“Which way?” I whisper.

We stand at the mouth of a long hallway. White flooring. Glass cases are set up against the wall. Each case displays miniature scenes of different counties in California. Cities, agricultural communities, beachside resorts. How it used to be.

“Can I help you find something?”

A guard approaches us. He’s young and handsome.

“We’re looking for the Senate Chambers,” Chris states. “We’re here for the negotiations.”

“You’re Commander Young,” the guard states, staring. “And you’re Commander Hart.”

Chris nods slightly.

“An honor, sir,” the guard says. “Um, yes, sir. The Senate Chambers are up these stairs here and on the third floor. You’ll see the people.”

“Thank you, soldier,” Chris replies.

We climb the stairs and enter a hallway full of echoes. I lean in closer to Chris and whisper, “How do people know who we are?”

Chris gives me an amused look as we follow the curve of the hallway. I tilt my head up and marvel at the inside of the capitol dome. The sunlight is shining through the windows, illuminating the colorful design. A massive marble statue of Queen Isabella of Spain and Christopher Columbus sits in the center of the rotunda, surrounded by velvet ropes.

“Fancy,” I comment.

“The Capitol was a museum, too, before the EMP,” Chris tells me.

“And you know this because…?”

“Because I came here before the war. To meet the governor.”

“Why?”

We find the staircase. It wraps around both sides of the rotunda, lined with red carpet.

“Chris?” I press. “Why did you meet the governor?”

“I was…honored for my service overseas before I was discharged,” he says.

“You must have been some soldier.” I smile. “I’m not surprised.”

Chris doesn’t look happy about it.

We climb to the third level. There are people here. Many of them are dressed in business suits — but most are dressed in whatever clothes they could find. Chris and I are not the only ones here wearing a uniform. There are others. Giant, wooden double doors lead into a seating area that wraps around a room two stories below. The Senate Chambers. The seats are packed. It looks like a Roman courtroom.

“You’re in the wrong part of the Capitol, Commander.”

I turn at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Angela!” I exclaim.

I throw my arms around her neck in a hug. A hug of complete, utter relief. She’s wearing a green uniform, her hair pulled back. She straightens her spine, startled by my expression of emotion.

“Good to see you back, Commander Young,” she breathes, smiling. “Thank God you’re here.”

Um, hello. I’m here, too.

“Thank you,” Chris replies, ever the gentleman. “Good to see you, too, Angela.”

“You two are militia officers,” she says. “You need to be downstairs inside the Senate Chambers, not above it. This area is for civilians.”

“Where’s Colonel Rivera?” I ask.

No sense beating around the bush.

“He’s with the officers, of course,” she replies. “Follow me, please.”

She turns on her heel and we follow her back down the staircase.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been back here, hasn’t it?” Angela asks Chris.

As always, she makes a point of ignoring me. Like mother like daughter, I suppose.

“A few years,” Chris replies.

Angela keeps walking. I lower my voice, anxiety curling in the pit of my stomach as we get closer to the Senate Chambers.

“Vera told me that you knew Angela when you were stationed in Coronado,” I whisper. “Is that true?”

Chris says nothing. Then,

“Yes, it’s true.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It didn’t seem necessary.”

A couple of the guards allow Angela to pass through some heavy double doors. We follow suit and step into a foyer. Green carpet is everywhere, and so are ornate carved pillars and velvet curtains.

“She told me something else,” I continue. My hands are trembling. “She told me you were married, Chris.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about it for days… but I couldn’t…”

Chris’s face remains unmoved. Expressionless. He is the picture of calm. The only hint of an emotional reaction is the muscle that ticks in his jaw.

Angela whirls around suddenly and we stop.

“When you enter this room,” she warns, “be on your guard. Everything that you say will be scrutinized. The rebel leaders gathered here want to hear what you think. We must be united.” She turns her steely gaze on Chris. “Understood?”

Chris doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to.

Of course he understands.

She leads us through another pair of doors. The room is wide. It’s an open floor, dotted with dozens of desks. The desks are empty — no computers, no name holders. Just paper and notepads. Rebel leaders dressed in a variety of different uniforms are sitting down. It’s similar to a courtroom setting. Three seats at the front of the room are on a raised platform. A man with gray hair and a handsome, weathered face is sitting there, dressed in a suit and tie. He watches Chris and I enter. There is a woman that I do not recognize on his left, and on his right… is Colonel Rivera. He’s dressed in uniform. When he sees me, his expression freezes.

He is not angry.

He is furious.

And when he realizes that Chris is with me, I’m pretty sure a vein starts to bulge in his forehead. I swallow a nervous lump in my throat and absently follow Chris’s hushed command to sit. It dawns on me that everyone in the room — above and below — is staring at us.

Cassidy Hart and Chris Young.

Maybe we’re more infamous than we think.

I grasp the handles of the wooden chair and stare at the desk. Chris is beside me.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “You’ve got this.”

“Shall we call this meeting to order?” The man speaking is sitting in the middle chair on the raised podium. He looks very distinguished.

I look around me. Men, women. Uniforms that I recognize, uniforms that I don’t recognize. And most of them are staring at us. I vaguely realize that Vera, Uriah, Manny, Andrew and Alexander are sitting above us in the spectator seats. Uriah nods, never taking his eyes from me.

The distinguished-looking man bangs a heavy gavel on the table in front of him and announces in a deep, baritone voice, “I hereby declare this California State Convention of Leaders open.” He pauses and scans the room with a fierce gaze. “My name is Robert Lockwood, and I am the presiding Speaker of the House, Pro Tem. We are gathered in this hall — in this building — to negotiate and formulate a plan of action against the invading forces of Omega.”

His voice is incredibly rich and deep. I watch him carefully as he speaks, looking for any signs of insincerity. It’s hard to tell.

“I want to extend a welcome to Colonel Rivera of the California National Guard,” he continues, “and thank him for his valiant contribution to improving the security of Sacramento.”

A short burst of applause echoes throughout the room.

I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t.

“And thank you — all of you — for making the journey here today,” Lockwood says. “You are all well respected leaders in the individual militias throughout the state of California, and your efforts to defeat Omega is appreciated more than I could ever personally express. You are the lifeblood in this war. You are the reason that we can meet here today.”

More applause. I study Chris’s face.

He is not impressed.

“Our strongest militia forces in California have been concentrated in the Great Central Valley and in the Sierra Nevada Mountains,” Lockwood says. “And for that, we have two men to thank. Commander Frank Hart of the Mountain Rangers and Commander Chris Young of the Freedom Fighters and the combined militia forces of the Great Central Valley.”

The applause is thunderous this time around. I twist in my seat, shocked. My father is standing near the back of the room, dressed in militiaman garb. He’s wearing the customary uniform of the Mountain Rangers — the six-pointed star stitched into his sleeve. We lock eyes and I feel the breath leave my lungs.