“All right,” John says, “you know the rules. One bulb per family, even if they try to coerce you into giving them more. We can’t afford to give out two or three lightbulbs to every person that asks for them. Second, remember your routes and don’t overlap. That throws the entire system off. And most importantly … don’t get caught. Any questions?”

 

“I got one.” Stiles steps forward from the little crowd of deliverymen congregated around John, and they all glance in his direction.

John nods at him. “Okay, go ahead, Stiles.”

 

“What happens if somebody along our route gets caught with the lightbulbs, John?” he asks, and a murmur of apprehension spreads through the deliverymen. Everyone in town knows where the bulbs come from, and that means somebody might be willing to squeal if it’s a choice between protecting their family and turning us in.

 

I look at John, waiting for his response, and try to conceal my weary sigh. These recruits are young and untested, although they’re committed to the cause. At this point, all I can hope is that John’s instructions and guidance will be enough to bring everybody home.

 

Calmly, my husband tells Stiles, “If that happens, and it might, then we’ll stay out of sight until we’re sure no one’s leaked our location. Whatever happens, we can’t let them find us. We’ll move if we have to. But for now, let’s keep our chins up, and we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.

 

“We need to get going now. I want everybody back in two hours. If you’re gone any longer than that, we have to assume you’ve been caught, and we can’t come after you. All right, get gone.”

 

The deliverymen jog off in various directions, their satchels stuffed with contraband.  Once they leave, they will spread out all over the city, bringing lightbulbs to the families living in darkness. It’s not just the lightbulbs that are illegal here; it’s candles, fire, anything that could give us light.

 

I look up at the two, dingy, ancient bulbs that swing above our heads. The thin chains from which they hang have grown dusty and grimy from their years dangling from the high ceiling; they don’t give us much light. It’s barely enough to see one another’s faces, and I know that they’ve needed replacing for the last five years. But John likes them. He says they’re a symbol of endurance and perseverance, a beacon of hope in the darkness—because if those little, fragile bulbs can hang on for so long, we can too.

 

“You okay, Anna?”

 

I didn’t hear him come up to me, but I give John a tired smile and fold my arms over my chest to ward off the winter chill. He’s dressed and ready to go on his delivery route, and I can see the crystalline surface of a bulb peeking out from his satchel, its glass case gleaming from the reflected luminosity of the dim lights overhead.

 

“Be careful,” I tell him, as I always do before he leaves. “Oh, John, I wish you didn’t have to go.”

 

He holds me close and kisses my temple. Tears gather in my eyes, but I don’t let him see; he wants me to be strong, and so I must try. John tries to reassure me, “I’ll be fine. I know the city better than anyone. I’ll be home in two hours, okay? I promise.”

 

What can I say? He’ll go whether I beg him to stay or not. So I say nothing.

 

 My husband gives me another smile when he pulls away, and then he adjusts his satchel, heading for the creaky old door. Its resounding thud reverberates over the room, shaking the two lightbulbs on their delicate chains.

 

One of the bulbs finally shakes loose, and it begins the long drop to the hard floor. For what seems like both a microsecond and eternity, it hangs in midair, suspended between the darkness above and the waiting oblivion below. The bulb’s faint light flickers out of existence just a moment before it hits the ground.

 

And then, in a brilliant shattering of a thousand tiny, jagged slivers … it smashes.

 

***

 

“Anna! They found us!”

 

Gunshots ratchet through the warehouse. The sound of screams rise up from the east end—one of them is cut short only seconds after it starts.

Isabella shouts at me again, grabbing my arm. “Anna! C’mon! We have to go!”

 

“No!” I gasp. “What about John? He’s not back yet! I have to—”

 

“There’s no time!” she cuts me off, trying to yank me towards the nearest door. I pull myself free and race down the aisle. Isabella won’t come after me; nobody in their right mind would. But I can’t leave John out there, not if they’ve found us. That means somebody’s a traitor, and that means John’s life is in danger.

 

Some policeman thunder past, and I duck behind a shelf before they see me. They’re shooting everyone in sight, throwing boxes of bulbs to the floor, and destroying anything they can get their hands on. I want to scream at them to stop it; don’t they know how hard we’ve worked to collect all these bulbs? Gritting my teeth, I keep quiet and sneak towards the front door.

 

It’s snowing outside; the dark streets are dusted with fresh white powder, but the snow nearest to the door is stained with the crimson blood of our warehouse guards. Glassy-eyed, they stare up at nothing, and a shudder runs up my spine before I avert my eyes.

 

“Anna!”

 

My heart leaps in my chest. It’s John, running for the warehouse. But no, if he comes here, if they see him, the ringleader … “John, they found us!” I scream back before he gets any closer. “Get away! Go! Don’t come back here!”

 

He slows to a stop a few dozen yards away, taking in the old, rundown storage facility in a quick glance. Gunshots explode from inside; I flinch and throw my hands up to my ringing ears. John isn’t moving—he’s just staring at the warehouse like he can’t fathom the idea that it’s been compromised.

 

“John!” I yell again, taking a few harried steps out into the snow. “Go! They can’t find you or—”

 

Bang!

