Notes: Author's Note: Thank-you so much for your support, guys. It's so motivating!
Sam had no recollection of leaving Prime's office. He came back to himself an interminable time later, somewhere along the beach. He was sitting in the sun-warmed sand, hands clasped loosely in his lap, as he stared out over the ocean. The water was a perfect, clear turquoise near the shore. It darkened to cerulean further out, past the reefs where the water was deeper.
He took a deep, shuddery breath. The air smelled like saltwater and orchids—clean and fresh and organic. Sam blinked against the sudden sting of tears, and asked, without taking his eyes off the water, "What am I going to do, Bee?"
A shadow fell across the sand as his bonded crouched down beside him. The scout's mental presence was concerned and unhappy.
"I don't know." He murmured in reply.
Sam screwed his eyes shut and fisted his hands in his hair until his scalp ached. He had always known that travel to Cybertron was a distant possibility. Megatron had been defeated, his remaining forces scattered to the stars, and their trade deal with the Canadians would provide all the energon needed to rebuild the dying planet. Still, he had never thought it would happen so soon. He had thought he would have decades, maybe even centuries, to come to terms with leaving Earth.
"Oh my God." Sam managed, opening his eyes to stare across the water, "What am I going to tell my folks?"
His grandmother was seventy-four years old. His mother and father were in their fifties. Optimus had said that it would be three years before he could hope to see them again. Longer, if one of the spacebridges malfunctioned or they experienced engine troubles in transit. It would be longer still if they returned to Cybertron and Sentinel Prime refused to let him leave again. The older Prime was the rightful leader of the Autobots, a title that Optimus had assumed in his absence, and his word was incontestable.
Sam's throat thickened with sudden emotion.
"I can't say good-bye." He choked out, "Not forever—I'm not that strong."
Bumblebee whistled at him gently as he shuffled forward, bracketing Sam's body with his knee struts. His servo was heavy and warm as it pressed against his back, molding to the curve of Sam's spine.
"It won't be forever." He murmured.
Sam's head pitched forward at the quiet promise in his bonded's voice.
"You don't know that." He whispered, miserably.
Bumblebee shuffled nearer still, until Sam was nestled in the protective embrace of his limbs. Pressed this closely together, he could hear the inner workings of his bonded's body—the steady hiss-hush of hydraulic fluid, the push-pull of his fuel pump, and the gentle thrum of his spark. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the warm metal, listening. The sounds were quiet and familiar, and Sam let himself be soothed, if only for a moment. It wasn't long before his anxiety and grief niggled to the forefront of his mind again, refusing to be ignored.
Sam slanted open his eyes, staring down the length of the beach. It was peaceful and secluded here, with only the cry of seagulls and the distant bustle of the airfield to disturb them.
"If it wasn't for me…" His voice trailed off as he tried to find the right words, "I mean… if we'd never met… would you be happy right now?"
The question was clumsy, even to his own ears, but Bumblebee understood him anyway. The denial and vehemence that flashed across their bond in response was almost overwhelming in its intensity.
"I would choose you over Cybertron, no matter the cost." He replied fiercely, "I would have done so, even if we hadn't bonded."
Sam closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Bumblebee's chassis. "You didn't answer my question—if you had never met me, would you be happy? Returning home?"
Bumblebee hesitated for a long moment. "That's a loaded question."
"I don't think it is." Sam replied, quietly.
The scout whistled at him in Cybertronian, a rolling series of glyphs and signifiers. Sam recognized beloved-onto-Primus and Cybertron, but the rest were lost on him. Bumblebee hooked a digit under his chin, angling Sam's head up until he met his gaze.
"I do not wish to imagine a multiverse where we had not met." He murmured, evading the question for a second time.
Sam's smile was watery and thin in return. "It's fine, Bee. I get it. I really do—home's home."
Bumblebee's expression softened perceptibly.
"The flaw in your reasoning is not its conclusion, but its premise." He replied, settling his servos on Sam's shoulders, "If we had never met, then the mechanoid returning to Cybertron would be incapable of happiness."
Sam screwed his eyes shut at the sudden, intense wave of emotion that washed over him. His pulse quickened and his chest ached from the force of it.
"I know I can't stay." He managed to get out, his voice catching on the words, "But I don't know how I'll say good-bye."
