A QUICK NOTE FROM YOUR AUTHOR

Hello, reader!

I’m so excited to share this short story from Liam’s perspective with you—I hope

you like it! I’ve had an absolute blast writing in his voice. Much like with Gabe in In

Time, I found that Liam had a lot to say and was ready to talk my ear off about all of this

thoughts and feelings. One thing I’ll say about him is that, like Ruby, Liam does better in

life when he has others to take care of—and he really shouldn’t be alone. He really did

break my heart a few times in this!

I also want to confess up front that I am not the world’s strongest copyeditor and

this has NOT been professionally copyedited… You’ll probably find some typos, but I

did my best to catch them. Sorry in advance! As you can tell from the lack of pretty

formatting and design work, this is not a professional operation. Straight from my

computer to yours, warts and all!

Much love,
Alex
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LIAM

YOU know that feeling you get sometimes—that little jab deep in your guts, or a

nagging sense of wait that rides shotgun next to you for miles and miles and miles?

It’s usually something left unplugged, unfinished, or behind altogether. I hate the

way it adds this unwelcome texture to your thoughts, sticks itself on there like cling wrap.

Really, just super unhelpful. Mom had a name for it… something real silly like, “the

forgetsies,” I think.

I wish I could ask her now, just to feel like I’ve got one thing straight. But if it

were as easy as picking up a phone, punching in the old number, and putting the question

to her, this would be a whole different world, and I wouldn’t be knee-deep in a dumpster,

looking for something hard and sharp enough to potentially knock a hole in someone’s

skull if I had to.

I toss the top bag out, getting to the frozen clump of food and junk mail below. I

don’t have much else to chip it off besides the heel of my sneakers and some sorry,

broken fingernails.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine—my breath puffs out in tiny white clouds as I kick

through it, sorting through the lumps of wilted pizza boxes, cardboard, and… I crouch a

bit, surprised to see the small pop of pink under the slop of runny brow stew. I dig it out,

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curious—it’s a little baby girl’s dress, I think. Or a doll’s? No—it’s a girl’s. I heave in a

deep breath, letting spring’s icy air bite at the pain in my lungs. There’s more beneath it.

My hands work fast, uncovering another dress, these little shirts, a stuffed rabbit, toys,

bottles.

Why are you doing this to yourself?

I’m not sure why I’m looking. I know what I’m going to find. It’s like digging

through a drawer of knives. No matter what I touch, I hurt. Or… I don’t know, churning

up the soil of a garden that’s finally growing again? But look at me, still digging. Still

sorting. I just don’t get it—why do I always feel like I have to pick up broken things

when they’re only going to end up cutting me for my trouble?

People are people, they aren’t their things. If I have to boil down the mess of

feelings inside me, burn away the darker thoughts, I guess it feels like someone’s gone

and thrown out the memories of whoever this baby girl was. They’re pressing her deep

down beneath layers of snow and rotten vegetables and months-old newspapers,

suffocating the very thought of her. It makes me wonder if they still hurt at all, the people

that put this stuff here, or if that was the point. To forget. To move right on.

Mom boxed up all of Claire’s clothes and things a few months after IAAN took

her. Then, a day later, for reasons I don’t rightly know, Cole and I watched from the

living room as Harry brought it all back up again, trying to put everything back in its

place. I went through it later that night—all of those pieces of her little life with us—after

everyone had gone to sleep, putting her row of little plastic horses back in the order she

liked on her shelf. Harry never had to play horsies with her, so I can’t blame the guy for

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not knowing Snow came before Rain in the line-up. I switched out two of her drawings

on the wall for ones I knew she was real proud of.

Caught Cole in there the next morning as I made my way down the stairs,

rearranging the stuffed animals on her bed. He glanced at me as I passed, and I don’t

think I’ll ever forget that look. It made me want to die all over again. Even now, I still

feel the shame burning in my blood. My mind still slips back to that moment when I

found her, when Cole had to be the one to tell Mom and Harry she was gone because I

was so shattered I couldn’t speak.

I don’t like to live in that memory for very long.

I don’t want to think about where Claire’s things are now.

I don’t want to think about this baby girl, either, but I have to.

Some guy on the radio called us the “lost generation” the other day. I wanted to

find a payphone and a few quarters and tell that fool that we aren’t lost at all. We’re

exactly where they put us.

My fingers find the smooth edges of something heavy at the bottom of this little

mess. Some part of me already knows what it is, but it still feels like a straight-up punch

in the face from God when I brush the clumps of snow and dirt off the little purple and

white jewelry box. I fish it out, because, of course, I’m not already hurting bad enough—

I don’t already feel my stomach folding in on itself. Even before my thumb flicks up the

flimsy gold hatch on it, I know a ballerina’s going to spring to life inside. I know if I turn

the broken knob, it’s going to play me that little tinkling song from The Nutcracker. I

know these things, and I still open it, I still turn it, I still punish myself.

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Nothing much’s changed since Claire passed. Little girls still die every single day,

and if I ever get used to the idea of that—if any of us ever start to accept it without that

bite of helpless rage—I’ll know there’s nothing left worth saving in the world.

The mirror inside, just behind the twirling dancer, is cracked, but I get an

unwanted look at myself. I’ve been in the woods too long; no one would ever mistake me

for civilized now. Haven’t shaved in over a week, and I sure as hell haven’t taken a

shower, either. The beard growing in itches like no other, but I’ve let it be, knowing it

makes me look a few years older—just above that freak age threshold. Been hungry for

too long, too, I think, even if that’s gotten easier to ignore. Besides, there’s no one around

anymore I have to pretend to be all right for.

I might have given the jewelry box to ZuZu, or at least shown it to her, but there’s

no point in it now, because she’s…

It doesn’t matter. The familiar headache is back, welling up at the too-bright, too-

glossy memory of her face. She’s not here, is she? I can’t give her anything anymore.

I clear my throat, muttering, “You big damn sap.”

The words scratch out tentatively, catching me off guard. I set the damn jewelry

box aside and start kicking through the bags again. My mind goes off wandering while

my hands and feet are working, trying to pin down when the last time I spoke to anyone

was. Might have been the cashier at the drug store, the one who gave me a second, then a

third look while I counted out the change I’d collected from abandoned cars along the

495 heading toward Bethesda. Or was it seriously when I refused the Children’s League

agent, the one who’d tried to give me a tidy bundle of cash, courtesy of Cole? Or when I

said goodbye to that girl with the sad, bright green eyes?

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“Idiot,” I mutter, ripping apart the next one, letting the bills and newspapers come

limping out of it. “Stupid.”

I’ve got some pride, all right? And a sense of common decency, even though

lately it feels like the universe is trying to test me on that one. I’m not going to take

money from a group of terrorists when I know it’s most likely been stolen or exchanged

for something worse. I’m not going to take it to ease some of Cole’s guilt about the way

everything broke apart at the end of my ill-fated training with the League. It’ll just prove

him right that I can’t survive on my own. I’m just as capable and strong as he is, maybe

more so now that I’ve got my abilities in hand, no thanks to the pathetic instruction the

League teachers tried to give on that front. I learned from the kids like me, the ones who

lived in that camp like me, and saw just how twisted the road is out of this crazy mess.

Just.

Like.

Me.

I can and will survive, but I know all he sees is the kid who quit training. Who

was too soft for what the Children’s League kept calling “the coming war.” Nothing’s

coming that isn’t already here. If Cole wants to go and kill people who had nothing to do

with Claire’s death, if he wants to burn down the world to feel something other than his

own pain for a second, that’s between him and God and I don’t want any part of it. He

told me he’d give me three days out on my own, max, before I went crawling back to

Mom and Harry or got tagged and dragged to the nearest camp. I lasted about a month.

Bad enough I already got pulled in by skip tracers once, I’m sure as hell not letting it

happen again.

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God, Cole must have loved that. If he even cared enough to keep tabs on me, that

is. He loves nothing more than being proven right.

Look, the money was a trap. Literally, maybe—those jackasses know how to put

bugs and trackers on everything without you noticing until it’s too late. But figuratively,

definitely. If I take Cole’s help, then he wins. He holds it over me for the rest of my life. I

will literally never hear the end of it until I’m in the ground and there’s six feet of dirt to

muffle his gloating. The money was just his way of making me need him. And I don’t. I

swear. The only reason I even thought about doubling back to that safe house was to

convince that girl to leave with me. But even with that, it’s like the old saying goes: if

you lie down with dogs, you get fleas. I gave her a choice, but she’d clearly already made

one of her own. I’ve got to stop trying to save people who don’t need saving.

