Trickles of people begin flowing in from between the trees. They are in patchwork clothes, scraps stitched back to life with caring hands. Most of the women wear long skirts or dresses, the rest sporting trousers with tiny embroidered flowers speckling them. The men wear much of the same; loose material adorned with nature imagery, the odd patching in places only adding to its charm. I feel underdressed. A change of clothes wasn’t an option, of course. Not for me. I’m not one of them. Which is fine. I prefer my ragged layers and pants with pockets to their delicate garb. Do they wear this all the time, or is it just for special occasions?

Some smile at me as they pass, others only glance. A few prouder ones ignore me entirely. It’s hard to tell if I’m a guest of honor or an outsider. They form a semi circle behind me, facing the stream. The children come out last, giggling and hurrying into place, and I bite the inside of my cheek. Stay calm.

Then they begin. Their bodies sway slowly, twitching to a silent beat. The beginnings of a song I don’t recognize weave between them, no words, hardly a melody, but somehow they remain in time with each other. Even the children keep pace, their eyes closed in concentration. A year ago, I would have bolted by now. Placed as much distance between them and me as possible. A community this put together, this in sync after the end times, it would be a dangerous one. It doesn’t matter how much they smile, how pretty they dress. Doesn’t matter that they don’t have guns. There are dozens of them, and one of me. And I’m the only one not singing along.

A swell in volume pulls me out of my head. The adults have started to thump their feet into the ground and they are gradually increasing the tempo. I keep my eyes forward. I can’t run. I have to know. I have to know for sure, or else I’ll always wonder. A figure moves in the brush just past the stream. A woman. She steps from the green with flowers in her wild blonde hair, only a thin white dress covering her figure, I’m guessing crafted from a bed sheet. Strange, but still captivating. She steps into the stream, the water wetting the edges of her gown. She’s my age, maybe 20 by now. But I still recognize her eyes when they capture mine, the smile that hides in the corner of her mouth. The music behind me stops as she exits the stream. The quiet that replaces it feels so much louder.

The woman reaches a hand out to me. I realize my own are balled into fists. She is searching my face. There are murmurs behind me. I steady myself, then take a step towards her, closing the gap. Her fingers brush my hand, my arm, the side of my face.

“Effie?” I ask.

“Oh, Ness,” she says as she pulls me into an embrace. “It really is you.”