She saw his eyes, bright and wrinkled, peering down at her, then turning to the canteen in his hand. The canteen that he had carried. The water, she realized, the poison meant for him.
“I was coming up to see you that day—” Lukas shook his head and took a deep breath. “I was coming to ask you out—” “Don’t,” she said. “Lukas. Don’t do this.” “I told my mom about you.” “Oh, for God’s sake, Lukas—”
“Silo one? This is silo eighteen.” He licked the sweat off his lips and adjusted his mic. His palms suddenly felt cold and clammy, and he needed to pee. “We, uh . . . we might have a, uh . . . slight problem over here . . .”
But now he wondered, tears streaming down his face, thoughts of Juliette swelling inside his heart, if he could even hear his handful of compatriots shouting, so drowned out were they by the angry war cries of the good men and women of Supply.
She wondered how the knife had slipped through a gap in the grating narrower than its handle. And as the pounding in her temples receded, she heard something else. Footsteps. Ringing out on the stairwell below her. Running.
“It’s because . . .” He tried to make sense of this answer in his head, tried to imagine that such an idea could possibly verge on truth. “It’s not because we knew,” Lukas said, sucking in a gasp of air. “It’s because we did it.” “Yes,” the voice said. “And now you know.”
“Jimmy,” he said. “I think I’m going back to being called Jimmy now.” He smiled at Juliette. Shook his head sadly, but smiled. “I’m not going to be alone anymore,” he told her.