The escape is a blur for Fatin. Yes, plans are thought-out and made (then executed with the grace of a toddler), but if you were to ask her, "How did it go, though?" She would not be able to answer.

And even if she did, she would never tell you.

What happened in the bunker stays in the bunker.

One memory stays with her though, crisp and clear amidst all the hazy chaos; the sight of Leah, chest heaving, lips cracked, eyes reddened and wide, calling out Fatin's name, her voice a rasp.

…

Everyone's suffered, and the phantom of their suffering lingers. Rachel still swims, but is apprehensive about beaches. Toni flat-out refuses to eat seafood. Martha cannot stand the sight of goats or sheeps or any animals. Nora refuses to talk to anyone besides their group-not even to her parents. Shelby has her strange fits. Dot drinks and gets into fights

None of them deal well with being alone.

But as for Fatin, personally-well, she's fine. She's great. She's a-okay. Does she flinch at cameras? Sure. Does she swear to never, ever get anywhere near an airplane again? Maybe. Does she sometimes find herself staring off into space while her mind swirls with memories she'd rather forget?

You know what? It doesn't matter. She is Fatin Jadmani, and she'll be damned if she lets one trauma prevent her from partying 'til the sun comes up. 'Til she can't remember anything anymore. Not the beach, not that fucking bunker, and totally not Leah and her sky-blue eyes and her soothing voice and the smile she'd give Fatin, shy and cute and so, so warm and-

Yup. Forget everything. And when she does remember something that puts an ache in her chest, pretend that chest ache isn't there. That's Coping With Shit, 101. (Alternatively, it's called Bottling Shit Up, 101, but eh. Tomato-potato.)

And so Fatin parties. And Fatin drinks. And Fatin makes out.

And Fatin gets a phone-call.

It stops her kissing momentum, and she pulls away from the woman's neck, ignoring her protesting moan. Ever since she's got a new phone, she's only given her number to her girls. And they never call unless something's happened.

Fatin presses the answer button, puts her phone to her ear, and hears a sound more a rasp than a voice: "Help."

…

So, yes, everyone's suffered. Everyone's still suffering-everyone except Fatin, of course, because Fatin Jadmani doesn't do suffering.

But Leah, on the other hand-Leah was in a whole other level of suffering.

Fatin wouldn't have even known about this if she hadn't eavesdropped on a conversation between Leah's parents and the therapist each of the girls were forced to talk to after they made it out. Basically, Leah being suspicious of everything made those assholes suspicious of her.

Figures that Leah's intelligence would get her into trouble. It would be hilarious if it weren't so terrifying. More interrogations, more torture, more of everything; all inflicted on Leah. Even now, no one knows exactly what they did to her. And that-the lack of knowledge, Leah's fear of opening up-terrifies her.

And Fatin Jadmani does not get easily terrified.

…

Any normal person would've had trouble driving drunk, but for Fatin, driving drunk is her new normal. She turns, and she steps on the gas pedal, and yes, she may have run over two red lights, but Leah needs her, and Fatin will be there for her.

She stops the car. Stumbles out. Runs into Leah's house. Bangs her knuckles against the doorframe. Fumbles with her phone. Scrolls through her contacts to call Leah when the door opens.

"Fatin."

"Leah," Fatin breathes, blinking. "Hey."

Leah looks worse for wear; hair tousled, face streaked with tears, hands twitching. "Fatin," she says again. "I can't-I don't know if-" She hiccups, then wipes her cheek. "Is it over?"

"Yes," Fatin says. She steps forward.

Leah steps back, hugging herself. "Is it really?" she asks, shoulders shaking. "What if-sometimes, I feel like there are cameras everywhere, Fatin, and I don't-what if they're watching us, what if they're watching us right now, Fatin, we have to-"

"Leah," Fatin says, stepping forward again, grabbing Leah's arm before she can step away again. Leah stiffens under her touch. "Leah, hey. Listen to me. Are you listening?" Leah's throat bobs, but she nods. "It's over. Everything's over. We're safe. You're safe."

"I don't feel safe."

Fatin's resolve crumbles. "I know." Me neither. "But we are. And I need you to stop panicking."

Leah's lower lip trembles. "I don't know if I can."

