“Take my spot,” Pound shouts. “That little boy there. Give him my spot.” But the island starts to shake. And the most spine-tingling shout fills the dock. Panicked people rush for the Gladian. We pull back. Some people trip over the side. Some leap and cling to the rails, slip, and plunge into the sky. I feel cold. Little children, on the shoulders of parents, reach out to us. But we’re zooming away. Other ships leave, too. And thousands, packing the streets of Ironside, plead for us to come back.
This is so unimaginably heartbreaking
