Archer

THE MARKS WE BEAR — 90,832 — BROOKE ARCHER

CHAPTER ONE — ISLA

5 YEARS PRIOR

I was twelve when the sentries took Amy Nguyen.

They came quietly down Autumn Lane, their sleek black vans cutting through the bright
neighborhood and bathing a pleasant day in chaos. The sight of the vehicles sent my parents into
a panic. They raced around the house to hide every trace of my existence: a pair of sneakers left
in the bathroom, sheet music still hot on the printer, a few faded photographs of us. My placemat
was pulled, and the cabinet was dragged to the door to my basement I would be hidden in. The
routine was seamless after so many years, but my parents still fluttered about like frightened
hens.

I stood hand in hand with Harper by the kitchen window, silent and still as our parents bustled
about. We, too, knew the routine.

Harper peeked through the curtains and leaned back to call, “It’s the Nguyens!”

Our parents rushed to join us at the window, nudging us out of the way, their panic dissipating
as they proved Harper’s words with their own eyes — the sentries were coming for someone else.

Their relief at another day of safety left a sour, sticky taste on my tongue. Our safety meant
someone else’s demise, meant the destruction of someone else’s life. How long would it be until
our downfall?

My mother stepped back, too many edges to her expression to sell the calm she was aiming for,
and readjusted the curtains before facing us. “False alarm.”

The words “it wasn’t” scraped at my throat and begged to be released. I bit them down.

“Harper, up to your room until the neighborhood is clear. Isla, basement. And no more peeking
through the windows.”

“But Mom—“ I started.

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“Now, Isla.” My mother barked. Harper flinched at her cold tone, but I bristled, tiny hands
curling into fists.

“What if they need help?” Frustration frayed the strings of my control, and Harper squeezed my
hand in a silent request to stop. I ignored her. Why didn’t they see? Why didn’t they see us and
the Nguyens were the same?

Maybe they had a Marked child, too. The thought was treacherous but comforting. Two traitors
living across the street from one another, both hiding from their crimes.

“They’re beyond help, Isla. Now go. Basement.”

My fists tightened, nails digging into my palms, my gaze snapping to the curtain-covered
window, like an invisible tether stretched between me and the Nguyen house.

Harper withered beneath my mother’s tone, slinking out of the room, but I held my place and
kept my chin high. My father stood by the window, and I leveled my anger at him.

“You’re going to let it happen?”

His expression was torn and pained when he said, “They got caught, Isla.”

“It’s wrong.”

“We can’t help them without putting ourselves at risk. You know that,” he said. He softened his
tone. “Listen to your mother.”

Anger coursed through me, and I resisted the urge to stomp my feet and scream at how unfair it
was, how unfair it all was. I watched my parents readjust the curtains and head to the living room
as I turned for the basement door. Harper was long gone, hiding in her room despite having
nothing to hide from. I tugged open the basement door and stared down into the dark expanse
of the only world I'd ever known. I didn't want to go around to flick the lamps on and settle into
the old couch with a book I'd already read or a movie I'd already watched, alone, always alone.

Which is why, when I heard Katherine scream, I didn’t run down the stairs and slam the door
shut. Instead, I bolted for the front door before my parent’s oppositions reached me. The scream,
loud and piercing, was all I heard. I didn’t think — or care — about the consequences until my
bare feet smacked the damp grass of the lawn, until the noise fell around me like hail, until the
sunlight burned into my eyes. I slammed to a stop halfway down my yard, gasping in fresh air.

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The smell of burnt rubber wafted off the two sentry vehicles parked in front of the Nguyen house.
Their shouts and voices rang in a cacophony, and I resisted the urge to bring my hands over my
ears.

A man — Mr. Nguyen — stood in the driveway holding Katherine against his side. Despite her
age, she was crying, sobbing, screaming against her father.

Two sentries exited the house, holding a thrashing woman who resembled Katherine between
them. Unlike her daughter, this woman held no panic or fear. She looked angry—she looked like
she wanted to burn down the world.

Her eyes found mine across the street, and the fight went out of her. She held my gaze as she was
led to one of the vans, smile twisted, like she was in on the secret, and she didn’t look away until
she was shoved into the car.

Inside, my parents were inevitably watching and cursing my name, desperate for me to return
but powerless at the risk of making a scene. As much as they wanted me inside, they weren’t
willing to drag me back in, and there was something freeing in knowing it.

My thoughts splintered with the slamming of the car doors, and the vans left as quickly as they'd
come, taking Mrs. Nguyen with them. Katherine let out one last anguished wail before her father
clapped a hand over her mouth, his face lined with pain. She went limp, and the two shouldered
inside, leaving me alone on the street.

Not entirely alone. Standing on the lawn of the house next to mine was a boy I'd seen only a
handful of times. Whatever power I'd had in my moment of rebellion dissipated as my years of
conditioning punched through my adrenaline.

Stupid. So stupid. Monsters were kept in cages for a reason. To protect others from us, and to
protect us from them. To protect me. I might have hated my basement, but it was better than a
research camp, and had I been taken the day I was born Marked, I’d have nothing at all.

The boy stood with arms crossed on the otherwise empty street, my age, all gangly limbs with a
mop of curly dark hair. The sentries and the Nguyen family didn’t matter with him so close.

As if reading my thoughts, the boy looked over at me, brows furrowing over amber eyes. He
likely knew Harper, and I took a step back. He’d pin me as a fraud the second I opened my
mouth—my words and actions betrayed me in a way my sleeve-covered birthmark never could.

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Time stopped, for a moment, long enough to be. To take in the dewy grass, the wind lifting
strands of red hair off my shoulders, the way the boy looked at me curiously. I held his gaze
across the lawn and only tore it away when I couldn’t bear to hold it anymore, forcing myself
slowly and calmly back to the door. Slipping inside, I pushed it shut behind me, my heart
hammering.

I opened my eyes to my parents’ livid faces, their faces flushed with red.

The lecture was full of fear disguised as anger — how could you put us at risk? and don’t you
understand the danger you put us in? and there is no place beyond this home we can keep you safe and
on and on — and I let them shower me with it until their voices returned to normal.

I knew how dangerous it was, and I know how reckless it was, and I know I shouldn’t have done
it. People like me weren’t supposed to exist outside the camps, let alone in a basement in a quaint
house in the suburbs of Seattle. My family made its living in the shadows, never drawing enough
attention to warrant a second look, and only that keeps us together.

But I was growing tired of the darkness. My mind was caught in the moment the boy next door
looked at me, the moment Mrs. Nguyen saw me. I let my parents finish their lectures and
retreated to the basement I should have been in the whole time, thinking of the boy with the
brown eyes and Katherine’s screams.

It was the first time someone was taken from Autumn Lane. It was not the last.

CHAPTER TWO — ISLA

By the time I realized I was learning to kill, I already knew how.

It began when I was eleven, with a blue punching bag my dad brought down to my basement,
eventually followed by all the equipment needed to teach me self-defense. My father's primary
strategy: fight dirty.

“What’s it for?” I’d asked, staring up at the bag twice my size.

He’d smiled and propped up the bag, tugging a small pair of black boxing gloves out of his back
pocket; we ditched the gloves three years later, at my protest toward the likelihood of having the
luxury of them in a real fight.

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"Anger management," he said. “Unofficially.” It was a half-truth—training gave me a much-

needed outlet from the restlessness of life in the shadows.

The other half of the truth is he was preparing me for a day he believed to be inevitable. Discovery
Day. The day the sentries find out about the Marked child in the suburbs—not in the research
camp I should have been taken to the day I was born. But at eleven, I hadn't known, understood,
or cared. I was relieved to kill the boredom and the urge to crack a window or open a door. I still
am.

And on Sweep day, when my parents’ anxiety is a noose looped around my neck, it is the only
thing keeping me sane.

I bounce on my toes as I wrap the tape around my knuckles, so fidgety it takes three tries. My
dad tugs the punching bag to the center of the mat — risen from its humble beginning as a small
circular rug — and wraps his own hands with ease.

“Restless today?” My father asks.

I flex my fingers and shrug a shoulder dismissively, stepping in front of the bag and starting
warm-ups in lieu of responding.

“It’ll be fine. Sweeps are—”

"A fear tactic." I slam my fist into the bag. "I know." The bag rocks and my father peers around it
to meet my eyes with knitted brows. My wall shudders down, my expression smooth and even.

“Even if they did choose us this year—”

“We know what we’re doing, and they won’t find anything.” I mimic my mother’s optimism, but
it sounds more snarky than sincere.

“I’m not your mom,” he says, ”and you’re not selling it.”

"It's better than a camp." It's a rehearsed speech and my father's lips purse. Too rehearsed,
perhaps.

“Isla.”

I ignore him, proceeding through the warm-ups I've done every day for the last six years, my
mind blank and muscle memory occupied.

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"If anyone needs a pep talk, it's Harper. She's wound three times tighter than normal." He sighs
at the clear diversion but doesn't push, giving in to the lie I'm shoving at him and dropping the
subject.

I’m already sweating by the time he pushes the punching bag to the corner of the mat, and I pull
two retractable plastic blades from my sock drawer, handing him one.

Buying and selling weapons is uber-illegal, and only the sentry force is permitted to carry them,
but the retractables are toys from my father’s childhood, and the other knives were snagged from
the kitchen.

I grip the plastic handle of the blade and circle my father, gaze flicking between his eyes and his
hands, waiting for movement.

“Remember, just because you’re as tall as them, a lot of men still have you in sheer weight,” he
says. I nod, ducking down to swing at his side. He pulls out of reach easily, a grin playing on his
lips.

He only looks young down here on the training mat. Upstairs, he is the cautious and devoted
father, skilled in soothing my prone-to-panic mother and helping with my twin's algebra
homework—down here, he shrugs off his weights. I like to imagine I'm seeing him as he used to
be, before he and my mom gave up the rest of their lives to give me some semblance of one.

And a semblance is all it is—fragments of a life.

“Your moves are all over your face,” he says. “You lose your advantage when they see you
coming.”

I set my jaw, hoping for impassive rather than angry or constipated. My father lunges, swinging
with his free hand, the air kissing my cheek as his knuckles brush past it. I jerk back, taking half
a second to catch myself, ducking beneath his arm and slipping behind him. I plunge the blade
into his back, the plastic retracting—a point for me.

He whirls and comes back with a kick that barely misses my knees, sending a shot of adrenaline
through me. I fake a swipe with the knife, and he ducks, as predicted, his chin moving right into
the punch I graze across it. Isla: 2, Dad: 0.

“You going easy?”

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“I wish,” he huffs. “Just getting old.”

I snort and lunge at him again. We go back and forth until the kitchen floor creaks above our
heads, indicating my mom’s return from her last scan of the home — a triple check, technically.
At the sound, we launch into movement, gathering up the fake blades. I tuck them into the dresser
drawer, out of sight.

My mother knows a fraction of what we do downstairs. She assumes we're boxing, which is half
right, but she doesn't know about the practice blades, and she definitely doesn't know why I'm
being trained. I'm preparing for the day our world falls to pieces, but my mom doesn't believe
that day is coming. She thinks we can stay together forever, safe and invisible.

I think we’ve been doomed since the moment they decided not to turn me over to the camps.

We flop down onto the couch just as the basement door whines open, dripping with sweat and
panting. A familiar ache burrows into my bones, the hits I took unearthing themselves with the
end of the workout, but I welcome the pain and the exhaustion. It isn’t often my mind is quiet,
and on Sweep days, the silence and calm will carry me through the day and past it, after my
parents lock the basement door and seal me from the rest of the world.

My mother’s usually grim face is momentarily relaxed as she brings down a box of contraband,
setting it on the small folding table in one corner. She ambles over to the couch, dropping a kiss
atop my father’s head and dropping down beside me, snaking an arm around my shoulders. A
smile plays on her lips as she flicks a sweaty piece of hair off my forehead.

Overnight, my parents have aged, the stress of seventeen years hitting them all at once and
sprouting gray strands in my mother’s flaming red hair and my father’s black. Unfamiliar lines
run deep with worry.

“Is the purge over?”

My mom smiles and leans back against the cushions. "Christmas cleaning for our guests," she
says, "if they decide to show." One of the few jokes my mother allows regarding sentries—their
existence is an off-limits subject most of the time—seeing as Sweeps fall in the weeks leading up
to the holidays. Like a trigger, sparse decorations will find themselves strung up about the
neighborhood, according to Harper.

“Think we’ll get lucky?” I ask, struggling to keep the concern out of my voice.

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My father shakes his head. “The pattern is easy enough to recognize. They should hit next door
and down the street.” I frown, gaze flicking toward the home next door, though my basement
has no windows.

My cage is well disguised, and I give it credit for that. The stairs plunging down and splitting the
basement in two are looped through with lights climbing up the walls to string across the ceilings.
Tapestries are draped between the lights on the ceiling—paintings from artists who died long
before the Split mutation. Quotes from movies and books, scrawled on post-it-notes and ripped
scraps of paper, adorn the walls, and the mismatching fairy lights give the place a homey,
borderline chaotic feel. Still, no amount of posters or lights can hide the stairs stretching up to the
big lock on the basement door. A prison is still a prison if it’s pretty.

“How reassuring.”

My mother rolls her eyes, smiling softly, but the smile slips as quickly as it came. “Isla, go up and
help Harper with the last box of your things. I want you back downstairs in thirty minutes, and
if you’re not—”

“You’ll throw me out to the sentries?” I ask.

My mom’s lips part, her protest immediate, but my father smiles and reaches out to calm her,
patting down her rebellious red curls. Harper and I managed to get the color, but where our
mother’s hair is voluminous and bouncy, ours is flat and thick. Harper’s perm helped her
replicate the look, but I’m stuck with the products brought down to me.

Secretly, I covet the differentiating factors; the hair, the little scars, my darker and more prominent
freckles. They make me feel less like Harper's shell, less like the collection of all her bad parts.

“It isn’t the day to push it,” my mother warns me.

“Is it ever?” I ask.

She waves me off, avoiding the bait—annoying, but expected. This placid, complacent woman
who flinches at the pull of a curtain has been molded by years of fear and hiding. Once upon a
time, she, my father, and their two best friends went up against the government to hide a baby
deemed evil.

My parents are remnants of those people now, worn away by time.

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I suppose all four of us are echoes, my parents, my sister, and I. Rocky shores carved away by
waves, holding onto anything we can find, even if it too is crumbling.

The sentries come once a year.

They choose homes at random and descend in droves to sift for evidence of treason, holding
neighborhoods hostage in fear before disappearing once more. The usual sunset curfew falls to
noon, and we are expected to sit patiently in our homes and twiddle our thumbs in case we’re
chosen.

A drop of water in an ocean of obedience, my dad calls it, a line that has always sounded too parroted,
but after seventeen years of Sweeps, it is merely another day. A day requiring more cleaning, but
another day all the same.

“You should dump those,” I say, jerking my chin at the pile of near-toppling paperbacks on my
twin’s desk, drawing my socked feet onto the bed as Harper gathers my sheet music and stuffs it
into a box marked HAZARDOUS WASTE in my chicken scrawl writing. Even though my mom
and sister disapproved of my labeling, it earned a smile out of my father.

“They’re definitely not yours,” Harper says pointedly, “so I don’t see why.”

“Anyone who reads this stuff can’t be trusted to make sound decisions.” I hop off the bed and
sidle up beside her, pulling the top book from the pile and tapping the stomach of a shirtless man
on the cover, cocking a brow at her. She tosses me an eye roll, cheeks flaming scarlet as she takes
the book from my hands and returns it to its Jenga tower. “Like whether or not to turn in her
illegal sister.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Harper’s features contort like she’s bitten into a sour lemon, and
she sweeps a look around the room like she expects a sentry to jump out from behind a curtain.
“Besides, romance novels are hardly restricted reading.”

“You couldn’t do it,” I say with a casual shrug. It’s unkind to poke the bear, but one gets bored
and this particular bear is so easy to irritate. “You’d miss me too much.”

“Isla, I’m serious—”

“So am I,” I emphasize, “Who would keep you in line without me?”

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“Keep me in line,” Harper huffs, under her breath.

I ignore her, fueling her boiling temper, and gather another stack of music from beside Harper’s
printer, running my pointer finger across the inked notes of Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu. The
ache to play rises in my hands, a silent protest, but my keyboard is tucked downstairs where I
will soon be, and noise on Sweep day is the equivalent of lighting a flare. The new music will
have to wait until tomorrow.

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Harper says, tone edged with bitterness, and
hands me a stack of baby and toddler pictures and piles it atop the other things the sentries can’t
find.

“All I’m hearing is funny.”

Harper frowns. “You know I’d never…” She sinks into her bed, face green.

There are no certainties about what happens to traitors after the sentries take them away, but the
rumors are plentiful, and those floating down the grapevine are haunting enough to keep us
loyal—to keep us docile. Disappearances and empty homes and lives erased are only the tip of
the iceberg.

Harper thinks they merely take them to jail and let them rot, but she’s always been our resident
optimist. I’d like to think I know, that I’m certain she’d never give me up for herself—she knows
I wouldn’t, and she is owed the same decency, but the bad parts of me whisper differently.

I tap her knee, pulling her eyes to mine, and force a lopsided smile.

“I know, Harp. Fugitives for life, right?”

She rolls her eyes again, but the joke earns a quick smile. I take it as a success.

“You may be the most infuriating person I’ve ever met—“

“Compliments aren’t really your thing, are they?”

She shoots me a look and I close my mouth, waving a hand in surrender. This is not a fight I want
to have right now, anymore. It isn’t turning out the way I wanted.

"But you're not…you know," she says, gesturing at nothing as if the word hangs visibly between
us. And it does, but it isn't visible.

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"Evil?" It is one of Harper's least favorite words, understandably. Harper goes to school each day
and learns about the world and the virus—mutation that broke everything apart, about borders
closing and countries isolating and damning half of every set of twins born after. She learns about
the Split and the horrible people it created: my people.

She’s never told me what she thinks about it, and I’ve never asked — some doors are best left
closed. I know she loves me, and if there is more to it, well, I don’t need to know.

"Yeah," she says, shifting her weight, lips pursing. She's far too young to have worry lines, and
the guilt living inside me thrums.

"It's true, though, isn't it?" I ask, pushing for no reason other than to feel the pressure.

“Isla,” she snaps, which isn’t an answer.

“You’re probably biased anyway,” I say.

“I’m not,” she snaps, her intensity surprising me. “You’re not bad because someone says you
are.”

“By someone, you mean the entirety of the government?” I ask. She is irritated, but it dissipates
quickly, and her energy softens.

“It’s not all bad, is it?” What starts as a cautious tone gives to something dreamy. “I mean, you
have no responsibilities, no pressures, no—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” I say, part of me envying her endless capability for hope.

"All I'm saying is, it's safe here, and it might even be better—"

“I said don’t.” The cruelty in my tone renders her silent, her cheeks pink and her shoulders stiff.

We don’t often talk about the camps or the cure they’re looking for inside them. Or the
disappearances. When we do, Harper manages to dig right under my fragile armor and poke at
the disdain I have for my tiny, tiny life, and if she keeps poking, one day I’ll give.

Harper lives a different life. To her, my basement — my tiny life — is a haven. But the only real
haven is freedom, and that is not something Harper understands. How do you explain life in a
cage to someone who has spent theirs staring in?

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"Just…don't," I say, gentler. My inability to say the right thing only stokes my frustration, and I
move to the window facing the house next door, drawing the curtains back an inch. While
Harper's commitment to keeping me a secret is as strong as my parents, she has more leeway,
and though she doesn't understand my obsession with the outside world, she feels bad enough
about my incarceration not to scold me.

I look where I always look—the house next door—in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Alex
Morales, a classmate of Harper’s. He was outside more when we were kids, but these days, he’s
barely there, like he’s made a career out of avoiding home. I, on the other hand, have made a
career out of falling for every person my age who has ever passed in front of my house, creating
impossible scenarios and happy endings I will never see, imagining a life far from Autumn Lane.

Today, Sweep day, everyone is home — Alex included, who has managed to find a way to escape
his house even while there, washing his faded blue Jeep in the driveway. Water usage is allotted,
but he has always set aside enough to spend a handful of hours a week scrubbing it until the
water is brown and the old paint shines.

He's feigning calm but isn't as impermeable as he thinks, his tension evident in his stiff set
shoulders and his eyes darting to the street to check for sentry vans.

“Sentries?” Harper asks.

Heat races up my neck and through my cheeks, and I feel like a child caught with their hand in a
cookie jar. I shake my head.

“Alex.”

“He’s outside?” Harper looks to the clock on her bedside table: ten minutes after nine. Alex has
the better part of a few hours to get inside, but it’s rare to see someone cutting it so close today.
The neighborhood tends to fall deathly silent on days like these. “Why?”

"Why else?”

Harper smiles. “The car.”

“If he’s not careful, he’ll have the sentries out helping him scrub.”

“He has two hours,” Harper says. “And he probably has nothing to hide.”

“Neither do we,” I say, flashing her a wicked grin.

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Harper snorts and points to the box on the desk. “Tell that to the hazardous waste.”

CHAPTER THREE — ISLA

The sentries have only come into our house three times for Sweeps in my life, and while today
isn’t one of them, my panic doesn’t cease until long after the sentries have vacated the
neighborhood. Each creaky floorboard is the end of the world, and I am trapped, helpless,
beneath the floor.