The thing I’m struggling with a bit, though, is the simple fact that taking that

money would have been easy. It’s been so long since anything really went my way that I

can’t really remember what “easy” feels like anymore—maybe like breathing without

inhaling the ash of the world burning around you. Or what it felt like, as a little, little kid,

waking up in the morning before understanding how close we all live to death each and

every day.

Easy would have kept me out of the garbage. Easy would have bought me a hotel

room to stay in, legally without me having to jimmy a lock and spent the night half-

awake, waiting to be caught. Easy might have meant buying gas, instead of hauling

around a gas can and thin hose to siphon whatever is left in the tanks of the cars I find.

And it would have meant food.

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I used to laugh at Chubs for dreaming about food—actually dreaming about

certain meals, to the point he’d talk about them in his sleep. But I’m getting there. I think

I actually hallucinated a slice of pizza being pulled apart by two birds. Hell, I probably

would have fought them for it, but by the time I actually got close enough to investigate,

they’d already done the one thing I can’t seem to: fly away from here.

I don’t want to get trapped here in this feeling, but sometimes I feel that familiar

darkness sweeping in at my feet like a building tide. When it’s hit after hit after hit…

I mean, I’m one lucky bastard to still be alive. I try to focus on the things I can be

grateful for: that my mom and Harry are still out there, hopefully okay. That there’s still

that slim chance Cole might come back to us, be my brother and not a weapon. That I got

to meet Chubs and Zu and be with them for hours and days that meant something more

than just passing time. It’s just that, lately, it feels like it’s never going to get warmer or

easier. I don’t mind living close to my emotions, and Chubs’s called me a softie enough

for me to accept it. I mean, what the hell is the point of life if you can’t throw yourself at

it with arms open?

But there are times when I think about Black Betty, about finding East River,

about getting Chubs home, and Zu to safety, and it’s like I’m being cut apart by terror’s

blunt razor. My mind trips when it tries to reassure itself they’re fine and bring their faces

to mind; everything gets too glossy, with this unreal quality like watching a movie

instead of a memory. I wake up crying, tears cooling on my face, and I can’t remember

the dream but my heart is pounding like it’s trying to beat down my ribs. It scares me, the

way my throat aches like I’ve been screaming.

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Sometimes I even think about that girl in the safe house, the one with the green

eyes shining in the sunlight, and the guilt and worry eats me up inside. I don’t understand

the hook she’s got in me, other than I feel like I’m anchored to this area, and I have no

damn reason—not a single one—to stay.

But I can’t bring myself to go. My latest excuse is that I can’t leave until I get

something to protect myself with. Like I don’t have a built-in self-defense mechanism

with my ability. Like I couldn’t throw a PSF up in the air like a little doll and get away.

This is pointless, I think, sitting back on my heels. I had high hopes because the

garbage backed up to a huge apartment complex that seems mostly empty now—people

would have dumped their things before hitting the road, right? Should have been a

goldmine. So far the only tempting thing I’ve found is a half-eaten bag of pretzels that are

on the verge of fossilization. Don’t know if I’m there yet, but I put them in the pocket of

my hoodie anyway, and, for the first time in days, chuckle. Because all I can think of as I

swing my leg over the dumpster is the pinched look of horror Chubs would have sent my

way.

I land hard enough on the asphalt to almost dislodge the thought from my head,

but I’m not so sure I want to give it up yet. Times are so strange now, just imagining one

of his blistering lectures about personal hygiene and tetanus and whatever other evils his

mind might imagine lurking beneath the ungodly layers of filth is a straight-up balm to

the soul.

“You’re not getting within a foot of that van until you wash your whole body in

boiling water and burn your clothes,” I say to absolutely no one, pitching my voice higher

and higher with each word, trying to imitate the way he’d go and wind himself up until

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his top was ready to pop off. Next, he’d have complained about my smell for the next

three hours on the road, until he finally read himself into one of his coma-like naps and

left us to hear his ruminations on cheese and crackers. The “fights” always filled the

silence, and, well, my Chubsie could start an argument in an empty house.

I miss that kid. It’s only been… what, two weeks? I miss his dumb face and him

bossing me around, reminding me to do things I’m already in the process of doing. At

least with Chubs and Zu… when you’re with people, you’ve got the responsibility to put

on a good face about things. Be useful and encourage them whenever their spirits start to

flag. I can’t seem to get there myself though. Can’t seem to stop looking for their

reflections behind mine in each window or glossy surface I pass.

Shouldn’t have split up. Shouldn’t have let them go off on their own. That fear

swells in me again, cramping every muscle in my stomach and legs and I stop, trying to

catch my breath until my quick path across the parking lot slows as I brace my hands on

my hips, trying to work out the nausea sweeping its way up from my guts to my throat—

And it doesn’t work. I can’t even make it to one of the nearby bushes before I’m

throwing up whatever’s left of the soup on the small, budding spring leaves. Chubs and

Zu are fine—I know they’re fine—maybe I just don’t want to admit that I’m the one

that’s not fine, and this is my body’s way of straightening that point out for me.

I think I’ve been alone too long.

And when there’s nothing in me but that achy, familiar emptiness, I straighten

slowly, wiping the back of hand over my mouth, the taste of sickness and bile still heavy

on my tongue. I have to breath in through my nose, out through my mouth just to get the

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world to stop swinging around my ears. These spells get so bad sometimes I think I’m

going to pass out; it just smothers me like…

It feels like grief. It stokes that old feeling inside of me, the one that came

crashing in when Claire died. It changed the routes of my thinking, got me in its grips

until I wasn’t even in control of myself anymore.

I know Zu wanted to leave with that group to find her uncle, and that she’s as safe

as any of us can be. I know Chubs must have just about passed out when we got him

home to his folks. I know we left East River—scratch that, I know we were at East River,

because I remember the smell of wood smoke, the way firelight warmed the nearby trees

and cabins, and clearly we left, and it must have been for a good reason… like returning

Chubs home. I know all of these things.

I just wish I could really remember them.

My car’s parked along the empty access road. I named this one Lucy, after “Lucy

in the Sky With Diamonds” because that song has been stuck in my head for ages. Her

name’s pretty much the only thing she has going for her.

Beige. Sedan. The glorious white bread of cars. It’s so nondescript, it might as

well be invisible. Radio is shot on it, which should automatically condemn this car to

abandonment, but it’s gotten me so far on such little gas that I’ve grown attached to it,

my noble mechanical steed. We’ve been doing okay—not great, I mean, but okay. It feels

like bad luck to leave her behind when she hasn’t done me any wrong.

I shrug out of my hoodie and pick up the Nationals baseball cap, pulling it down

over my head. Sky is overcast, near enough to rain that one good thunderclap’s going to

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shake it loose. Bad news for me, seeing that Lucy’s windshield wipers have been worn

down to useless nubs.

I flick my turn signal on out of dumb habit, and because the end of the world’s no

excuse for bad driving manners. The car rolls out slowly, and the vents breathe out the

smell of old sandwich meat and sweat. These fabric seats forget nothing, let me tell you.

I haven’t even found the highway yet when I feel it come crawling up my spine

again. I get that urge, turn around, turn around, turn around—

I feel it again, the pounding wait, wait, wait—

My whole damn body seizes with it, until I’m choking the wheel. I can’t go yet.

There’s something I forgot to do. I know I left something I didn’t mean to.

But when I look back in the rearview mirror, no one’s there. There’s nothing at

all. Nothing.

I don’t think I should be alone anymore.

Not like I got much of a choice there, though.

***

HARRY told me once that dreaming is the brain’s way of sorting itself out, and having

itself a good think. I wonder, sometimes, if that’s what’s happening to me with these

fragments and movie frames I have in the place of solid memories. It could just be that

my brain’s stilling putting itself right after the car accident, and I’ve been getting around

with only one oar in the water, if you know what I mean.