 

At first I don’t understand what’s happened. Nothing has changed; John and I are still in the alleyway, but now our eyes are locked on one another’s. Then his mouth drops just a little, and I see a red blot growing on his abdomen, staining his shirt. John sinks to his knees in the snow; the white flakes fall softly onto his shoulders and hair. All I can do is stare at him …

 

And then two burly guards rush past me and grab my husband’s arms, dragging him up to his feet. One of them jabs the butt of his rifle into John’s stomach. He groans and doubles over, and they haul him away from the warehouse.

 

“No!” I run after them, finally awakened from my stupor. “John!”

 

Someone grabs me from behind and throws me down into the snow. I get a mouthful of white powder and spit it out, but my head is swimming; a hot stream of blood rolls down into my eyes as I watch them take John away from me.

 

“No,” I whimper. I try to push myself up, but I’m too dizzy from my fall to succeed. “No, you can’t take him. You can’t take him!”

 

But they’re already gone.

 

***

 

It’s been six months. It doesn’t feel real yet. I don’t suppose it ever will. They all came back after we regrouped at our safe house—Stiles and Liam and Monroe and all the new recruits. They all came home … except for one. I begged them to go look for him, begged them with tears and curses and pleas. But they all told me the same thing: “Remember what he said, Anna. ‘If you get caught, we can’t come after you.’”

 

“Yes,” I wanted to say, “but he never said anything about dying.”

 

Because that is my greatest fear—it’s been six months, and unless John was dead, he would have come home to me. But I cannot bear to admit the mere possibility, even to myself. He’s alive, I tell myself day after day. Someday, he’ll come home. Someday.

 

Still, it’s useless to remember the day they took him. It won’t bring John back, no matter how hard I wish or pray. And besides, someone else needs me now.

 

I gave birth to our daughter last week. It hurts to look at her sometimes—she looks so much like John, and I’m terrified he’ll never get to meet her. But I wouldn’t have wanted her to look like me. John needs to be remembered; he did more for this city than anyone ever has. He brought light to these hopeless people drowning in darkness, and no one ever thanked him for it.

 

So I’ve thanked him the best way I can: I’ve called our daughter Lucia. It means ‘light bringer,’ and I think he would have liked that. Every time someone says her name, he will be remembered.

 

There is a single lightbulb hanging in my window now. It hangs there for John, a light that he can follow home if he ever comes looking for his family. I will be his light bringer now, a reversal of our lifelong roles. John gave me light, and he gave our daughter life.

 

Perhaps one day she will follow in his footsteps. Perhaps one day, Lucia will be the Light Bringer. She’s already mine. Because in this world of darkness, she is my only light.

 

***

 

“Mama!” Lucia calls. “Somebody knocked!”

 

She is playing with a rag doll in the corner, a tattered old thing that she’s had since her third month of life. But she loves that doll, and a smile touches my lips as I pass my daughter on my way to the door. Strange, that I didn’t hear the knock—it must be Stiles; he never knocks loudly enough.

 

Just in case, I pick up my pistol and hide it by my side before opening the door. You never know who might come knocking in this part of town.

But when I open the door, my eyebrows shoot up. The man standing on my doorstep looks positively homeless. His clothes are a mess, his face is filthy, and his skin is smattered with bruises. I’ve met some strange, shady characters in this line of work, but never one quite like this man.

 

And then my eyes focus on his face. The pistol clatters to the floor behind me.

 

“... John?” I hear myself say.

 

He makes his best effort to smile, which is very weary and generally ineffective, but in that moment I have no doubts. The light in his eyes—faint as it is—that’s John. That is my John.

 

“I’m back,” he says.

 

Before I can think of a single thing to say, my arms are around him, and all of the tears I could not shed in the past five years are streaming out of my eyes. I stare up at the sky as I hug my husband to me. Is this really happening? Am I dreaming? No one ever comes back if they take you …

 

“How ... How did you get back?” is the first question that bursts from my lips.

 

I can feel his hands pressing into the small of my back, and his chest heaves as he sighs. “I think I annoyed them so much that they got tired of me and let me go,” John says. Not the truth, I bet, but there will be time for that later.

 

I laugh and lean back to look at his face. He’s aged too, true, but he is still my John. That’s what matters to me. I run a hand through his hair, savoring the feeling.

 

“Oh, John …” I hadn’t realized exactly how much I missed his smile.

 

He gives me another, better attempt at a grin and replies as he hugs me hard, “Oh, I missed you so much, Anna.”           

                                                                                                                   

“You too, John.” I hold him tightly and shut my eyes. Has it really been five years since I last held my husband in my arms? “You too …”

 

His tears come then, and I stroke his hair while he sobs into my shoulder. I can only imagine what they’ve done to him. All those bruises and cuts on his face! My blood boils just imagining what might’ve happened to John.

 

I suppose to anyone else, I am comforting him—he is crying into my shoulder, after all—but for me, holding my husband in my arms draws up a well of comfort and love that I haven’t touched since he was taken from me five years ago.

 

My light has come home—and I close my eyes and promise myself that nothing will ever happen to him again.