"You can put me down now." Tav tapped the man's back. Appalled, he drew his hands away and Tav staggered to her feet with a grunt, breath ragged as she eyed him.
"Leave him alone, Tav." Konin sauntered over, tucking the ball away. He watched her limp. "Help me," she said, raising an arm over Konin's shoulder; he looped an arm around her waist. The train eased to a stop and the two got off.
"Where are we?" Konin asked.
"Does it matter?" she replied, to that he said nothing.
They threaded through the busy station; here it was quieter, less thick with danger. Most trains were cut off, but most people were absorbed by the screens—gazes locked, barely registering the world. The headlines screamed about Wilter Street: the blast, the spread, the panic. "Probably a month before this dies down," Tav said softly.
Konin glanced at a screen and, for a second, saw himself back there. No time for idle thoughts.
"Tav…" he began. "What exactly happened today?"
"Huh?" She blinked, then let out a small laugh. "Oh—Is this about the exam? Oh, shit." Her laugh continued.
"Not just that," Konin said. "The explosion."
"You already know who did it, right? You've got her right there," Tav said, pointing at his pocket.
"Oh—right." Konin pulled the ball out and handed it to her.
They were outside, back in the cold night and damp air. "Let's sit over there," Tav gestured to a nearby bus stop. Konin sat her down first, then himself. Without the smoke and screams the city felt quieter, almost ordinary.
"Can you get us a drink, Konin?" Tav rummaged through her purse for slips of cash.
"Sure." He scanned the street and found a vending machine he hadn't noticed before. He fed in the money. "Which one?!" he shouted.
"Cola!" she called.
He bought two. Inside the glass box the bottles glowed; he handed one back. "Thanks." They popped open the caps and drank.
"How old are you now, Konin?"
"Sixteen."
Tav went still at the word, stirring the bottle as if it were wine. "A whole year…" she said.
Konin stayed silent. She turned to him. "Do you really not remember anything from the exam? At all?"
He shook his head.
She smiled, amused. "Where do I begin?" She thought a moment. "Well—I'd say it started when Inspector Han called." She laughed. "He said, 'He jumped out the window.'"
"What?" Konin said, the word coming on it's own.
"Exactly. That's what I said." Tav raised a hand to her chest, "and then he said it again, 'he jumped out the window.'"
Tav paused to look at him, his bewilderment seemed to feed her amusement, "Drew didn't know what to make of it either. No one did. Then Han said you were gone."
"Gone where?"
"That's what I'd like to know." She smiled. "We got worried. We didn't know what to tell your mum, so we went to find you. We pulled the school security footage, went through files—and what do we see?" She took out her phone, teeth flashing beneath the smile as she tapped the screen. Konin leaned close. "What do we see? We see this." At first the clip was nothing but an empty parking lot with trees and a gate—the same view outside his classroom. Then, as everything clicked into place for him, a boy came falling to the ground.