I don’t have another explanation for it, but I have my doubts. I drive the way I’d

walk along the back of a fence: slow and steady, with only a few exceptions. The first

time I got a good look at myself in the mirror after ducking out of the safe house, I didn’t

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even recognize my ugly mug. On a good day I look a little rough around the edges, like a

ball that’s been thrown too many times at a wall. “Gently worn” or “well loved” or

whatever language you want to pretty it up with. But short of the times those kids in

school picked me to lavish their daily beatings on, I don’t think I’ve ever seen half my

face covered in a bruise. The cuts are finally healing, turning to these little pink scars

that’ll haunt me for all time. The bruises are getting to a sickly yellow that makes me

think I’ll at least be rid of them soon.

The accident must have been real bad. I’m willing to believe the League on this,

at least, because what else could have been big enough to dent my skull like this? I get

these headaches on and off that make me want to drill into the bone just to find some

relief from the pressure before my head explodes. It’s peculiar, I suppose, but it usually

happens when I try poking at the memories surrounding those few days before I left the

safe house. I either took a direct hit there, or there’s something sore there that my mind is

trying to protect me from.

I’ve tried reasoning it out with logic, but that was always Chubs’s specialty. If I

got in an accident, my guess is I was speeding and driving reckless. And if I was

speeding and driving reckless, it most likely means I had a PSF or a skip tracer hot on my

tracks. But it makes equal sense for it to be the League that was running me down,

doesn’t it? How else would they have found me so quick?

But… then why let me go?

Maybe it is a small mercy my mind’s blocked it out. I can’t keep kicking hornet’s

nests when I know I’m not going to like what I find there.

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I’ve got better things to think of, anyway, like: what the hell this kid is doing

running across the railroad tracks, right out in the open?

Lucy is shuddering, practically moaning as we idle by the railroad crossing

barriers; I might have tried to blow through them as they were coming down, but I was

actually a little curious about whether or not I’d really see a train. They’re as rare as

unicorns these days, you know?

I’m rewarded for my time for the first time in forever: it’s not a passenger train, of

course, those basically went by way of the dinosaurs with a few exceptions. But it is a

freight train. That’s different! I think I’ve read too many books about orphans riding

trains around because the temptation to get out of Lucy and try to catch this one to see

how far it can take me is actually pretty real. It chugs around that last bend, quietly

snaking toward me. It reminds me watching trains as a little kid with Harry and Cole,

listening to his stories from the Army.

For a second, it makes me smile.

And then the kid, small enough to fit in my pocket, hands so cold and chapped I

can see the reddened skin from here, starts crossing, darting out from behind the empty

Waffle House. His or her chest is puffed out like a mall Santa’s suit, and that’s enough of

a flag to know that he’s somehow, by some small miracle, found himself a good haul of

supplies. The kid’s got a hood up around their ears, which keeps me from seeing their

face, but apparently also completely blacks out their peripheral vision, because that train

is barreling toward him like the devil itself, something comes sliding out and the kid

stops to pick something up that slips out from under the coat.

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“Holy--!” My heart explodes into shreds of panic and I slam the heel of my palm

into the horn as hard as I can to warn the kid, which, surprise! Is exactly the worst

possible thing I could have done. Instead of flinging him or herself out of harm’s way, the

kid only looks toward me, startled, still rooted in place.

I don’t remember doing it, but all of a sudden my hand is out and the kid is flying

back, and then—the train rips past us, a blur of rusted cars and chains, and I can’t see for

the life of me if he or she got clipped at all. It was that damn close.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and jump out of Lucy, coming as close to the tracks as I

can with the swaying locomotive still hauling its endless cars and flatbeds. Its metallic

clattering drowns out any other sound, like a cry for help or one of relief. I jump up,

trying to see if I can see the kids through the gaps in them, hoping beyond hope the kid

had the sense to get up off the ground and run like hell out of there. I’m too damn scared

to see if there’s roadkill on the track.

Jesus Christ, kid, Jesus Christ--

I’m holding my breath as the last car comes into view, arms crossed over my

chest, like that’s somehow going to protect me from whatever I’m going to see—

The kid—the young boy--is still there. As the last car pulls away, taking the noise

and energy with it, I see his face. And, bless his heart, he’s still on the ground, a halo of

what looks like frozen meat patties scattered around him, absolutely stunned.

“Are you crazy?” I roar, suddenly furious with him, with me, with all of the grim,

gruesome mental images still stirring up inside of my mind. “You’ve gotta pay better

attention!”

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The boy looks like he’s just at that wonderfully awkward moment in a young

man’s life when his bones stretch out too quick for the meat on them to keep up. He’s

clearly still got some cooking to do. I’m not at all surprised when his voice cracks when

he calls out, “Don’t—don’t come any closer!”

“You don’t have the good sense God gave a goose!” I holler back at him, and all

the while my brain is going what are you doing, turn around, turn around, what are you

doing in its usual helpful way. It feels like I’m tethered to this kid somehow, that no

matter how many times I try to back up, something is going to pull me forward again.

“What the hell were you doing out here, anyway? The sun’s up—anyone could have seen

you!”

That’s not fair. It’s really damn early in the morning, early enough that the Waffle

House isn’t even frying food on the griddles yet. I spent the night in my car in its parking

lot, still unable to say goodbye to the great state of Maryland. But sunrise means get

going in my world. Get gone, before the rest of the world catches up to you.

I realize too late that he’s crawling back like a startled crab, not from the tracks—

but from me. His skin is so pale it looks like it’s been carved from butter, and his dark,

hooded eyes look ready to pop out. Probably should have thought twice about stalking

toward him looking like the damn boogeyman—the kid looks like he’s about to piss

himself in absolute terror.

“St-stay back!” he warns. “I’m—I’m a—Blue!”

I slow down, putting my hands on my hips. “Join the club. What’s your name?”

“Like I’d—I’d ever tell you!” There we go. Some anger is finally bleeding into

his fear. That’s at least one survival instinct I can peg on him.

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“Well, all right then. Nice way to thank the guy who saved your life.”

I should be backing up right about now, but I can’t bring myself to. It’s been so

long since I talked to someone in my situation, it’s like getting the first drop of water

after thinking you were on the verge of dying of thirst. I’m clinging to this moment, even

if I know I need to get going.

Yeah, I think, and where, exactly were you going anyway?

Home—I guess? It makes some sense to me that I’d want to go with Chubs to

make sure he got home, and if Zu isn’t there at East River, then what’s the point in going

back if I have Mom and Harry to find?

Because it’s going to be hell finding them. Me and Cole have a contingency plan

in place for finding each other again, but I wish, more than anything, we’d thought to set

something up with them, too. I don’t doubt that when I escaped from Caledonia I shot up

on whatever Psi Most Wanted list might exist and started trouble for Mom and Harry.

That was one of my biggest fears—that the government would try to use them to make an

example of me. I hope they got out. I hope I get down to North Carolina and find they’ve

torched the house and drawn a big ass middle finger in the ashes.

“Yeah,” the kid says, “nice of you to save me so you can turn around and cash in.

Real hero you are, asshat.”

And then, to make his point, he throws up his forearm, like he’s blocking a blow.

Air shoves against my chest, and I’m just about knocked off my feet by the invisible

hands of his hit—not because it’s particularly strong, but because my new little buddy

actually catches me by surprise. I right myself quickly and return the favor with a flick of

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the wrist. The boy flies back onto his back, more frozen meat patties, napkins, and a

whole host of hash browns exploding out of his windbreaker.

If I’m expecting him to be impressed, to welcome me into the arms of Blue

brotherhood, I have another thing coming. He turns on me, his face twisted into a fierce

little scowl—not at all scared now, but not at all happy either.

“Man, I gotta pick all those up!” he says, and for a second I think he’s going to

stomp his foot. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Er, um, well.” Most of the things coming out of my mouth are sounds, not

words. Seems you spend enough time by yourself dumpster diving, you forget basic

human social skills. I move to help him, but his little face swings around again, small

eyes narrowing further before my hand can even brush the nearest frozen patty.

“Now you’re going to jack my stuff, too?” the boy huffs, and I wonder a bit, you

know, at how quickly this has turned against me. “Get your own—“

“Not here to jack anything,” I say, “just help you get it together. Didn’t think

you’d believe me if I didn’t prove to you that I’m like you.”

The boy huffs again, blowing some of his ruffled dark hair off his forehead, but

he doesn’t disagree. “Could’ve moved a rock or something.”

“Still waiting on that thank you,” I remind him. “Would have been hard to enough

a feast of frozen breakfast meats if you had to be scraped off the tracks.”

