedial labor. It didn’t help that the swab incident had been such a close call, and I couldn’t help but worry that they’d discover the switch at any moment. Hopefully, they’d assume that the nurse had made a mistake, rather than expecting something sinister.

Maybe once the war is over, and traveling is easier, I’ll move away from this city.

I climbed down from the step ladder and grabbed the next of the planks from my cart. Who am I kidding, I scoffed, there is nowhere else to go. All of Amberasta is like this.

The day melded into evening as I worked.

***

Suddenly, the shrill sound of sirens filled the air, drowning out the noise of my vacuum. I tripped over the cord, catching myself against the wall. My mind struggled to process what was happening. A drill? But it’s not the first Monday of the month…

I leaned outside the window, and my stomach sank. The side of the building was bathed in pulsing red light. Holy shit, this isn’t a drill.

My mouth went dry. Karakul wasn’t a border city, and it was the first time that it had been bombed during the war. For a moment, I panicked. Do I have time to reach a shelter?

The kids! I realized. Without thinking, I turned and began to run across the classroom. A rumbling noise rose above the sirens, and something hissed overhead. I threw myself to the ground, covering the back of my neck with my hands.

The bomb detonated with a horrible woosh and crackle. The school building shook and the windows shattered, sending glass cascading over the tiled floor. A chunk of plaster dislodged itself from the ceiling and smashed over the teacher’s desk by my side. I uncovered my head and glanced upward just as a plank broke through the plaster and swung downward, banging into the wall.

I rose into a crouch on the shaking floor and dashed back to the window, then pushed myself up onto the frame and jumped out into the courtyard. Between the wail of the sirens and the shaking school, I struggled to catch my bearings.

Smoke billowed from the far side of the school where the bomb had struck. It thickened rapidly as it consumed the building. Metal screeched as supports gave way, and the nearest classroom began to crumble inwards like a deck of cards.

For a second, I stood on a precipice–I could leave and seek shelter, or I could run back inside and try to find the boys. I hesitated, frozen in spot, watching the fire grow. Then, suddenly, one emotion rose to prominence: guilt. Guilt for starting a fire at the registration site; for leaving Owen two years before; and for abandoning Katrina and my parents in Historical Amberasta.

An instant later, I was halfway through the closest window. Glass shards slit my hands, sending blood spilling over my jumpsuit. I fell into another classroom, rolling to break my fall. “Hello?” I called over the noise. There was no response.

The room was filling with plaster dust, which obscured the piles of debris and made my eyes water. Through the noise, I heard a faint whimper, like that of a wounded animal. “Hello!” I shouted again.

“I’m here,” someone answered faintly. I slipped under a partially collapsed column and ran to the other side of the room. Finally, I found him–the boy I’d spoken with, pressed up against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. His face was swollen and white, streaked where tears had carved little paths through the plaster dust.

A crashing noise resounded through the building as something else gave way. I glanced around nervously, but the ceiling seemed to hold–for now.

I looked back at the boy. “Are you hurt?”

“My arm’s stuck!” I followed his gaze to where fallen debris had pinned his arm to the wall. Dark red blood oozed over the white plaster shards.

“Stay still!” I said, crouching to examine the rubble that pinned him. It laid against him at a diagonal, supported by the edge of the teacher’s desk. I pushed against the wood, but it was too heavy for me to move alone. I felt for my toolbelt, cursing when I realized it had fallen off in the commotion.

“Okay, move away from the plank!” I ordered. The boy scooted himself to the side, leaving the pinned arm sticking sideways. Taking a chance, I gripped the edge of the teacher’s desk and heaved it backwards. The rubble slumped inwards and then fell through, crashing to the floor.

I returned to the boy, who had started to sob in earnest. I pushed aside the last of the rubble with a groan. “Come on!”

He didn’t move, staring ahead in shock. His arm was a bloody mess, crushed in multiple places. I grabbed a clean rag from my jumpsuit pocket and tied it like a tourniquet around his bicep. “Hang in there,” I said, sliding my arms around him to lift him into a standing position. I led him through the room, both of us struggling to breathe in the dusty air.

When we reached the window, I propped him against the wall and looked him dead in the eye. “Where’s your friend? The one who was tutoring you?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “He ran, I don’t know where he went!”

I cursed again and looked out the window. Outside was a wasteland–there was no one around, and the courtyard was cluttered with wreckage. Where are the damned paramedics? This whole thing is coming down.

“Right,” I said, “the bomber’s gone. I’m going to lift you out of the window, and then I'll look for your friend. Stay in the courtyard, help will come soon.”

“Okay.” I braced myself on the windowsill and gripped him under the armpits. He yelped as I brushed his injured arm, but helped me by wrapping his good hand around my neck. I lowered him out of the window and into the ground as gently as I could.

“Thank you,” he said breathlessly.

“Someone will come soon.” I reassured him again. I turned away, back into the classroom. While I’d supported the boy, smoke had begun to spread through the doorway. It was eerily reminiscent of the night of the Fortress invasion, when the explosion had detonated in the grand room. I steeled myself and started to pick over the debris, going against my every instinct to flee out into the fresh air.

I called out again, but my voice seemed to die in the dust and smoke. The hall was in worse condition than the classroom, with the ceiling panels threatening to break free at any moment. My body filling with a sense of urgency, I scrambled over the fallen planks and twisted metal supports. I need to find him and get out of here, preferably before the authorities arrive.

At the end of the corridor, I caught sight of a figure slouched against the wall. I ran faster, and the rough corners of wreckage tore at my calves. My heart sank. Something wasn’t right–the boy wasn’t reacting to my voice, and the position of his body was unnatural.

Finally, I reached him. His head lulled to one side, blood dripping from a wound hidden by his hair. I pushed my fingers to his neck, and, to my relief, his pulse thrummed against my fingertips. You’re not supposed to move someone with a head injury, I remembered, but the shaking of the building gave me no choice. I looped my arms under his armpits and dragged him backwards, stopping every few yards to gasp for breath. He has to weigh as much as me.

A panel broke from the ceiling, tumbling against the wall and landing near my feet. Grimacing at the effort, I hefted the boy’s body over the rubble. A splintering noise sounded above me as a crack snaked its way through the plaster overhead.

My foot slipped as I climbed down the other side of the pile. I stumbled backward, and my boot caught on an upright plank. I fell to the floor, and my body collided with the tile at full force. Stars danced before my eyes. Just a little bit further.

The crumbling reached my ears with terrible certainty. I watched as the crack in the ceiling widened and released layers of plaster, wood, and metal. I reached to my side, shoving the boy out of the way.

I only had time to close my eyes before the barrage rained downward.