The airport seems so big compared to me and my brother.

I’m wearing a backpack and holding a suitcase that has two blankets stuffed under the handle. My brother clutches my hand tightly, as if fearing I’ll leave if he lets go. 

I won’t.

But he doesn’t know that.

Our passports are in my pocket. What if someone steals them? What if I lose them? What if we miss the flight? What if someone else takes our seats?

How will I ever make it to Chile?

Tears brim my eyes and threaten to spill as I remember the last encounter I had with my parents, just a few hours ago. 

“I was able to get two tickets,” My dads somber voice rang out.

Two? Just two? How would our family of five go? Why would my dad ever buy two tickets? He wasn’t going to split us up. Was he? If he was, who would go? Combinations—my sister and I, my mom and brother, sister and mom, me and my mom—went through my head. 

None of them included my dad, because I knew that he wouldn’t come if he could save us. 

Just the thought of his sacrifice makes me feel undeserving of this chance to live.

“They’ll start sending out bombs in a few days by their estimates. They don’t know where they’ll hit.” My dad continued, “Mira and Adam will go.”

The words struck me like a physical blow.

My sister's face paled. 

My eyes opened wide as I took in his words. Me and my brother? Why? Why not Marie? She was younger than me. Kinder. 

“What?” I managed to choke out.

My mother gave me a confident and resigned look, she’d known it would be us.

I blink and force myself back into the present. Adam needs me, I can’t afford to be distracted by the past. I sigh and tug Adam’s arm to pull him along faster. The white tile is barely visible beneath the crowd standing in front of the check in counter. There are belt barriers on either side, separating the people with tickets from the people trying to buy tickets. Adam and I go push through some people who crowd the entrance to the ticket line, shouting at the airport employees about needing tickets to save their families lives. Is that what Dad did? I shake the thought out of my head. 

Everyone needs to go somewhere, since no one knows which place will be hit next. People are traveling to be with family, to escape the worst of it. That’s what we’re doing. 

My dad works--worked, I correct myself--at a high government position in Washington D.C. which is how he was able to find out about the U.S. and Russia’s deteriorating diplomatic relations. How he found out about Mexico. I shudder involuntarily. Russia was trying to scare the U.S. into agreeing to Russian terms relating to Ukraine. When the U.S. refused to listen, Russia sent atomic bombs to Mexico. It worked. Ukraine was officially a part of Russia once more, and the rest of the world was forced to stop sanctioning Russia. An entire country was gone within hours. His job also allowed him to figure out that statistically Chile is one of the safest places to go during a world atomic war. Some people were calling it World War three. 

My dad fought for these tickets. I’m not going to let his sacrifice be for nothing. 

Babies crying, people begging, kids whining, hundreds of people crowded the employees or shouted at them from across the room. 

“Anyone who has a ticket from Washington D.C. to Santigago, Chile, come here! We’re going to close the counter in a few minutes!”

Oh no. There must be hundreds of people in between us and the counter now. I resist my first instinct of staying in line and shove through the ever-growing horde of people--that is until I’m jerked to a stop by Adam, who’s frozen, staring at something in the crowd. 

I let out an annoyed sound and turn around. Adam is dead still as he locks eyes with someone in the crowd. Then he suddenly grabs my arm with both hands as if jerking awake from a dream.

“Mira! That’s James!”

Sure enough my six year old brother’s best friend is here. I shut my eyes tightly. We don’t have time for this. 

I push Adam out of James’ view and grab his small bony shoulders to make eye contact.

“There is no such thing as friends when you’re fighting to survive,” I whisper harshly. I forcefully grab his arm and yank him forward, silently praying that the counter’s still open. 

When we make it to the counter I quickly explain to the lady, “We have two tickets for Chile.”

Her brows furrow beneath her white cap, “Is he okay?”

It takes my mind a second to switch from talking about tickets to my brother. I glance at him, unconcerned, mouth already open to say ‘He’s fine’. But one look at the huge tears silently dripping down his chubby cheeks is enough to stop me short. No. I internally groan. Why is he crying?

“He’s just missing home,” I reply quickly. Not a lie, but not exactly the truth. 

Thankfully the woman lets us through without any more questions and we’re able to enter security. 

I quickly shrug off the backpack and start unbuttoning my sweater. 

“Take off your jacket,” I instruct, without looking at him, moving on to unlace my boots. 

Adam obey’s, but he’s still crying, and he’s moving slower than I’d like. How am I supposed to get us to a whole other continent if he can’t stop crying? And why is he so slow? I resist the urge to roll my eyes and I roughly grab his arm and pull his watch off. Why does he have to be such a baby? I lightly push him towards the scanner thing while whispering in his ear, “Stop crying. You’re not a baby.” 

As we get our things from the conveyor belt, Adam’s tears only increase in size and volume, grabbing the unwanted attention of nearby people. Finally at our gate, I slump down into a chair and shut my eyes. 

I get about 15 seconds of peace before I feel a small tap on my shoulder. It takes everything in me to not pretend that I’m asleep. I crack open an eye. 

“Tissue,” Adam says quietly. 

Annoyance flares until anger burns within me, “Go get it yourself! I’m not the one that's crying for no reason. Why are you even crying? I’m the one doing everything! I even took off your watch for you!” People are staring. I quiet my voice. “You have no reason to cry.”

As if my life couldn’t get any worse, Adam’s silent tears turn into loud, racking sobs. Something unpleasant twists in my center. 

