The Year We Disappeared

“We were just regular kids, suddenly thrust into a world of pity cookies and hugs from strangers.” 

At a bake sale to raise money for her father’s medical bills, Cylin realizes she can get as many cookies as she wants—no charge—by virtue of being a Busby. The initial excitement is eventually tempered by a harsh reality: Her father’s life is in danger, and the proffered cookies (as well as other “rewards” like skipping school) are not a sign of her popularity but rather her misfortune. 

“Somehow I knew it was parts of me lying there, and I thought quite calmly, Shit, now I’m going to have to go to the dentist.”

Immediately after being shot, John recounts an odd, dispassionate memory: seeing his own blood, bone, and flesh splattered on the passenger seat and worrying about a dentist visit. John’s account of his own shooting and recovery is calm and clinical throughout, but even beyond that, his brain seems to remove itself from the trauma by focusing on something mundane: a trip to the dentist. This coping mechanism keeps him lucid long enough to escape the assassination attempt and seek refuge; it most likely saves his life. 

“‘Scared’ isn’t the right word for it. There is no word for it. It’s a gut feeling when you know you’re about to die, and it’s horrible.” 

In a rare moment of emotional confession, John admits to the terror of being hunted like prey and having to flee for his life. Once he gets over the shock, and the reality sets in—someone is trying to kill him now, in this moment—a fear unlike anything he has ever experienced grips him.