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was still holding James’ hand until I noticed the white papers in his hand. Relieved to have something to focus on, I nodded to them.  
    “What are those?”  
    James frowned, then turned the papers over.  
    My smiling face stared back at me, printed on a piece of white paper. The girl in the photo seemed like a stranger now. I barely recognized her.  
    Blocky, capitalized text glared over my photograph.  
    MISSING.  
    I looked at my Mom, confused and a little hurt. “You were going to declare me missing? After a few hours?”  
    Mom froze. Then her jaw began to droop, her eyes bulging. James had a similar expression on his little round face.  
    “Ava,” my Dad said. “You haven’t been gone for a few hours.”  
    I looked at him, alarmed by the confused, scared look in his eyes. A look I’d never seen my father wear.  
    I understood why when he said, “You’ve been gone for a week.”  

 
     
    Chapter 3  
     
     
     
    Before the Centennial, I liked routine. There was comfort in the familiar. I woke up, had breakfast, showered, went to school, went to work, came home, went to bed. That’s all I ever did, and while I complained about it, I secretly craved it. I knew exactly where I was and what I had to do.  
    Having a week of my life disappear threw all of that out of whack, and even though three weeks had now passed since the Centennial, I was struggling to catch up.  
    To the dismay of every student, all schools and colleges would resume in September. Temporary structures would be built until the real schools could be solidified. The road and streets were still– mostly– intact, so once the rubble and debris could be safely moved, sorted and recycled in the landfills, reconstruction would begin on the original spots. Park Vista would be in the same plot it always had been, like it had never been gone at all.  
    At least, until the next Centennial.  
    The federal government enforced mandatory volunteer laws to help rebuild the country. For the next three months, every able-bodied man, woman, and child over thirteen was required to help their city. The kind of work they did depended on what they were capable of. The government provided the SPU with a list of medical and employment records– which caused no small amount of outrage from basically everyone– to determine what skills people had. Carpenters and engineers would build houses, though the amount of work they did was dependent on their physical limitations. Nurses worked round the clock in makeshift hospitals. Athletes became messengers. Seniors without serious memory problems or senility watched over young children. Technicians and electricians worked to get power back up. Business executives oversaw everything from construction sites to food distribution, labor and rations became the new currency.  
    Even people like me who worked the leftover jobs– retail workers, clerks, baristas, and waitresses– went back to our regular jobs. Granted, there were a few changes. Retail workers were required to take sewing courses. Fabrics would be sewn by hand and traded until we could rebuild the country and begin imports again, since the post offices were still shut down and there were no longer airports to allow planes to land safely.  
    In a way, waitresses had it easy. Sure, we didn’t get tips anymore, but we were at least able to pretend we weren’t back in the Stone Age. Large tents were set up for restaurants and cafés. Barbecues were placed outside along with the canned food brought up from the underground. The cooks were challenged to make food with whatever was left from the stores, and we basically turned into soup kitchens. Or barbecue kitchens, since my restaurant didn’t serve soup.  
    Rescue and construction workers could lumber in and ask for something from the limited menu, and they would eat free. Obviously we got freeloaders, but my boss, Mikey, was a big Hawaiian guy who had no problem tossing out anyone who