Chapter 177| The Others
Farrow’s update arrived nine days after the raid, and Allen recognized immediately, from the sheer volume of documentation attached to her message, that whatever she’d uncovered in the intervening time carried considerable, mounting weight.
"We’ve identified fourteen other subject groups within the recovered records," she reported during the call, her own composed exterior carrying visible exhaustion beneath its careful professionalism. "Spanning back nearly twenty years. Some considerably more recent than your wives’ own incident, others considerably older."
"Fourteen," Vivian repeated, the number settling with cold, considerable weight. "How many people does that actually represent?"
"We’re still confirming exact figures," Farrow admitted. "But conservatively, somewhere between forty and sixty individuals, across multiple countries. Not all of them survived their respective incidents. Your wives’ own survival, and subsequent success rebuilding their lives, appears to be a genuine outlier within the broader pattern."
The revelation settled heavily over the gathered family, and Allen found himself, absorbing the scope of what they’d stumbled into, understanding with fresh and uncomfortable clarity exactly how fortunate his own wives’ survival had actually been against considerably grimmer odds.
"What happens to the survivors?" Allen asked. "The ones we haven’t found yet."
"That’s the considerable challenge," Farrow said. "Some may not even know their own memories were altered, the same way your wives didn’t, until circumstances forced the question. Reaching them carefully, without causing unnecessary trauma, requires considerable care."
"We could help," Myria offered. "We’ve already navigated exactly this process. We understand, better than most, how to approach something this delicate."
Farrow considered the offer seriously. "I’d welcome that," she said. "Though I want to be honest — this work will be considerably harder than anything you’ve faced so far. Watching other families process this kind of revelation, without the benefit of already having each other the way your own family does, will test all of you in ways I don’t think you’re fully prepared for yet."
"We weren’t fully prepared for any of this," Allen said. "We managed anyway."
Farrow’s expression carried genuine, considered respect at that. "Then I’ll bring you in properly," she said. "Once we’ve identified the first few survivors and assessed how best to approach them. I’ll need your patience a little longer, but I think your family’s own experience could genuinely help others navigate something this difficult."
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The days that followed carried a strange, considerable mixture of grief and purpose, Allen’s own family gradually shifting their attention toward the wider investigation’s mounting needs even as Hegeville’s own continued, hopeful transformation demanded its usual, steady care.
"I keep thinking about the other families," Everlyn wrote one evening, settling beside Allen with her notepad. ’The ones who didn’t survive. The ones who might never know why they were hurt.’
"We can’t save everyone who’s already gone," Allen said gently. "But we can make sure the survivors get better than what we almost didn’t get ourselves. Real answers. Real support."
"I want to help build that," Everlyn wrote. ’Properly. Not just as an afterthought to everything else we’re already doing.’
"Then we will," Allen said. "Together, exactly like everything else."
Vivian joined them a moment later, having overheard the tail end of the conversation. "I’ve been thinking about this too," she admitted. "I don’t think Hegeville is the only place that needs what we’ve built. I think there are other broken, forgotten communities out there, other survivors who need exactly the kind of patient, considerable rebuilding we’ve already proven works."
"That’s a considerable undertaking," Allen said.
"So was Hegeville, once," Vivian said. "We didn’t know how to do that either, until we simply started."
Allen let the thought settle, feeling the shape of something new and considerable beginning to take form alongside everything else his family had already built — not simply healing from what had been done to them, but actively working to ensure fewer people ever had to endure something similar without the kind of support they’d been fortunate enough to eventually find.
"We’ll talk to Farrow properly," he said. "See what she actually needs from us first. But I think you’re right. I think this doesn’t end with understanding our own story."
"It never really does," Vivian said softly.
Myria joined them last, having spent the evening compiling her own considerable notes on the fourteen identified subject groups, her expression carrying the particular, focused weight of someone already several steps ahead in planning how best to help. "I’ve started a framework," she said, settling beside them with her tablet. "A structured approach for reaching survivors carefully, drawing on everything we learned rebuilding trust with each other, and with Hegeville itself. It’s rough, but I think it’s a genuine starting point."
"Already?" Allen asked, managing a tired, fond smile.
"I don’t do well sitting still with grief," Myria admitted. "Building something useful out of it feels considerably more productive than simply carrying the weight without purpose."
"I understand that completely," Allen said, drawing her close.
The evening settled into quiet, considered planning after that, five people turning grief into purpose the same way they’d turned every other impossible circumstance this extraordinary year had demanded of them, one careful, patient step at a time toward something that might, eventually, help considerably more people than just themselves.
Irene, who had been quiet through most of the evening’s planning, finally spoke up as the conversation wound toward its natural close. "I want to say something," she said, "and I want all of you to actually hear it, not just nod politely."
"We’re listening," Allen said.
"I spent most of my life believing my own pain was just something I had to carry alone," Irene said. "Nobody else’s problem to fix. I think that’s part of why finding out what actually happened to us hit so hard — it meant someone else had decided my pain on purpose, before I even got the chance to own it myself." She paused, gathering herself. "I don’t want anyone else going through what we went through, thinking they’re alone in it. If we can actually reach these other survivors and make sure they know they’re not, that matters more to me than almost anything else we’ve built."
The room settled into quiet, considerable silence at the weight of her words, and Allen crossed to draw her close, feeling the fierce, protective love that defined so much of who she was settle, once again, into something aimed outward, toward strangers who needed exactly the kind of fierce, unwavering care she’d already given so completely to her own family.
"Then that’s exactly what we’ll build," he said. "For them, and for you."