Harper, always sympathetic, humors my paranoia, and I linger in her room and watch her buzz
about with anxiety; preparing for the Sweeps made studying for her exam the next day
impossible.

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"Tell me about William Hill," I say, flipping to the second page of the packet in my lap. Harper's
study guide — handcrafted, as the teacher's provided pages weren't 'extensive' enough — is
pages long and scrawled in her loopy handwriting, stapled neatly together. My sister isn't one to
bomb a test, and she definitely won't fail this one, but she’s anxious by default, and I’d rather
have her worried about this than me.

She paces in front of the bed I’m propped comfortably on, tapping a finger against her chin in
thought.

“William Hill. Born in 1947 to Julianna and Earnest Hill in Sacramento, California.

“And the hospital he was born in?”

Harper's eyes widen, and she looks to the pages in my hands. "That's on there, too?"

“No," I say. "Do you really need to know his parents’ names?”

Harper frowns. “I like to be thorough.”

“You passed thorough four pages ago,” I say, shaking the stack.

Harper waves a hand dismissively and resumes her pacing. “William Hill led the terrorist attack
that resulted in the Great Panic of 1968.”

“And tell me, what was the Great Panic of 1968?” I ask with faux enthusiasm.

"After Hill, the first laws limiting Marked citizens' rights were written into action. So many
Marked babies were abandoned afterward, they signed a law stating any parent could leave a
Marked child with the government no questions asked.”

“Considerate of them,” I add. Harper presses forward like I didn’t say anything — a common
occurrence I can’t blame her for.

"The camps weren't mandatory until 1972 when New Hope was dedicated to cure research."

“A cure for a genetic mutation,” I say, supplanting the holes in Harper’s information with the bits
of history I’ve picked up. My homeschooling has been sporadic at best — all but abandoned since
I leaned into work on the mat with my father and on the keyboard with my music — and subjects
I was bored by were deserted, but history was a necessary evil. It only serves to make me angry,
but I know enough. “Totally reasonable.”

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Harper carries on. Her methods of avoiding conflict are simply that: complete and utter
avoidance.

“After New Hope, the drop-off and holding centers were converted into research facilities, and
every Marked baby had to be—” she pauses, looks at me for the briefest of seconds, “—
surrendered.”

"And the rest is crappy, crappy history," I say, deserting Harper's notes in favor of ducking to the
window and peering through the blinds. The street is still, as it was the last time I looked, but my
gaze is drawn up to the sky, to the twinkling stars I've only seen through the glass.

“You’re no help,” Harper says, collecting her notes off the bed and reorganizing them, setting
them carefully on her desk. She joins me by the window, her arm brushing mine as she sweeps
the street. In some ways, we’re as identical as our features.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“That’d be the moon, Harper.”

“No,” Harper says, tone hollow. “That.” Her eyes are pinned on movement down the street: the
glinting of streetlights off metal.

Black vans inch silently down the street, barely visible in the dark. I have no reason to believe
they’re coming for us, but my body doesn’t share the opinion, nausea rolling through me.

I’ve had a thousand nightmares about this. Discovery Day.

Harper is trembling beside me, her fear dragging me back to reality. I wrangle my fear into its
cage and say, “Get Mom and Dad. Now.”

She doesn’t move or even seem to register my words, still staring at the vans growing closer by
the second.

“Harper.”

“They never come at night,” she says, her voice and her eyes far away, expression unreadable.
“Why would they come at night?”

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The answer seems clear to me, but we don’t have the time for an explanation, even if we’re not
the target. A set of twins gaping through the window will only solidify our fate—unMarked
Harper and her evil sister.

Gripping Harper by the shoulders, I shake her roughly, harsher than necessary but sufficient. The
fog clears from her eyes, but the fear lingers in her blown pupils.

“Mom and Dad. Right now.” There is no room for discussion in my tone, and Harper blanches,
hesitating only a moment before pulling away and stumbling to the door, throwing it open and
disappearing into the hallway.

With Harper out of sight, the monster in my chest breaks free and fear scatters my thoughts.
There are a million reasons the sentries might be driving down our street this late, and only one
of them ends in flames. Maybe they're patrolling. Maybe they want to shove more fear down our
throats.

Or maybe my walls are falling.

A scream tears across the street, so sharp and piercing I almost cover my ears. Lunging for the
curtains, I tug them aside enough to peek through again, my stomach dropping to the floor.

Three sentry vehicles idle on the curb outside the Nguyen home, which used to house three
people and now has two. After Amy Nguyen was arrested five years ago — after they tried to
make her disappear, after I saw them take her — her husband, Hugo, and their daughter,
Katherine, remained, but the home has been ghostlike since she left.

A year older than Harper and me, Katherine has always seemed nice, put together, friendly. She
helps neighbors bring in groceries and plants flowers in the tiny garden out front.

She doesn't resemble anything close to friendly, now. The sentries grip her tightly as they drag
her across the grass, and she bucks like a wild horse against their holds, snapping at their fingers
and screaming her head off. One uniformed man slaps a hand over her mouth, another wrenching
her by the wrist. Her shoulder twists in the wrong direction, and her scream turns to a wail as
she crumples in their arms.

The sentry who wrung her arm shoves up the sleeve of her hoodie, and though I’m not close
enough to make anything out, the revulsion on the sentries’ faces says it all.

I bend forward, sucking in gasps, trying not to vomit.

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 Archer

The Katherine my sister has a crush on, the Katherine who comes out to get the mail and rides
the bus to school, the Katherine who lives in the real world. Damned from the start, a collection
of her twin’s bad parts. Hidden in plain sight.

But if Katherine is Marked — an impossibility now appearing possible – how did they do it? Only
twins are affected by the Split—where is the unMarked sister she was born with?

I curl my fingers around the curtain and shove down the pit forming in my gut.

By the morning, the Nguyen family will be gone. Erased. Like they never existed. If Katherine
hadn’t screamed, if I hadn’t gone to the window, they would have disappeared without notice.

I’d never admit it to my family, but I’ve wondered if that’s what waits for us down the road. If
the only ending for us is obliteration. It's that nagging thought keeping me in this house, locked
away and out of sight. It's my parents and their fear; it's my sister and everything she is and
everything I can't be.

Katherine is cuffed and shoved into a car, and another pair of sentries exit the home with her
father, who leans heavily against one of the men — he’s not holding any of his own weight.

I’ve never seen a dead body before, but I know enough about living ones to know they don’t fall
the way Mr. Nguyen does as the sentries drop him unceremoniously on the grass. Sprawled, arms
bent backward, one knee cocked. Face upturned, staring blankly at a star-filled sky.

I press a hand to my mouth to hold back the bile, and I step away from the window.

He is dead and hadn't been when they found him, and Katherine is alone and headed to a camp.
The Nguyen family has vanished, and only I watched them go. The loss seeps through my veins
like concrete, hardening me in place, and though I don't want to see more, I step forward again.

The sentries came midday when they took Mrs. Nguyen because they wanted to make an example
of her—they are taking the others at night because they want to erase them.

All but one of the sentries on the street resemble those I’ve seen before. The other man, wearing
a blue uniform that’s so dark it’s almost black — as opposed to the usual light navy — has short
buzzed hair, a crease between his brows so deep I can see it all the way up here, and fists the size
of my head. One shoulder sports a patch I’ve never seen before.

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 Archer

As if sensing my gaze, his head snaps my way, and icy fear drags me to the floor, my heart
pounding like a kickdrum in my ears.

Harper's bedroom door slams open, and I'm so prepared for a sentry to march through that I
nearly punch her in the face. She doesn't mention or notice the almost-hit, and the pained look on
her face kills my relief at seeing her. She doesn't speak as she throws open her closet door and
kneels down to rifle through the pile of shoes on the ground.

“Harper, the sentries—“

“I know,” she says, rising with something balled in her hands. She goes to the window on the far
side of the room facing the backyard and the vast forests beyond it, shoving up the pane and
unrolling the bundle in her hands.

A flimsy ladder made of rope and wood unfolds, hooked to the windowpane. Harper tugs on it
once and steps back.

“Mom and Dad, we have to—“ I start again, but I’m not even sure where I’m going. I don’t think
I ever have.

"Isla." Harper speaks in a tone I've never heard before, and my words dissolve on my tongue. "We
aren’t doing anything.” The sadness in her eyes rips me in half, and more protests are forming
before I fully understand what she’s saying.

“If you think there’s a chance I’m—“

"Listen to me!" Her voice shakes as it rises, her desperation barely surpassing the fear making me
shiver. "Dad said if the sentries come for us, I'm supposed to get you out of the house. That's my
job.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes,” Harper says, pleading with her eyes. She can’t physically force me out, and she knows it.
“It is.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“You have to.”

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 Archer

“Harper—“ She moves forward and pushes me, a very uncharacteristic act, and my shock keeps
me limp long enough for her to steer me halfway to the window. I dig my heels into the carpet,
fingers scrabbling at her arms, shoving her off.

"No," I snarl, throwing all the force I can into the words. Downstairs, the front door breaks off its
hinges, and the sound of splintering wood carries up.

Harper holds my gaze hostage, a thousand silent words passing between us, so much want and
regret and loss plaguing her features I think I’ll choke beneath it. I’ve thought about this day —
about having to leave her — but actually doing it is a mountain I can’t climb.

“Please,” Harper says, eyes shimmering with tears.

The chattering from downstairs rises, my parents’ voices panicked as the front room fills with
uniforms. Our time is running out.

My sister takes my hand in hers, pumping twice for good luck, and as she throws her arms around
me, I’m terrified this will be the last time I ever see her. I give myself one full second to take in
the smell of her lemon shampoo and her weight in my arms before stepping back and moving to
the window. Beyond the house, the yard and forest are as foreboding as they are pitch black.

Gripping the ladder tightly, I look over my shoulder at Harper. She stands in the center of the
room, face pale and cheeks covered in tears. There’s too much to say and too little time to say it,
but she seems to understand from my lopsided smile.

The stairs shudder with the weight of boots as the sentries ascend — time’s up.

It’s like ripping my arm clean off, leaving Harper standing there, but I climb down the shaky rope
and land on the grass, the impact shooting shocks up my ankles. Stumbling, I push ahead, trying
not to think about my lack of a flashlight, jacket, or anything remotely useful.

The woods behind the houses can hide me, but they’ll just as soon kill me. Even someone who
grew up the way I did knows the dangers of the cold and the open air, and from the haunting
howls echoing from the trees at night, exposure isn’t the only thing I’m risking in the woods.

The back porch light of the house next to mine—the Morales’—flickers as if beckoning. An idea
wedges its way into my head, and though idiotic, it might buy me enough time to think my way
out of this. Or at least out of the direct line of fire.

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 Archer

Alex Morales is a friend of my sister’s, both playing for the high school soccer team and cramming
together on buses and bleachers over the years. If he thinks I’m Harper, he might not toss me to
the wolves instantaneously. It is a bad option, but there are no good ones, and I don’t have time
to mull over the choices. I give the woods one more look and cross the short distance between my
back porch and Alex’s, sticking to the shadows.

The wood steps creak beneath my sneakers, and I tug hard on the sliding door, relieved, pleased,
and a little disappointed in the Morales' for their safety precautions—or lack thereof—when it
opens. I slip into the dark house, pulling the door shut behind me and flipping the lock. Back
pressed to the wall, my head falls back and my eyes fall shut, my body quickly realizing the
danger we were in and opposing it.

Yellow light flashes against my lids, and I snap my eyes open in a quaint though dated living
room. Across the room stands a boy.

Alex.

“Harper? What are you doing here? What’s going on?” He asks, his lids heavy with sleep. His
words lilt with the hint of an accent I didn’t know he had, never having heard him speak before.

“I had nowhere else to go,” I say, and it’s the truth.

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 Archer

CHAPTER FOUR — ISLA

Alex Morales looks different up close. The last time I saw him without a pane of glass between
us — the only time — I was twelve and he was thirteen, and we were both all lank and
scrawniness. He's grown into his form, tall, muscular but lean, a soccer player like my sister. He
crosses almond arms over his chest, and a silver hoop in his nosecatches the light when he turns
his head. A hand rakes through dark curls, his eyes narrowing as they settle on me, confusion
following surprise. His gaze darts to the back door, and I can see him rifling through his
memories, trying to remember whether he'd locked it or not. He hadn't, but I had.

"Harper?" he asks, handing me an out without realizing it. I take it, grateful, and shift my weight,
replicating my sister's comfortable stance. "What are you doing here?"

"The sentries," I say, voice an octave higher than usual, my tone light and kind and helpless.
Helpless might momentarily be accurate, but I sure as hell am not light or kind. "I had nowhere
else to go. I panicked."

“Sentries?” He makes for the window, but I lunge and place myself between him and the fabric.
He flinches and stops, and I curse myself. Be Harper.

“Sorry. I’m just…” I shake my head. “I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m kind of…freaking
out.” A half-truth.

"What are sentries doing in your house?" He asks, tone accusatory. I don't have an answer to his
question, not one I can give him anyway. And I don't owe him one—I don't owe him anything.
The only reason I haven't been tossed to the curb is because he thinks I'm someone else, and if I
didn't know his mother was sleeping somewhere in the house and might hear, I'd have him in a
headlock already. He is Harper's friend, and I am the monster wearing her face.

He doesn’t wait for my response, and I don’t give him one, watching as he pulls every blind and
checks every curtain, the motion reminiscent of my parents. Images of them sprawled on the grass
like Mr. Nguyen force their way into my head, and I shove them down with the nausea that
follows.

They’re alive. They have to be alive.

Alex looks out the window once, long enough to see the cars. His expression darkens, and his
shoulders stiffen. I've spent long enough fearing those cars to recognize the manifestation in
someone else.
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 Archer

“Did they find something today?” he asks.

I push a confused look on my face, shaking my head. Everything about me has to read hesitant
like it does on Harper. Perpetually unsure, as if she's always waiting for someone to tell her what
to do, as if she's static.

"They didn't stop at ours," I say. "I don't know why they came." They came for me, but I don't
know how they figured me out, so it isn't a total lie. Not that lying is a problem, or the slightest
bit difficult.

“What about your parents?”

“I don’t know,” I say again. “They took the Nguyen’s, and they came for us,” I add, his silence
too large for my liking. The more I fill it, the more of the façade I can build.

His stare bores into me, and I swear I can see him noting the differences between Harper and me
only discernible up close. Harper’s curls, cut above her shoulders, don’t match mine, straight and
down to my chest. It's knotted in a bun, but as Alex's gaze skates across it, as he takes in the too-
many freckles and the ever-present scowl I default to, I swear he knows.

Pretending to be interested in the collection of movies atop the mantle, I turn away to escape his
eyes. Normally, I'd have pored over the films; I'd inhaled everything brought down to the player
installed on my TV downstairs, letting days roll by with my mind in another world.

If he doesn't speak, I'm going to explode. Or punch him.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” I say, because it’s true, because it’s what Harper would
say, because I can’t bear the uncertain silence any longer.

“Why? This isn’t your fault.”

Debatable. It might be entirely my fault. But that's not a conversation I want to have right now. I
force a cough, bringing my arm to my mouth, clearing my throat excessively and hoping this false
illness will attest to the differences between Harper and me. Hopefully, Alex is trusting enough
to believe my crappy acting.

And why wouldn’t he believe it? A Marked teenager, a hundred miles from the nearest camp,
wearing the face of one of his classmates—it’s impossible enough to work.

Alex heads to a door leading to the kitchen without a word, and my suspicions slam back into
22
 Archer

place.

“Where are you going?” My voice is too hard, too cold.

Alex frowns. "Getting you some water," he says, "before you choke to death." I follow reluctantly,
mentally noting the layout. Taking up post in the doorway — the only exit — I watch as Alex
pulls a cup from the drying rack and fills it, his back turned. A promising sign, an indication he
trusts me.

He hands me the cup, and I take it more for something to do with my hands than out of thirst.

“We’ll try your parents,” he says, pulling his cell phone out of the pocket of his sweats. From the
rumpled tee and holey-kneed sweats, he was either sleeping or about to be when I broke in. “This
is probably a mistake.”

Panic surges like a wave and I’m lunging to rip the phone out of his hands before he realizes
what’s happening. He flinches back, a hand pressed to the white-tiled countertop behind him.

“Don’t,” I hiss. I’m scrambling for words to explain the outburst, to convince him I’m Harper,
that this is all normal, but they slip through my fingers like sand. The back door and the freezing
woods will hide me if Alex won’t beckon, and my mind is already halfway out the door.

All I have to do is turn and run. If he’s not expecting it, I might make it, and I’ve decided I’d
rather risk dying in those woods than living in a camp.

"Please, just—just wait." Every ounce of fear I've been stamping down comes rushing to the
surface, and for once, I let it crest, let it infect my words as Harper would do. "I don't know what's
happening. I don't know what to do." The words are true, but I never would have said them if I
were speaking for myself.

“I need help.” I pray he doesn’t register hesitation in the word.

Alex’s expression softens, as if I’m a scared, wounded animal. In many ways, I am. The Beast
pretending to be Beauty. And he’s buying it.

“We’ll figure this out. We can call your parents or the main station in the morning. This is all a
big mistake,” he says, repeating the assurance, though I’m not sure which one of us it’s for. It isn’t
a mistake, and it won’t change throughout the night, but the prospect of a few more hours of
safety has me dizzy with exhaustion.

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 Archer

So, I plaster a relieved smile onto my lips and nod. "You're right. It's probably a mistake."

Alex’s mother doesn’t stir once, not even as we pad down the hallway to his bedroom. Inside, I
fight the urge to lock the door behind me, despite Alex’s certainty of our safety. It’s not like I can
tell him the truth: he has never been in more danger than he is right now with me between these
walls. He’s given me no reason not to trust him, but he still thinks I’m Harper, and I doubt his
hospitality extends to her damned sister.

His bedroom is sparsely decorated, with only a queen bed shoved into one corner, a desk
crowded with textbooks and papers, and a black dresser. No photos, no ribbons or trophies, no
identifying objects of any kind. It’s the room of someone who doesn’t think they have the right to
stay, or at the very least, someone who doesn’t want to.

Sneaking a glance at Alex, Harper’s complaints over the years about his mother—cold and
absent—echo in my ears. This room is transitory, like Alex is always minutes away from leaving.

“I’ll take the couch, and you can take my bed,” he says, bent over his dresser as he digs out a pair
of sweats and a tee, tossing them to me. The fabric is soft, and I ball it in my hands, squeezing
and shaking my head.

“No.” Distrusts needles at me, the idea he’ll bring the sentries onto my head the moment he’s out
of my sight impossible to shake. “Don’t go.”

He hesitates, face unreadable, but nods, and I’m grateful not to have to argue—not that I’m not
confident I wouldn’t win.

“You’re sure no one will come in?”

“My mother has been asleep for hours,” he says, and I look absently to the clock reading 11:47
p.m., “and she won’t.”

“You’re sure.”

His mouth twitches. “I promise.”

I nod, surveying the room, eyes landing on the bed as Alex says, “I’ll take the floor—“

“You will not.”

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 Archer

“What?”

“I’m not taking your bed.”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.”

“I don’t care.”

“Too bad.”

I let the Harper façade slip for a moment, folding my arms—arguments are my territory, not
Harper’s. Issuing a silent challenge, I let the silence simmer and fester until Alex huffs a sigh and
turns to the bed, tugging a blanket and two pillows off and setting them on the floor. He gestures
to it, and I bend down, tossing one of the pillows back onto the bed. A smile ghosts his lips, and
he almost looks shy when he meets my eyes.

"Thanks," he says. His gaze falls to the bundle of clothes tucked to my chest, and he jerks his chin
toward the door across the room. "The bathroom is in there."

I retreat to the bathroom, and the moment the door is shut behind me, I flip the light on and drop
the clothes on the counter, gripping the edge of the sink—five deep breaths, five seconds to
wrangle the fear banging against my ribs back into its cage.

When I’m sure I’m not going to scream or cry or punch something, I peel off my clothes; I didn’t
have time to grab my own before fleeing, and while it isn’t the most pressing issue, it is annoying.
Alex has a few inches on me, so the sweats fit fine once the waist is rolled once, and the shirt is
soft and faded, a band name I don't recognize printed on the front. It smells like detergent, fruity,
and sweet. It fits decent, if not a little big, but to my dismay, it's short-sleeved, and I keep my left
wrist tucked against my leg, hiding the Mark with the fabric.

Alex is standing by the light switch as I exit the bathroom, and he’s moved any obstruction I could
trip over. Harper would thank him, but I’m still too much Isla at the moment. I must be frowning,
because Alex says, “It’s going to be okay, Harper.”

“I know,” I say to appease him. I don’t need Alex to convince me everything is going to be okay.
I’m not naïve enough to believe it.

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 Archer

The morning sun and the muted sound of arguing in Spanish wake me. Though I don't
understand the words, Alex's lilting tone drifts through the door, and I dub the other as his
mother. Slipping quietly out of my blanket palette, I creep to the door and press my ear against
the wood. His mother's voice is sharp, and Alex's exasperated replies make me think this
conversation is typical.

Curiosity piqued, I can’t bring myself to feel bad for listening; I may not understand the language,
but I understand them, the way they operate, roommates rather than family.

The door opens, nearly clocking me in the face as Alex steps inside, and I lurch back, narrowly
avoiding the desk.

“Jesus—“ Harper never so much as tosses out a heck, and I clamp my mouth shut before any real
curses roll out. My father thinks my inventory of curse words is impressive for a girl who lives
beneath the floor.

