Chapter 39: Smoke, Salt, and Gravity

The grills were already going when Brandon finally slept.

Not the restless, adrenaline-haunted kind—real sleep. The kind that came after the body decided the danger had passed, at least for now. He was out cold on a couch that had never been meant for teenagers, one arm flung over his face like he could block the Moon with it.

Outside, the park breathed.

The lunar park wasn’t loud the way Earth parks were. No cicadas. No traffic. Just a gentle hush, broken by laughter and the low sizzle of meat meeting heat. Someone had figured out—quietly, competently—how to make charcoal behave in a place where fire was still a negotiated privilege.

Darius stood over the grill, tongs in hand, posture relaxed for the first time in hours. He wore a plain shirt, sleeves rolled, the gold crown on his suit nowhere in sight. This wasn’t command. This was family.

Amina moved beside him with a bowl of something green and lemon-bright, her hair tied back, her laugh easy. Earth easy. The way it always had been when she was home and barefoot and not carrying the weight of a people on her shoulders.

“You’re burning them,” she said.

“I’m sealing them,” Darius replied.

She arched a brow. “You say that every time.”

“And every time,” he said, flipping a piece with deliberate care, “I’m right.”

Renee sat at the picnic table with Ann, elbows resting, hands wrapped around cold drinks. Renee had her nurse face on—not worried, not probing—just watching, cataloging the way people moved when they were finally safe. Ann’s shoulders were lower than they’d been in days. Shamara leaned against her, scrolling, quiet in the way kids got when they were processing something bigger than words.