“Would’ve been fine,” the boy mumbles, more to himself than me. We continue

to pick everything up in silence, my eyes darting over to him now and then, the way he’s

limping—not limping, exactly, but sort of swinging his right leg forward, in a way that

looks agonizing. A trill of alarm races down my spine.

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“I do that to you?” I ask. “You hurt anywhere else?”

“You actually care?” he sneers, baring his teeth. They’re stained gray and yellow,

and I cannot bring myself to think of what he’s been eating up until now, and for how

long. He straightens, painfully slow, and turns his back to me. “Get lost before you regret

it.”

“Where are you even going?” I call after him.

If he wasn’t so busy holding his bounty inside of his shirt, I think the kid might

have actually flicked me off.

Against the voices screaming at the back of my head, ignoring the fingers that are

crimping the edges of my pathetic little heart, I make my way back to Lucy. Climb

inside. Start up her engine. Put the car in reverse.

… and think better of it.

I wish I were patient enough to wait to build a bit of distance between me and the

kid, but I’m not. The thing is, as much as I hate to admit it, I feel like I’ve just found a

stray kitten and I’m too damn scared to let it wander off on its own for fear of something

else coming along to run it over. I know he doesn’t want the protection, and I know it’s

asking to be sassed from here to next Tuesday, and I also know, thank you very much

Internal Voice That Sounds Suspiciously Like Chubs, I am making this about myself. But

I keep thinking of his face when I walked up to him, looking for all the world like an

adult. That fear? Real. Bone-chillingly real, and the kind that only comes with experience

with skip tracers.

I know that face. I’ve seen in reflected in my own windshield.

Plus, he might give me one of the sausage patties to bribe me to leave him alone.

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He’s making his way up the small road in the dead center of it, not, you know,

inside of the line of trees on either side of it. That alone justifies this decision. If you

can’t figure out how to get lost, you’re only ever going to be found. I’m just going to

make sure he gets where he’s going. That he’s not alone. The sheer amount of food he

grabbed makes me hopeful, but it could be as simple as him having eyes way bigger than

his stomach. Way, way bigger. Not sure how to break it to him that the meat’s no good

once it thaws out and sits for a while.

The kid’s still got his hood up as Lucy comes up alongside him, which makes it

easy for him to pretend he doesn’t hear or see me.

I roll down my window, catching the way his breathing is exploding out of him,

coating the air with white. The damp quality to the early morning makes it feel like

winter, but I’m hoping it’ll burn off by the afternoon and let the two of us thaw out.

It’s hard not to fixate on the way his limp is more exaggerated now, jerking him

forward like a man of eighty.

“Cold morning to be out for a walk,” I say, keeping my voice real casual. Lucy

sputters along in agreement, clicking and ticking in a way that’s got me fearing for the

life of her engine. No ride would be the opposite of easy. “Especially if you’re going far.”

It takes him a while, but he answers, more to the trees around us than to me,

“You’re going the wrong way.”

“Which way is that?” I ask, all innocent-like.

“The opposite of where I’m going,” the kid says. I guess he sees that I’m not

about to turn around, because he stops, suddenly, swinging his gaze around to me. His

features are tight, like the skin’s been stretched out over his bones, and I know, in a way

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that makes my stomach hollow, he’s absolutely aching all over. Some of it has to be my

fault. “Don’t you got somewhere you’re supposed to be?”

I shrug. “Just passing through.”

His eyes narrow. “This some weird murderer thing? You gonna take me back to

your basement and dissect me?”

I actually burst out laughing at that. “Seriously?”

“You think it doesn’t happen,” he tells me, in such an indignant way I can’t help

but think of Chubs. “But then you watch a few episodes of Dateline and you know the

truth about people. There are some dark minds out there.”

“You watch a lot of Dateline these days?” I ask, leaning forward against Lucy’s

steering wheel.

He shrugs. “What else is on besides that and Wheel of Fortune? My sister likes

it.”

There’s a lot to unpack there. First: that he’s somewhere that has electricity and a

TV, which makes this situation seem a lot less dire. Second: he has a sister and by the

way his mouth twists, puckering up in alarm, I know he didn’t mean to tell me about her.

“Easy, buddy,” I tell him, but he’s already started walking again, hobbling along

faster. “Come on. You know I’m like you—that we’re the same. At least let me give you

a ride to wherever you’re going. Or part of the way there.”

His jaw works back and forth as he walks, but I think he’s considering it. “If I get

in there, and you’re a skip tracer—“

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I slam on the brakes, startled by the thought. He thinks that there are kids out

there willing to turn in other kids? Has he run into that before now? The thought actually

makes me feel like retching.

He’s gone on without me, but, at that, he doubles back, dark brows drawn closely

together. I start to roll up the window, mind still caught on this, but he sticks his hands

through, catching the glass.

“What the hell?” he asks.

“You just accused me of being a skip tracer,” I tell him. “Which wasn’t very nice.

I don’t think I want to give you a ride anymore.”

He sticks out his jaw again, like the little punk he is. We stare at each other.

“Fine,” he says, reaching for the door handle. “Only cause you owe me.”

I roll my eyes but nod, ignoring the flutter in my chest at the sudden appearance

of a co-pilot. It’s pathetic, but that empty space—that empty space was getting to me, you

know?

The kid wrinkles his little nose. “Smells like old cheese in this dump.”

“This dump,” I repeat, “is named Lucy. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to

insult a lady?”

“Now I know you’re crazy,” he tells me. “Who names their cars?”

“Your handsome, charming new friend,” I tell him. “You have a name? And

directions for where we’re going?”

“Remy,” he tells me with some reluctance. “You know you look like you just got

rolled out of a pile of garbage, don’t you?”

Well, he’s definitely got my number.

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“You remember how to wash, man? You been living in the sewers?” he asks.

“Just drive straight. The directions might be too complicated for you after living in the

darkness and eating rats for so long.”

“Oh, young Remy,” I say, biting back a smile. “I think I might like you.”

“I think you look like wet roadkill,” is his only reply.

***

HERE is what I’m able to get out of Remy on the drive back to where he and his two
sisters have found some sort of trailer: he is thirteen years old, he has never seen the

inside of a camp, he thinks most vegetables taste like dirt, he knows all of the

constellations by heart, and his older sister, Sarah, took him and Laura, the second oldest,

out of their house in Bethesda when their stepfather tried to turn them into the PSFs on

one of the Collection days. He’s Blue, but Laura’s Green and Sarah’s a Yellow.

It’s interesting, isn’t it? I try to avoid committing brainpower I could be using to

stay alive to pondering our existence, but this catches me by surprise. Makes me

reconsider some things. I don’t know why, but I always thought, you know, siblings

would be the same color, or at least not so far apart on the color chart as Green and

Yellow are. I try to think if any of the boys in my room at Caledonia had siblings with

another color designation in the last few, quiet minutes of the drive.

“You’re pretty powerful, huh?” he says suddenly. It takes me a minute to realize

he’s talking to me.

“I don’t know about that,” I say, because I really don’t. “I got some practice in

using my abilities, though.”

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It’s my feeling that no one Blue is any stronger than another Blue. It all boils

down to how well you can focus on the object you’re trying to move and how careful

your attention is. The boys in my room at Caledonia figured out that using your arm or

hand to guide the motion is an easy way to tell your brain how hard and fast you want the

object to move.

“You fight a lot?”

“Not if I can help it,” I say. “Why? What are you getting at, buddy?”

He’s apparently the only who gets to ask questions, because those are ignored as

he leans his head against the window, his breath fogging up the damp window. I assume

we’re supposed to stay on the same road as it curves further from civilization, out into

untended grass fields still holding onto their pockets of snow.

“Park here,” Remy instructs, indicating the stretch of the road ahead. It’s quiet

and country out here—I’m not even all that sure what part of Maryland we’re in, but I

don’t argue. “We gotta walk the rest of the way.”

Good thought. I wouldn’t want to park too close to wherever it is they’re staying

and draw some unwanted attention to it.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off closer?” I ask, eyeing his

bulging jacket, and all of the food hidden beneath. “I can be quick—in and out.”

“Wait.” Remy pulls back slightly. “You aren’t coming with?”

Oh.

Oh. I know I must look like the picture of a dope, but this catches me off guard.

He’s telling me to come with him. I realize that, somehow, maybe by not dissecting him

in my non-existent basement, I’ve earned his trust.