I instinctively reach to tug down my sleeves, realizing with a start I fell asleep in short sleeves.
Turning my wrist inward, I face Alex with what I hope is an innocent expression.

“You scared me,” I say, and his lips purse.

“You’re not Harper,” he says, half a question in his words.

The blood rushes to my head, a humming rising in my ears, and I’m willing the shock off my face,
taking a slow breath and forcing an innocent, Harper-esque smile onto my face.

“What?”

“I’ve known Harper Batali since I was eight years old. And you,” he says, eyes narrowing, “are
not her.”

My fingers curl into fists at my sides, and I’m considering whether or not I can deal with him
quickly and quietly enough for his mother not to notice. Hurting him isn’t my first choice, but it
is one of them, and adrenaline flickers to life in my veins.

There is no going back from this, no matter the path. It's brutal, ripping Alex's world out from
under him simply because he had the misfortune of keeping his door unlocked, but I have no
more room to lie, and he already knows, and if I have to — if it comes to it — my secret will never
leave this room. It can't.

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 Archer

“Intuitive,” I say.

“That’s all you have to say?” He huffs.

I ask, “Have you called the sentries yet?”

He appears surprised by the thought, like it never occurred to him, like maybe it should have.
“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, yeah, that’s all I have to say.” He flinches when I step toward him. I didn’t notice initially,
didn’t see the tautness of his frame, the tension buzzing through him, the uncertainty lifting off
him in waves.

He’s afraid—I’m not sure if I’m honored or offended. A little bit of both, maybe. I’ve spent so
much time learning to be the monster they believe I am, and part of me is proud, but the
differences between me and the boy standing opposite me sit like a boulder on my ribs. My Mark
burns against my wrists, a constant reminder of all the ways I’m wrong.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I would have,” I say casually. He doesn’t relax, unsurprisingly, but he
also doesn’t flinch when I step to the window and peek through the curtain, which is progress.
Maybe I won’t have to knock him out.

Next door, the house is quiet save for a sentry van parked out front. The rats have dispersed,
taking my family with them.

“Sorry if I’m a little on edge,” Alex retorts. “You’re the first fugitive I’ve found in my bedroom.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, and Alex’s jaw tightens. I shouldn’t egg him on, shouldn’t press my
bending luck, but it’s impossible not to take the bait.

“Fugitive? Harsh,” I say, and he scowls. “And you invited me in.”

“You broke in.”

“You left the door unlocked,” I say. “That’s an invitation to me.”

“I thought you were your…Harper.”

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 Archer

“Nope,” I quip, “though I hear the resemblance is striking.”

He comes to join me at the window, tugging it aside to peer at my house, features softening at
the sight of the van. He’s still wound tight, held out of my reach, but he’s lost the deer-in-
headlights look, and it’s more improvement than I expected to get. And I don’t need him to like
me—I need him to not turn me in.

A car rumbles to life in Alex's driveway, and his mother pulls out and away. An indiscernible
shadow crosses his face at her departure, a fragment of his tension lifting. Interestingly, she and
I, a fugitive and his mother, have the same effect on him.

He tugs the curtain shut as the car disappears and turns, folds his arm, focuses his amber stare
on me.

“Where is Harper?”

“I don’t know.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And your parents…” At my arched brow, he nods, jaw set. “What happened? How did the
sentries…”

“I’ll make this easy for you and answer all your questions now. I. Don’t. Know.”

He nudges the papers and books out of the way on the desk and pulls himself up, wheels turning
as he works through the bombs I’m dropping. Before either of us gets another chance to speak, a
knock sounds from the front door.

My veins are ice, and my thoughts are splinters, and when Alex's head snaps in the direction of
the door, and he stands, I'm across the room in a second, snaking out a hand and grabbing his
wrist. His lips part, fear flickering in his eyes, and I tighten my grip. Whatever bridge we've begun
construction crumbles.

“Don’t do something stupid,” I say, tone cautionary, acidic, holding his hand one more moment
before letting it fall. I can’t read his eyes, can’t read anything about him at all, as he gives me a
long look and tugs open the door, ducking into the hall. Two seconds after he leaves, I follow,
slinking along the wall, stopping at the edge and leaning forward.
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 Archer

Alex's shoulders stiffen in the entryway as he opens the door to a sentry on the front step. I'm
scanning the hallway for something, anything, I can use as a weapon, and considering whether I
can make it to the back door before he catches me.

A monumental ache presses against my lungs, and suddenly, I miss my sister, my parents, my
little life, so badly I can almost taste it.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” the man says calmly. Anger boils in my blood, and I dig my fingers
into my palms to keep from screaming.

“Is everything okay? I thought Sweeps were yesterday.” Alex replicates the man’s calm, and for
a second, I think I might not have to run. I gave him little choice, but relief presses into my
bubbling fear.

“We’re looking for Harper Batali. There was an emergency next door last night, and no one has
been able to reach her. We want to make sure everything is all right.”

Lies, every single word. Dangerous, nasty lies.

“Do you know what happened?” Alex asks, like one of the Batali’s isn’t standing in his hallway.

"We don't, sir. We're trying to locate Ms. Batali and hopefully get some answers. But as soon as
we know, you will. I assure you."

It's a smart tactic, I have to admit. Send the community looking for the monster wearing a friendly
face, a face they know and love. Find, capture, and erase me without anyone knowing who had
truly been among them.

"I'm sorry, I haven't seen her. I've never even talked to Harper before."

Alex is lying, too. Lying for me. I asked him to, threatened him to, but it still feels like a victory to
hear it.

The sentry's disappointment is evident, and he tugs a business card from his pocket, handing it
to Alex. "You hear, or see, anything, give us a call."

Alex tucks the card away without a glance and says, “Will do.”

“We want her found, safe and sound,” the sentry says, and my anger burns white and blinding.
If Alex doesn’t shut the door in five seconds, I’ll step out of the shadows and throttle the sentry

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myself, force him to give me the answers I know they have.

“Thanks, son,” the sentry says, reaching out to pat Alex on the shoulder. Alex stays rigid,
unmoving, and the man drops his hand. “Have a good rest of your day.” My conspirator nods
curtly and shuts the door in the man’s face.

He jumps when I slip out of the shadows like he forgot I was there. I gape at him, stunned for
reasons I don't understand.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb. You lied,” I snap.

“Oh, should I have invited him in?”

I narrow my eyes, and his mouth twitches, only feeding my fire. I’m angry, and I don’t know why
I’m angry, and it only makes me angrier.

"You're welcome," he says, and I purse my lips. He heads for the kitchen, and I follow after taking
a deep — very deep — breath. My cup from the night prior is still waiting for me on the counter,
and I take it, the tiny plastic cup a suit of armor.

“Who are you?” Alex asks.

“Isla,” I say. “Isla Batali.”

“You’ve been next door,” he says, “this whole time?”

“This whole time.”

He stares for a long moment before pulling himself up onto the counter, long legs nearly touching
the floor, and tips his head back against the cupboards.

When he says, “Tell me why I shouldn’t call that sentry back and turn you in,” he isn’t looking at
me.

“Because I’d kill you before you get to the phone,” I say glibly.

His chin drops, eyes on mine. “You’re not helping your case,” he snaps. “Explain.”

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 Archer

My instinct is to lie or run, but I don’t. I speak. Because I'm already here, in his house, because he
could have handed me over five minutes ago, but he didn't; because he asked, because as much
as I might hate it, he is all I have right now, and I need him.

“When my mom found out she was pregnant with twins, she knew one of us would be born
Marked, but it was my dad’s idea to keep me. His best friend from when he was a kid, this tech
genius who can hack into anything, Beth, and her partner, Tessa, a nurse at one of the hospitals
in Seattle, helped us,” I say, honesty sticky like honey on my tongue.

Beth and Tessa didn’t just help us—they threw their entire lives into the trash, went their separate
ways after my birth, and since then, I’ve rarely heard their names.

“Beth erased the tracks, and Tessa got me out. And my parents brought Harper home, and they
started the charade. The good neighbors, the ones with nothing to hide.”

I tell him about life underground, about my parents’ precautions and sacrifices, about my sister’s
lies, about everything. Every minute I talk is a minute he isn’t calling the sentries—a minute I,
too, can decide whether I trust him. If I don’t…it’s a bridge I’ll cross if I come to it.

“They kept me hidden for seventeen years,” I say. I’ve never spoken so much in my life, and am
in no way a wordsmith, but Alex doesn’t seem to mind.

He listens, watching me intently, and when I’m finished, he merely says, “I had no idea.”

“That was the point,” I say, crueler than I mean. Alex’s lips pull thin, and I’m sinking under the
weight of Harper and my differences, standing in front of this boy who knows my sister in all her
kind glory, who knows I’m a shell made to hold her bad qualities.

I push off the counter I’m standing against and lean back into it, gripping the edges with white
knuckles. “Katherine Nguyen is Marked.”

Alex stiffens, gaze snapping to mine, disbelieving. “What?”

“She’s Marked. I saw, when they took the Nguyen’s.”

“How is that possible?”

“They hid the Mark.” Lifting my left wrist, turning it out so Alex can see the Mark, I wiggle my
arm. He leans forward, interested, and it occurs to me he’s never seen one up close before. The
rest of us are — supposed to be, at least — in camps. Then again, here I was. Here Katherine had
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been.

His eyes sweep over the oval-shaped Mark, dark and raised slightly like a scar, unbroken save
for the wrinkled scar at the center; made by me. It is over an inch in diameter, but it categorizes
me as evil.

“How is that possible?” He repeats.

I wave at myself. “You didn’t think I was possible.”

"That…it doesn't make any sense," he says. After eighteen years being told the monsters are
locked in cages, it can't be easy finding yourself standing across the kitchen from one, to find out
you grew up on the same block as two.

"Mr. Nguyen is dead, too," I say. "They killed him." His body, sprawled awkwardly on the grass,
his unseeing eyes, rolling through my head like film credits. I taste bile and swallow hard.

I hear Alex slide off the counter, and when he touches my arm, gently, I flinch away violently,
meeting his gaze with a guarded expression. He is calm, too calm, and little alarm bells ring in
my head. The counter pins me when I step back, and I’m trapped, powerless, stuck in this room.

My hands fly up to his shoulders, and I shove, not hard enough to hurt but enough to show I can,
until he bumps into the island. The fear from earlier rears its ugly head, and he is wide-eyed and
tight-jawed. I don't relent my vice grip on his shoulders, and he doesn't try to move away. He
licks his lips, gaze dropping to my hands and back up, breath coming in short puffs.

“What is stopping you from marching me outside and calling that sentry back? How do I know
it wasn’t you who called in the first place?” Ice collects on my words, thicker and sharper with
each question, and Alex’s strained swallows and heaving chest indicate success, but I don’t stop.
His fear might be the only thing keeping me out of a cage. “Though I can’t see how that would
work out for you. You’ve been harboring a fugitive—“ His word, and he flinches at it. “—for over
twelve hours. Think they’ll forgive you that easily?”

I doubt Alex is capable of such manipulation. I know he isn’t at fault here, but the wolf slumbering
in my skin stretches its maws and yearns to snap. Maybe I am more monster than human, but
maybe only a monster could have made it past Harper’s window. Maybe the only way to survive
the way I am is to be the thing they’ve always told me I was.

Part of me, a part shrouded in shame, enjoys it, revels in this power and domination. “We both

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know they’re not the forgiving type. But you’re not stupid, are you, Morales?”

He shrugs my hands off, the movement forcing me back a step.

“Stupid enough to lie to a sentry for you,” he says, “but not stupid enough to trust them.”

Them, the word spat with venom—hatred for the sentries doesn’t reside solely with those of us
who have something to hide.

“Why did you lie?” I ask, leaning back like I didn’t slam him into the counter. He recovers quickly,
palms pressed to the countertop, though he remains hesitant.

"I was Split, like you. But my…brother was Marked." The word is unfamiliar to him; most couples
have one child — if they have one at all, and many don't — and those who birth a Split pair are
far less likely to try for more. My mother, a rare exception, has an older sister, both born as single
births. My aunt Danielle, whom Harper hasn't even met, lives an hour north of us, but my parents
and sister only leave town when absolutely necessary, and never made the trek.

“I know.”

“How?”

According to my dad, half the houses the sentries sweep had Marked babies come out of them,
and the others are for cover—the Morales’, not for cover.

I don’t reply, shrugging, and Alex looks irritated for a moment before saying, “They didn’t find
anything. Just tossed stuff around a bit.”

Most of what I know of the world comes from books and movies and the few channels my TV
downstairs picks up. The news tells me day after day I am empty, evil through and through.
Books write my kind as the scary creatures hiding under the bed. Movies practically give me
fangs. And yet, despite my show of force a few minutes prior, Alex doesn't look afraid anymore.
Hesitant, sure, but not afraid.

My anger falls away, and as if sensing the change, Alex's shoulders sink, and he catches my eyes.

“What happened to Harper?”

Suspicion throws my walls back up. I narrow my eyes and ask, “What’s it to you?”

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He gives an exasperated sigh. “I thought she was safe here, but it turns out I was hiding her
Marked—“ He speaks the word like it’s an enigma, same as vampire of zombie. “—sister, and
now I’m screwed, and Harper is who knows where.”

“Watch it,” I snap. “She’s my sister.”

“And she’s my friend,” he says, scowling. “How do you know they didn’t take her instead?”

Giving a humorless laugh, I give my left arm a shake. “You do understand the difference between
unMarked and Marked, right? There’s a Mark.”

"Thanks for clarifying," he says sarcastically. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep
breath. "Do you have some…plan here? Other than breaking into house after house?"

“You left the door unlocked.” Ignoring the disgruntled noise he makes, I continue, “I’m going
after my sister.”

“You,” he says evenly.

“Got a problem with that?”

"No, but you will. You won't make it a mile. You can't just…" Alex shrugs, shaking his head. "Set
off after her. You don't know where she is, and the entire state is looking for you by now."

“I’m aware of that,” I say. “I have friends out there. I just have to find them.”

He frowns. “Your parents’ friends?”

I'm too busy sorting through the turning gears in my head to respond. At home, I didn't often
wander into my dad's study, but as a kid, I'd explored everything before piano and training
pulled my attention. I remember a black leather-bound notebook, and my father, bent over his
desk scribbling in it. I'd stretched up on too-short legs to see over the tall desk, and at my peeking,
my father smiled, lifting the book so I could see. He tapped his pen against the page, the letters B
& T written in the margins, what might have been a fragment of an address beneath it, and a
symbol I can no longer recall inked into it, and said, "Just in case we ever need to find our way
home."

"They helped me before. They'll help me now." I leave out, “I hope.” He didn't need to see my
doubts—he had enough for himself.

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“How are you planning on getting there?”

I frown, having purposefully avoided this aspect of my plan. My silence, and the glance in the
direction of my driveway, where Harper’s car is still parked, is answer enough for Alex.

“Did you have driving lessons in your basement, then?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“And when you get pulled over?”

Shrugging noncommittally, I look away, figuring it more preferable than alternate methods of
stopping this line of questioning.

He is quiet for a long time before he speaks again. "I'm coming with you."

“Like hell you are,” I say, straightening.

“You can’t go by yourself. Do you want me to call that sentry back and ask if he will give you a
lift?” He asks.

My expression stays even, years of concealment coming in handy, but on the inside, panic and
frustration battle for dominance. “You’re not coming with me.”

“It’s not your choice to make,” he says. He adds, “She’s my friend, too.”

“I tell you my parents were arrested, my sister is missing, and you want to throw your hat into
the ring? They killed Mr. Nguyen. They erased Katherine and her mom. You have some death wish
I need to know about?" The tone isn't any colder than I've already used, but his jaw tightens like
I slapped him.

“You can’t drive, and you’ll get pulled over in five seconds. When you do, they’ll put you in a
camp, and you won’t find Harper,” he says. His logic is solid, but I hate it anyway, hate how he’s
putting me and himself in this situation.

“Why?” I ask. “You know what happens if you leave.”

“I know,” he says, exhaling softly. “But if Harper needs help…”

“You won’t see your family again. Or your friends. Anyone. You understand that? That’s what
you’re giving up. Think about it. It’s not worth it.”
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Alex looks to the speckled tile floor, as if searching for answers in the indiscriminate patterns,
and I count ten breaths before he lifts his gaze to mine.

“I saw you, you know,” he says. “I didn’t know it was you, but I saw you looking through the
window, and the day they took Mrs. Nguyen. I saw you,” he says.

My stomach, ever the traitor, flips, and I let my arms fall to my sides. The Mark is visible from
this angle, but Alex doesn’t look down.

“If we do this, we need the address. My dad has it written down in a book in his office.”

Alex curses, his expression souring, objection building. I cut him off.

“We have to go back to my house.”

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CHAPTER FIVE — ISLA

“Are you even sure the address is in your father’s journal?” Alex asks, stumbling out of the
bathroom in dark jeans and a black hoodie, balancing on one leg as he jams a foot into a sneaker.
With the dark leggings I came in and one of Alex’s dark jackets, I feel like a bank robber from an
old movie, sans the black mask.

The disguises may not be necessary, and the streets will likely be empty after the events of the
last day, but stepping out in neon is not an option, even if we are only crossing the space between
two houses. The fewer people who see us, the better, and if they do, we will be forgettable.

“Long as Beth and Tessa didn’t up and move between when I saw the address and now, yes. It’s
in there. We find them, they help us find Harper.” I kept the other half of the statement lodged in
my teeth: and if they don't help, I go alone.

“When was the last patrol?”

Throughout the day, sentry vehicles have rounded the block, slowing as they passed the Batali
home. More frequent in the morning, the time between drive-bys increases as the day draws
toward a close. Alex seems appeased by the slow down, and while I don't want to burst his
bubble, I doubt we’re lucky—but we don’t have to be lucky; we have to be fast.

“At nine. Every half hour, now,” I say.

“Is that long enough?”

I shrug and say, “It has to be. We’ve wasted enough time.”

“Cross your fingers,” Alex says, holding up his hand, his middle finger curled around his pointer.
At my dumbfounded expression, he explains, “Think of it like...wishing yourself luck.”

“Oh,” I say. “Then, cross your fingers, too.”

He laughs, and the sound is so out of place — my world is ashes, and he’s laughing — it takes
everything in me not to snap at him. Instead, I narrow my eyes, unamused.

“Lo siento,” he says. “Forgot you grew up under a rock.”

Unimpressed, I roll my eyes at him, but a big goofy grin lingers on his lips.

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Two can play at this game.

Arms crossed, chest puffed, chin high, I say, “If someone comes while we’re in there, you have to
go.” There is no room for discussion in my tone, but Alex clearly has a protest building. “There’s
no point in both of us getting caught.”

Alex, halfway through tying his shoes, pauses mid-loop and lifts his eyes to mine. “No one is
going to come.”

The conviction in his tone is impressive, though unfounded and misplaced. It almost feels more
for him than for me. I envy the optimism, but optimism doesn’t keep people alive, and it surely
won’t do me any good.

Regret pricks inside me, and I wonder for the hundredth time in the last day if I should have seen
the Morales' door and kept running—if I'm ruining more lives than are already broken. But we
are already here, and even if he doesn't realize it, Alex is already solidified as a traitor in the
world's eyes. Like I am.

“Oh, they told you that?” I retort.

He rolls his eyes, a frown making a home on his face—it’s off-putting, and I miss his infuriating
grin.

“No one is going to come,” he says again.

“If they do,” I amend.

“They won’t,” he says. “And even if they do, I’m not just…ditching you.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but a stupid one, and I don’t have time to feel flattered he doesn’t want to
cut and run.

I prop a hand on my hip and stare at him icily—I don’t have to pretend to be Harper anymore,
and now, I am all Isla. For better or worse; likely worse.

“If they see you, we all go down. You, me, your mother, my sister. Everyone. So, don’t be an idiot,
okay? We don’t need any heroes.” It isn’t a request, and his defeated hunch means he knows it.

“Are you serious?”

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“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Do you joke?”

The retort almost makes me smile, but I’ll be damned if I actually do. Instead, I wait, letting the
silence fester until Alex relents, huffing indignantly and throwing up his hands in surrender.

“Fine. Okay. I promise to ditch you at the first sign of trouble.”

“Good.” I ignore his sarcastic tone. I don’t need him happy with me; I need him alive. Even if he
hates me for it.

The neighborhood is dark as we slip out the back door, the only illumination coming from street-
lamps on the other side of the houses, too far to shed their light on us. With no fences surrounding
the yards, the grass stretches together and back through the thick expanse of trees beyond the
houses, foreboding and yet somehow more appealing than the house I grew up in.

Alex is practically pressed against my back as we make our way across the yard to the invisible
line marking the property line and past it. The back porch light is off, and when I reach for the
door handle, it turns—unlocked. An alarm bell sounds in my head, but I'm so close to freedom
and my sister I can taste it, and Alex is teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic behind me. I
don't have room for panic.

“That’s a good sign,” Alex muses softly, his breath tickling my ear. I scratch at it and ignore him.

We slip silently into the house, Alex tugging the door closed to a crack behind us. Though I spent
seventeen years in this house, I'm creeping through the room and edging around the furniture. I
stop in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding a hand up. Alex bumps into me and steps
back.

“Stay,” I instruct, pointing to the front window, and he nods, heading for the curtain past the
table my family and I ate dinner at a few nights ago. The kitchen is a mess, the appliances
upturned and chairs on their sides and drawers yanked open.

