July 10, 2057 – 12:17 p.m.
Cypress knees and black water, Lower Ninth Ward bayou
The air is thick enough to chew. Mosquitoes swarm but don't bite—Maya's low heat keeps them at bay.
They move single file through the shallows: Elijah in front, shadows stretched long to hide footprints; Maya in the middle, golden light dimmed to a candle glow so the kids can see roots without being seen; Aisha carrying the smallest ones piggyback when the water gets chest-high on little legs; Jonah and Kenji flanking, Jonah listening for thoughts that aren't theirs, Kenji feeling the mud for vibrations of boots or rotors.
Kayden brings up the rear, illusions flickering just enough to blur their wake.
No one speaks. The only sounds are breathing, water sucking at ankles, and the occasional splash when someone stumbles.
Amara rides on Elijah's shoulders, Mr. Raffi clutched in one hand, her other fist tangled in his hoodie. She hasn't cried since the house.
They reach a small island of higher ground—an old fishing camp collapsed into itself, roof half-sunk, walls leaning like drunks.
Elijah signals stop.
Everyone collapses in the shade of cypress drapes. Kids huddle close. Some sleep instantly. Others stare at the water like it might speak.
Jonah's voice is a cracked whisper. "They're sweeping the parish block by block. Iron Patriot's on the ground now. Leading the team himself."
Aisha checks her last burner. No signal. "Mom's house is gone?"
Elijah doesn't answer. He's staring at the Saints chain around his neck—Marcus's chain, warm from Delphine's hand hours ago.
Kenji sits beside Kayden. "You okay?"
Kayden's illusion flickers; for a second his face is streaked with tears that aren't there. "I started this."
"You helped end the raid part of it," Kenji says. "That counts."
Maya passes around the last of the frybread, broken into forty-five pieces. It's stale now, but no one complains.
Elijah finally speaks. "We can't stay in Louisiana. They'll flood the whole parish looking."
Aisha nods. "Where?"
"North," he says. "Chicago. There's an old network from the Great Migration days. Tunnels under the L. Safe houses that never made any map."
Jonah frowns. "That's two thousand miles with forty-five kids and every fed in the country hunting us."
Elijah looks at each of them—his people now, whether he wanted the job or not.
"Then we become ghosts for real."
He stands.
The bayou stretches endless around them, water black as secrets.
In the distance, a helicopter thumps closer.
Elijah pulls the shadows tighter.
"Time to move."
They wade back into the water, single file again, heading deeper into the swamp where even drones fear to fly.
Behind them, smoke rises over the Ninth Ward—thin at first, then thick.
Elijah doesn't look back this time.
The water takes everything back eventually.
But not them.
Not yet.