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I hesitate, hand on my seatbelt buckle. I know I need to get going somewhere,

but—well, what’s the harm in scoping the area out? Making sure it’s as safe as Remy

seems to think it is?

“All right, Remy,” I say, opening the door.

“Remy,” he shoots back. “Jesus, you can’t even remember my name? The sewers

weren’t kind to you, were they?”

“Wait—what?” I ask, shutting the door, locking it. No one’s taking my Lucy.

He just looks exasperated, which just makes me confused.

“You called me Ruby,” Remy said, indignantly.

I stare at him. There’s a flutter of something wild, panicked in my chest I don’t

understand and I don’t particularly want to examine. I’m tired and when I’m tired my

tongue gets lazy. “Sorry. Tired. Idiot.”

Oh my God. I am losing it.

“Just don’t do it again,” he says sourly. “Come on. Sarah’s gonna kill me for

being so late.”

The area we’re in is pretty rural, at least as far as my eyes can see. My chest

swells with the damp, cool smell of pure green earth, and it reminds me of those months I

lived rough, before Caledonia, before that Walmart. I cringe a bit, thinking of how easily

I let myself get boxed in at the store, like a rabbit in a trap. How easy I made it for the

skip tracers to find me and the others eventually. All those qualities that made the

Walmart appealing to me and the other guys I was traveling with—shelter, supplies,

abandoned—made it a target for skip tracers, too, knowing how likely we’d be to pick it.

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The dirt is soft underfoot it seems to melt, and the frost now drips from the leaves

of the nearby trees. Everything in this fine morning seems to be glistening. It lifts me, just

a little, makes it feel like a nod from whatever higher power is up there. For once, it’s

keep going, keep going, keep going streaming through my head, and not turn around, turn

around, turn around.

In the far distance I see some homes—estates, really. It wouldn’t surprise me if

they were leftovers from the plantation days, or someone was trying to emulate it. They

must have been quickly abandoned, unsustainable and unmanageable when the economy

crashed. We seem to be heading toward the one that’s shining like a white pearl under the

rising sun. Its columns are neat and tidy as they wrap around the porch. Instead, though,

we turn off that path lined with trees and turn toward a smaller building just adjacent to it.

To my eyes, it looks like a gardener’s shed, and not, as Remy put it, a “trailer.” If this is a

trailer to these kids, I can’t imagine where they were living before.

“There’s something you gotta know,” he tells me quietly, just as we see a dark-

haired girl stick her head out of the door. I see the muzzle of a gun pointed at us, and

draw up short. Remy rolls his eyes.

“It’s not loaded,” he tells me, then, to the girl—who looks to be about my age—

shouts, “It’s fine, Laura. He’s a friend.”

Laura’s got a face like a thundercloud and a head of dark hair to match it. She’s

tall, almost taller than me, and rises to her full height as we approach. She doesn’t relax.

Doesn’t even lower the gun.

“What do I ‘gotta know’?” I ask Remy as he seizes my arm and drags me forward

again.

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The words are just barely out of my mouth when I see another face appear behind

Sarah’s head. A teenager—a guy with the brightest head of red hair I’ve ever seen—

watches us with an absolutely unreadable expression, his hand on her shoulder.

Remy turns to look at me, barely catching a frozen sausage patty as it slides out

from under his jacket. “Him.”

***

HIM is Drew, a fresh arrival to their groundskeeper’s cottage as of about a week ago.

“I came in the same way you did,” he says, yankee through and through with that

flat accent of his. “I’d wandering around so long, on all those deserted highways, just

looking for a place to call my own…”

Jesus Christ. I think this kid is about to break out into a rendition of Bruce

Springsteen’s Thunder Road. Allman Brothers preserve and defend me against the pride

of New Jersey, here.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Remy moving along the edge of the small

cottage. They’ve actually got a last gasp of electricity going in here, amazingly enough,

and after he unloaded the now semi-frozen patties he lifted from Waffle House, he moved

stand watch at one of the cottage’s two windows. There’s a large, neatly made bed in the

far corner, some shelves of books and folded clothes, a big tub for washing themselves

and laundry, and a small kitchenette with a nearby fold-down table. That’s about it.

Drew’s taken the armchair, never taking his eyes off Laura’s back as she fusses

with the meal she’s cooking us on the stove. The girl hasn’t looked at me once since I

came in, which would normally be fine—I never fault the shy and quiet of the world, I

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just have to work harder to find a way in that makes them feel comfortable. But she won’t

even steal a glance. She seems determined not to acknowledge my existence.

Her hands are shaking so hard she accidentally flips the sausage out of her pan. It

lands with a splat near her feet. “Dang it—“

“Oh, great job,” Drew mutters, and, just like that, Laura looks like she’s about to

burst into tears. I want to tell her I’ve literally eaten a thawed out frozen dinner in a

bathroom stall at a rest stop, and not to worry about it, but I know my strange presence is

only feeding her nerves.

“And…?” I prompt, forcing Drew’s attention back to me.

He’s really… I’m not sure how to put this, other than to say that he’s really…

clean. His hair is neat and trimmed up out of his eyes, and his hands are free from being

marked up with the inevitable small cuts of living that seem to magically show up on

mine. His outfit is nothing to write home about, besides its lack of stains: a plain gray t-

shirt and jeans, with a coat that isn’t missing buttons or rubbed raw from sleeping on the

floor. I don’t care that he’s found an easy path. What bugs me is that he’s trying to sell

himself like some damn hero to mooch off their sympathy, when, really, he owes it all to

luck. He looks as old as me—maybe even a little older. I doubt he’d have a hard time

passing himself off an adult if it came to that.

“I bumped into Laura, there, when she was out looking for a new set of clothes—

down by the donation bins they had out by that old grocery store. You know, over on

Miller Road? Anyway, she took pity on this poor Green.”

I’m surprised he didn’t say this “defenseless, pitiful, pathetic Green” because

those are the words are embedded in his tone. It makes my hackles rise right on up.

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People think Greens are defenseless, but I’d take being able to think my way out of any

perilous situation, memorize maps in the blink of an eye, and untangle the magic of tech

easy as pie over being able to shove people around.

“That’s a nice story,” I say, turning my attention to Remy again. He pulls the

curtains back again and peers out.

“Get away from the windows!” Laura says sharply. She’s laid out pieces of toast

on paper plates and begins sliding the sausages onto them. My stomach gives this painful

twist of longing, and I have to fight to keep my face straight as she gives one to Remy,

then one to Drew, and—thank you God, one to me. I ate the garbage pretzels yesterday I

feel no guilt about taking this one meal, especially knowing how much food Remy’s

hauled in.

Drew makes a humming sound of pleasure has he takes his first bite. “What a

good haul you brought in today, Rem. This one will keep us going for a while.”

The kid looks a little green in the face, even with his usual put-out expression.

“What did you say your name was again?” Drew asks me around a mouthful of

food. “Remy mentioned you’re Blue. Is that so?”

Remy finally looks over at us, all shocked. Well, he never did think to ask and I

wasn’t exactly jumping at the chance to offer it up. Even now, I find myself catching my

tongue before the truth slips out. I learned the hard way that when you give kids your real

name, they’re likely to spread it, even if it’s just innocently. I don’t want it hanging

around here after I’m gone, giving anyone a clue of where and how to find me.

“It’s Michael,” I tell them. “From Virginia. And yeah.”

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“You got a last name, Michael from Virginia?” Drew asks, leaning back against

the armchair.

“You got any business asking?” I fire back, eyes skipping over to Remy again.

Drew lets out a forced laugh that brings the conversation to a halt all over again.

It’s only then that I realize we’re missing someone—on the way in, he’d said

Sarah’s gonna kill me. Not Laura, or even Drew. Sarah.

“You said you had another sister too, right?” I ask him. “Sarah?”

Drew hooks a hand around Laura’s waist and sits her down on the arm of his

chair. The girl is really beautiful, but it’s in the way a flower is just before it’s about to

fall of the vine—my mom would smack me for saying something so unkind about a girl.

But it’s the truth. Her skin seems translucent in this light, and her face is streaked by lines

too harsh for someone her age. She shrinks away from his touch, turning her face from

the window, back toward the kitchen, as if looking for a way to escape.

The food I’ve just downed actually begins to churn in my stomach.

Something is most definitely not right here.