Alex has his attention on the front yard and the street visible through the window, doing as he
should while I do the opposite, staring agape at my basement door. The wood is hanging on its
hinges, and the cabinet that hid the door for so long is a sea of shards in front of it.

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The urge to run downstairs and curl up beneath the covers is near irresistible, as if doing so will
give me one more moment of the captivity I’ve so long resented. After years of banging on my
cage, all I want is more time inside. My walls kept me in, but they kept me safe, too, and now I
am loose and lost.

The house is empty and hollow, like it never housed a family at all. My childhood, the only world
I’ve ever known, is littered across the tile, and all that’s left is this mess of bones in the dark.

I force myself to move, picking precariously across the ruined kitchen to the hallway leading to
the stairs, making a psst noise when I reach the doorway. When Alex looks my way, I jerk a chin
toward the dark entryway.

“Office is upstairs. Don’t move.” I slip through the doorway and to the stairs, taking them two at
a time. Upstairs, the hallway holds three doors: Harper’s bedroom, my dad’s office, and the
bathroom. I drag myself past my sister’s room, nudging open the office door and stepping inside.

It is similar to the kitchen, papers and folders, and books scattered across the floor. Inching
around the wreckage, I kneel to scan for the notebook, cursing the darkness but not daring to turn
a light on.

I find everything but what I need. Letting out a groan of frustration, I kick the pile of books nearest
my feet, raking a hand through my hair.

It has to be here. It has to be. If it’s not…

I can’t afford to think about what happens if the notebook isn’t here.

Leaning down to push more papers out of the way, I scan once more for the black notebook
containing the only chance I have. An upturned desk drawer near one wall catches my eye, and
I lunge to push it over, revealing the contents beneath.

A calendar from the year Harper and I were born, some bills, an old wallet, and beneath it all, a
small, black, leather-bound book. I grab it and flip quickly through the pages, stopping at the one
I briefly glimpsed all those years ago. Relief surges through me, but it's short-lived.

Etched in my dad’s chicken scrawl reads: B & T, a phrase too scratched out to read, and the words
Marietta Alderwood in a different ink, like it was added later. And beneath it, a simple black
drawing, resembling a setting — or rising — sun, with five little lines poking out of the circle’s
edges.

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Nonsense. This notebook, this thing I've risked my — and Alex's — life for, is nonsense. Anger
snaps to life inside me, and a scream is building in my throat when the floor creaks in the hallway
outside the office. I push to my feet and jam the small notebook into the pocket of my hoodie.

“What part of don’t move did you not-“ My words die on my tongue as a sentry comes through
the door. The uniform derails me, and I can’t think, can’t move, can barely breathe.

How did a sentry make it all the way up here without Alex noticing? Unless, of course, he did
notice.

An image of Alex on my kitchen floor, surrounded by blood, flickers behind my lids, and I force
it away, scanning the office for a means of escape. The window is locked, but jumping would
draw too much attention anyway, and the sentry is blocking the door, removing the other option.

He stares me up and down, squinting in the dimness. “What are you doing here?” He grumbles.
He must not have seen my face—if he had, this conversation would have started differently.

Knowing I won't get another, I take the advantage and rush him, plowing into the large man and
throwing him off balance. My shove is intended to send him careening into the wall so I can dart
past to safety, but he grabs for me at the last second, dragging me down with him.

We crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, my heart beating a mile a minute and my blood singing
with adrenaline. I scramble off the sentry and onto my feet, and the man is seconds behind me,
up and swinging.

With all of my energy poured into not getting hit, I duck his first swing. There is no time to think
of a plan, no way to gauge my surroundings or my opponent's strengths. This isn't sparring with
my father, and not a single punch will be pulled. There is simply a dark room and the man
standing between me and freedom.

My father’s roll like film credits through my head: go for the jaw, the diaphragm, the nose. Don’t
get trapped. Never take your eye off your enemy. Keep facing front. Above all: stay on your feet.

But it doesn’t matter how prepared I might be—this man has a hundred pounds and half a foot
on me, along with real training and the weapons to back it up. He throws himself into every
swing; he has nothing to lose, and I have everything.

I duck his first two hits only to be caught on the mouth on the third, the momentum sending me
staggering back, but the sentry doesn’t let me fall, grabbing me by the shoulders and roughly

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shoving me down. My spine slams into the floor and the jewels on a ring glint before they smash
into my face.

Sharp, stinging pain erupts in my nose, joining forces with the throbbing in my lip. Copper lines
my mouth, though I’m unsure whether it originated there or dripped down in.

The sentry’s fist finds purchase again, and stars dance in my vision. I thrash beneath him like a
fish, resisting the urge to scream for help. There is no one to call for, and anyone who does come
will not help me.

My thoughts are slippery as pain burns me from the inside out, fear filling any leftover space.
The notebook. The notebook is in my jacket pocket—I just have to reach the door.

It seems so impossible, so far away, with the sentry’s weight pinning my squirming body to the
ground. His knees are heavy against my forearms, and his pressure on my chest only sparks more
panic.

"Couldn't stay away from your cave?" The man snarls. He knows me now; that much is clear. He
bends down, face in mine, rasping breaths pushing acrid air into my nose. His hair is long and
black, tucked into a ponytail, greasy escaped strands brushing against my face. Biting and pulling
on it is considered only until I realize I'll only knock his skull into mine, and another hit will tear
me from the consciousness keeping me free.

I thrash again, trying in vain to roll onto my stomach and wiggle out from beneath him, but he
pushes me harder against the floor.

"We'll get a nice little cage for you, don't worry," he hisses, reaching for the walkie-talkie pinned
to his belt. Fear busts forth and I kick, aiming for the back of his head, succeeding only in pissing
him off. His nostrils flare and his hand stills in its reach.

My options are few, and none of them good. Keep fighting, keep getting the crap beat out of me,
keep the sentry from calling for help. Give up, be taken, hope they’ll spare Alex if he isn’t dead
already.

Alex, whose only crime is being kind to a stranger who manipulated him into it.

No. Alex isn’t being dragged from this house in cuffs, and neither am I.

Rearing back, I gather a wad of spit and shoot it right into the sentry's eye. He lurches back,

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clawing at his face as if my saliva is poisonous. A laugh bubbles out of me, the sound mangled
and cracked, the amusement edged with adrenaline and something like madness.

It isn’t me with everything to lose—I’ve already lost it all. My parents are — likely always will be
— in prison, my sister is who knows where, and for all I know, Alex is dead. There is no one left
to save me, if there ever was.

The man climbs to his feet, features contorted with rage, and I jump up, shaking off the fog in my
head and struggling to catch my balance.

“Your moves are all over your face. You lose your advantage when they see you coming,” my dad’s voice
reminds me.

Time slows, calm enveloping me like a blanket. I take in my surroundings: a dark office littered
with things to trip over, and a seriously angry sentry. There are precisely two ways it can go—I
survive this, or I don’t. Being taken alive isn’t an option; the camps aren’t an option.

So, these are the choices. Die or don't. The fear evaporates, and my scattered thoughts rush to
order. I have no intention of dying here.

An item I kicked aside earlier catches the moonlight streaming in through the window: a soccer
trophy of Harper's. Made of metal, with a thick square base, not too bulky but heavy enough.

The sentry is opposite me, staggering up and straightening, and I take him in the way I was
taught—I observe like I've always done. Blood streams from his nose, and he favors his left leg.
I've snuck in a few punches, but it was the fall that hurt him. His balance is off, and he isn't getting
it back.

Keeping my eye on the sentry, I fake a lean into the desk and duck at the last second to grab the
trophy from its fallen position and lunging for him. The collision knocks him further off-kilter,
and I swing the award when his left leg buckles. It makes a sickening squelch when it smashes
into his skull, and it is out of my hands the instant it serves his purpose. Blood shines on the
metal, and nausea rolls through me.

As much as my mind screams for me to get as far from this room — from the body — as my legs
will carry me, the sentry is a loose end I can’t afford. Hesitant, I kneel beside him and reach out
to find a pulse. Feeling nothing, I bend my ear to his chest, his heart quiet and still.

Dead. He is dead, and I killed him, and if I wasn’t a target now, I’ve thrown myself into the

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spotlight.

The question I have stomped beneath my feet for seventeen years nudges the surface and asks if
they were right about me. If they were right about all of us.

I'm so out of time it's miraculous I'm still standing, and though I'm shaky and dizzy and blinking
past darkness, I force myself to stand and double-check the notebook's safety in my pocket.
Picking around the clutter, heartbeat thundering in my ears, I find the stairs and expect to see a
collection of sentries or another body at the base.

Instead, there is Alex, regaining consciousness on the floor, a bruise already forming on his right
temple. I was so convinced he was dead, it’s disorienting to see him, but the relief flushing me
with warmth is more disorienting than anything.

I didn’t realize how badly I needed him to be okay until I thought I’d found him, and he wasn’t.

Alex groans, touching his head gently, wincing and tugging his hand away with a hiss of pain.
He flinches at the sound of my descent but relaxes at the sight of me. Before he can do something
dumb like stand, I crouch in front of him, tipping his chin up with two fingers to get a gauge of
any more injuries.

“Alex,” I breathe, and he seems taken aback by the use of his first name. Fortunately for me, the
circumstances are pressing enough to shake him back to plain old fear.

“What happened? Where is the—"

“It’s over,” I say.

“Isla, he—"

“I said, it’s over.”

“What does that mean?” He asks, exasperated, afraid, frazzled, hurt, and all by my hands or
because of them.

“He’s dead,” I snap.

“What? What do you mean he’s…” He trails off, gaze shifting to take in my injuries, concern
weaving into his expression. “Jesus. Isla—"

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“You have your car keys?”

“Yes.” He frowns. “But Isla, your face—"

“Good. We don’t have time to go back.”

“But—"

"Do you want to talk about this now, or do you want to get the hell out of here?" It isn't a question,
and Alex shuts his mouth, though I imagine I'll hear whatever he's thinking soon enough. He
talks more than anyone I've ever met, which isn't many, to his defense.

“Did you get it?” he asks.

“Of course I got it," I say, trying out a half-smile, and it seems to relax him, if only a little bit. "We
have to go."

He stares at me for a long moment, and I get the sense the words—the reality—is hanging just
out of his reach. There is a word for this. Shock.

He doesn’t argue or press any further and follows me out of the house and around the front, a
man without a mission unless I’m telling him where to go.

Our desires to go undetected have been deserted, and we race across the yard, piling into Alex’s
jeep in his driveway. Despite leaving his entire life behind, Alex doesn’t look back or hesitate as
he pulls out of the driveway. Curfew fell hours ago, and our only chance of survival is vigilance
and finding a place to hide, but I still find myself staring out the back window as we drive away.

Away from the only world I have ever known.

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CHAPTER SIX — ISLA

Our only destination as we speed out of the neighborhood and onto the freeway is away, and the
car stays silent for an hour as Alex maneuvers us out of the public eye. We stick to back roads,
headlights dimmed, and the sentries’ clear belief no one would be stupid enough to break curfew,
certainly not by driving, keeps the streets clear.

He pulls into the lot of a seedy motel past one AM, its VACANCY lights blinking. Weeds stretch
through the cracks in the concrete, and grease-stained litter from burger joints skips across the
pockmarked asphalt. The Red Light Motel is neither new nor nice, and external stairs jut up to a
second floor lined with a row of doors, the outdoor walkways lined with more flickering yellow
lights.

“What are you doing?” I ask. Alex parks before gesturing to my blood-crusted face—the napkins
in his glove box hadn’t done the job, and I can’t imagine what a mess it is, what a mess I am.

“You look like something out of a horror movie.” He swallows, and the movement seems a strain.
“My head is killing me. I doubt either of us wants me passing out on the highway.”

“How can you get a room? Curfew fell hours ago.”

An amused smile tugs on his lips, one that makes me feel stupid for reasons I don’t understand.

“Not everyone who’s unMarked is a good person, Isla,” he says, “and cash is more important
than morality.”

I frown, too tired to unpack his words. A night of rest is more appealing than I care to admit, but
stopping feels like a betrayal. If Harper were in danger or hurt, I’d like to think I’d know it — feel
my world tilt in its balance — but I’m learning I don’t know anything at all, about anything,
certainly not anything that matters.

The sentries are a looming presence, and while I’m not convinced they aren’t minutes behind us,
Alex is right. My head and heart throb to the same tune, and my mouth tastes like copper. I’m all
used-up, and Alex can’t feel much better.

“Fine,” I say.

He’s digging his wallet out of his pocket and undoing his seatbelt in an instant. “I’ll be right
back.” He flashes me a grin, and I’m too bewildered to move as he pops the door open and says,

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“Think you can stay conscious while I’m gone?”

At my withering glare, he hops out and heads for the main office, leaving me to simmer in my
impatience as he pays for a room and returns an agonizing three minutes later with a key.
Tugging the dark hood of Alex’s jacket over my head, I duck my head, grateful the fabric hides
the blood splattering my torso.

Pulling a red box and his duffel bag from the backseat, Alex leads me hastily — as hastily as we
can — up the stairs and down the walkway, stopping at room 209. He doesn’t mention how long
it took me to get up the flight, nor does he comment on how hard I’m breathing, and I decide he
isn’t completely disagreeable.

He unlocks and pushes open the door, elbowing the light switch and locking the door behind us.
The room is small, the furniture aged, but I'd take a balled-up tee shirt for a pillow and the grimy
carpet right now.

Alex sits down on the bed in the center of the room, setting the box beside him and popping it
open: a first aid kit. He pauses, a silent request, and I drop down next to him. The scent of alcohol
burns my nostrils as he rips open a wet piece of folded gauze and lifts it toward me. My fingers
lock around his wrist and still his hand midair, and he tries to pull it back, something akin to
amusement playing on his face.

"Can I clean it out?" He asks. I'm searching his face for any trace of bad intentions, any reason not
to trust him, and as hard as I try, I can't find anything. I've been looking since I stepped into his
living room, and I still can't. I release his wrist, and he uses the other hand to gently turn my head
in his direction, fingers cool and cautious on my skin.

I'm not new to injuries, and have taken my fair share of hits, but I've never hurt like this, never
hurt this badly. Every breath is a marathon. My hand finds my eyebrow, the source of the most
pain, and I'm rewarded for my curiosity with a sharp rush of heat. I pull back my hand, frowning
at the blood on my fingertips.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Alex says, looking far too amused, once again. Out of habit, I bite down on
my lip, awakening the cut, metal filling my mouth. With a groan I push to my feet, leaning over
to drag the small trash can from beside the desk in front of me. I drop back onto the mattress and
spit a gob of blood into the can.

“Charming.” He hands me a tissue to wipe my mouth, and I take it, dabbing at my lip. “You need

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stitches,” he continues, inspecting the cut above my eye, “but a hospital is out of the question.”

A laugh bubbles up and out of me, a twisted, broken sound. It isn’t funny, nothing is funny, but
if I don’t laugh, I think I’ll scream, and if I start screaming, I’ll never stop.

“How hard did you hit your head?” he asks, studying me.

My heartbeat is an audible thrum, pounding against my throbbing skull. The attention only
intensifies the pain, and I turn it to Alex, in better shape than I am, if not wary and weary. “You’re
sure you’re not hurt?”

“No,” he says, “Just you. Stop moving.”

I shift closer, tilting my head to give him a better view of the cut.

"Hold this to your head," he says. He hands me a dry piece of gauze, and I lift it, pressing it hard
to the cut. Pain lances across my brow but ebbs under the pressure, and a shaky breath tears
through gritted teeth.

"Your lip is busted, too." Alex brings the wet gauze to my mouth, my bottom lip split and swollen,
and I swallow curses as it burns through me. He dabs carefully at my lip, dark brows furrowed
in concentration. I study the long lashes brushing his cheeks, his amber eyes and unkempt curls,
the way he clenches his jaw with each of my involuntary winces, as if my pain is somehow his
own.

I’ve been staring at him for years, but I’ve never truly seen him before. Beautiful. He’s beautiful.
The word is warm and velvety, buzzing around my head.

“I believe you have a concussion,” he says, voice strained, “but thank you.”

The words hadn’t been spoken intentionally, but I can’t find it in me to care, not with my head
full of cotton and my thoughts scattered. All I’ve stomped down to survive the last day is choking
me, and for a minute, only a minute, I want to sit, and be taken care of, and be weak and selfish.

Alex swipes blood from my chin, catching a cut I hadn’t noticed, and I flinch.

“Sorry,” he says, setting the gauze aside. He nudges my fingers away from the cloth over my eye,
depositing the bloody bandage on top of the first, unwrapping another piece of alcohol-soaked
gauze and warning, “This is going to hurt,” before lifting it to my brow.

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And it does hurt, hurts like hell, but it isn’t the worst I’ve faced over the last day, and I’m not
going to break now. I clench my teeth and dig my nails into my palm as he goes through two
more pieces of gauze and tapes a clean piece of dressing over my brow.

"The only thing you can do for the concussion is get some rest. You’re still conscious, which is a
good sign. Your lip will be swollen for a day or two. And you're going to have a black eye for a
few weeks, and a wicked scar," he says, gesturing to my eye. The sentry had been wearing a ring;
not a wedding band, but one with a big, colorful stone set in the middle. Big and sharp and bound
to leave a mark.

For all the years I’ve spent differentiating myself from Harper — letting my hair grow as she
chopped hers, asking for things I knew she wouldn’t wear — and all I needed was to get hit in
the face, hard.

“You’re good at this,” I say, nodding to the first aid kit. He looks away, suddenly interested in
gathering the gauze into a little pile. He dumps it into the trash, and looks anywhere but at me.

“You’re not going to tell me how you learned all this, are you?” I ask.

One side of his mouth twitches. “You should understand. Secrets are your thing, no?”

Only a day since Alex found me trespassing in his living room—since he risked his life for a
stranger because I had a friendly face. I wonder if he regrets it yet, sitting here on a bed in a motel
room in the middle of nowhere, hands stained with my blood.

He bends over to toss another piece of gauze into the bin, a sliver of his shirt riding up, a line of
thin, precise white lines snaking across his hip bones. Little scars, too carefully made to be
accidental. I stretch a hand out without thinking, and Alex freezes, half bent over the bin, gold
eyes on mine. My fingers trace the line of the scar closest to his hip, and he shivers. I sit back, and
Alex straightens, his shirt falling and the tips of his cheeks a deep red.

“I’m sorry—" I say, tone clipped, heat crawling up my neck.

“It’s fine,” he says. He clears his throat, as desperate for a change of subject as I am, though the
one he chooses is equally bad. “How are you? Otherwise?”

“Fine.” The answer is automatic, thoughtless—convincing others of my contentedness is a skill

because I had to make it one.

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“Right,” Alex says, seeing through the lie like it’s rigged with flashing lights. “So, how are you?”

I press my swollen lips together and look at him, this boy I watched through the windowpanes.
He’s different up close, where I can see all the pieces.

The three people in this world I trust, the only ones I've ever known, are gone, might always be
gone. The only thing left is Alex, and the habit of distrust is hard to break, but the cards are falling,
and he is the only thing still standing. Him, and me.

“If it wasn’t a manhunt before, it will be now,” I say, not the answer he wants, but an answer
nonetheless. “I killed their man. They won’t let that go.”

“You didn’t have a choice.” He pauses. “Did you?”

“No,” I snap, because I can’t fathom it might not be true.

He licks his lips and I think he might ask me how I am again, might push me until I open—I don't
give him a chance. Gesturing to the blooming bruise on his temple, I ask, "You okay?"

“Okay enough,” he says, and when I smile, it surprises us both.

“You didn’t get punched in the face. Repeatedly,” I say, hoping to earn another smile out of him.
Instead, his gaze drops to his wrists, still painted with my blood.

"I'm sorry. He must have been inside already. He came up behind me and I—"

“Shut up, Morales,” I say. “It wasn’t your fault,” I add, gentler.

“But I could have—"

“Stop.” He stops. “You couldn’t have, and we don’t have time for blame even if you could.”

He nods, eyes faraway, and he reaches behind us to grab the journal I deposited on the bed,
flipping through the pages until he lands on one with the indeterminate address scrawled on it.

“B & T, Marietta,” he says, brows knitted. He leans forward to inspect the page. “The hell does
that mean? And what’s this drawing?”

“You tell me,” I say. “I grew up under the rock.”

He snorts a laugh but doesn’t tear his eyes from the notebook. The gears are turning in his head,

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and seeing as the words are gibberish to me, I don’t interrupt him, kicking myself internally for
never glancing at a map in my seventeen years of life.

“B & T is Beth and Tessa, obviously,” he says, thinking aloud. “But Marietta…It sounds like a
name, maybe, but…I don’t…” He trails off, tugging absently at his earlobe. I’d contribute if I
could, but my skill set is of no use here.

Longing for my sister is a heavy ache; Harper might not know what to do, but she would take
my hand and squeeze it and tell me it would all be okay, even if it wouldn’t.

“Marietta Alderwood. It’s a town a few hours from the border. But…it’s abandoned. Everything
north of Seattle is,” he says suddenly.

“Abandoned?”

“Ghost towns. The unauthorized zones. Off-limits.”

Panic threatens to overwhelm me, and I shove it down, forcing my voice to remain even.
“Fantastic.”

Alex stands, pushes away from the bed, paces slowly in front of me with folded arms. “You’re
sure the address is right?”

“Do I look like I have more information than you?” I retort. At his frown, I relent, “Even if it is
wrong, we don’t have a choice. There’s nowhere else to go.”

