Children of the Uprising by Trevor Shane

fair.
    â€œMom,” Christopher said when she picked up the phone before it had finished even its first ring.
    â€œChristopher, where are you?” His mother’s voice was trembling. He could tell by the sound of her voice that she’d been on the verge of panic for days. “Are you in trouble?”
    â€œI’m okay, Mom,” Christopher said. He began to stammer, almost unable to get the words out. “I can’t tell you where I am.”
    â€œThere were bodies here,” Christopher’s mother said. “They found three dead bodies and you disappeared. Have you been kidnapped?” Christopher could hear the sound of his father’s voice saying something to his mother in the background, like they’d been doing nothing since he’d left but sitting in that room together waiting for him to call.
    He thought about lying for a second. It would be a useful lie. He could tell them that he’d been kidnapped. It wasn’t too far from the truth. “No, Mom,” he said instead. “There’s just some stuff going on. Some stuff I need to take care of.”
    A moment of silence passed between them while Christopher’s mother decided whether or not she should say what she eventually said next. “Did you have anything to do with those men who were killed?” she asked him. “You can tell me if you did, Christopher. We’ll love you no matter what.”
    A lump developed in Christopher’s throat. He wanted to lie to her now even more than before, but he didn’t know how to lie to his mother. “It’s not what it looks like, Mom. Please trust me.”
    His mother cut him off before he could say anything else. “Come home, Christopher,” she ordered with a force that Christopher hadn’t heard since he was a little boy. “We can help you. Whatever it is, we can help you. We love you.”
    â€œI love you too, Mom. I’ll come home as soon as I can. Don’t worry about me. I’ll call. I promise.”
    Muffled voices came through the line for a few seconds. “Your father wants to talk to you,” Christopher’s mother said.
    â€œOkay,” Christopher answered and then waited for the phone to be passed.
    â€œChris”—his father’s voice was hoarse—“whatever problems you’re having, we can help.”
No you can’t,
Christopher thought.
Not this time.
“Whatever it is, we’ll stand by you.”
    â€œDad,” Christopher said, letting the tears flow now but doing everything in his power to keep his voice steady. “I need to handle this on my own. I promise I’ll come back. I promise everything will be okay.”
    â€œYou’re still a kid, Chris. I know that you don’t think you are. I know how smart you are and how independent you are, but you’re still only a kid. Come home, please.” It had been years since Christopher felt like a kid, but he felt like a child again now, talking to his father on the phone.
    â€œI’m sorry, Dad. Not yet. Soon, but not yet. I love you both so much. I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” He could hear his mother’s muffled voice in the background now, saying something to his father. “Please don’t say anything else. I have to go.” Christopher waited for a moment and then hung up.
    Later that same day, when Christopher finished reading the journals, he had a million questions, too many to organize in his own head. So he asked Max only one. “So what now?”
    â€œWe need to leave the city. I need to get you out of here. We’ve been here too long already. It’s too dangerous to stay any longer.”
    â€œIf I go with you, where would we go?”
    â€œFlorida,” Max answered. “There’s someone there who knew your mother, someone who wants to help you.”
    â€œAnd then what?” Christopher