The words felt like an admission, and Sam supposed they were. He had known that he would be unable to stay on Earth—had known it from the moment he learned about Sentinel Prime's return. The older Prime had ruled Cybertron since the beginning of the Second Golden Age, and he was not one to be deterred.
"I'll be with you." Bumblebee promised, "Every step of the way."
Sam shivered, despite the heat.
"How long?" He asked softly, "I mean, how much time do I…?"
"The Ark's departure is scheduled for Wednesday evening." Bumblebee replied.
Sam's stomach tightened at the news. He had less than three days to say his good-byes and put his affairs in order. The thought should have spurred him into action, but it left him feeling strangely disconnected instead.
He stumbled to his feet, brushing the sand off his pants.
"I'm going for a walk." He said. "I need some time to think."
Bumblebee's antennae perked up in concern.
"Would you like some company?" He offered.
Sam shook his head. "No, thank-you. I want to be alone for a little while."
Bumblebee whistled at him gently, but he made no move to follow when Sam started off towards the road. The sun had risen to its zenith while they had been sitting on the beach, and Sam was sweating in earnest by the time he clambered over the rocky berm. He wiped his face with his sleeve, before shoving his hands in his pockets. It was cooler here, in the shade of the palms and coconut trees, but it was more humid as well. He made his way along the dusty road back towards the base. The vegetation thinned as he neared the Downtown, and it wasn't long before he could see the airfield in the distance. The Ark sat gleaming golden on the tarmac, surrounded by crates and equipment. The sight of it gave him a painful twist in his belly.
As Sam passed the southern airfield, the Lost Light also came into view. It was a bulky ship with silver plating and red hash marks on its bow. Whereas the Ark was sleek and graceful, a thing of aesthetics as well as function, the Lost Light was a behemoth. There was no doubt in his mind which of the two ships had been designed primarily for combat.
He continued down the road towards the perimeter fence, lost in his thoughts. He would need to figure out how to meet his folks. He wasn't about to tell them that he was leaving, maybe forever, over a telephone line. He wasn't sure what to do about his grandmother. She had steadfastly refused to use the ground bridge, despite his reassurances, and he didn't have time to drive to Ferndale. The dilemma occupied him all the way back to the Hive.
As the lift settled into the floor of the receiving room, Sam realized that it was busier than he had ever seen it before. The room was teeming with NEST soldiers, administrative staff, and forklifts loaded with heavy-looking crates. Sam made his way towards the bridge entrance, head lowered and hands in his pockets. If he didn't make eye contact with anyone, then he wouldn't need to speak with them.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't realize where he was headed until he was already standing in front of Ratchet's medical bay. Sam angled his head, looking up at the massive red doors, as he wrestled with the impulse to enter. The Chief Medical Officer was probably busy, with all the preparations underway for their departure.
/I am./ Ratchet agreed, /But your presence would not be an imposition./
Sam couldn't help the faint smile that spread across his face at the medic's wry tone. Shaking his head, he stepped through the narrow opening between the hangar doors… and then he pulled up short. The medical bay had been largely disassembled in his absence. The workbenches along the far wall were empty, and all but six berths had been removed—including the berth that contained all of the human-purposed medical equipment. The floor-to-ceiling cabinets against the back wall were open, and First Aid was carefully stacking supplies into a large crate. A dozen other crates were arranged in a semi-circle around him. The sight of the normally meticulous hangar in such disarray gave Sam a physical ache in his chest.
"Is this him?" An unfamiliar voice asked, softly.
Sam turned in the direction of the voice to find two mechanoids standing next to Ratchet. The first mechanoid was tall and broad shouldered, with a chassis design similar to the Chief Medical Officer. The second mechanoid was shorter and lithe, plated in the red and white of a field medic.
"It is." Ratchet replied matter-of-factly.
The red and white mechanoid tilted his helm, regarding Sam with open curiosity. "Remarkable. He looks just like a newspark."
Ratchet's expression cooled by an order of degrees. "He is a newspark."
"He's yours, then?" The larger mechanoid asked, "I wasn't sure. I thought perhaps that Prime had claimed him."
The mechanoid's voice was very soft, almost wistful, and he was staring at Sam with an intensity that was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable.