“And no directions other than Marietta and that weird drawing,” he says. “What could go
wrong?”

I snort a laugh, and Alex's lips pull thin, like I've done a front flip in front of him.

"Did you see what happened to Harper?" He asks, the hope in his eyes sending pangs through
me, the longing for my sister a tangible weight. In seventeen years, Harper and I have never spent
more than a few nights apart from her. While this isn't the longest stretch, the circumstances
elevate the already-high stakes. The last I saw of her was through a window before I descended
the flimsy ladder, and the fear in her eyes had turned my stomach. I'd wanted to climb back
through the window and put myself between Harper and those who wanted to hurt her, but I
hadn't—I ran away.

“No,” I say. “I’m guessing they tossed her in jail alongside my parents.”
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Alex shakes his head, and says, “She’s not eighteen. They won’t put her in jail. Not if she’s Split.
The unMarked are like…” He pauses, as if searching for the word. “Royalty. The best of us." The
lines are parroted, but despite Alex's status as unMarked, his words drip with disdain.

"Where is she, then?" I ask, my patience wearing thin.

“If you have any family, they send them there. If not an orphanage or halfway house. Do you
have family anywhere?”

Danielle Campbell, my mother’s sister, is only a few years older than my mom, but I heard next
to nothing of her growing up, and only knew she existed after finding the photo in my mom’s
dresser during one of many snooping sessions in my childhood. The word aunt doesn’t fit—
Danielle has no clue I was still alive, let alone living beneath the floor. If she had, the likelihood
of her turning me in was too great to risk, and a person so quick to betray their own wasn’t
deserving of the title of family. Danielle was a woman my mother grew up with, and nothing
more.

“My mom’s sister.”

“Do you know where she is?”

I shoot him a withering look, and he says, "Right. The rock."

“We have to find Beth and Tessa before we do anything else,” I say, the taste of betrayal blooming
on my tongue. Giving up on my sister is not in the cards, but anything other than a direct line to
her feels like it.

Sometimes, I swear I can feel it inside me, the Marked parts, the dark parts, pieces of me urging
recklessness and cruelty and rebellion. Like a perpetual game of tug-of-war, I shove back my
instinct to run, to run and find my sister whatever the cost.

But the consequences are no longer mine alone. Alex is strapped to this canon, and if I shoot it,
he detonates, too. If I can find Beth and Tessa, leave him somewhere safe, I can find her. I can
keep everyone else out of my blast zone.

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CHAPTER SEVEN — ISLA

Curfew, along with mine and Alex’s possible concussions, forces a night of rest I’m relieved to
have—I don’t know what we’ll find when we venture on, and this might be the last night of peace
for a long time.

I stir sometime around nine, and my flipping on of the bathroom light earns a groan and the
stuffing of a pillow over Alex’s face. With a smile he can’t see, I yank open the curtains and let
light flood the room; I don’t need to speak Spanish to understand I’m being cursed out. I make a
mental note to ask him to teach me.

We’re out of the motel before noon, Alex halfway back to consciousness with mussed curls and
bags beneath his eyes as he chokes down the crappy coffee he found checking out.

As we drive, my attention jumps between the road ahead and the towns we go through. Every
mile or so, a billboard stands tall and large with a photo from inside Haven Rehabilitation Facility,
the home of Governor Wu's son. The subject of the photos, a teen boy with the Governor's eyes,
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positioned in awkward spots—him sitting at a table in a cafeteria with a plastic smile, him in front
of a bunk bed, him in a medical lab having blood drawn from his arm.

His expression is empty, and his eyes are vacant, and by the third billboard proclaiming 'THE
CAMPS = THE CURE," I'm queasy.

“Is it always him?” I ask after the sixth billboard. Alex flicks a look as we pass.

“Usually, yeah,” he says. “The Governor’s kid. I barely notice them anymore.”

I'm not sure what to say to that or what to say in general — my default, it would appear — and
hold my tongue. Luckily, Alex is distracted enough on his own to get sidetracked.

As the caffeine he chugs down rouses him, the confidence he possessed the night prior dissipates,
and the fingers closest to me tap erratically against his black jeans, and he has the steering wheel
clutched in an iron grip with the other hand. Without thinking, I reach out to flatten his hand
with mine. He pauses, glancing my way, and I pull my hand away, sitting back as if I never
touched him at all.

“You moved in when I was 8, and you were, what, 9, right?” I ask. He nods.

“After my dad’s accident,” he says. “Yeah. We were up north a bit, near my grandma, but my
mom wanted a fresh start.” He snorts. “Hell of a fresh start.”

“Probably would have gone better if you didn’t move in next door to us.”

He laughs, bitter and empty. “I doubt it.”

"Tell me about my sister," I instruct, half to distract him from his infectious anxiety and half
because I genuinely want to know.

A beat passes before understanding dawns in his eyes, and a nostalgic smile plays on his lips.

"You already know everything," he says, a crappy evasion attempt. "She's your sister."

“Exactly.” He’s unsure where I’m going with this, gauging from the frequent darting glances my
way, but I don’t know where I’m going with this, either. “She’s my sister. Why do you care what
happens to her?”

His surprise is impossible to miss, and guilt twinges inside me. I have spent so long fighting

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against what everyone has told me I am, but I default to cruelty each time I open my mouth and
prove everyone right.

“Harper and I met playing soccer, like, seven years ago,” he says, “but we used to sneak out after
curfew. It started when we were...fourteen, maybe fifteen?” He shakes his head. “We climbed
onto the roof and talked about...I don’t know, random stuff. Bad teachers and boy and girl
problems and our parents when they drove us mad. When we didn’t feel like we fit in, we…made
somewhere we did.”

"My Harper?" I ask. "Not a chance." I'm struggling to keep my reaction off my face, struggling to
stuff down the messy feelings ambushing me. Jealousy and anger and irritation and confusion
and a bunch more I don't have the words for realizing my sister hid things from me, and the
deeper shame at my resenting her for it—and for what she had. A friend, a respite, an honest
conversation. All things I've never been afforded.

Alex nods, one side of his mouth quirking up.

"She found me up there one night. Some boy broke my heart or didn't text back, and I was up
there feeling sorry for myself, and she climbed up and sat next to me." A sad, nostalgic smile
plays on his lips. "She told me about some girl who did the same to her, and for a little while, I
felt...less alone." He shrugs, sneaking a glance at me, as if expecting a reaction, though I can't
figure out what it is.

I say simply, “Harper is good at that,” and allow the smallest of smiles.

He lets out a breath and continues, “It was our thing. A few months later a girl broke my heart—
“ He flashes me a grin. “—or didn’t text me back, and Harper and I did it again. Anytime we got
a bad grade or were pissed at our parents or just needed out, we climbed up onto the roof to
forget.”

“You were never caught?”

He gives me an odd look and says, “You know people out here break the rules, too, right?”

I don’t — I didn’t — but I don’t want to look stupid either, so I give a curt nod and wave my hand
in what I hope is dismissive.

An unfamiliar knot has been growing in my stomach, one now big enough not to ignore. I hate
it, this pinching in my belly and this warmth in my chest, and I don't understand it or where it

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came from. There is a question trapped behind my teeth, but the words slip away when I think
about asking.

“If there’s something you want to say...” Alex muses, noticing the tense set of my jaw and
shoulders. His easy perception only adds to my discomfort.

“I didn’t know you and Harper were close,” is what comes out of my mouth, and it is both too
much and not enough.

I’m rewarded with a lopsided smirk from Alex, who says, “You’re the only Batali I’ve ever offered
my bed, if that’s what you mean-“

“It was not,” I snap, though my flushing skin doesn’t agree.

“Sure,” he says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Whatever you say..”

“Trust me, Morales, your bed is the last place on this earth I want to be,” I say, the words coming
out harsher than I intend — which is already too harsh — and the flash of hurt in Alex’s eyes
makes me squirm.

It’s for the best. Alex is dangerously entangled in the web I dragged him into, and I’ll do no good
drawing him closer. Sleep and a shower cleared the cobwebs from my head, and I can clearly see
Alex as the hole I could too easily fall into. And there are already too many holes to step over.

Alex wasn't exaggerating when he described the outer cities as ghost towns. Life is sparser and
sparser the further we move further from Seattle — the biggest city left in the state — with big
cities turning to little towns turning to rest stops spread miles apart. The roads drop to a single
lane, and the cars accompanying us take their exits until only Alex's jeep remains on the cracking,
pothole-filled asphalt. He bought a map at a near-crumbling gas station in Mt. Vernon, but I can't
read it, and he has to stop every so often to check our bearings; he doesn't complain, but each
break winds me tighter.

Not like we have a destination. Marietta Alderwood is a neighborhood in Whatcom county,

which used to be a city, but it’s an unauthorized zone now, and we have no way of knowing if
Beth and Tessa are still here, let alone if they’ll help me again. Seventeen years is a long time, but
there is nowhere else to try, and I have to believe it hasn’t been too long.

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We reach the town limits — a rusting sign welcoming us and boasting of a population of over
one hundred thousand people who no longer live here — a few hours before curfew, and we
haven't seen a patrol car in over half an hour. Alex claims they probably don't patrol this far out,
and though I can tell he doesn't believe it, I don't fight him on. My head throbs to the beat of my
heart, and I reopened the cut on my lip, having to continually spit blood into Alex's empty coffee
cup.

Alex drives slowly down random streets, neither of us sure what we're looking for but not voicing
the obvious doubt, either. No one wants to be the person to state the obvious—to admit we have
no idea what we're doing, and even less of a clue what to do if this fails. After an hour of driving
without a sign of life, I'm light-headed, minutes from giving up, and growing more paranoid with
each breath.

I'm so out of it I nearly miss the small symbol spray-painted into a sign next to a warehouse
parking lot—an uneducated eye would see graffiti, but I see more. I see a horizontal line, a half-
circle, and five tiny lines protruding from the circle's edges; a rough, faded, rising sun. The same
image my father drew beneath Beth and Tessa's initials and the name of the neighborhood we're
driving through. Jerking up, I shift to face Alex.

"Park the car," I snap. He stiffens, but he doesn't question me further, slowing to turn into the
empty lot of the warehouse past the painted sign. I look down to undo my seatbelt, but before I
can look up, Alex's fingers curl around my wrist. My head snaps up, free hand curling into a fist,
but the tightness in his shoulder and his wide-eyed stare gives me pause. We're still driving
straight, but I feel as if we're spinning.

Down the street, a sleek black van pulls slowly toward us. My limbs turn to jelly, and the pain
from my fight presents a reminder of how close I've come to losing. What I'd attributed to
paranoia slams to the forefront, and I realize how stupid I've been—how perfectly I'm playing
into the sentry's hands.

I won’t win another fight in this state; I can barely walk without seeing stars, let alone take on
more trained sentries. Last night was luck, and I’m already out of it.

"Keep driving. Pass them slowly, keep your eyes forward, and the second you pass, I want you
to slam on the gas. Got it?" I ask. Alex is frozen, still pulling us forward but too slowly not to be
suspicious. We're already trespassing, technically: the unauthorized zones are off-limits, and
according to Alex, being found in them carries consequences. I am already a fugitive, and Alex is
eighteen—he won't be sent to a halfway house, but a holding cell.
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“Alex,” I say, sharp and cold, but it snaps him momentarily out of his trance. His gold eyes find
mine, and though they’re wide, they are clear. “If we don’t get out of this car and on our feet, we
won’t get away from him. You need to find somewhere to park, and fast, and the second you do,
we’re going to climb out, and you’re going to follow me. If you hesitate, or don’t do what I say,
you go to jail, I go to a camp, and Harper stays where she is. Do you understand?”

He nods, his jaw tight. The van’s nose is parallel with ours, and Alex turns his head toward me,
blocking the sentry’s view of his face—perhaps he isn’t hopeless, after all.

And then, the van is behind us, and Alex is slamming on the gas, and the jeep is lurching forward,
and I’m not sure if it’s the motion or the fear making me nauseous.

I'm suddenly grateful for the run-down, crumbling town, every building vine-woven and dirty.
It is a town of hiding spots, and we only need to find one of them.

Alex veers the car as he turns down the street running perpendicular to the water and
warehouses, his gaze flying in all directions as he searches for somewhere to hide—I am doing
the same.

Half a mile down the block, the warehouses give to old, rusting buildings and the odd abandoned
car. What might have been the main street is now littered with ghosts. We have to become one of
them, or we'll never escape visibility.

The black van races behind us, picking up speed but still half a block behind us, and when Alex
jerks the wheel, we skid around another corner, and I slam into the passenger door.

"Jesus-" I hiss, and Alex tosses a half-hearted apology my way, and turns again, and again,
weaving through streets all in the same state of decay. I'm so focused on staring out the back
window, searching for the sentry van, I don't realize we've pulled into an alley until Alex nearly
crashes into the dead-end brick wall at the end of it.

We rock forward, the car whining in protest, and when the car stills and silence falls, Alex looks
to me for the next step. If only I had one.

I am grasping at nonexistent straws, but Alex is on the verge of panic, and if I let him see — if I
give in — our stories will end here.

His fingers drum against his legs as he twists to stare out the back window, my gaze following
his. Agonizing seconds pass, until the van flies past the darkened alley entrance, its tires skidding

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down the street, and we exhale.

“Isla,” Alex says through gritted teeth, and though he’s not saying much at all, I understand.

What the hell do we do now?

Five seconds. Five seconds and we get our shit together.

It is my mother’s lesson, sans the curse, advice given to me each time the sentries stalked through
the house above me or patrolled the neighborhood unexpectedly.

The idea of them walking right above my head plagued me as a child, and after coming down the
basement after the Sweep in my ninth year to find me curled in a corner, my mom told me how
she’d survived all the fear she was thrown.

“Harper never cried as a baby,” she had said, “but you did. And when you cried, Harper cried.
It was like she didn’t realize there was anything to be worried about until you told her. I was so
terrified someone would hear you, so scared they’d come take my girls away. And when I got
really, really scared, do you know what I did?”

I’d shaken my head, curling against her side on the cold floor, her fingers wrangling the knots
out of my hair.

“I gave myself five seconds. Five seconds to be as scared, or upset, or angry, as I truly was. And
then, I pulled it together. Because I couldn’t do what I needed to do, couldn’t keep you safe, if I
was paralyzed. Do you understand, my little island?”

I had said yes, which had been a lie, but now I do. In moments like these, where I think I’ll burst
apart or crumble or die at how much I feel, I do. I know how dangerous fear can be when it is
unleashed.

Keeping my gaze on the alley entrance in the rearview mirrors, I swing open the doors in my
chest and let the fear in, its fingers closing around my throat. Fear for my sister, for my parents,
for the Nguyen’s, for Alex, for me. It will swallow me whole. It is a ton of bricks on my lungs. It
is—

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

I haul it back in and slam the gates, and the alley is still clear, and we are still hidden. We may
not be for long, but little victories are all I have in this life, and I’ll be damned if I don’t take them.
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“When I get out of the car, follow me. Don’t talk, don’t stray, don’t do anything stupid. Think
you can manage it?” I ask.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

The van continued on past us, but we aren’t out of the water—they know we’re here somewhere,
and we are nowhere near secure enough to stay. I pop my door open and slide onto the asphalt.
Focus locked on the alleyway, I step back, waving a hand at Alex.

“Now,” I say. He climbs out, making only a medium amount of noise, to which I glare. He only
flashes a sheepish smile—his lack of intimidation is infuriating. “Time to move.”

He hesitates, and it takes a moment to understand why. The car. Handed down after his father
passed, the jeep spent years waiting for him in his driveway before he could even drive it, but by
the time we were twelve, he was out front tinkering with it, coaxing it back to life the way he
couldn’t his father.

It’s difficult to be sentimental when you have no possessions, but even I feel a twinge of guilt
watching the shadow cross his face. I almost wish we didn’t have to leave the car, but it is an
arrow pointing to Alex, and anyone who looks close enough will connect it to me.

“You good?” I ask, though it’s clear he isn’t.

“We have to take the plates,” is all he says, features taut. He ducks and tugs a small screwdriver
from the glove compartment, quickly moving around the car and pulling the plates. Though
neither of us had a chance to pack anything, his schoolbag was left in the jeep, and it’s become
our unofficial duffel, the map and whatever extra clothes Alex had in his trunk and the license
plates stuffed inside.

His expression is haunted, his eyes lingering on each inch of the faded blue paint. This, in front
of us, is the last physical piece of Alex’s life. This, in front of us, is where it has to stay.

An apology burns on my tongue, but each time I try to let it out, the words twist into something
unrecognizable and surely not comforting. Rather than try, I touch his arm when he rejoins me,
letting my hand remain a beat longer than I should. He gives me a tiny smile that doesn’t reach
his eyes, and slings the strap over his shoulders, a wall of his own coming down over his face and
washing away his thoughts.

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“Think you can lead us back to the warehouse?” I ask. Alex pauses, looking around, though we’re
still too far back the alley to see the street outside.

“I can get us back to the water,” he says, not as confident as I’d like. “That okay?”

“Okay enough,” I say, and he flashes me a smile I’ve never seen before, one I think I want to see
again. Shoving past the bubbling warmth, I turn and head for the edge of the alley, Alex following
wordlessly. If I halted suddenly, he’d slam right into my back, but I don’t mind the closeness, not
now.

I pause at the end of the alley, Alex breathing down my neck, and scan the slowly-darkening
street. Its emptiness doesn’t appease me, and the silence is too expansive not to be troubling.

As we walk, Alex feeding instructions and me leading our small pack, a town forgotten sleeps
around us. Leaves from tens of seasons have fallen and molted on the sidewalk, sap making the
concrete sticky. Ripped flags flap in the wind at the tops of rusted flagpoles and the smell of mold
and dust is unshakeable. This is a place — one of the hundreds — left behind by those who
abandoned it after the post offices and grocery stores did and pushed toward the big cities. These
empty streets are part of the unauthorized zone now, and to be caught is to be punished.

We have to duck behind mailboxes half rusted away and cars without tires at least four times,
though only one of them is due to an actual noise — the faint, not-far-off rumble of an engine; the
sentry. The other three are attributed to Alex and my paranoia.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Alex asks in a low voice.

“That symbol in my dad’s notebook?” I ask. Alex hums an affirmation. “I saw it painted on the
sign outside one of the warehouses.”

“Coincidence?” he asks thoughtfully.

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

By the time we reach the spot the van spotted us, I'm halfway confident we might actually reach
the warehouse before the sun is fully set. We make it to the end of the first warehouse, the symbol-
adorned depot beyond it. Its windows are dark, some broken, and empty as everything else in
this place. Wild and overgrown hedges border it on all visible, cutting any access we have to it
from the front or side.

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I curse, fear ballooning in my gut. If I can’t get us out of the open, this ends before it has even
begun.

An engine growls, too close for comfort, and I reach out to yank Alex back, dragging us into the
cover of overgrown trees. Gnarling vine and thick branches shroud the narrow paths between
each warehouse, presumably leading to loading docks in the back — hopefully, somewhere to
disappear, and preferably, an unblocked door. The shrubbery scratches at my already weary
body, and Alex isn’t faring much better, huffing each time a branch catches his exposed skin.

To my despair, when we push out into the large empty lots behind the row of buildings, the
hedge bordering our target stretches all the way around. The branches and leaves wind too tightly
around each other, the thorns are too thick and sharp. Any hope I have of getting inside slips
through my fingers, and with it, I’m frozen.

Facing Alex, I don’t bother forcing the fear out of my face.

"What do we do?" he asks, looking to me for answers I don't have. He is here because of me,
seconds away from arrest because of me, and all I can do is stand here, wide-eyed and gaping,
utterly helpless.

“Give me a minute,” I say, searching frantically for an idea, a plan, a way to buy a minute. The
sentry hasn’t seen us yet, and if we make it out of sight, he’ll assume — hopefully — we carried
on and away.

“We need a way into that building. Which means we need to get through here,” I say. Alex curses
beneath his breath, tugging the sleeves of his jacket over his hands and tugging his hood up. I
mirror the act, mentally preparing my aching body for another attack—shrubbery is preferable
to a sentry, but not enjoyable.

We jog along the back edge of the hedge, both scanning for a thinner spot of brush. I can barely
hear over the kick drum pounding of my heart, and if we don’t move, I fear the noise from my
chest will give us away.

And finally, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few minutes, I catch the
smallest sliver of the warehouse's concrete back lot through the hedge. Reaching out to pull Alex
to a stop, I don't hesitate before plunging inside, ignoring the slicing of the thorns against the
fabric of my clothes. Alex topples through behind me, grunting with the effort, and we tumble
out onto the cracked concrete of an empty lot.

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The back dock is empty, the doors chained and likely rusted shut. An old semi has a grave against
the back door, its wheels gone, and its back space stripped clean. Leaves and debris litter the
ground, undisturbed, and I feel like I’m decaying with the rest of the town, crumbling to dust.

Alex sucks in a breath, his attention on the thick door atop the elevated loading dock.

It is rusted and missing bolts, but it is unchained, and it is all we have. Even if this entire city is
abandoned, maybe we can hide behind the rest of its ghosts long enough to regroup.

I pick across the lot, Alex on my tail, and wonder if I’ve led us on a wild goose chase, if Beth and
Tessa are as lost as everything else.

The stairs leading up to the door are cracked, and we’re cautious as we climb. The leaves and dirt
in front of the door appear as messy as the rest of the lot, but there is an intentionality to it, one
stirring the embers of hope inside me.