Heads turn toward us and I find myself trying to soothe him. 

“Shhh. I’ll get you some tissues,” I unzip the backpack and pull out a wad of brown napkins. I hand them to him and wait until he’s finished blowing his nose to talk. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper quietly, staring at my feet. “I didn’t mean to act like that. I’m just worried. And scared. I’m only seven years older than you, Adam. I’m not old enough to vote. I’m not old enough to watch TV-14 stuff. I’m barely old enough to take off my shoes in the airport. I’m certainly not old enough to be without my parents. Or to be taking you to another continent,” Adam’s sobs die down until he just sniffles. “I’m sorry we can’t help your friend. But he’s not my responsibility. You are. He’s not my brother. But you know who is?”

It takes a second for him to find his voice but he whispers quietly, “Me?”

“Of course you,” I say, lightly chuckling. “I’m sorry if I act mean sometimes. It’s just that I have to protect you, you are my brother, not James. And I’m going to save you. Alright?”

He nodded and I put an arm around his shoulders as he leaned his head on my shoulder. 

“Thank you, Adam,” I whispered once he was fast asleep.

I make sure to keep Adam away from the news, but constantly watch it myself. After Mexico’s gone, the U.S. quickly tries to bomb Russia. Then Russia tries to bomb the U.S., and so forth. None of the bombs are even close to Chile yet so Adam and I feel safe in our one-bedroom apartment. Adam goes to school in the mornings, while I work at a small bookshop. And in the evenings as we eat dinner I teach him some spanish. At night we call Mom and Dad to check in. Marie misses us a lot and they’re still trying to get tickets.

I know that we probably can’t ever go back to Washington D.C. but I'm still hoping. 

We easily adjust to our little routine, not exactly happy, but content. 

I’m sitting on the sofa, flipping through TV channels when one catches my eye. “The U.S. President hid in a bunker and miraculously survived the bombing, but none of the monuments lived to see another day. Hundreds of thousands of people died, and more will continue to pass by the radiation. Hospitals are—”

I turn off the TV and the remote drops from my limp hand. My chest seems to collapse on itself. No. I forget how to breathe. How to think. How to move. How to speak. I can’t hear Adam calling my name over the thundering of despair in my heart. Tears of fury and sorrow burn lines down my cheeks. No. I feel a painful crack down my center. 

They can’t be gone. We talked to them yesterday and they said everything is ok. They have to still be alive. Hope blossoms within me. I jump up from the couch and rush over to the drawer where we keep the phone. 

I call Mom. 

No answer. 

I feel as though icy needles puncture my stomach. No. Oh, God. Please, no. 

I call Dad. 

No. Answer.

Despair twists sharply, low in my stomach. 

I put a hand to my mouth to stifle my sobs. No! How can the world take them from me! From us! It’s bad enough living in another continent but at least we knew that they were alive somewhere else in the world. Now they’re gone. 

Dead. 

They. Are. Dead.

Shock lances through me, holding me immobile. 

Adam comes into the living room and one look at my face tells him all he needs to know. 

It’s not easy. But we heal. Slowly. Piecing each other together and smoothing out the cracks. At first it’s a physical pain to even think about them, it's easier to ignore the truth gnawing at my insides. But soon, I can talk about Matie, or Mom, or Dad, without feeling like someone carved out my heart and served it on a platter. 

Adam and I are sleeping when the first alarms come on. It’s a loud blaring sound that makes me want to rip my ears off. 

“What’s that, Mira?” Adam asks me. 

“I don’t know. Stay here,” I order, getting up and putting a coat on top of my sweatpants and T-shirt. I open the door of our apartment and peek out, only to be greeted by people running around grabbing everything they can from their rooms and taking it out of the front door. What in the world?

“Ivana!” I call out to my neighbor, she’s about my age and knows all of the gossip. She’ll know what’s going on. “Que pasó?” I asked in Spanish. What happened? 

“Es una bomba! Sale!” And she runs out of the apartment. 

It's a bomb. Leave.

No. I run back into our room and grab Adam’s arm. 

“We need to leave, Adam,” I say running into the hallway and out the door. Where can we go? Where will it be safe? 

“Why?” Adam asks.

“There’s a bomb coming here,” I say somberly. 

Adam grabs my hand with his and speaks calmly, and I notice how easy it is to forget how this experience has made us grow up so fast. “Even if we leave we won’t be able to outrun a bomb. There’s no point.”

His words hit me like I’m standing on train tracks and a full speed train slams into me. 

He’s right. 

We can’t escape this.

I sit down on the cold concrete and gently pull Adam down with me. 

“I have a joke,” I say, trying to cheer him up. If we can’t live, I’m glad to have been a sister to him, glad to have lived these past months with him and bonded so much. “¿Cuál es la fruta más paciente?” What is the most patient fruit?

I wait for him to translate it. 

“Que?” What?

“Es pera.” Espera means to wait, and es pera means it's a pear. 

We laugh together. 

“I must be a really good teacher if you can understand that joke so well,” I say.

“You are. Mira,” Adam says.

“Thank you. Adam,” I say, smiling slightly. “For everything.”

After this we have nothing else to say, so we just hold each other under the stars, knowing that any second can be our last. But this is the best ending I could’ve ever imagined. And so, when I can see the plane that held the bomb in the sky coming towards us. I am not as afraid as I would’ve thought. 

“I love you, Adam.”

“I love you too.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

And then:

Nothing.