"I initiated the Creator bond, yes." Ratchet acknowledged, before turning to look at Sam, "Allow me to introduce Meltdown and Fixit, surgeons."
He gestured as he spoke, first to the green and yellow mechanoid and then to the shorter red one. Meltdown lowered into a crouch until they were more of an eye-level with one another.
"Hello Sam." He murmured, "It is very nice to meet you."
The words were spoken with such sincerity that Sam could feel himself flushing in response. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to turn around and walk straight back into the hallway. It wasn't until Ratchet gave him a sharp look that he realized he hadn't replied to the greeting.
"Hello Meltdown." He managed, "It's nice to meet you too."
Fixit was still regarding him with curiosity, his optics spiraling smaller and wider as he looked Sam over from head to toe.
"Your heart rate, blood pressure, and cortisol production have increased." He observed mildly, "Are you uncomfortable?"
Sam's flush deepened as he asked, more sharply than he intended, "Do you want an honest answer to that question?"
Meltdown chuckled as he straightened up, fixing Ratchet with a wry look. "Oh, he's one of yours alright."
Ratchet ex-vented an unimpressed snort, before turning to regard Sam. "I believe I can deduce the reason for your visit."
Sam couldn't suppress his grimace as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He knew it made him look as defensive and uncomfortable as he felt.
"Yeah."
Ratchet inclined his helm, and then he turned to look at Meltdown and Fixit. "I will see you in the infirmary when I have finished here."
It was a clear dismissal, and the two medics inclined their helms deeply in response. Meltdown transformed first, folding down into his alt mode with the grind and clang of metal on metal. It was an awkward, uncomfortable looking transformation, but when he was finished, there was a yellow-green Search and Rescue vehicle resting on its wheels. Sam's eyebrows rose up to his hairline in surprise—it was virtually identical to Ratchet's alt mode. Fixit's transformation was faster and smoother, and a moment later, there was a red and white ambulance parked at his side.
Sam stepped aside as the two vehicles accelerated towards the hangar doors, which rumbled open of their own accord. As Meltdown and Fixit drove past him, they brushed against his mind in farewell. The touches were gentle and respectful, almost benedictory in nature, and Sam watched them disappear into the corridor before turning to look at Ratchet.
"What was that all about?" He asked, making his way deeper into the hangar.
Ratchet shrugged. "Which part?"
"All of it." Sam replied, pushing his hands into his pockets, "Why was his transformation like that?"
Ratchet crouched down as Sam approached, settling a servo on the floor in a clear invitation. Sam climbed onto the proffered palm with practiced ease, steadying himself as Ratchet straightened up and deposited him on the nearby workbench.
"Meltdown is old and battle-worn. It has been too long since he's had any proper maintenance." Ratchet replied.
"Is he older than you?" Sam asked dryly.
Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look. "Yes, as a matter of fact."
Sam considered that, and then he asked, "Why does he have the same alt mode as you?"
"Meltdown does not care what alt mode he uses, so long as it serves its function. He asked to use my vehicle schematics, rather than go through the inconvenience of locating another Earth alt, and I agreed. We will not be on Earth long enough for the distinction to be important."
Sam flinched away from the words, which brought the situation rushing back to him. It made his heart start beating faster in his chest, and he had to swallow against the panic that thickened his throat.
"I don't know if I can do this, Ratch." He managed, voice low and strangled, "I really don't."
Ratchet was watching him closely, his expression impossible to read.
"It will be difficult for you." He acknowledged, "I am sorry that you have been placed in this situation."
Sam barked a harsh laugh as he uncrossed his arms and scrubbed a hand across his face. "Yeah, it sucks."
"It does." Ratchet agreed, inclining his helm.
Sam started pacing across the workbench in an effort to cool some of the anxiety churning up his insides. Ratchet watched him in silence, letting Sam turn the situation over in his head without prompting or comment.
"What am I going to eat?" Sam demanded at last, breaking the silence, "Or drink? Or breathe? Does Cybertron even have an atmosphere?"
Ratchet, imminently practical as he was, answered his questions in rank order. "The Ark is fully self-contained and climate-controlled. It will be cooler than you're accustomed to, but well within the requirements for organic life. Cybertron has a thin atmosphere that is composed primarily of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, nitrogen, and oxygen. It is not breathable."