Alex and I stand side by side in front of the ordinary door, exchanging a look. He reaches out to
jiggle the knob, unsuccessfully, and says, “Worth a shot...”

“Was it?”

He shakes his head. “What now?”

“What else is there to do?” I ask.

And I knock.

I’m not sure what I expected, if I thought the door would swing open to the command ops of
some rebellion, but it isn’t this. After seven knocks and a string of expletives from Alex and I,
multiple locks click behind the metal, and it cracks open enough to reveal a teenager aiming a
shotgun in our faces.

She is only a year or two younger than me, with bronze skin, voluminous dark curls tumbling
from a bun, and half a dozen rings clacking against the barrel of the gun. She wields it with
uncertainty, a waver in her grip, and she pants for breath, dark eyes flicking between us and the
lot.

“Give me one good reason not to shoot ya right now,” the girl says, and in her shiftiness, I catch
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a flash of a birthmark on her left wrist.

I don’t have one good reason, not with a gun in my face — the most experience I have with
weapons is a dull kitchen knife, and I didn’t even want to get close to the tip of the blade.

Then, Alex says, “I can give you two.”

The girl’s surprise mirrors mine, and she falls silent, gaping at us. Alex rolls his shoulders,
confident like I’ve never seen him—as impressive as his bravado is, I’m too aware of the sentry
searching for us beyond the hedges. We are still running out of time.

"First," he says, "they stopped making ammo for non-sentry issued firearms back in the 80's, so
I'm pretty sure there’s no bullet in that gun." From the tight-lipped grimace of the girl and the
slight lowering of her shotgun, I know Alex is right. "And two, even if you did have a bullet, the
second you fire it, the sentry who followed us calls the rest of his people to come find you."

He has her, and the gun falls to her side.

"Who are you?" she asks, her gaze falling to my wrist, and as if on instinct, I shove up my sleeve,
my Mark on broadcast. Thick, dark brows furrow briefly before a sigh tugs the tension from the
girl's frame.

She accuses, in a low voice, “Are you tryin’ to get us all caught?” She lowers the gun. “If so, you’re
doing a damn good job.” She looks at my Mark again. “Anyone could have heard your banging.
You’re lucky I wasn’t in my room, or you’d have been screwed. I mean, technically, Beth doesn’t
know I’ve got the key to this door, but—"

“Beth?” I interrupt. Her head cocks, lips curling down.

“Who are you?” she repeats, suspicion slipping into her tone. Her hand moves to her back pocket,
and I get the feeling there is a knife tucked in it—this, she doesn’t need bullets for.

“I’m Isla Batali. Beth and Tessa saved my life when I was born. And I—" The word catches in my
throat. “—I need her help.”

The suspicion goes as quickly as it came, and the girl gives a relieved smile. “You’re the one they
snuck out of the hospital.” She sweeps the lot again. “Get inside. Now.” She turns and disappears
through the doorway, and I consider for a moment whether we’re walking into a trap, ultimately
realizing we don’t have a choice, either way, following her inside, Alex behind me.

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She eases the heavy door shut behind us and uses a key to turn four locks before tugging a bar
down across the metal.

“Where are we?” Alex asks, peering through the darkness—we’ve entered a small entranceway,
another metal door directly across it. The girl uses the key to unlock this one, as well, a sliver of
light peeking through.

“Technically, we’re hours from Seattle, but that’s the biggest thing left in the state, so…” She trails
off. “Anyways. Welcome to one of Seattle’s Tent Cities. Also known as the Nook.”

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CHAPTER EIGHT — ISLA

The Tent City has no tents. Rather, it is a converted warehouse, resembling a dormitory more
than anything — or what I imagine a dormitory might look like.

With three floors and one hundred and three residents — sympathizers, family members,
outcasts, and a small handful of Marked — divided between forty five rooms, the Nook — as
dubbed by Luna herself — is as close to a sanctuary as I’ve ever seen.

A communal area sits opposite the door and takes up the majority of the first floor, filled with
mismatching folding tables, chairs, beanbags, a few tattered armchairs, and a hallway with a sign
reading ‘the South West Wing.’ Despite signs of life, none of it is visible in the room, and the
residents are out of sight.

According to Luna, the girl who found us, their police scanners — how they got their hands on
them, I’ve no clue — the sentry forces were looking for someone and pushing past their usual
borders and habits. Until the patrol vehicles were out of the city, or the non-city, perhaps, the
Nook’s residents would be hidden in their rooms. Patrols were sporadic this far out, but still
happened, and we had only managed to nudge them closer to this safe haven.

I send up a silent wish for the safety to remain untested, but none of my wishes have ever come
true before, and there is no reason they would now.

Luna leads Alex and I past the tables and chairs to another hallway entrance, this one unmarked
by a poster, down the wide hall, almost to the end of the long building. She turns into an entryway
leading to a set of concrete stairs and jerks a chin toward them.

“They’re probably in Beth’s lair,” Luna explains. “It’s on the second floor.” She bounds up the
stairs with a skip in her step, curls bouncing. Nothing hides the Mark on her wrist, and her blatant
flaunting of it rubs me like sandpaper. It’s irresponsible, stupid, to brandish it. The Mark heralds
us as the dregs of society; as monsters too dangerous to be granted freedom. To show it off is a
slap to the face at all the years I’ve cowered in the shadows.

Luna leads us to a door right off the stairway, nudging it open and knocking once as she steps
over the threshold. Alex and I pile in behind her in what has to be Beth’s office—with a large desk
topped with five screens, it is a hacker’s home base. Exactly as Beth was described.

“As per usual, Lu, I will tell you when the patrol passes the boundary, but until then, I don’t want
to see a curl on that frizzy head,” chides one of the two women in the room in a slow southern
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drawl, turning in her chair. Despite the light and teasing tone, her cheekbones could slice through
paper and her eyes are sharp. Light brown hair falls to his chest, and untrusting green eyes take
us in.

Bethany Foster.

Standing beside her, expression as inviting as her wife, is Tessa, with dark skin and a shining
afro, who shifts closer to Beth as if instinctively. I have seen photos of them both, and neither has
aged much in seventeen years, but it feels like more. It feels like I’ve looked into Tessa’s dark eyes
before, though as far as I know, the only time I saw Tessa Foster was the day I was born, and not
a day after.

The women stare at me for a long moment, and Luna falls silent for the first time since I met her
ten minutes ago. I feel a shifting at my back, and know I’d hit Alex if I leaned back, but his
hovering doesn’t irk me like I expect—I’m relieved to know he’s close.

“You’re Tessa,” I say, breaking the tension choking us all. Beth’s mouth presses into a hard line
as she scans me; I haven’t earned her trust, and to be quite honest, they haven’t earned mine. The
only reason I haven’t bolted is the history standing between us—the fact I’m standing here at all,
solely thanks to them.

“I am,” Tessa says.

“I’m Diana and Ricky Batali’s daughter,” I say.

The women stiffen and exchange a glance. Tessa’s gaze darts to Alex, but quickly moves back to
me.

“Harper,” Tessa says, relieved.

“No.” I turn out my wrist and hold it up, hiking up the sleeve. “Isla.” Their eyes go wide, but
they don’t seem surprised. Tessa touches Beth’s arm lightly.

“Where is Harper?” Tessa asks softly, like she doesn’t truly want to know the answer.

“I don’t know.” I don’t elaborate, and Beth’s jaw tightens, and Tessa frowns, but they don’t press
it. I turn to Alex, gesturing. “This is Alex. He drove me here.”

Alex stifles a snort and steps beside me.

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“Like she said. I’m Alex. I live next door to the Batali’s.” His nose scrunches. “Lived, I guess. Isla
hid from the sentries at my house.”

“Well, thank you for getting her here safely. I’m glad you’re both safe,” Tessa says, approaching
us, her smile warm and inviting. My pulse spikes at the close proximity, my years of mistrust
difficult to shake. Beth joins her, more hesitant than her wife.

“Would it be fair to say we have you two to thank for the patrol?” Beth asks, and shame burns
inside me. If this place falls because I led the sentries here, I’ll never forgive myself, and I doubt
anyone here will, either.

“Sorry,” Alex says sheepishly.

“Will they find us here?” I ask, letting Alex apologize for us.

Beth’s says, somewhat amused, “Not if I can help it.”

Tessa seems to notice our injuries for the first time, taking in Alex’s bruises and my mess of a face,
and she steps forward, reaching a hand out to my eye.

“Oh, I wouldn’t—" Alex starts. Tessa’s fingers make contact on my skin and my hand shoots up
to catch Tessa’s wrist in a vice grip. I hold her eyes, head tilted and lips pursed, and the room
stands still in waiting—waiting for the match to fall and fill the room in flames.

Tessa pulls her hand and takes a large step back, and I swear I feel Alex move closer to me, though
I’m not sure if he’s protecting me or hiding behind me. Either way, I don’t mind the presence.

“I apologize,” Tessa says. “I should have asked.”

“Are you a doctor?” Alex asks. Tessa effortlessly shakes off the prior encounter and smiles at him.

“Was a doctor. I’m fairly certain the medical board has revoked my license by now.”

“She’s good at what she does. Very good,” Beth says. “The Nook’s resident physician.”

Tessa smiles lightly, rolling her eyes, and asks, “Did Luna give you the tour?”

Luna shakes her head. “I brought ‘em straight here.”

“How about you go get a room ready for them?” Beth asks. We haven’t yet asked to stay, but I
don’t think we need to. Everyone else here came because they had nowhere else to go.
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“Ooh, are you thinking 108? Oh, or maybe 206—no, I forgot, one of the mattresses is gross...203?”
Luna asks, a hand propped on her hip. Beth smiles affectionately and ruffles her curls, making
Luna curl her lip and duck away.

“Lot of weight rests on this decision,” Beth deadpans. “So, don’t screw it up.”

“Oh, leave her be,” Tessa chides.

Beth winks at Luna. “203. Make sure both beds have sheets.” Luna nods and turns on her heels,
out the door and down the hall.

With Luna gone, my attention is solely on Beth and Tessa.

“How did you know my parents? And don’t give me the college bullshit. You were sympathizers
long before Harper and I came along, or you wouldn’t have known to do what you did. You
wouldn’t have done it,” I say, arms folded.

Beth asks, “Diving right in, are we?”

“It’s been a long day,” I say.

“Small talk isn’t really her thing,” Alex endorses.

“If you won’t let Tessa look at you first, at least sit down before you pass out at my feet,” Beth
says, grabbing the rolling chair from her desk and shoving it toward me. Tessa snags two chairs
from the corner of the room, and goes back for a third for Alex, pushing them near the chair I
drop into. I’m feigning calm, but I’m a live wire on the inside, desperate for explanations.

“I grew up with your father, but the college story is half true. We met Tess and your mom there.
When your mom got pregnant, we all knew we weren’t going to let you be taken, but things were
different then. Places like these were, and still are, sporadic and temporary, and even if you know
the location of one, it could be gone by the time you get there. So, we went home. Your father and
I’s home.” Beth’s features tighten at the mention of the best friends she lost to a jail cell, and
though she has already dropped bombs, I can see more lining up to fall, and struggle to stay
patient. “They had the choice to raise you there, at the Docks, back when there still was a Docks,
but they chose otherwise. Another couple was pregnant, and they decided to move in across the
street from one another. Look out for each other.”

“Amy and Hugo Nguyen,” I supply. Alex inhales sharply at my side.

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“Hugo was the head of the Volunteer Protection Force chapter in our neighborhood. He was as
anti-Splits as anyone I have ever seen,” Alex says incredulously.

“Then he did his job,” Tessa says with a hint of pride. It strikes me how many people — how
much — everyone here has given up and had taken away, too. The losses pile up on top of us,
and one day, I think we might all sink beneath them.

“They’ve helped turn a blind eye our way for years and got us access to tons of sentry feeds.
We’ve even managed to grab a few people before the sentries picked them up.”

“And Amy?” I ask. Tessa looks away, and I swear Beth suppresses a flinch.

“They intercepted something, somehow,” Tessa says. “Brought our entire encampment down
with it.”

“Still no clue how they got in,” Beth says. “Our transmissions are encrypted to the high heavens,
but I guess I’ve gotten a little cocky without competition. They’re still learning to find us, and
we’re still learning how to avoid them.”

It explains how we were found. Nothing was discovered in the raid—they must have known for
weeks. The raid gave them an excuse and lulled us into a false sense of security, and they
descended to pick us apart like vultures.

I spent years wondering what my dad was doing in his office. Harper assumed sales or something
boring, and her shocked face flashes behind my eyelids—the wide arch of her brows, the little O
shape she makes with her lips.

The familiar longing pushes against my lungs. I may resent the Split and the world it made for
me, but I do believe Harper is the other half of my soul. Being without her is like losing a piece of
jewelry you’ve worn for years and reaching down to twist a ring no longer there. The unsettling
sensation of something missing.

“Are there more places like this?” Alex asks. “More…Tent Cities?”

Beth smiles and nodes, gesturing to the screens behind her. The tabs and boxes of code are
indecipherable to me, but it looks complicated and intricate.

“There are more in Washington,” she says, “scattered across the state. Some bigger than us, some
smaller, some closer to the authorized zones, some not. I don’t know where the majority are, and

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neither does anyone here.”

“You can’t give away a secret you don’t have to begin with,” Tessa says. Beth nods curtly.

Luna reappears in the doorway, her bundle of hair wrapped in a big knot atop her head, huffing
as she steps into the room.

“Room is set up,” she says, looking pleased with herself—she isn’t lacking in self-esteem,
certainly. At our seated positions, she frowns. “I thought you were giving them a tour.”

“We were catching up,” Beth says. “Besides, we figured we’d save it for you. You know every
nook and cranny of this place.”

A wicked smile tugs on Luna’s lips and she claps excitedly.

“Brilliant,” she says. Her eyes find mine, and a hint of rebellion sparks in them; I wonder if it
burns in all of us, centered in the Mark on our skin. “I’ll show you all the hiding places.”

“Or, you know, you could show them the kitchen and storage rooms—" Tessa says.

Luna waves a hand, interrupting, “Yeah, yeah, we’ll get to it.” She’s still grinning as she leaves,
presumably headed to bed. All the windows here are covered, but a chill has set into the air —
the sun must have set — and seeped into my aching bones. I’d curl up on a towel right now if it
was all I had.

“I’ll make the rounds. You know how squirrelly everyone gets when patrols get too close,” Beth
says, standing and heading for the door. She pauses in the doorway and looks to Tessa. “Think
you can handle the Batali?” she asks, as if I’m not standing right there.

“If she’s anything like her parents, no,” Tessa says, flashing me a smile. My cheeks burn beneath
the intimacy of it; it’s like she knows me, even if only through the people who made me.

“Goodnight, Isla, Alex. See you in the mornin’,” Beth says before departing. Tessa is on her feet
as soon as she’s gone, and we follow.

“Come on. I’ll show you your room,” she says. Protest rises in my throat, but I shove it down—
having Alex close is safer than far away, for now. The thought of having him a floor below me,
where I can’t keep an eye on him — or out for him, or both, maybe — makes me panic.

Tessa leads us a few doors down the hall to a metal door with the number 203 etched into it in

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faded lettering. The hall is dimly lit, the lights flickering every so often and flashing on closed
doors with their own numbers, but Tessa doesn’t seem troubled by it. It’s a miracle they have
electricity and running water all the way out here, undetected.

Inside the dark room, Tessa crosses to a window taped with dark cloth, securing the fabric —
blackout curtains — and returning to the doorway to flip on the light when she’s satisfied. The
room is small, with two twin sized mattresses on mismatching and rusting bed-frames pressed
against the far corners, leaving a two foot wide rectangle between them. The thick metal door
bears two locks, and I’m relieved to realize I’ll actually get some sleep.

Apart from two small, and also mismatched, short dressers at the base of each bed, the room is
empty, and the window is covered, but it is a palace to me. A place I have never been, a place I
never should have been.

On paper, I am a dead Marked baby with no name, and yet, I’m standing in the hub of a
community of outlaws who shouldn’t be here, either. If this is freedom, I like the taste of it.

“We can regroup in the morning. Luna brought a change of clothes for you both, but we’ll find
more tomorrow. And,” Tessa says, fixing me with a pointed look, “you’re coming to the infirmary
tomorrow. I’m taking a look at you, whether you like it or not. Understand?”

Respecting her confidence, I nod wordlessly.

“Good. Beth and I are in 105 if you need anything.” She moves to the door, lingers. “Good night.”
Another pause. “Sweet dreams.”

The words are my mothers, spoken every night before I went to bed, and her loss pulses in my
hollow chest. I wonder if I’ll ever find room for all the hurt, if the hole it leaves will ever leave me.

“Goodnight,” Alex says when I don’t reply. Tessa gives us a small, sad smile, and looks between
us once more before tugging the door shut behind her. I wait only a moment to turn both locks,
turning back to find Alex sitting on one of the beds and unlacing his sneakers. His shoulders are
hunched, and dark bags are pressed beneath his eyes.

He looks up, as if sensing my eyes on him. “Are you alright?” He asks, voice soft.

His kindness is a match to my kindling. He has done nothing but help me, but I’m so angry at
him I can hardly think. Alex, who is gentle despite my not deserving it; who is here, after all of
this; who doesn’t have to be; who has a life outside of this, and still threw it all away.

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The familiar ice slides into place, numbing my edges and twisting my anger. I shove it forward,
up and out of me, and the glare I fix on him makes him flinch like I slapped him.

“How do you think I’m doing, Alex?” I ask, his name a knife in my hands.

His lips pull thin, and I think I’ve finally done it, pushed hard enough, but all he says is, “I’m
sorry. Stupid question. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

“No,” I say. “You can’t.”

He stiffens. “I get things are falling apart for you right now, but you’re not the only one. And I
am not the reason we are in this situation.”

“And I am?” I step toward him, so close I can see flecks of umber and honey in his irises. He
doesn’t bend beneath my sharp gaze, only straightening, taking the few inches he has on me as
his advantage.

“What?” he asks, shaking his head. “No. This is not your fault. But it’s not my fault, either.”

“Tell that to the sentry who tried to kill me,” I snap. He waves dismissively and rakes a hand
through his curls.

“Yeah, because we all know them to be balanced and sensible people,” he says. He deflates, his
anger gone as quickly as it came—if only mine were as easy to shake. “Harper will be okay, Isla.
She’s with family, not the sentries.”

I scoff and say, “That woman is not my family. She’s my mom’s blood, and nothing more.”

“But Harper is safe. Isn’t that what matters?”

I grab the sweats and tee stacked on my mattress instead of replying, giving Alex a pointed look
until he turns away with pink ears. Changing quickly, I shove the dirty clothes beneath the bed
for now and turn to give Alex the same privacy. When I face him again, my anger falters at the
sight of him in a tee shirt at least three sizes too large.

“She’s not safe,” I say. “None of us are.”

“Safe as possible,” he amends.

I wish I shared his confidence. Harper is one half of a bonded pair, two halves of a whole. Without

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her, I’m a shell. Alex doesn’t understand, can’t understand, why I can’t rest until Harper is safe
and beside me.

“Just because you can’t do shit for your brother doesn’t mean I’m deserting my sister,” I say, cruel
for cruelty’s sake. Alex blanches, lips pulling into a thin line.

“Every time I start to think you’re an actual human being…” he mutters, turning and yanking
back the blanket on his bed. My teeth are clenched so hard I fear they’ll break.

“Try not to forget, then,” I say, lashing out, throwing up my safety wall. I never should have let
it down at all.

Alex lays down and tugs the blankets over him, back turned my way. With a huff, I shut out the
lights and climb into my own bed, Alex’s pointed avoidance filling the air with thick tension.
Guilt and frustration simmer beneath my skin and keep me wired.

Only when Alex’s breathing slows to sleep do I relax, but I chase sleep myself for hours before
finally catching hold. When I do fall, my dreams are hollow and empty.

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CHAPTER NINE — ISLA

I wake in unfamiliarity for the second day in a row.

Lurching up, the panic subsides and the events of the day prior return at the sight of Alex in the
bed across the room, a pillow pressed to his chest. His mouth is open, and though there isn’t
currently any drool, the wet spot on the pillow indicates I recently missed it.

He looks so young in his sleep—too young to be in such a mess.

As if sensing my gaze, Alex mumbles incoherently, his lashes fluttering. He scans the room slowly
before meeting my eyes, a tiny smile tugging on his lips and making my traitorous heart skip a
beat.

“Staring, are we?” He asks, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, stretching
his arms up above his head. I scoff and avert my gaze.

“In your dreams.”

“Are you a mind reader, now?”

I only scowl at him, to which his smile widens. After a beat, it slips away, a shy and apologetic
one replacing it. He inclines his head and palms the back of his neck.

“About what I said last night,” he says. “I didn’t mean it.”

I’ve never held any illusions about my goodness. I know what I am. The Mark on my wrist means
I’m doomed to spend my life battling against the evil parts of myself, and if the scientists are to
be believed, there is more evil than good, if any good at all.

Rather than argue with him about the contents of my soul, I nod in acknowledgement. Alex
stands and crosses the small space between the beds, dropping down beside me, and I force
myself not to flinch, or shift away, or shove him away.

I need to trust him—I want to trust him.

He lifts his hand, fingers hovering an inch away from my face, and at my nod, he carefully peels
back the bandage covering my eye. His lips pull into a thin line. The touch is light on my skin,
careful and cautious on the bruised skin, but each graze of his fingers sends a sting through me.

