Note: All characters and story in general came right from Veronica Roth's head, not mine. I only expounded on her idea. Also, ALL of the words in regular Italic font belong to Veronica Roth – her exact words. Whenever you see regular font you are seeing my wording. Also, the bold Italic words are mine and are meant to be read with typical italic flare. The first few chapters are here almost word for word from her book because I thought it was necessary to lead up to the change.

CHAPTER 53

TOBIAS

IN THE DAYS that follow, it's movement, not stillness, that helps to keep the grief at bay, so I walk the compound halls instead of sleeping, making sure to never stray too far from Tris. I watch everyone else recover from the memory serum that altered them permanently as if from a great distance.

Those lost in the memory serum haze are gathered into groups and given the truth: that human nature is complex, that all our genes are different, but neither damaged nor pure. They are also given the lie: that their memories were erased because of a freak accident, and that they were on the verge of lobbying the government for equality for GDs.

I keep finding myself stifled by the company of others and then crippled by loneliness when I leave them. Being near Tris, holding her hand, brushing my hand through her hair, those things help, but often they make the pain more intense. I can't help but feel, if she was going to wake up she would have already; I can't stop the thought from coming. My hands shake as I stop by the control room to watch the city on the screens. Johanna is arranging transportation for those who want to leave the city. They will come here to learn the truth. I don't know what will happen to those who remain in Chicago, and I'm not sure I care.

I shove my hands into my pockets and watch for a few minutes, then walk away again, trying to match my footsteps to my heartbeat, or to avoid the cracks between the tiles. When I walk past the entrance, I see a small group of people gathered by the stone sculpture, one of them in a wheelchair—Nita.

I walk past the useless security barrier and stand at a distance, watching them. Reggie steps on the stone slab and opens a valve in the bottom of the water tank. The drops turn into a stream of water, and soon water gushes out of the tank, splattering all over the slab, soaking the bottom of Reggie's pants. I know the end result was what needed to happen but watching them, remembering their methods, I have to wonder if it truly was worth it. They were willing to do whatever it took to achieve it; is that so different from Jeanine and Erudite? I don't know. I just don't know.

Shaking my head, I walk back to Tris' room and try to get comfortable in the chair next to her bed. A couple of days ago, someone switched the stiff chair with an extra padded one and left some pillows and blankets with it. The stiff one still sits next to Tris' bed, but rarely does anyone else stay long enough to use it.

Sometime later I hear voices nearby—Cara and Peter. I keep my eyes on Tris, hungrily looking for any sign of change while absently listening to the conversation in the hall.

"This sculpture was a symbol of change," she says to him. "Gradual change, but now they're taking it down." Apparently they also made it past Reggie's exuberant display.

"Oh, really?" Peter sounds eager. "Why?"

"Um . . . I'll explain later, if that's okay," Cara says. "Do you remember how to get back to the dormitory?"

"Yep."

"Then . . . go back there for a while. Someone will be there to help you."

I hear Cara walk over to me, and I cringe in anticipation of her voice. But all she does is sit next to me on the stiff hospital chair, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight. Alert but relaxed, she stares almost quizzically at Tris.

"You don't have to stay here," I say.

"I don't have anywhere to be," she says. "And the quiet is nice."

So we sit side by side, staring at Tris, in silence.

"There you are," Christina says, stopping in the doorway. For a minute I'm confused; where else would I be? I walk around for short periods of time, but I always end up here. Her face is swollen and her voice is listless, like a heavy sigh. "Come on, it's time. They're unplugging him."

I shudder at the word, but push myself to my feet anyway, giving Tris' hand a squeeze before letting go. Hana and Zeke have been hovering over Uriah's body since we got here, their fingers finding his, their eyes searching for life. But there is no life left, just the machine beating his heart.

Cara stands behind Christina and me as we post ourselves at his window. I haven't slept in days but I don't feel tired, not in the way I normally do, though my body aches. Christina and I don't speak, but I know our thoughts are the same, fixed on Uriah, on his last breaths.

Evelyn is suddenly next to me—Amar picked her up in my stead, a few days ago. She tries to touch my shoulder and I yank it away, not wanting to be comforted.

Inside the room, Zeke and Hana stand on either side of Uriah. Hana is holding one of his hands, and Zeke is holding the other. A doctor stands near the heart monitor, a clipboard outstretched, held out to Hana, but Zeke has to nudge her shoulder to get her to notice. She signs it quickly then grabs Uriah's hand again.

They join their free hands over his body. I see Hana's lips moving, but I can't tell what she's saying—do the Dauntless have prayers for the dying? The Abnegation react to death with silence and service, not words. I find my anger ebbing away, and I'm lost in muffled grief again, this time not just for Tris, but for Uriah, whose smile is burned into my memory. My friend's brother, and then my friend too, though not for long enough to let his humor work its way into me, not for long enough.

The doctor flips some switches, his clipboard clutched to his stomach, and the machines stop breathing for Uriah. Zeke's shoulders shake, and Hana squeezes his hand tightly, until her knuckles go white.

Then she says something, and her hands spring open, and she steps back from Uriah's body. Letting him go.

I move away from the window, walking at first, and then running, pushing my way through the hallways, careless, blind, empty. It doesn't matter that I didn't know Uriah that well. It doesn't matter that I am not directly responsible for the loss of his life. All that matters is that his life is lost. He's not going to wake up. The memories of him are so clear to me – like they all happened yesterday. Him welcoming Tris into the Dauntless born initiates without malice, him eating the biggest slice of chocolate cake he can find at every meal, him laughing too loud at every joke, him losing Marlene and then losing himself a little. Even then, even when he was filled with sadness and loss, he still found a way to laugh. He may have handled his sadness recklessly, but at least he handled it. He didn't deserve this, his end was supposed to be better than this.

Is this how Tris' life will end? Hooked up to machines until they can no longer keep her alive? Having just a signature on a clipboard signify her death? I can't breathe. I know I'm panicking, but I can't breathe.

I've stopped running, but I still can't manage to stand up straight. I can feel something cool and hard against my back. It's that damn sculpture, the one that Tris was so curious about; the one Uriah was standing near when he got the injury that took his life. Everything is connected here.

What does that say about me? My only connection to this place is Tris. She is what makes me belong; not just here, but anywhere. I don't know that I will survive her death and I don't think I'll want to. Tris may think I'm stronger than I am – stronger than the grief that would surround me, but I don't know how to be. I know how to be strong against an opponent. I know how to be brave in the face of danger. I know how to stand up to impossible odds. Grief is not something I know. The only person I've ever grieved over turned out to be someone who faked their death and left me behind. Even then I didn't have the opportunity to grieve. I've never known how to handle real, true grief.

I hate the weakness I can feel in myself. It's ugly, knowing that I would gladly give myself up if I lost her.

Right now there is at least one thing I can do to keep it at bay. Uriah may have been my new friend, but Zeke is my old friend. No matter what he feels about me or what I did, he needs to know that I'm also mourning the loss of his brother. That I wish it didn't happen. Maybe if I focus on that pain, I can keep the hard thoughts about Tris from coming.