“Sarah went out,” Drew explains, “to find some supplies, too. She’ll be back

soon.”

“That right, Remy?” I ask.

After a moment, he shrugs. Neither of these siblings are willing to look at Drew,

and the gap in conversation is actually so painful it registers on a physical level. I squirm.

What’s the deal, then? He’s a fox that followed Laura home to their hen house, and they

just can’t shake him? Is he trying to edge them out of their safe place and keep it for

himself? I wish I could say I hadn’t seen it happen before, but I have.

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You’re pretty powerful, huh?

Remy looks back at me, his expression momentarily ferocious as his eyes flicker

over to Drew.

You fight a lot?

Oh boy. I think I finally know the real reason he brought me here. I’m the one

that’s supposed to kick this guy out. Laura is struggling with her courage. Remy’s small.

And now, thanks to me, hurt.

I should just go—I need to get moving, and to stop inheriting other people’s

issues, but… dammit. I hate the way this kid hasn’t taken his hand off Laura yet, the way

he treats Remy like a speck of dirt to be flicked away. I hate bullies.

I can hear Chubs’s voice again, though, telling me to walk out now—to get going,

that I don’t have any responsibility to them. But here’s the thing I keep coming back to,

over and over again: if we don’t feel any responsibility for each other, who’s ever going

to care about us?

“The grounds here are amazing,” I say, glancing at Laura. “Anyone living in the

big house?”

She shakes her head, not quite looking at me as she explains in her small voice,

“No. The family moved out a while back, but their utilities are still running for some

reason. We go up there to get water since the pipes don’t work here.”

I’m getting full sentences now—that’s an improvement.

“Speaking of,” Drew says, finally releasing his grip on her. He slaps his knee,

which makes both Laura and Remy jump. “I think we’re due for another few buckets.”

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Remy is shaking his head, but Laura stands, straightening up. Now’s my

chance—if I can get her talking away from Bruce Springsteen, here, I might get a better

grasp of the situation. I just don’t like the idea of leaving Remy here, and I don’t like

strolling around in broad daylight, no matter how secluded the area might be.

“I’ll help,” I say, setting my empty plate aside.

Drew smirks, just a little, like he knows my thoughts. “Good idea.”

Laura brushes past me, stopping only to pick up a big, wooly cardigan that’s

draped on a hook by the door. She and her little brother exchange a quick look.

“Why don’t you come help us?” I suggest.

“Nah,” Drew answers, just as Remy opens his mouth. “He and I are going to

check out the next house over—see if the family there has finally given up and left.”

Remy gives a curt nod, zipping up his jacket again. I want to ask if he’s sure, but

he’s already out the door. As Laura hands me an empty plastic bucket, an involuntary

chuckle bubbles up in my throat, and I can’t stop it. It’s all so surreal; I feel like I’m

trapped in one of those glossy bright memories—I see everything playing out in front of

me, but it feels like… I’m dropping my shoelaces before I can finish tying them, or

something.

Was I really thinking about leaving before helping them? Who am I anymore?

I follow Laura out of the groundskeeper’s cottage silently, hoping she’ll be the

one to start the conversation this time. Wishful thinking. She clomps forward on

oversized clogs, her head down, our buckets swinging between us, occasionally clattering

together. The first time it happens, she jumps and looks up at me, startled.

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“Sorry about that,” I say. It’s as good of an opening as any. The house is smiling

down at us, its pillars on the porch looking more and more like teeth to me as we

approach it. “So… this set up you’ve got… what’s the story with Drew?”

She presses her shoulders back, shrugging something off. Her eyes sharpen for the

first time. “He told you the story.”

Well… okay. “He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”

She actually chokes out a laugh. “What makes you think that?”

Where to start with that one. There’s no one around as we take the first creaking

steps up onto the porch. “Just a feeling. If you need help, all you have to do is say the

word.”

“All I need is my sister,” she says, and I finally see the resemblance between her

and Remy as she sticks her jaw out.

“She is… coming back, right?” I ask, carefully, stopping her before she can open

the door. “Drew didn’t run her out, did he?”

“She’s coming back,” Laura insists, and then repeats, beneath her breath as she

pulls on the door, “she’s coming back.”

That doesn’t sound all that promising—a wish more than a truth.

I step back, opening the door and holding it open for her. She seems startled by

this basic courtesy, but ducks inside, her steps thudding into the entryway. I let out a

whistle as I step inside and shut the door behind me. This is some place; it smells a little

musty, that old folks smell, but I also catch a whiff of oil and cigarettes, and it’s clear

these kids aren’t the only ones who have been here. The gigantic chandelier hanging

above us catches the sunlight streaming in from the skylight, painting the floor with

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scattered rainbows. The wide wood panels of the floor have been stamped by spirals of

dusty footprints, they turn every which way, like people have been dancing between the

sheet-covered furniture.

“Come on,” Laura says. “We have to… we have to get it from the kitchen.”

I hate that she’s so nervous. Does she think I’m going to hurt her? Or… I don’t

know. I just don’t know what to make of this whole situation anymore. Remy tried to

give me an out initially, didn’t he? Maybe I should have taken it.

You know you wouldn’t have.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” I say, trying for reassuring. It probably doesn’t

have the effect I intend, what, with that me apparently looking like a sewer creature.

Teenage Mutant, minus the ninja and turtle part.

Laura gives me a look of—I don’t rightly know what. Pity seems out of place, and

it’s not scorching enough for contempt. She pushes the door open to the kitchen.

It takes me a minute to process what I’m seeing. The kitchen is huge, its silver

appliances making it gleam like the blade of a knife. Every tile and marble surface is

drenched with the light pouring in from the skylight, which sits above the enormous oak

table at the center of the room. It spills onto the three men and one woman sitting around

it. She’s dozing off, her face resting against her hand. Another one’s reading an old,

yellowing newspaper, and the other two are playing cards. Between them, my eyes skip

over two handguns, a backpack, and a rifle. They’re in flannel, camo jackets, and cargo

pants, and I wonder, wildly, if this is just some random spell of bad luck, and we’ve

bumped into a hunting parting. But I know better. I know this “uniform.”

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The breath whooshes out of me, and I hate the way my knees buckle as my heart

takes a dive. I throw my arm out, trying to push Laura back through the door before they

can see her, but all four of them look up at once. Their faces relax.

That’s when I know.

They’ve been expecting us.

“Run,” I whisper. I can hold them off, at least long enough to give her a chance. I

turn to look at Laura when she doesn’t move, expecting to find her frozen with terror, but

her eyes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” is all she can say. “I’m so sorry.”

***

“LIAM Michael Stewart,” one of the men says. “Do you have any idea what your going

rate is these days?”

Hearing my name drip off this guy’s lips is like feeling someone walk over my

grave. He’s the oldest of this lot. I see it now, the resemblance between them all—the

slight hook of their nose, the same round face, and golden red hair. I think the others

might be his kids, maybe nieces or nephews. As gray and grizzled as he is, they only look

about Cole’s age, or slightly older.

And his accent is Jersey, through and through.

“They got here a day before you,” Laura is saying, her voice small and squeaking.

“They took Sarah. They said they’d give her back if we helped them. You’re worth more,

I’m sorry.”

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Oh God, oh my God—the other skip tracers bust up laughing at that, how

dumbstruck my face must look. All I can hear is Chubs’ voice, all I can hear is him

saying, You walked right into this, you dumbass.

No wonder Remy never asked me for my name.

He already knew it.

You’re pretty powerful, huh?

You fight much?

I can’t get air back into me. My legs aren’t working, and neither is my brain, and I

have never felt so useless in my whole life.

“ID’ed you the other day on the network,” the older man said, “when you were

driving around like a damn fool. Saw an opportunity—two hundred thousand big ones.

Almost triple the three of them put together. The kids were only too willing to help when

they knew what was at stake. Should have gotten out while you still had the chance.”

Don’t go, don’t go, turn around, turn around. Shit. Shit. I’m such an idiot. I’m

such a damn idiot. Everything about this was planned, right from the moment Remy drew

me out by walking directly in front of the car, so I wouldn’t miss him. I can see the tracks

of this all lining up now that I’m looking back on it.

Maybe it says all this in my profile—that I’m an idiot, a softie, that I care too

much.

Somehow, I find my voice, looking at Laura again. She looks like she wants to fly

out of the nearest window. I don’t blame her. Can’t say I blame her.