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“Promise me you’ll go see Tessa,” he says, tilting my chin up with two fingers to inspect my
mouth before letting them fall away.

“Hmm,” I say, in acknowledgement, not agreement.

Alex frowns, frustratingly inept at seeing through me. I’ve trained my expression not to give
anything away, and my tone is rarely uneven, but Harper has always had a knack at interpreting
the meanings behind empty words. It seems Alex is learning the language of Isla, too, and I’m
not sure how I feel about it—about being known.

My world has ballooned, full of new faces and places and dangers. I’m not sure I’ll ever know
which bridges to help build and which to burn.

“Don’t bullshit me,” he says, “or I will drag you to the infirmary myself.”

“You’ll try,” I say. Alex rolls his eyes, the threat lost on him; lost, or he doesn’t care.

“Is that a challenge?”

I huff, and Alex shifts back, sitting against the wall behind my bed.

“Maybe I just lock you and Tessa in here together,” he says.

“The doors don’t lock from the outside,” I point out. Alex groans, propping his shoes on the metal
edge of the bed, arms loosely slung around his knees.

“Not to worry,” he says, flashing me a smile, “I can figure something out.” His expression softens.
“If you want me to come, I can. I understand not trusting her.”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“Not even me?”

I pause. Of all the people in this warehouse, Alex is the closest to trust, teetering on the edge.
With a gentle nudge, I let him tip over without considering the consequences of what this small
submission could — will — mean.

“Only you,” I say, “against better judgement.”

Alex inhales sharply, as if expecting the opposite, and I push off the bed to avoid continuing the
conversation. Snagging the hoodie I stole from Alex’s house and tugging it over my head, I
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struggle to swallow my flinches as the fabric catches on bandages and scabs.

“Please, Isla,” he says softly. “If you won’t do it for you, do it for me.”

“Why would I do it for you?” I retort, though we both know he’s already won. He shrugs
dismissively, and I grumble. “Fine.”

Alex hops off the bed with a triumphant grin, climbing back onto his own and flopping on his
back. He stuffs the pillow under his head, and I cross my arms, fixing him with a pointed stare.

“What?” he asks. “Just because you have a doctor’s appointment doesn’t mean I have to get up.”

Reaching across my bed to grab my pillow, I chuck it at Alex, and it bounces off harmlessly. He
jams the second pillow beneath the first, making a show of getting comfortable. I’m torn between
laughing and scowling and settle on the latter.

“Try not to kill our only doctor, yeah?” he asks. The word our makes me stiffen. No matter how
much I hate it, he and I are a team now. Us, and everyone else in this warehouse. The embers of
the resistance I never knew existed.

“No promises,” I say, earning a grin.

Tessa’s infirmary lives on the third floor of the warehouse, the rest of the hall is filled with rooms
used for storage of food, clothing, and other supplies. The moment I reach the top floor, the silence
washes over me—the Nook is quiet by nature, all its residents aware of the danger lurking outside
in patrol cars, but the chatter of over a hundred people is impossible to fully silence, especially
during the day. Even as I went up the stairs, I hear the gabbing of other residents on the second
floor.

There is no label on the room, but it is the only ajar door on the hall, and light bleeds through the
opening. I slip through the space and into the large space, by far the cleanest in the entire building
with practically sparkling walls and floors. Eight cots — four on each side — sit on the edges of
the room, with large metal cabinets lining the walls. A makeshift sink and counter take up one
corner, and the room smells of antiseptic. It looks the way I imagine a hospital would if it were
drastically in need of a makeover.

Tessa sits behind a small desk in the corner opposite the sink, the desktop scattered with folders

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and papers. Wearing leggings and a large jacket, she looks like a doctor and more like my mom
on her days off, the sight filling me with a leaden ache. At my arrival, she pushes to her feet with
a wide smile, her warm brown eyes sweeping over me.

“Isla,” she says. “I thought I’d have to send Beth after you.”

I don’t know what to say, and nod, stepping further into the room and stopping by the first bed,
running a hand along the rusting frame. Although clean, it and everything in the room is worn
down and on its last legs.

“Busy morning,” I observe. Tessa lets out a tiny laugh and moves to the cabinet by the sink,
tugging open the door and pulling out a set of latex gloves.

“Give it a few hours,” she says, straightening and slipping on the gloves, snapping them into
place. “Someone will come in crying about a hangnail or complaining lunch gave them food
poisoning.” She tugs a metal tray out and piles tools from the cabinet drawer atop them. “But I’ll
take it over another flu season. We couldn’t get people into beds fast enough.” The metal tools
glint, their potential as a weapon making my pace quicken and body stiffen.

Tessa notices, and says, “I took an oath. An oath to do no harm. I don’t plan on breaking that oath
with you. I didn’t on the day you were born, and I don’t now.” Her gaze falls to the tools, and
she lifts one: a stethoscope, I think. “Seeing as you haven’t had a checkup since then, I’m going
to do a basic physical, get a sense of what we’re working with, and then I’ll take a look at what
you have going on up here.” She gestures to the mosaic of blues and purples and reds on my face,
and though I’ll never admit it, I’m grateful I came.

Moving to a small podium on wheels, Tessa sets the tray down and nudges it toward the bed I’ve
taken up post beside. I sit with only brief hesitation, and the cot is lifted high enough to put me
an inch below Tessa’s eye-line. At the closeness, I straighten, aware of every inch of my skin, my
feet flat against the floor and prepared to run if I need.

“I won’t do anything without asking, and I’ll explain it all,” Tessa says, lifting the stethoscope
and putting the little buds in her ears. She leans toward me. “I’m going to take a listen to your
heart. Yes, or no?”

“Yes,” I say, so surprised by the asking I don’t think about the answer.

The physical is easy, if not a bit uncomfortable, and over quickly. I have to remove the jacket, and
my shirt at one point, but Tessa is efficient, and only touches when necessary.
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She admits it to be a half-stocked infirmary, all the supplies scavenged and stolen. For the most
part, the Nook takes what they can find and have been lucky enough not to feel the shortage, but
the last winter, three people died before antibiotics were found for what would have been simple
sicknesses in regular society. Raiding parties are dangerous, she explains, and only ventured on
in emergency situations.

The Nook is a blend of the 20th and 21st century, scrabbling to keep enough food and medicine
but well equipped with generators and technology to keep the lights on and some water running.
But they are free, living even with their disadvantages, happy even with their losses.

“Do you want to tell me what happened here?” Tessa asks, peeling back the bandage above my
eye. Her lips pull thin at the blood caked around my brow—my constant accidental breaking of
the wounds hasn’t served the gauze well.

“Not particularly,” I say.

“Not particularly,” she echoes, shaking her head, leaning forward to peer through the gore at the
deep slash through my eyebrow. “This should have been stitched. It’s too late now, so we’ll keep
it covered for a little longer. I’m going to clean it out. It’ll sting.” Her fingers work deftly with
alcohol and gauze, and the pain is little bother after two straight days of constant aching and
soreness.

“I’m going to put some antibacterial cream on some of these cuts,” she says, popping the cap on
a tube. “Yes or no?” I nod, and she applies the salve—the effect is immediate, cool and comforting.

“Any appendix flare-ups?” she asks. I frown, sitting back.

“That was Harper.” Suspicion snaps into place, like I’m shrugging on an old coat.

Tessa smiles. “You don’t remember.”

“Remember?”

“Harper had the surgery, but you got sick, too, a few months later. I believe you were fourteen,
maybe fifteen,” she says, and I know what she’s talking about, the memory sharp and clear.

Harper came home from school one day complaining about her stomach, skipping soccer practice
to sprawl lazily across my bed, dozing in and out of sleep and making me promise not to tell our
parents. Four hours later, after throwing up her entire system, my parents loaded her into the car

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and carted her to the emergency room. She was home twenty four hours later, safe and sound
and stitched up, and stayed affixed to my bed for days.

The relief at her recovery was short lived. Appendicitis had reared its head in Harper the way it
had our mother at our age, the way it had my aunt, too. It only made sense the other shoe — me
— would drop.

My parents monitoring of me became constant, their fear spiking if I mentioned so much as a

stomachache. So, I stopped complaining—I pushed through headaches and forced myself to
throw up anything that didn’t sit well and didn’t so much as wince at little training injuries.

Going to the hospital wasn’t an option. I’d been lucky not to get sick enough to warrant a doctor
growing up, but something like this, something requiring surgery and antibiotics and trained
professionals, slammed us back into the Middle Ages. Getting too sick or too hurt was a death
sentence. A cut could mean infection and a virus could mean death. If I got like Harper, it would
be the end.

Four months after Harper came home from the hospital, I woke in the middle of the night with a
sharp pain in my belly. It was different than anything I’d felt—it was as Harper described, hot
and heavy and burning from the inside out. It was what we had been watching — waiting — for.

A small part of me, the only part not alight with pain, told me to stay in bed, to let the end find
me before my parents did. They were powerless, unable to do anything but watch me suffer, and
I knew it, but I was sick and afraid and red with agony, and I wanted my mom, wanted someone
to do something.

I remember stumbling up the stairs and through my dark kitchen, and the cool tile of the kitchen
floor. Next I woke, I was in bed, Harper beside me, her hand holding mine in a vice grip. Our
parents chattered in the background, their voices barely audible.

“We have to call her,” and “Diana, she’s dying,” and “She didn’t choose this,” and Harper, her face
blocking out the world, with a wobbly smile and tear-filled eyes, and her assurance it would be
okay, it would all be okay; I didn’t believe her.

I was wrong. Consciousness evaded me, but I caught snippets: a dark-skinned woman
descending the basement stairs, the prick of a needle in my arm, the cool relief of what I learned
later was morphine and antibiotics. Whether or not the woman was a figment of my fevered brain
or not, she brought relief, and after, healing. The first time I woke with a clear head, the pain in

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my stomach had subsided and a box of medicine my parents couldn’t possibly have attained sat
on the bedside table. I never asked where it came from, or about the woman I might have seen,
and my parents never mentioned it again.

Here she stands, Tessa Foster, the woman who saved my life two times more than I deserved.

“It was you,” I say. “In my basement.”

Tessa’s mouth twitches and she begins gathering the soiled gauze from the tray, standing to
dump it into a trash can. She peels off her gloves and tosses them before turning back to me.

“Has it bothered you since?”

I shake my head, pushing to my feet, swallowing. The words for the gratitude are out of reach,
and I struggle to push them into my tone. “You saved my life.”

“All I did was give you antibiotics. Had you been allowed to go to a hospital, I wouldn’t have
needed to.” She pulls a small stack of bandages from the tray and hands them to me. At my
curious look, she says, “Since I doubt I’ll be able to get you back in here anytime soon.”

I do a slow, lazy scan of the room. “The lighting sucks.”

Tessa, having deserted all fragments of the tough persona from the night prior, smiles.

“It is bright, isn’t it?”

“Little bit.”

Tessa stares at me for a moment, her smile turning sad and nostalgic.

“You’re so much like your mother,” she says. “She was stubborn, and you certainly didn’t want
to make her angry.”

The weight between my shoulders presses deeper, the longing for my parents growing fiercer by
the second, a cold, hollow space expanding inside me. Shifting uncomfortably, I stuff the
bandages into the front pocket of the hoodie and head for the door. I pause in the doorway and
glance back at Tessa where she stands by the tray, gathering up her instruments.

“Thank you,” I say lamely. “For this, and the rest.” It isn’t enough, and never will be, so I leave
without waiting for a response, tugging the infirmary door shut behind me.

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CHAPTER TEN — ISLA

Luna’s bedroom resides on the first floor of the warehouse, but the moment I step inside all
indications we’re still in a concrete and metal building disappear. The stone floor is covered by
miscellaneous rugs of varying patterns and colors, and tapestries made from colored sheets
stretch across the far walls, disguising the dull gray. The far wall, save for its taped-curtain
window, is covered in polaroid photos: Luna, Beth and Tessa, other Nook residents.

Her parents were arrested months after her birth, but only Luna’s twin was with them at the time.
Her sister was placed into adoption, as far as Luna knows, but she doesn’t know much—she
doesn’t even have a name. I try to imagine a life like that, a life without my fifth limb, without
my sister, and it makes my stomach wrench.

The Nook is Luna’s home, and has been for the five years she and the others have resided there.
She mentions, briefly, their previous location, but all I gather is the name I already have — the
Docks — and the same understanding it didn’t end well.

She was raised in an entirely different world than I was, than Harper was, the child of a village
rather than two. And with her adoptive mothers, Beth and Tessa, serving as the de facto leaders
with invaluable computer and medical skills, none of them have left the Nook since it was
settled—including Luna, to her indignation.

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I tug the thick metal door shut behind me, enclosing us in this world within a world. Luna is
sprawled across the bed reading a novel so worn its pages have to be held in a certain way as not
for the entire book to collapse.

“I’m assuming you have the lay of the land here,” I say. Luna immediately perks up, carefully
setting the book aside, her instincts telling her what my words aren’t—my comment is more than
it seems. She swings her legs over the bed and leans back on her palms.

“That would be true,” she says, curious. “Why?”

“Beth’s computer,” I say. “She said she has access to sentry feeds and databases. Does that mean
her computer could find me an address?”

Luna’s brows pull together. “Yes, but Beth will never let you-“

“I’m not asking Beth,” I say. “I’m asking you.” Luna stares at me blankly, half-comprehending,
and I continue. “My sister is still out there. I won’t leave her.”

“I thought she was with your...” Luna considers the word. “Your mom’s sister.”

“I don’t care who she’s with if she’s not with me,” I say, and a bone-deep longing pushes into
Luna’s eyes, a loss and envy she knows she carries but can’t see. There is a girl out there with
Luna’s eyes and curls without a Mark on her wrist—a girl Luna will never meet.

“I’m going after her,” I say. “And I need help.” The word still tastes like spikes, but the second
time around is less sharp.

Luna shifts and chews on her bottom lip. An uncomfortable feeling gnaws at me, and I try to
soften my ever-icy exterior. Luna may dance the line with the key to the door and her secret
openings, but she hasn’t gone past the hedge since Beth and Tessa and the others found this place
five years ago. I can’t expect her to risk everything for me, for my sister.

“I’m not asking you to come with me, but I do need a way onto that computer. Think that’s up
your alley?”

Luna cracks a wicked grin and says, “Absolutely.”

The rebellious streak in the leaders’ daughter turns out to have its advantages. Luna has Beth’s
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schedule memorized and leads me into the office during lunch—Beth will be downstairs talking
to everyone for at least an hour. Plenty of time for a search.

Luna navigates the mountain of screens with an ease indicating she’s been taught, or she’s done
her own share of snooping. A search index through Seattle’s sentry department pops up with the
few taps of the keys, and I wonder briefly how the hell Beth managed it. At my inquisitive look,
Luna’s cheeks flame scarlet.

“Not much else to do around here,” she explains.

I want to tell her she doesn’t have to explain it to me, I understand more than most what comes
out of boredom. For some, its piano, and for some, its hacking.

I step up to the desk and lean against the table. “My mom’s sister’s name is Danielle Campbell.
Can you find her?” I keep the word aunt out of my mouth, the label wrong and sharp.

Luna shoots me a look, as if to say, seriously? and bends over the keyboard, quickly filling in a
search form with an ease I’m jealous of. She scans through the results, pulling up identification
pages covered in text. Her pointer finger trails down the trail, pausing on a segment labeled
MAILING ADDRESS. Tugging a sheet of paper from one of the many scattered about the desk,
Luna rips off the bottom piece and uncaps a pen with her teeth, holding the plastic tip in her
mouth as she jots down the address.

Once she’s finished, she recaps the pen and looks to another screen, pulling up a search tab and
typing in the address. A direction logo pops up beside the map, and Luna gestures to the screen.

“Two hour drive. Four if we stay on the back roads, which we, you know, have to. Easy enough.”

“Doesn’t sound easy,” I say. Luna grins.

“Is anything ever easy for people like us, though? Really?” She asks, and I decide I like her.

Four hours on the road is not just four hours. It's four hours of slinking to reach my sister, not
including getting her out or getting back.

It is a suicide mission, but I have no better options. I never have.

“Is there a car I can take?” I ask, grateful when Luna doesn’t question whether or not I can actually
drive it.

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Luna’s life in the shadows showcases itself in the guarding of her expression, in the uncertainty
and concern flitting across her face. She understands the risks of this escapade more than anyone
else here, save the other Marked residents.

If we are caught, our stories end and are erased from time.

“Yes,” she says eventually. “We have spares, for raiding parties and if we need to...” The word
flee is unspoken but understood.

“Luna,” I say, and her dark eyes find mine, wide and young and innocent. “Thank you.”

She looks sad when she replies, the ache weighing on her tone. “My sister is gone. Yours doesn’t
have to stay that way. We’ll get her back.”

“We—” Before I can argue, she sets her jaw and puffs out her chest.

“I’m coming. Unless you want Beth and Tessa to know about—”

“Fine.”

Luna grins triumphantly.

I’m torn between thanking her and wrapping her in a hug and nodding with all the emotion of a
slab of rock, and though I know I should go for the first — she deserves the first — I end on the
latter.

“Por el amor de Dios,” says an exasperated intruder to the room. I turn, finding Alex standing in
the doorway with folded arms and an irritated look on his face. “Tell me you aren’t doing what I
think you are.”

Luna shifts not-so-subtly in front of the monitors, and Alex steps further in, eyes narrowing. I
would expect him to look out of place, a mouse in a den of snakes, but he looks more comfortable
standing in the computer room of an illegal compound than he did in his own house. The bruise
on his left temple is turning a purple, bluish color, its center so dark it's almost black.

“Tell me you’re not going after Harper.”

With a casual shrug, I lean back against the desk. “Fine. I’m not going after Harper.”

“Isla—“

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Luna, keyed in to the tension if not the realities of the situation, is smart enough to clear her throat
and dart for the door.

“You know, I’m gonna go make sure Beth is still downstairs. You guys…” Luna trails off, half
her body out the door. “I’ll see you later.” With that, she is out of the room and out of the range
of Alex’s quiet but surprisingly effective frustration. The screen cleared and his suspicions
confirmed, Alex huffs and spins on his heels, exiting the room without another word.

Sighing, I push off the desk and into the hall after him, catching the door to our room before it
swings shut behind him and slipping inside. Alex stands facing the curtain-covered window with
rigid shoulders, and I consider bolting, avoiding the confrontation, but this isn’t something I can
outrun.

“You knew this was coming,” I say. “You knew I couldn’t leave her with a stranger.”

“No, I just didn’t think you were stupid enough to try and drive yourself to Everett, somehow
get your sister out of that house, and make it back without being noticed or followed or getting
caught,” he snaps, colder than I’ve ever heard him.

“I can make it,” I say, and it’s clear neither of us believes it.

“You don’t know how to drive, Isla,” he says. I let out a sharp breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?
Ask me to come with you?”

“Because you’d say yes.”

“And?” he presses, still not understanding the thing I can’t bring myself to say.

“I’m not willing to risk it.”

“Risk what?”

“Risk you,” I say sternly. His eyes are saucers and he’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before.

“Since when do you care what happens to me?” he asks.

My mouth sets in a hard line. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Morales.”

For once, he is rendered silent by my abrasiveness, but the reprieve only lasts until he breaks it
again.

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“I’m not letting you go alone.”

“And I’m not letting you come with me,” I say. Lifting my hands, I pick at my fingernails, making
a show of disinterest. “I believe that’s called an impasse.”

“Not when only one of us knows how to drive,” Alex says. He has me, and he knows he does,
and the only thing keeping me still is my pride—coincidentally the only thing keeping me from
my sister.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “But you’re nothing more than my taxi.”

Alex smiles. “Keep telling yourself that.”

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CHAPTER ELEVEN — ISLA

I’ve claimed one of the dingy couches in what I dub the cafeteria, spending my meals tucked into
the corner, curled up on faded cushions and pretending not to notice the stares. If I’m lucky, Luna
or Alex joins me, and I can escape the eyes, the curiosity following me around.

In their defense, it’s been five years since the Nook has seen a new face, and mine comes with
notoriety I never asked for. The infamous daughter of Ricky and Diana Batali.

Today, our second at the Nook, Alex joins me for breakfast, which is in itself a miracle, as I’m
learning getting him out of bed before the clock turns to double digits is like dragging a bratty
child to a nap.

“For eggs made for a hundred people,” Alex says, scooping out of his bowl, “these aren’t so bad.”

“Pretty sure they’re powdered. Not really eggs,” I point out, though it doesn’t keep me from
eating them.

“Tastes like it,” Alex mumbles through the eggs. He waggles a brow at me, and I roll my eyes,
setting aside my bowl and drawing my feet onto the couch, ignoring the protesting ache. The
soreness from the fight has settled inside me, and each movement brings a sharp breath and a
wince I can’t always suppress.

“Did Tessa give you something for the pain?” He asks. An excuse lines up on my tongue, similar
to the one I fed Tessa yesterday, but the doctor herself walks up to the couches and drops onto
the small folding chair across from us, saving me a response.

“She did,” Tessa says, “but someone wasn’t interested.”

“Not interested?” Alex asks, flicking a glance my way, annoyingly concerned.

“I’m fine,” I stress. Alex and Tessa fix me with skeptical looks, my lie falling flat, and I huff
indignantly. “Save it for someone who needs it.”