Sam scoffed derisively. "So what, I'll just live on the Ark the whole time I'm on Cybertron?"
"If necessary." Ratchet replied.
"Oh, this is just wonderful." Sam snapped, his temper rising in pace with his anxiety, "I can't wait to spend my indefinite future cooped up on an alien spaceship in the middle of nowhere."
Sam felt a thrum of disapproval across their bond-space, which only served to stoke his temper higher.
"Your sarcasm isn't helpful." Ratchet admonished, gruffly.
"Well, neither are you!" Sam bit back.
Ratchet stilled from head to toe as he pinned Sam with a cool look.
"I beg your pardon?"
The tone of his voice was deceptively mild, and Sam flushed all the way to his hairline. He turned his head, unable to look the medic in the eye.
"Sorry." He murmured.
Ratchet stared at him for a moment longer, letting the rebuke linger, before he spoke. "You will not be cooped up for the duration of your stay. The environmental mask will allow you freedom of movement, and Prime has tasked Grapple and Wheeljack with finding a solution to the housing problem."
Sam sighed softly, scrubbing a hand over his face for a second time. "What about food and water?"
"We have been stockpiling supplies for the last five years. The fare will be limited, compared to what you're used to, but we have taken your preferences into account."
Sam turned, glancing up at Ratchet in surprise. "What does that mean?"
"It means what it means." The medic replied with a shrug, "We have flash-frozen an assortment of foodstuffs you prefer, taking nutritional value and longevity into consideration, and stored it aboard the Ark. We have the supplies for seven years—longer, if we are forced to ration them."
Sam frowned in confusion. "You have the space to store all that?"
"The Ark is a large ship." Ratchet replied wryly.
"But what if…" Sam's voice trailed off, grief and anxiety and denial making his voice tight, "What if we don't come back?"
Ratchet's mental presence brushed against him. It was a fleeting touch, there and gone again, but the pulse of reassurance that remained behind was comforting.
"We have stockpiled seeds and hydroponics equipment as well." Ratchet replied. "If we are unable to return, then we will rely on horticulture."
Sam didn't know whether to feel heartbroken or relieved. "It sounds like you've thought of everything."
Ratchet's expression softened as he pressed two digits against Sam's chest, stilling his restless pacing. "You have only had several hours to come to terms with this, but we have been preparing for a return to Cybertron for years. We have overlooked nothing in regards to your comfort and safety."
Sam forced a brittle smile. "It's a long-shot to say that I'll be comfortable, Ratch."
"It is my hope that you will be, eventually." He replied, "I know that Cybertron is not Earth, but you could be happy there."
Sam's breath caught at the tone of Ratchet's voice. It was soft and gentle, and it made something ache inside him. Cybertron would never be home, not so long as he was being forced to reside there—and not so long as his parents were still alive. He kept the thought to himself, rather than speaking it aloud. It seemed disrespectful and selfish.
"No, Sam. Not selfish." Ratchet murmured, "Human."
The words from anyone else might have come across as an insult, but Sam could feel Ratchet's compassion through their bond. He sighed heavily, shoulders curling forward as he pushed his hands back into his pockets.
"I gotta say good-bye to my folks." He managed.
"Yes, I know." Ratchet replied, "Would you like to meet them here or in Jasper?"
Sam gave a helpless shrug. "I don't think the location is going to matter, Ratch."
"I will make the arrangements." Ratchet promised, "Did you want to tell them yourself? Or would you prefer for me to break the news?"
Sam was caught off-guard by the question, and he didn't know how to respond. The thought of explaining the situation to his parents was beyond horrible, but it seemed cowardly to push the responsibility—and the blame—onto Ratchet. It wasn't his fault.
"It is not your fault, either." Ratchet rumbled in reply, "The situation was set into motion by circumstances beyond your control."
Sam scoffed softly. "Yeah, I know. Optimus made that pretty clear."
Ratchet frowned, pressing the faintest glimmer of disapproval across their bond.
"It is not Prime's fault, either." He said, like a chastisement, "The blame lies squarely at Sentinel's feet."
There was something about his tone, restrained and cool, that made Sam's heart skip a beat. He angled his head so he could look the medic in the face as he asked, hesitantly, "What's he like? Sentinel, I mean?"