Fatin's free hand cups Leah's face. She smiles. "Sure you can," she says. "You're Leah Rilke. You can do anything."

That earns her a dry snort. "Ha. Yeah, right."

Fatin bites her tongue to keep herself from protesting. That won't help Leah. Instead, Fatin guides Leah down to the kitchen, where she attempts to make small-talk-about the weather, about whatever book Leah's reading, about whatever--to keep Leah's mind from wandering. As she does so, she makes Leah a cup of tea; three spoons of sugar, just how Leah likes it. She gives the cup to Leah-touching something grounds her-before taking her upstairs into her room, half-shoving Leah into her own bed when Leah refuses to budge.

Leah stares down into her now-lukewarm tea. "Fatin?"

"Hm?"

"Are you drunk?"

Fatin grins and finger guns her. "When am I not drunk?"

Leah's face grows stony. "Please tell me you Ubered here."

Fatin laughs, taking a seat next to Leah, the mattress below her creaking. "Oh, c'mon, Rilke." Fatin nudges Leah's arm. "It was barely a five-minute ride." It's true. With all of the red lights she drove through, she got here in record time. "Besides," she says, her voice softening, "you don't need to worry about me."

Leah's grip on her cup tightens. "I'll always worry about you."

Fatin's heart grows weak. Jesus, this girl will be the death of her. "Well, you shouldn't," she says, then tips her chin up. "I'm Fatin Jadmani. Nothing can hurt me."

Leah takes a sip of her cup to hide her smile, but can't quite hide the amusement dancing behind her eyes.

Fatin talks about whatever comes to mind while Leah finishes her tea. Afterwards, Leah insists Fatin spend the night here. Fatin can't bring herself to argue, not when Leah tells her her parents are out of town, which means she'll be alone.

After all, none of them deal well with being alone.

Leah lends Fatin her shirt, which is too big in Fatin's bony frame; it dangles off of her shoulders. But the material is cozy, and it smells like Leah, so Fatin can't complain.

Leah chuckles and rubs her neck. "Look," she says, her voice still scratchy, "I know the bed's not big enough for the two of us, but my parents' room is locked, and I don't want you crashing on the couch, so…"

Fatin elects not to mention the fact that there is a guest room right down the hall. She smiles; she shrugs. "I don't mind sharing."

Leah smiles back, and Fatin's weak heart grows weaker. "Cool."

…

Fatin can't sleep. Her mind is spinning with thoughts that flee her head before she can comprehend them.

"Fatin?"

Shit, why is Leah not asleep? Is it because of her? "Go to sleep, Rilke."

Leah shifts to face her, her warm fingers grazing against Fatin's cold side. "Not until you tell me what's wrong."

"I'm fine," she says, too quick, too sharp.

The dark room weights with a suffocating emptiness. Then, in a too gentle, too loving tone: "Fatin…"

Fatin screws her eyes shut. Snaps her jaw shut. "Look, Leah, just-just don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do this to me," she says. "This whole 'talking about your feelings' bullshit. Don't force me to do it."

"I'm not forcing you to do anything." Leah's hand lowers, then grabs Fatin's hand. Fatin opens her eyes, and a stray tear falls. She's glad it's dark. She doesn't know if she could handle Leah seeing her crying. "I don't..." Leah sighs. "I'm not trying to make you do-or, or say-anything. I just… want you to be okay."

"Ditto," Fatin mumbles. She twists so they're face-to-face, even if it's too dark to see much of Leah's face. "Why are you so good to me?"

Leah snorts. "Says the girl who drunk-drove from a party just to babysit me."

"I'm not-"

"I know, I know, but still." Leah squeezes Fatin's hand. "I'm here for you, alright? Whatever it is you need, I'll… I'll make sure you get it, or whatever."

Fatin's throat grows heavy. Her voice isn't steady when she asks, "Really?"

"Really."

"Then… Can you do one thing for me?"

"Anything."

Fatin sniffles. "Can you hold me?"

And so, Leah wraps her warm, strong arms around her frail frame, pulling her close, so close Fatin can hear Leah's heartbeat, and smell her soap. A pair of lips press into the top of Fatin's head. "Go to sleep, Fatin."

And so Fatin goes to sleep.