“They’re not going to let you go,” I tell her. “You know that?”

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She doesn’t. Her eyes go real wide and she spins back toward them, just as the

female skip tracer starts chuckling, her face a cruel mimic Laura’s terrified expression.

The other young men dissolve into laughter, only to be silenced by a curt wave of the

oldest man’s hand.

“I’m sorry, too,” I tell her.

I’m so tired. I’m so damn tired of all this, I can almost feel my body relaxing into

this, into acceptance. I feel like I’ve swallowed glass, it’s that painful in my guts. I don’t

have to take care of anyone anymore. I don’t have to be responsible for anything. Maybe

it’s just… time for me. To go back to camp. To be there again, in all of its gray walls, its

harsh silence. At least I wouldn’t be by myself anymore.

Stop it—Mom’s face flashes in my mind. Harry’s. Chubs’s. Zu’s. Then, thank you

God, the anger finally arrives. It swells in my chest until I’m so mad I could actually spit,

at myself, at these people, at this life. I can’t go back to a camp. I can’t let the kids down

at Caledonia, the ones I had to leave behind, the ones who died following me out—I can’t

do that to them by just giving up like the coward this world is willing me to be.

God, I’m still holding the damn bucket—I swing it toward Big Guy as he starts

coming toward me, but my other hand moves with a life of its own. Not to shove him

back, but to yank one of the guns toward me before any of the others can reach for it. I

catch it in the air, throw my other arm out to blow everything off the table. The guns slam

into the wall and accidentally go off like bombs, the bullets slamming through the row of

windows behind them. I fire up, shattering the skylight. Time drags as the skip tracers

dive to avoid the shards as they thunder down around them.

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Laura is already running out the door, heading toward the house’s entrance. I start

to follow, then reconsider, running down the long hall of the first floor, stopping only to

fire the gun at the window inside what looks like an office. The one end of the house

overlooks forest that seems denser than what we drove through. I haul myself up and over

the shards clinging to the window frame, hands suddenly slick with blood, and crash to

the damp ground—dammit, I’m going to leave footprints, but it doesn’t matter, if I can

get back to Lucy, if I can drive far and fast enough away—

My whole chest is burning as I run through the woods, cutting the long path

through it, trying to get back to the road. On a good day, my sense of direction is decent,

but I’m all mixed up and turned inside out, and my vision is starting to tunnel with panic.

The voices behind me come in waves, ebbing and flowing with distance.

“Little shit—“

“—go this way—“

I think I’m going to burst, my soul’s just going to explode out of me like the birds

in the trees above me launching into sudden flight. The sky is so damn blue today, it feels

impossible. None of this feels real.

And, in spite of everything, I wish I could have grabbed Laura. I wished the two

of us were running together, that we could get Remy. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.

I can just pick out curling line of the road now, half-hidden by the trees and thick

brush. I know it’s a risk, but I slow my steps, trying to jump between the large stones

jutting up through the earth’s soft skin to break up my trail a bit. Keeping as low as I can,

I follow the length of the road until, finally, I see Lucy take shape through the leaves.

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I’m about to burst out of the tree line when two figures appear at the opposite side

of the road.

“This it?” Drew has a bounce in his step as he circles around Lucy, as if sizing her

up for slaughter. Trailing behind him is Remy, so small, his hood pulled up, his punk ass

scowl firmly in place.

“What do you think?” Remy snarls back. “We helped you, didn’t we? You made

me go get that guy. You said if I got him, we’d get Sarah back. So where is she?”

Drew smirks. “We’ll take you to her soon.”

Remy is not a dumb kid. I think he realizes exactly what’s about to happen to

him; I can see it in the way he turns his face away so Drew won’t see the flicker of fear. I

don’t know what to do now, I really don’t—Remy trapped me, sure, but he tried to warn

me, didn’t he, in his own way? I forgive him, I forgive all of them, and if there’s one

thing I can respect, it’s saving your family.

Do something.

I don’t want to think what a camp will do to Remy.

Save him.

I only hope that they keep the three of them together.

Save them.

Because, for the first time in my life, I’m going to try this thing, where I save

myself instead.

I feel the pressure of someone’s gaze and pull back instinctively. Remy’s sharp,

dark eyes have picked my shape out of the woods. I know he’s seen me by the way his

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hands tighten at his side. My heart jolts, and my feet are already starting to pull back. But

after that tense beat, he simply turns around, as if he hasn’t seen anything at all.

You fight a lot?

Did he want me to have a chance?

Does he want me to help them, like I originally thought? That he hoped I could

fight them off, save all of them from this?

Is he as mad as I am that I didn’t figure this out in time?

Is this one of those things I’m just not meant to know?

Drew starts violently, and I realize he was watching Remy, too—he saw that

single, split second where the kid stilled.

“You out there, Stewart?” Drew calls. “Don’t tell me you want to make this worse

for yourself.”

I don’t see how that’s possible until Drew suddenly seizes Remy by the back of

the neck, drawing a gun out of the waistband of his jeans, pressing it near his temple. The

kids struggles, trying to squirm away. I feel like my ghost is going to up and leave this

body, it seems to ram forward so hard. The only thing that steadies me is the absolute

cold, the melting snow seeping through my jeans to my knees, freezing the skin. I look

down, and realize I’ve bled all over myself, all over the ground. The way the droplets

expand, weeping into the snow, makes my head ache with unwanted memories.

I have to stay alive.

“Come on out now, Stewart,” he cajoles, “no one’s gotta get hurt. No one’s gotta

die…”

I have to make my life worth it.

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“He’s just a kid,” Drew continues. “But he’s not worth much—and I doubt

anyone would miss him. We’ll get you either way. You run now, we’ll only chase. I

might consider letting him go, if you don’t give me trouble…”

He’s just a kid.

I’m just a kid.

Why does it have to be like this?

Remy’s face goes utterly expressionless, and he turns his head away, toward the

road leading up to the house. I have so many questions—how these skip tracers found the

kids, how the kids could be stupid enough to buy the B.S. they were selling and believe

they would ever see their sister again, about what will happen to them. But Remy’s

giving me an answer to a question I can’t bring myself to ask: Can I leave him here?

I know he’s giving me his permission, that there’s forgiveness in that, but how

can I go? How? My thoughts are streaked with panic, too hot and sharp to hold onto.

Please, God, give me whatever strength you have in you, because I can’t do this by

myself. I can’t leave this kid here.

You can, I hear Chubs’ voice saying, rising above all of the others. You have to.

I could tell myself that a hundred times—a million—and I still wouldn’t shake

this disgust I feel with myself—the horror of listening to self-preservation over my heart.

I make a choice.

I save myself.

I save myself knowing Chubs and Zu might need me one day.

I save myself knowing that the PSFs will make an example of me if I ever go

back to a camp.

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I save myself knowing what it’ll do to my mom if I’m caught again or killed.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry… God, I’m so sorry—

I just wanted to help.

I save myself this time, and edge back slowly, without a whisper of a sound,

shrinking back into blooming arms of the forest, thick with life, and choke on the poison

of my shame.

A shot explodes through the silence of the forest, but I’m too far gone now to see.

***

THERE’S a hammering in my head, driving into it in time with my steps as I run and
run and run and run. I think I’ll split apart with it, that it’s going to drive me over the

edge. But it’s only my heart. It’s my heart pumping blood. Because I’m alive. I’m alive.

I’m alive.

But I can’t go any further. My legs turn to water beneath me, and I feel myself

falling before my brain has a second to register it’s happening. I slam into the flecks of

rocks and bark and new grass face-first, and let the ground hold me. Its cold skin eases

the bristling heat that’s pouring out of me, freezes the sweat on my forehead. I don’t think

I’ve ever felt a spring this cold, and it’s right. It feels right. It’s never going to be warm

again. It won’t ever be easy.

I’m alive.

I let out a laugh that’s more of a sob, dirt filling my lungs, trying to drown me.

And… I’m alone.

My fingers weave through the wild grass, pulling it up in clumps.

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I can’t do this again. I can’t take the silence, the empty seats, the knowing I can

scream and scream and only hear my own echo. I can’t take the pressure that’s building

up in my chest. If I can’t get back to Black Betty, if I can’t have Chubs, or Zu, or any of

the Caledonia kids I had to leave behind, then I want Mom and Harry. I don’t care that it

makes me feel like I’m a kid again, I don’t care how pathetic it sounds. I want to go

home.