Ratchet's mental presence became closed-off and unreadable. "I have not seen or spoken to Sentinel Prime in almost two million years."
Sam frowned at the strange non-answer. "Well, what was he like back then?"
Ratchet stared down at him for a long moment, as though weighing his response. Eventually, he grudgingly replied.
"Sentinel succeeded Nominus Prime." Ratchet said, "As you know, Nominus was responsible for a dark chapter of Cybertron's history. Sentinel was chosen as Prime after Nominus' assassination in an effort to repair the rifts between the city-states."
Sam nodded slowly. "Yes, I remember. He was from Iacon but his Creators were Vosian and Kaonian."
"That's correct." Ratchet replied, inclining his helm, "Sentinel Prime was an efficient, calculated leader. He reversed the Clampdown and disbanded the slums of Kalis. He was popular with the upper and lower castes alike—for a time."
Sam's chest tightened in trepidation, and he crossed his arms in an attempt to hide his unease. "What happened?"
"Sentinel was a firm believer in communitarianism, and as a result, he supported the caste-system. He believed, as many in the Senate did, that the individual was less important than the community, and that personal sacrifice was sometimes necessary for the common good."
Sam's mouth turned down in a frown. "Is that what started the war?"
"Yes and no." Ratchet replied. "The Decepticon movement rose up against the cruelties of the caste system, true, but the war did not begin until Megatron executed the members of the Senate. By that time, Sentinel Prime had already been missing for mega-vorns."
"Where did he go?" Sam asked.
"If Captain Xaaron is to be believed, he went on a secret pilgrimage to find the Forge of Solus Prime." Ratchet replied.
"Did he find it?"
Ratchet ex-vented a loud snort. "Of course he did not find it—it doesn't exist."
Sam frowned faintly as he considered all that he had been told. "The war against the caste system lasted over a million years. What's going to happen now that Sentinel's back?"
Ratchet's expression became unreadable as he shook his helm. "I do not know. There are too few of us left alive to establish a functioning caste-system, and whatever else one might say about Sentinel, he is no fool. We will need to find a way forward if Cybertron is to be saved."
The tone of Ratchet's voice, thoughtful and pensive, was perhaps as close to hopeful as Sam had ever heard him sound. It caused a seed of something uncomfortable to plant itself in his chest—a thing of guilt and grief and shame. He was so caught up in what Sentinel's return had meant for him that he hadn't really considered what it meant for them.
Ratchet was wrong. He was very selfish.
Sam said good-bye to his parents on Wednesday morning.
He met them at the ground bridge hangar, his stomach twisting itself in knots. He hadn't slept for more than a few hours at a time since Bumblebee had shaken him awake in the hotel room, and it was beginning to wear on him.
His bonded stood at the control panel, watching as he tried and failed to maintain some semblance of calm. When he received the ready signal from Jasper, Bumblebee turned and activated the ground bridge. Sam braced himself as the archway exploded in a riot of light and color, and a moment later, his parents were walking through the swirling vortex. They glanced around the hangar, before their eyes settled on him, and then they started in his direction.
Sam tried desperately to think of something to say. He had rehearsed it in his head a hundred times, but all words abandoned him at the sight of his mother's stricken face.
"I'm sorry." He choked out as they stopped in front of him, "Ma, I'm so sorry."
"Oh, Sammy." His mother breathed, pressing her palms against the sides of his face, "Don't apologize, sweetheart."
His father's eyes were red-rimmed and watery as he wrapped one arm around his mother's shoulders and the other arm around Sam's. It was an awkward hug, given the differences in their heights and builds, but Sam leaned into it gratefully. He slipped one arm around his mother's waist, the other around his father's, and held on for all he was worth.
His mother carded her fingers through his hair and pressed a kiss against his forehead.
"I'm so proud of you." She murmured, "So proud."
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and pulled her closer against him. This isn't happening.
"You be safe, Sam. Do you hear me?" His father asked roughly, "You do what you need to do, and then you come home to us." His voice broke on the end of his sentence, and he had to compose himself before he could continue, "I don't care how long it takes. We'll be here waiting for you."
Sam's breath hitched in his chest, and his mother pressed another kiss against his forehead before pulling away and grasping him by the shoulders.
