July 4, 2057 – 3:47 a.m.
The Safehouse, Corktown
The basement smells like old: mildew, burnt coffee, and the ghost of someone's abuela frying onions at 2 a.m. A single string of Christmas lights is the only thing keeping the dark from winning outright.
Twenty-two kids sleep in crooked rows on yoga mats and flattened cardboard, breathing the stunned, shallow sleep of people who still expect to wake up caged. The little girl with the pink beads someone whispered her name is Amara is curled inside Elijah's hoodie like it's a tent, Mr. Raffi tucked under her chin.
Elijah sits on a milk crate in the corner, pressing fresh gauze to his ribs. The bullet only kissed him, but kisses from bullets still leave bruises shaped like questions.
Aisha paces the length of the room in tight, angry circles, prosthetic legs ticking against concrete like a countdown only she can hear. Every few laps she stops at the laptop balanced on a stack of phone books and refreshes the same three encrypted feeds.
"They already scrubbed the depot cams. Official story is 'gas leak caused mass hallucination.' Iron Patriot's trending: 'Hero Saves Children from Terror Cell.' Comments are… ugly."
Elijah doesn't answer. He's watching Amara's tiny chest rise and fall and trying not to think about Marcus doing the same thing ten years ago.
Soft footsteps on the stairs. Hesitant. Someone who's never been here before.
The door at the top creaks open and a new voice drifts down, young, male, trying to sound casual and failing.
"Uh… delivery for the underground railroad that definitely isn't a felony?"
A lanky kid with messy curls and thick glasses appears carrying two pizza boxes and a plastic bag of Capri Suns like he's late to a D&D session. His "I voted" sticker from last year is peeling off his jacket; the ink has bled so the word looks more like "I tried."
He freezes when he sees the kids. The pizza boxes tilt dangerously.
"Shit," he breathes. "We actually did it."
Aisha snatches a box before it hits the floor. "Language around the babies, newbie. And yes, we did. Now help me feed them before they wake up thinking this was a dream."
The kid sets the food down, then notices the blood on Elijah's side. His face goes paper-white.
"You're hit."
"It's nothing."
"That's what my grandpa said about the camps and then he rolled up his sleeve." He swallows. "I'm Jonah. Jonah Goldstein. I, uh… run the relay server you guys use. Figured it was time I stopped hiding behind a keyboard."
Elijah studies him. Jonah's hands are shaking, but his eyes are steady.
Jonah kneels in front of Amara, careful not to wake her. He brushes a stray bead back into place with one finger.
"I felt them," he says quietly. "On the bus ride over. Twenty-two little heartbeats screaming inside my skull. Some of them… whatever we are… it's loud when they're scared."
Aisha slides a slice of pizza onto a paper plate for the nearest kid who's pretending to sleep but definitely isn't. "Welcome to the Liberty Line, Jonah. Population: four idiots, one stuffed giraffe, and a whole lot of trauma."
Jonah looks up. "I'm in."
"You don't even know the price yet."
"I know what the price of staying out feels like."
Upstairs, a burner phone buzzes Nokia ringtone, the one nobody has used since flip phones died.
Elijah and Aisha lock eyes.
Only one person has that number.
Elijah climbs the stairs slowly, pain flaring white behind his eyes. He answers on the fourth ring.
Static. Then a girl's voice, soft, desert wind in the background, trying not to break.
"Is this… Shadow?"
He knows the voice from late-night planning calls, from voice messages that always ended too soon. "Yeah."
"I'm in Vegas," she says. "My cousin just got taken. Federal convoy, no warrant. Twenty-three kids this time. They're headed your way. Tomorrow night."
Elijah closes his eyes. The gauze is already soaked again.
"How long?"
"Eighteen hours. Maybe less."
A pause long enough to hear a heart crack.
"There's someone riding escort," she whispers. "Calls himself Red Mirage. He's… one of us. And he's angry."
The call ends.
Elijah stands in the dark kitchen for a long time, listening to twenty-two small miracles breathing downstairs and the louder, older breathing of a country that will never stop trying to take them back.
Outside, the last firework of the night finally dies, lonely and too late.