Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle by Katie Coyle Page A

to be the life preserver that keeps us afloat, but I’m starting to understand how little purchase the truth actually affords us in this world. I consider reminding Harp of the militia’s plan—if nothing else, we can at least destroy the people who have so confused our dying world. But I know that won’t bring her comfort. At the moment, it barely comforts me.
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    The next morning, I help Robbie pack supplies in the kitchen—he’s leaving for LA with some others this afternoon. I don’t know him well yet. Robbie’s got a thirteen-year-old boy’s surliness, plus the excuse of grief to keep him silent. Birdie told us his story: his mother went devoutly Believer and his father ran off, leaving him behind; Robbie left home shortly before the Rapture and doesn’t know where either of them is today. I’ve never heard him speak more than monosyllables before, but today Robbie looks up from the pile of silverware to mutter, “I read your friend’s blog.”
    â€œYeah? Well, that makes one of you.”
    Fewer than ten page views yesterday. We had Suzy examine the stat counter, thinking maybe it was broken, but she claimed the number was accurate. (“I think you just have a really unpopular blog,” she told us apologetically.)
    â€œYou think your dad is really dead?”
    My body jolts, like I’m waking from a dream about falling. I haven’t thought of my dad in a while. “I can’t know for sure, I guess. I know he was at Point Reyes. I doubt he made it out.”
    â€œBut there are a lot of people missing, right?” Robbie has dropped his monotone; he sounds curious, hungry. “Maybe he went somewhere else. Maybe he’s still alive.”
    â€œWe don’t know that the missing people are alive,” I remind him gently. “And even if they are . . . I guess I thought when I found my parents, that would fix things. I would find them alive—and I figured they’d be
sorry.
They’d become themselves again. But I don’t think it works like that. Because even if they had been alive and sorry—that’s three people who end up okay. And I don’t think I could be content anymore, to be whole when so many others are broken. You know?”
    â€œI get you.” Robbie throws the silverware in a box with a metallic clang. “And even if they were
all
alive—they already made their choice. They chose Not Us.”
    He glances up from under his shaggy hair with a defiant expression, but there’s a question in his eyes he still wants answered.
    â€œJust choose your own family, Robbie,” I tell him. “Choose the people who choose you.”
    We fall back into comfortable silence, broken finally by the sound of approaching footsteps. I look up and see Diego, looking weirdly unsettled.
    â€œVivian? Could I borrow you a second?”
    I follow him through the main hall, into a cluttered back office I’ve never been in before. I’ve never seen him so uptight—he acts, more than anything, like a troublemaking student about to face the principal. Winnie stands just within the door, and Harp lounges in a chair, her legs kicked lazily over the side. Behind the desk in front of her is a woman in a wheelchair who can’t be much older than Winnie. She has raven-black hair and severe bangs brushing the tops of her eyelids; she scrolls through her tablet, looking as if she is literally biting her tongue.
    â€œVivian,” Diego says. “I’d like to introduce you to Amanda Yee.”
    â€œHi,” I say.
    Amanda doesn’t look up. I turn to Winnie, confused, and she gestures to the chair next to Harp with pleading eyes. I sit. We watch Amanda for what feels like five full minutes before she folds her hands on top of her tablet and turns a piercing stare upon us.
    â€œI’ve just been reading your blog.
Very
fascinating stuff.”
    Harp and I glance at each other,