"Sammy, look at me." She instructed, and although her voice was emotional it was firm, "Look at me, sweetheart."
Opening his eyes and looking his mother in the face without losing all of his composure was the hardest thing that Sam had ever done in his life.
"If the worst happens— No, stop, let me finish." His mother said, forestalling his protests, "If the worst happens and you can't come home, then we want you to be happy. Do you hear me, Samuel James? Don't worry about us."
"Of course I'm going to worry about you." Sam choked out, "I love you."
His mother's face softened with affection and sorrow. "I know you do, sweetheart. We love you too—it's why we want you to be happy, no matter what happens. Promise me."
Sam's vision blurred with tears. "I don't know if I can."
"Yes, you can." His mother replied, brushing the moisture away with the pads of her thumbs, "You must promise me that you'll try."
Sam didn't know if it was a promise that he could keep, but he knew that his mother needed the closure, and that was all there was to it. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and nodded, once. "Alright, Ma. I promise."
"That's my boy." She murmured, pressing another kiss against his temple, "That's my Sammy."
They stayed together until the late afternoon, wandering the grounds without any real purpose. They spent time at Simpson Point and strolled along the beach. He held his mother's hand as they walked, her fingers interlaced with his. None of them said a word. They were afforded their privacy for the duration of the afternoon, but as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, Sam felt an apologetic touch against his mind.
He steeled himself, as well as he was able, before saying, "We have to go back."
Their walk back to the Hive was strange—passing both too quickly and seeming suspended in time, all at once. He gripped his mother's hand a little tighter as they stepped onto the lift, and she squeezed his hand in return. As they descended through the floor and into the Hive, he was surprised to find that the receiving room was completely empty. He was thankful for the privacy—he felt like he was going to fall apart at any moment.
They made their way towards the ground bridge hangar in silence. It wasn't until they stepped through the wide double doors to the sight of the empty archway that Sam's heart climbed into his throat.
"Ma." He choked out, turning to look at her, "I love you so much."
Her smile was warm and tender in return. "I love you too, sweetheart."
Sam screwed his eyes shut. "Dad…"
"You're alright, Sammy." His father husked softly, "Everything's alright."
He stood there for a long moment, struggling not to cry, when a polite cough came from behind them. Sam half-turned, glancing over his shoulder at Dave Carter, who was standing a short distance away. The Chief of Staff was watching them with a sympathetic look on his face.
"I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, it's time." He murmured.
Sam was overwhelmed by the sudden sense of deja-vu, but his mother pulled him into her arms before he could speak.
"Be good, sweetheart." She whispered in farewell.
All at once, Sam disconnected from reality. He lifted his arms and wrapped them around her shoulders. "I will, Ma."
His mother pressed a kiss against his cheek. "I love you."
"I love you too." He heard himself reply.
His father clapped him on the shoulder before pulling him down into a tight hug. "Be safe, Sam." He gritted out, breath warm against his ear, "We'll be here when you come home."
"I will, Pops." Sam murmured, "I love you."
"I love you too, Sam." His father replied.
"Here Sam, take this." His mother urged, pressing a photograph into his hands, "A little piece of home for the road."
Sam looked down at the photograph, only to recognize it immediately. He had taken the picture last Christmas at his grandmother's house, while his parents had been decorating the tree. His mother was wearing an atrocious knitted sweater complete with blinking lights, and his father was smiling at her like she was the most beautiful person in the world. Sam had given it to her for their anniversary—she had loved it.
"Thanks Ma." He murmured, pressing the photograph over his heart, "I mean it."
His mother's face creased with emotion, before she stepped back and clasped his father's hand. "Good-bye, sweetheart."
Sam's chest ached with grief, but he forced himself to smile.
"Good-bye, Ma." He said with all the composure he could muster, "I'll see you soon."
He watched, as though in a daze, as Carter escorted his parents to the ground bridge. Bumblebee inclined his head as they approached. His mother reached up a hand to pat his faceplates and murmured something too softly for Sam to hear. Bumblebee inclined his helm again, as though in agreement, before he stepped back and activated the ground bridge controls. For the second time that day, a blue-green miasma erupted in the archway, spilling light and color across the walls. His mother turned, waving good-bye over her shoulder, and then his parents walked towards the swirling vortex.
A moment later, they were gone.
