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My body is numb, spine lax, as he whispers these things, and I barely feel it as they lower me back to the bed, body sticky and warm. And as we curl together, I’m struck by the awareness that even after they’ve pulled out, and are no longer in me, I still feel full.

25

Elon

Hack. Hack. Hack.

Chop.

Clunk.

I push aside the curtain and peer out the kitchen window at the continuous sound, day after day, since we got here. It’s the sound of irritation. Restlessness. Distraction.

Hack. Hack. Hack.

Chop.

Clunk.

Rex heaves the axe over his head, biceps straining as he gains the momentum to chop the massive log. He’ll split this it into smaller pieces before tossing it on the ever-growing pile. He’s been out there since sunrise, his gray shirt two shades darker from sweat, showing no signs of slowing down anytime soon. Other than the night he and I shared with Imogene, he’s been withdrawn. I know she’s nervous about it. Insecure.

Hack. Hack. Hack.

Chop.

Clunk.

My eyes shift to the ridge behind him, scanning the narrow space between the trunks. Nothing but trees.

Nothing but the five of us settled into this close quartered, temporary situation—living, but not living—a different sort of life altogether.

It feels like we’re still in exile.

It’s not the life we expected and it’s not easy. The cabin is small for a group of people that is used to living in an expansive, wide-spaced, nature-driven community. Our outdoor time is limited due to constant surveillance by the FBI, and as Levi continues to remind us, we’re all struggling with our own trauma that we carried out of Serendee.

I’d argue with him, but I see it myself. How Imogene cooks, making elaborate, spice heavy, intricate meals, while barely taking a bite of it herself. She won’t admit it, but I catch her counting calories, fingers twitching with the need to write each and every one down.

Levi’s no better—having stationed himself at a desk that overlooks the yard with a wide window. He’s surrounded by stacks of books that have spilled over to a pile on the floor. Each and every book is about a single topic: Cults. Surviving them, escaping them, defining them, rejecting them, recovering from them… His academic and intellectual drive has shifted from obsessing over Anex’s doctrine, to analyzing cult behavior. I’m not sure the last time he slept, really ate a meal, or took a shower. I do know him well enough to understand that he won’t stop until he considers himself an expert.

My eyes shift to the living room, where Silas has been sprawled on the large couch, eyes glued to the flat screen TV mounted to the wall for the last five days. The shows are mostly shiny things—plastic looking men and women parading around shirtless or in bikinis. They’re called reality shows, but I don’t get it. Everyone is playing a game. There’s nothing realistic about it at all. I’m not sure what Silas is getting out of this, or if that’s the point, it’s nonsensical and mindless. Whatever it is, he’s enraptured.

Me? Paranoia has settled in deep. I feel it in my bones, in every shadow and movement outside the window. I know in my soul Anex will never let us be free. We weren’t just part of his inner circle—he believed he owned us—and that doesn’t change just because he’s on the run.

I keep track of the news. Looking for any information on Anex or his remaining circle that didn’t get picked up during the raid. I find myself scrolling the tablet Agent Mallory gave us to use—one Anex’s people shouldn’t be able to track—searching to see if Margaret had the baby, or if any arrests have been made. I have alerts set up, dozens to chime if something comes up, but day after day it’s nothing until…

I stare at the message that flits across the screen. “Silas, give me the remote.”

“They’re just about to decide who gets voted off the isla—”

I’m across the room in three strides. “Give me the fucking remote!” I snatch it out of his hands, the commotion bringing Imogene from the kitchen and forcing Levi to look up from his book.

“Can you keep it down?” he shouts from his corner.

“No,” I reply, stabbing at the buttons. There are forty news channels, but I don’t know how to get there. I throw it back at Silas, the plastic device hitting him in the chest. “Put it on the news. Now!”

He finds it quickly, and the press conference is already in progress. A tall black man stands behind a podium, a large set of columns behind him. At the bottom it says, “State Attorney General, Michael Morris.”

“Shut up,” I tell everyone, although the room is quiet.