I know what I have to do. Bringing myself to do it is another matter entirely.

It’s some hours before I can push myself up from the ground and get my legs

solid. There’s nothing left in me as I walk—nothing rises above the numb exhaustion,

and I feel my last bit of energy disappearing with the sunlight. But I walk. I walk through

the afternoon into the dark hours of night. The moon is directly above me when I reach

that next small town and find its one, lonely payphone.

I don’t have enough change to make the call. Of course. I think we’ve established

I’m living whatever is the opposite of easy. I walk the streets, looking for vending

machines to shake down. I luck out with scouring the gutters near an abandoned nail

salon. It’ll be just my luck, though, if the phone won’t place the call—I brace myself for

it the whole, dark walk back, but it does.

It does.

I punch in the numbers, hoping I’ve got them right, clearing my throat. It rings

and rings and rings, and my fingers tighten around the phone—maybe it’s been too long,

and the voicemail’s been disconnected? Maybe I should have sucked it up and done this a

week ago. Maybe that wouldn’t have made any sort of difference. I press the black,

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plastic phone to my forehead, swallowing a frustrated cry. I’m just about it put it back on

the hook when I hear.

“You’ve reached Bill’s Auto Repair. We can’t take your call. Please leave a

message with what you need and we’ll get back to you.”

The familiarity of the voice its like a hit of adrenaline to my system. This is the

last person in the world I wanted to call, but, God, I am desperate. I will do anything.

“Hi—“ I swallow, trying to get my voice to stop shaking. “This is… this is

Charles Lee. I’m hoping I can get an estimate on a repair I need on my truck. The number

here is—“ I search the face of the payphone for where it’s printed and have a moment of

alarm when I can’t tell if one digit’s a five or a six that’s been rubbed partly off. My eyes

are swimming, blurry as I read them off the best I can. “If you could give me a call

back…” I have to swallow again. “That’s be… real great. Thanks.”

I hang up, feeling my stomach start to roll through its now familiar routine of

wanting to empty itself out. I don’t want to get my hopes up, and I know I need to be

patient, but it’s damn hard. It’s so damn hard right now. I sit down, my back against the

phone’s poll, curling my own jacket around my center, resting my flushed face against

the cold sleeve. I should find cover somewhere, but I can’t risk missing this.

I brace my elbows against my knees, press my face against my hands, and I let

them come up—all those tears I’ve been trying to hold in, for no reason at all. There’s no

one here to see. There’s no one here to care that I’m falling apart.

It’s okay.

I’m okay.

I’m not.

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I can’t carry it all—the guilt, the frustration, the anger, the fear. I have to let it go

before I disappear into it and can’t pull myself back out.

I must fall asleep at some point. A hard, dark sleep. Because, all of a sudden, the

ringing touches my mind, stirs it back into awareness like a glancing dream. It takes me a

moment to understand what’s happening; exhaustion has a drugging effect on my brain.

And by the time I finally stand, grab the phone, it’s too late—all I get is a ring

tone.

“Shit,” I breathe out, my heart thumping painfully in my throat. “Shit, shit, shit—

I’m such an idiot, oh my God—

The payphone rings again, and I just about jump out of my skin. My whole body

is shaking as I pick it up. Please, please, please—

“Liam?” Cole says, before I can even get a word out. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” I choke out.

“What the hell’s going on?” he asks. “Are you okay? The last I heard—“

“I’m okay.”

“You should have stayed! Why did you leave the safe house?” I almost relish

Cole’s anger, it’s so expected and familiar. I sag against the payphone’s stand. Close my

eyes.

“Had to,” I say. “I’m trying to find Mom and Harry. I don’t… I’m not sure where

they are. Do you know?”

“I don’t,” he says, his voice flattening out. “God, kid, I’ve been worried sick

about you. You like giving me agita or something? Holy shit—“

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This isn’t what I wanted to hear at all.

“I… I messed up,” I tell him. “Real bad.”

I have to tell someone. I have to confess this, try to give the burden of these

thoughts to someone else.

“No you didn’t,” Cole says, in a tone that won’t allow any sort of argument.

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

Have things always been that simple for Cole?

“You really don’t know where they are?” I try again. “Mom and Harry?”

“Last I heard, they were still at home. But, listen to me, here’s what you’re going

to do,” Cole tells me, “you’re going to get in a car and drive your ass up here.”

“Where are you?” I breathe out. I’m not there yet. I’m not quite at the point where

I’d choose Cole over trying to follow a few leads to look Mom and Harry. But this is an

option. This is solid, and this is real. It eats away at all of the flimsy excuses I had for

staying in this area.

“I’m where we spent Christmas about ten years ago,” he says after a long pause.

It’s kind of pointless for us to talk in code—if the government really has ways of

listening in and searching calls for keywords, we’re already screwed. I have to wrack my

brain for the answer to this. We’ve only had one or two Christmases outside of North

Carolina, and both times were to see Harry’s family. So… Philly?

If Harry and Mom are home… if there’s a chance I can meet them there and we

can leave together…

I get that itch, the one that tells me to move on, and I know I’ve been cured of

whatever madness was keeping me here around Maryland. It’s finally time to go.

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“Call again when you get closer,” he tells me—and this is just Cole to a T,

assuming that I’ll do whatever he tells me to. “I mean it, you stupid kid. Don’t ever make

me worry about you like this again. I’ll hunt you for your hide.”

There’s a thickness in my throat I can’t seem to swallow. I’m silent for too long, I

know this because for the first time since I found Claire dead that morning, I hear panic

edge into his voice. “Liam? You still there?”

There are a lot of words that are building up from deep in my chest, climbing

over each other to get up my throat and out of my mouth. I don’t want to think about

Remy and his sisters, but it’s not like I’ve ever been able to stop my brain from doing

whatever the hell it wants. Whatever’s between me and Cole is messed up beyond belief,

and I don’t know how to bridge that gulf—if he even has the ability and desire to meet

me halfway. I would tell him that I love him right here and now, but I don’t think I could

handle being laughed at this very moment.

“I might be a while,” I warn him. “It’ll take me time to find a car and I want to

find Mom and Harry first if I can.”

I don’t want to tell him I’ve just pissed off an entire family of skip tracers. I know

what I saw in their eyes—bloodhounds would be less enthusiastic about the hunt. It’s

going to be some time before I can look over my shoulder and not expect to find them

there.

“No,” he says, the word punching through the receiver like a rusted nail. “Drive

through the night if you have to. Just come. I mean it—don’t make me come find you and

beat your ass over this.”

“Later,” I promise. “Later.”

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For now it’s enough to know one thing for certain, and maybe it’s the most

surprising thing of all: that when I make the call, my brother will answer.

IT takes me a few days of walking through neighborhoods and along stretches of

highways, but I find myself another ride. This time, the silence is a welcome friend. It

empties my mind out nicely, soothes the sharp edges of my thoughts. I feel…

Still.

The new car’s a lot prettier than Lucy, my Sweet Caroline—she’s a newer sedan,

and, if I’m being perfectly honest, is actually a little bit of a risk. She’s flashier than what

I’d usually pick. I just couldn’t resist her gorgeous shade of ruby red.

Even better, she has enough gas left in her tank to get us out of this town and into

the next. I need access to whatever’s left of the internet to check to see if the old house in

Wilmington has been vacated, if Mom and Harry put their plan into play. Easier said than

done—I think a wireless connection is harder to come by than fuel these days.

I hotwire the car, letting the ignition spark. Sound pours out of the speakers,

almost deafening.

Cellophane flowers of yellow and green…

And I can’t even help myself, I start laughing—I’m laughing and laughing and

laughing like an absolute crazy person, until the tears track down my face, because it has

to be a sign. I can’t believe it’s anything less. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Of course.

Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes

And she’s gone

The words echo in my mind, making it ache all over again. She’s gone.

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Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go—I hate those words, I hate the magnetic pull of

whatever it is I’ve forgotten, the regret waiting to make itself known.

But then there’s a flash of distant headlights in my rearview mirror, a car that’s

speeding my way. Blood surges through my veins as I throw Sweet Caroline into drive

and let her wheels tear up the road beneath us. Chances are, it’s not that family—but let’s

be real, I haven’t been that lucky in a long time.

So I get going.

I get gone.

© Alexandra Bracken 2015