Your return to Earth is a series of meetings with so many government officials that their faces all blend together in your mind, and you are asked to tell them exactly what happened over and over until the words rushing out of your mouth feel like second nature and you aren't consciously aware of what you're saying. Finally, you're allowed to go home, and Don (Dad? Do you call him Dad now?) gives you the guest room. You're asleep before you hit the pillow.

The next month, you float through everyday life. You have your father back; you can be a family again. You go back to school, a new school where you aren't "the orphan," or "the delinquent," because no one knows you. The next month is good, it's normal. You're finally living again.

Until month two After Oban. Month two, the nightmares start. You watch buildings and temples crumble around you; large, bird-faced figures loom over you, chanting it's your fault, it's your fault; and you watch, helplessly, repeatedly, as your best friend sacrifices himself for you. You wake up screaming, your father standing over you and shaking your shoulders.

You hope it's just a one-time thing, but the dream returns the next night, and the night after that. You try to stay awake as long as possible, finally passing out when your body can't take it, and wake up in a cold sweat, crying and begging for the voices to shut up already, just shut up! Come morning, Don give you weary looks; you know he wants to help but what can he do?

Month three, you can't get out of bed. Don tries to get you to eat, but you won't. He gets frustrated and storms out a few times, but you can't even bring yourself to care. You watch his retreating figure with indifference. That's really how you feel about everything. Indifferent.

Don must contact someone, because you're called in to talk to some other government person, a psychologist or something. She seems to be familiar with the Race but you don't recognize her. She talks at you, you see her mouth moving, but you don't actually hear anything she says. You can't bring yourself to listen, or even care.

There's activity at the door, suddenly, and a young man in a fancy government outfit comes in and says something to the woman. She looks frustrated, and you find it in yourself to be slightly interested. The woman looks at you, and says something, and the man nods and walks back to the door, in time to nearly be hit in the face as it swings open and another, very large and thick-eyebrowed person shoulders their way aggressively into the room.

"Mrs. Wilde, please!" another man in uniform pleads. "This is in direct violation of—"

"Forget your policies!" the woman snarls. "Sending children to fight your battles is against policy too, but that didn't seem to stop you!" She turns to look at you, and her face softens. "How old are you?" she asks.

"Fifteen," you mumble, and you feel numb because you know exactly who this woman is.

"Fifteen," she repeats, and her face darkens and she whirls around to face the man she had been arguing with earlier. "Fifteen! A child! Look at her! She's not even military!"

The woman who had been talking to you stands. "Mrs. Wilde, please, you're upsetting Ms. Wei. We can talk later."

You push yourself to your feet and lurch forward unsteadily, and everyone in the room falls silent. You nearly trip over your own feet, but she catches you, and she's big and strong and warm and you suddenly understand why he is who he is, and you can't bring yourself to look the mother of your best friend in the eyes as you choke out, "I'm sorry."

Mrs. Wilde pulls you into a hug and pats the back of your head softly, and you remember a sleepily mumbled I need a hug and you're crying all over again, because he should be here, not you. You cling to her and sob and become a broken record of apologies, because this woman will never see her son again and it's all your fault.

"There, there, let it out, it'll be okay," she murmurs. She gently pries you away, and looks at the woman who had been trying to talk to you earlier. "Do you have paper?" Mrs. Wilde asks. The woman quickly pulls a page out of her notepad and hands it off. Mrs. Wilde scribbles something onto it and offers it to you. You scrub at your eyes and study the address and phone number. "In case you ever need anything," Mrs. Wilde places a large hand on your shoulder and offers you a smile before turning her steely gaze back to the other woman. "Don't think I'm done with you," she snarls.

Mrs. Wilde leaves, and the government lady lets you go shortly after. You think your dad might try to talk to you during the ride home, but you're too busy staring at the slip of paper in your hands to listen, afraid that if you blink it'll disappear.

Things get worse yet. Your grades slip. You lose more sleep and more weight. Your mental health is in shambles, but you refuse to go back to the shrink before, and you can't see anyone else since the Race is confidential. Month four, you snap and lock yourself in the bathroom. While your father pounds frantically on the door, you hunch over the bathroom sink. Your reflection looks haunted, guilty, and you hate it, you hate her. You don't want to be Eva. Angrily, you find the shears and start to hack your hair off.

You can hear your father outside the door, but you ignore him. It isn't hard; he'll tell you that you never listen anyway, so tuning him out isn't difficult. But not even you can ignore the loud thud against the door. You jump and drop the shears. What the hell does your father think he's doing? He's going to get hurt, throwing his weight against the door the way he is. But no, you can hear him arguing with someone, and you frown. No, it can't be. Hesitantly, you open the door and peer out. Don says something, but you look up, up, up until your eyes find dark sunglasses and darker hair pulled back into a messy pony, and he smirks and says, "Well hey there, Little Mouse."

You slam the door.