“You are your father’s daughter,” Tessa says approvingly. “But if I could force that man into a
hospital bed, and I have, I can, and will, jam pain meds down your throat. We’ll survive with two
less Tylenol in our inventory.” She digs a hand in her pocket and pulls out a small bottle of pills,
uncapping it and gesturing to me. Reluctantly, I hold out a hand, letting her drop two pills into
my palm. I toss them into my mouth, taking Alex’s water from between his knees and downing

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the meds, ignoring his disgruntled noise.

“Tongue,” Tessa commands. With a frown, I open my mouth and wiggle my tongue to prove I
swallowed. She nods in approval and tucks the bottle away, shifting gears and folding her arms.
“Now. Onto other pressing matters.”

My blood is ice as I look at Alex, whose mouth is pulled in a straight line and whose eyes flick
everywhere but toward Tessa. If we were under investigation, we’d be declared guilty without
opening our mouths.

How thin are the walls of this place? Are Beth and Tessa lingering outside every room we enter
and listening, figuring out our moves before we make them? Their knowledge of my plan to go
after Harper won’t stop me, but it could make things more difficult—and they are difficult
enough.

“The two of you need some clothes,” Tessa says, an easy smile playing on her lips. I exhale, relief
cooling my frazzled nerves. “I’m surprised Luna hasn’t taken you to our ‘store.’”

“My clothes are fine,” I say, as Alex says, “Yeah, we do.”

I bristle, shooting him a sharp glare. “We?”

Alex gestures to my — his — hoodie. “Yeah, we,” he says. “You are covered in a-“ He pauses,
glancing at Tessa. Frowning, I drop my eyes to the black hoodie I dragged on this morning, losing
my breath at the dark, crusted blood on the fabric, only visible to those who look for it, but visible
still. I can hear his words in my head — dead man’s blood — and dislike the flash of gratefulness I
feel toward Alex for not voicing them. Tessa and Beth are the closest thing I have to family beyond
Harper now, and my murder of a sentry isn’t likely to be well-received.

“Our stuff is filthy,” Alex says. He smiles lightly at Tessa. “Where is this store?”

The store is more of a storage room, large and stuffed with racks of clothes stretching all the way
down the long walls. There is no rhyme or reason to the selections, merely the collection of the
coming and going of the residents over the years.

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Alex calls it a thrift shop with a smile, on the verge of bouncing up and down like a child when
Tessa leads us in, and though I haven’t the slightest clue what it is, I am ready to get rid of the
clothes sticking to my skin like the sentry’s blood. If I touch the dark, crusted parts of the jacket,
I fear my fingers will come away red with proof of my monstrosity.

I am walking proof people like me belong in cages.

“All these people, are they Marked or unMarked…” Alex hesitates, seeming to toss the word over
before reluctantly releasing it. “Traitors, like us?”

Like us. The words prick like needles on my skin, an association I didn’t expect to hear from the
boy I essentially kidnapped. At some point, Alex and everyone here have moved out of the direct
danger category and into something more terrifying: allies, maybe even friends.

“I really hate that word,” Tessa says, distaste twisting her expression. “But no. In fact, there are
less Marked here than anyone else. Five, apart from you.”

“How did they get here, then?” I ask, colder than I intend, my tone making Tessa’s lips turn
down, though she regulates herself quickly.

“Tent Cities aren’t just the places you end up when you run away,” Tessa explains. “Usually,
they’re the places you run to.”

“Run to?”

Tessa nods, her smile sad. It reads of years of unspoken pain, of hiding, the way I did. Catching
sight of the silver band adorning her finger, a match to the one of Beth’s hand, I remember I’m
the only person thrown aside; I wonder whether the world is stock full of those labeled bad.

“The world out there is set up for certain people. If you’re not one of them…”

“You live out of step,” Alex says, his tone pressing like a brick on my ribs.

“Exactly,” Tessa says. “Some of us are lucky enough to find our way home. Others aren’t.”

“Guess that makes us lucky,” I deadpan. A severity I wasn’t aware she possessed settles in her
features, making my stomach churn.

“You are luckier than you’ll likely ever know,” she says.

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“Now this,” Alex says, walking the racks across from me after Tessa’s departure, “is cool.”

I snort, letting him interpret the noise as he wishes, and look to the hangers beneath my fingers,
tugging them apart and letting half my focus linger on finding something my size, the other half
on Alex opposite me.

He has amassed a small stack of tee shirts, all dark, and hums mindlessly as he shifts along. There
is little organization other than groupings by clothing type, and Alex evidently enjoys the search.
He looks like he belongs here—Alex, unMarked, who followed me off the deep end, seemingly
content in the water I’ve thrown him in.

As if sensing my train of thoughts, he pauses, looking up to scan my expression. Discomfort

skitters along my skin, and I avert my gaze, feigning interest in the too-small jeans beneath my
hand.

“If you have something to say…” He muses. I stiffen, head snapping up and defenses rising.
Doubt washes over me, and I drop both my hands on the rack, glaring.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “And don’t give me the ‘saving Harper’ bull, because a doomed
mission to save my sister isn’t a good enough excuse to ruin your life.”

Alex shifts back, jaw set and eyes narrowed, giving in to the argument I’ve been pushing at for
days.

“You know, instead of…” He pauses, buzzing with irritation as he searches for the word. “-of
interrogating me every five minutes, you could thank me for saving your life. I didn’t have to ruin
my life—“ The words sound flimsy and silly, false and inapplicable. “—for you and your
ridiculous crusade.”

“You saved me?” I snort, anger ballooning. The metal of the hangers jabs into my skin, but I grip
tighter. “Without me, you would have died in that house.”

“Without you, I never would have been in that house,” he snaps, the intensity surprising me,
though I refuse to let my armor crack. Alex’s nostrils flare, and he looks away, swallowing and
wrangling his frustration like he’s made an art out of it — an act making me envious and curious
— before meeting my eyes again, calmer. “I saw the look on that sentry’s face when he came to
my door. I knew that if I gave him to you…” He shakes his head. “I knew that if you went with
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him, you would never come back. I couldn’t do that to Harper. Or to you, I guess.”

“That’s not what I asked,” I say. “I didn’t ask why you didn’t turn me in back there. I’m asking
why you’re here, now.”

Suddenly interested in a faded gray tee beneath his hand, Alex inspects the fabric as if he’ll find
the answer to my question in the thread. He doesn’t speak for so long I’ve stopped expecting him
to.

“You say I ruined my life by following you,” he says, all anxious movement, fidgeting and
shifting, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far—if he will break, and I’ll be alone, again. “But I’m
not sure if I had anything to ruin in the first place.”

I’m itching for a release, for someone to scream at or blame or ease this suffocating weight on my
lungs, but his words pluck the fight out of me. His words echo deep in my bones, poking at an
understanding of my own; a wound, forever pulsing, never healing.

Alex lets out a deep breath. “Look, I know you don’t trust me, not completely, and I’m okay with
that, but we are stuck together for a while,” he says. A lopsided smile tugs on his lips, the sadness
and hollowness quickly replaced. “Thanks for that.” The words are spoken in Spanish, and I’m
pleased to understand them.

“You jumped on the sinking ship.”

“You sank the ship.”

I fold my arms and stare him down—he wilts after a full three seconds.

“Whatever,” he says, attention returning to the clothes on hangers.

Shame burns in my belly and I clench my teeth for a long moment before asking, “Did you know
about places like these? Tent cities?”

He shrugs a shoulder, not looking up, and says, “I heard rumors. People disappear all the time,
and you never ask questions, but sometimes…” His eyes find mine, and they are a mix of hope
and pride. “Sometimes, you can tell the difference between disappearing and leaving.”

“Leaving? Leaving where?”

He shrugs again, the last strings of tension clipped, and the subject revitalizes him, like a child

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telling a fairy tale. Only in his story, the fairy tale is turning out to be real, and the monster under
his bed was his neighbor.

Unless he sees himself on another side of the story, unless the monsters look different to him.

“I had a job at the local movie theater when I was fifteen. Gross place, bad pay, but it got me out
of my house.” He shifts down the rack, managing to talk and grab a shirt or pants here and there,
unlike me. “My coworker was this guy named Jude. He was around twenty five, maybe older, he
always came into work hungover, and he hated the sentries. No one likes them, but I have never
seen someone hate them the way he did. He used to talk about…a world without any of it. I was
a kid, and it was easier to pretend he was crazy, but something he said—" He shakes his head.
“Tessa said it, and I read something like it in your dad’s journal when we were looking for this
place. ‘To find your way home.’ The last time I saw him, Jude told me he found his way home. I
thought he was crazy. I thought all of this…” He gestures to the room, stocked full of clothing
belonging to criminals, “—was crazy.”

“And now?” I ask, gentler than I expect or intend.

“Now, I’m not sure that Jude was the crazy one. I think he got out, the same way we did.”

“To be fair, you did follow a monster into Washington’s unauthorized zone,” I say, allowing the
tiniest of smiles. “You might be a little crazy.”

Alex frowns. “You’re not a monster.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Isla—"

“Trying to shop,” I hum, moving down the row. Alex grumbles and curses beneath his breath.

“You are infuriating.”

“I’ve heard,” I say. I pause. “Thank you.”

“Not a compliment.”

Another smile threatens my façade.

“Alex,” I say, and he squints, defensive.

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“I’m saying thank you.” Before he can say anything, I add, “Don’t get used to it. It’s a one time
deal.”

His gaze lingers as I move down the rack, pulling stretchy pants and long sleeves and piling them
over one arm. Alex makes no attempt to hide his attention, and after an agonizing thirty seconds,
I glower at him.

“If there’s something you want to say…” I mirror.

Indecision is etched into his features.

“Does it not…bother you?” he asks. “Back at the house, the sentry—" He stops, searching my eyes
for an answer I’ll never give him. “You killed him, and you’re acting like it doesn’t matter.” He
rakes a hand through his hair, making the dark curls flop over and stick up; I have the sudden
urge to reach up and flatten it down.

Here he is confronting a murderer, and I’m distracted by his hair.

“Of course it matters,” I snarl. “You think I wanted to do that? That I enjoyed it?”

“I don’t know,” he says, voice rising to meet mine. “Did you?”

“No.” I set my jaw, nostrils flaring, but the curiosity beneath Alex’s hesitance breaks through my
walls. As much as I hate to admit it, he is one of the few allies I have, and pushing him away
further will only hurt us both. “It doesn’t matter if I wanted to or not. The second the sentry
walked into the room, one of us had to die. I didn’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice.”

“Maybe for you,” I say, hiking up my sleeve and shaking my wrist at him. “People like me don’t
get choices.”

Alex falls silent, and I take it as an excuse to move further down the rack — further from him —
and look at the clothes, though the effort is in vain.

My hand falls to a sundress, sky blue with yellow flowers, held up by thin straps. It is a dress
Harper would reach for without pause, pretty and simple and elegant. In another world, I might
have done the same, might have tried it on and twirled in front of a mirror. But I would merely
be a tiger in a sweater; you can slap fabric on it, but the beast is still there.

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“Es bonita,” Alex comments from the other side of the rack as I lift the hanger from the collection.
“Pretty.”

My nose scrunches, and Alex lets out a low laugh.

“You know you could still kick my ass in that if you wanted to,” he says. “Take it.”

“I could kick your ass in a straitjacket,” I say, and when he grins, I grin back.

“Absolutely you could,” he says with a wry smile. “I might be more distracted by the dress,
though.”

An unfamiliar sensation twists and wrenches in my gut, and I tear my gaze from Alex’s before
my traitorous cheeks flush pink.

Alex Morales is the most dangerous person here, in ways I never saw coming and have no ability
to combat. Even worse, I’m not so sure I want to.

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CHAPTER TWELVE — ISLA

We are out of the Nook before anyone wakes the next morning, exiting through a basement door
near-rusted shut, spitting us out onto the side of the building. Luna leads us along the border of
the hedge until it opens up to the loading dock, and while the path seems nonexistent to me, Luna
moves with purpose, ducking through a thin section of hedges we didn’t notice when we arrived,
and through to the cracking asphalt lot of the warehouse next to us.

Three abandoned cars are strewn across the lot, some missing doors or tires, belongings strewn
about, and I’m reminded of Alex’s car, tucked into an alley.

“Jesus,” he curses, and I know he’s thinking about his car, too. He spent three years working on
the vehicle, tinkering to keep himself out of his house. The need for distraction is one I’m familiar
with, and now, his distraction is a heap of bones encased in a brick alley, lost in a dead town.

“Yeah, we aren’t taking those,” Luna says, scanning the lot casually and fishing out a key ring,
jerking a chin toward the back of the warehouse, past where we exited the brush. We turn the
corner to find five cars of varying cleanliness parked along the side of the building: two trucks, a
hatchback, a van, and an old bronco with dark tinted windows. Luna leads us to the bronco, its
condition the best of its partners, and glances over her shoulder before sticking the key in the
door.

“No one is looking for these,” Luna explains. Once she’s popped open the door, she tosses the
keys to Alex, who replaces Luna outside the driver’s side door. “Plus, we store the gas cartons in
this one. We could make it to Mexico if we wanted to.” At my glare, she amends, “or, you know,
your aunt’s house.” She tugs open the back door and climbs inside, maneuvering around plastic
gas cartons. I head to the passenger side, keeping an eye on the back, waiting for a patrol car to
box us in.

Alex snorts and says, “Like Mexico would let us through that border. No one wants anything to
do with our mess.”

“Really?” Luna asks—her education has likely been as sporadic as mine, and I’m grateful she
voices my question.

“Yeah,” Alex says. “Canada, Mexico, they cut us off back when we opened the first camps.”

“The Split hit everyone, though,” I say. Alex shrugs.

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“Yeah, but not everyone decided to lock up part of their population,” he says. He jams the key into
the ignition, and the engine grumbles and groans, sputtering to life, the noise making me stiffen.

Luna, noticing my discomfort, leans forward between the seats. “They do loops of the dead
towns, but it’s pretty lax. Once a day, if that, unless their Spidey-senses tingle. You guys just got
unlucky.” Luna knows the Nook better than I ever will, and if she isn’t concerned, I shouldn’t be,
but I can’t shake the skittering, jittery nerves racing along my skin. I long for the safety of four
walls, for covered windows and closed doors.

“Spider what?” Alex asks.

“Spidey senses,” Luna says. “From Spiderman? The comics?”

“They stopped making comics before we were born,” I say. At Alex’s questioning look, I explain,
“My dad had a few old ones. Kept them in the basement.”

Luna frowns, and I wonder how much of the old world is buried in ghost towns, and how much
is gone altogether.

“How many hours until curfew?” Alex asks. Luna peers at the clock through the dusty dash
screen.

“Curfew is four in the outer towns, and six closer to Seattle. That gives us…eight hours, give or
take.”

“Will we make it?”

“We’ll make it,” I say, because we have to. I doubt we’ll manage to sneak past Beth and Tessa
again; if we don’t get caught by sentries before we make it back. This is our one shot, and we will
not get another.

Having double checked the lot and opposite streets are deserted, Alex slowly pulls the large
vehicle from its sleeping brethren and onto the asphalt, the car wobbling on the pot-holed street.
We spend the first hour picking our way through the deadest of the unauthorized zones, our trio
silent and focused on the world outside the car.

The unauthorized zone ends in Mt Vernon, and we pass a handful of other cars once officially
back in the cities. Only once does a patrol car show, sending us into a panicked flurry. They could
be searching for any and all of us, and when the black van flashes down the road ahead of them,

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I tuck myself against the floorboards beneath the dash, and Luna disappears, curled on the floor
in the backseat without prompting. My gaze stays locked on Alex above me, his jaw tight as he
keeps the car steady and pulls us past the sentries.

Three hours outside Seattle, we are finally disguised by afternoon traffic, and I force my fisted
fingers to uncurl, my palm puckered where I dug my nails in.

We made bad time, the bordering roads more run down and difficult to navigate than we
anticipated, and we still have three hours to go by the time we make it back to civilization. The
remaining hours will take us through the cities east of Seattle, with plenty of daytime traffic to
help us blend, but it does little to settle me.

With two hours to curfew by the time we reach our destination, the realization we won’t be
making it home tonight settles heavily upon us all. Alex estimates five minutes to the house, but
with the ticking of the clock, we will never make it far enough out of Seattle’s radius to drive back
undetected. There is no wiggle room, and there will be no escaping tonight.

Beth and Tessa have surely noticed our absence and found the note left by Luna with a vague
explanation scrawled on it. Had traffic gone our way, had the unauthorized zone been less
decrepit, we might have been home for a bedtime lecture.

“You can’t drive any faster?” I press through gritted teeth. Alex accelerates, but not by much.

“I can,” he retorts. “I bet the sentries will be very understanding of my speeding with two Marked
kids in my car when they pull us over.”

“No would have sufficed.”

“We aren’t going to make it, are we?” Luna asks. Alex purses his lips, holding the steering wheel
in a white-knuckled grip.

“No,” Alex says, “we’re not.” I force myself back against the seat, swallowing the panic
threatening to bust to the surface. It isn’t the time to freak out—I can’t freak out until there is
something concrete to freak out about. Alex continues, “We have to wait for it to get dark, find
Harper, and wait it out until morning.”

It is a race against the clock, and we are losing.

Alex slows to a stop in an alley spilling onto a residential street, the homes architecturally

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identical, the only differences in the peeling pastel paint jobs. None give the indication they are
hiding my sister, but Alex locates the home effortlessly, pointing to a house painted light blue,
the blue edging on gray with the darkening sky. He puts the car in park and pulls the map from
the floorboards, glancing down at it and up at the house, nodding.

“That one,” he says.

Lingering on the curb, a silhouette visible through the dark windshield, is a sentry van. I should
have expected it, but the sight makes nausea claw at my insides, and I shove down the urge to
run.

“You’re sure?” I ask, tone hushed unnecessarily. Alex nods curtly.

“I’m sure,” he says. “If Harper is with your aunt, she is in there.”

“What do we do now?” Luna asks.

“Until that sentry leaves, or it gets dark, nothing. Unless you’re itching for a bed in a camp.”

“Unnecessary,” Alex scolds, to which I shrug.

“It’s a jail cell for you, too,” I say, regretting the cruelty instantly, but making no effort to reconcile
it—he is getting too close, too friendly, too dangerous.

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“Anytime.”

“Can you two shut up for five seconds?” Luna asks. “We do need a plan.”

“We can’t take the front, not with that van. He’s waiting for us.”

“How do you know he’s waiting for you?”

“Why else would he be here?” I ask. He says nothing. “They want me. Got to complete the Batali
set, right?”

Alex’s jaw tightens and he says, “That’s not happening.”

“Good. Now listen to Luna and shut up.”

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“That was to both of you,” Luna says. I narrow my eyes at her, letting ice seep into my expression
until Luna swallows and sits back. Guilt surges through me, but I ignore it—distance is safer, and
monsters aren’t meant to be befriended.

Luna is Marked as I am, but she is different, doesn’t carry the anger I’ve never known how to set
down. She is an innocent, and I am the poster child of the camp’s mission with sentry blood ever-
staining my fingers.

“As soon as that van leaves, we go in. Get Harper, get the hell out.”

“That’s hardly a plan,” Alex says.

“Do you have anything better?”

“Isla’s right,” Luna says. “Beth and Tessa taught us to be invisible if we get caught outside. Try
to blend in until we can get away.”

“Hard to blend in when you’re a wanted criminal.”

“Always a cynic,” Alex says.

“Someone has to be.”

“What part of shutting up did you two miss?”

After two hours hunkered in the bronco, the sentry van flickers back to life and pulls away—at
seven o’clock, the night’s patrol has ended, it appears.

The unMarked’s tendency toward trust never ceases to amaze me. Whereas I assume there is an
agenda in everything, people like my sister never expect to find one. Even the sentries are guilty
of it, leaving the house — leaving Harper — unattended not five minutes after the sun sets.

“So, have you figured out a plan yet? Break in? Tiptoe through the house?” Alex asks
sarcastically. Two hours trapped in this car has us all crabby, Alex included.

I give him a lopsided grin and say, “Breaking in sounds good to me.”

“I’m good with it,” Luna adds.

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“I was joking—"

“You thinking back door?” Luna asks, both of us ignoring the protests of our driver. I peer
through the darkness at the house — the only thing standing between my sister and I — and I’d
burn it down if it meant I’d find her standing unharmed in the ash—I’d burn down this whole
town.

“I say we check the windows and go right for her room if we can. Cut out any middlemen.”

Luna nods curtly, as prepared as she can be in the circumstances, and I look to Alex. His usually
smooth features are taut with tension, and I feel a rush of regret at allowing him to come this far.
I didn’t have a choice — he didn’t give me one — but it still sits like some kind of betrayal on my
lungs.

“It’s not too late to back out,” I say.

“I am already a fugitive,” Alex says. “What’s one more felony?”

To my surprise, and Alex’s, I smile; a real, genuine smile. The sensation is unfamiliar, awkward
in its intensity, and I pull my lips into a thin line.

“Try not to get knocked out this time,” I say. His grin widens and he reaches out, giving one of
my braids a slight tug. I swat him away half-heartedly, my reservation alarming me—I am not
angry, not annoyed, but amused.

“I love family reunions,” Luna says, smiling mischievously.

“Says the orphan,” I quip, and Luna sticks her tongue out at me, ever the mature sixteen year old.

“If we are lucky, this will be a quick and quiet reunion,” Alex says.

“And the last time we were lucky was...” I trail off, and Alex shrugs, waving me off. The sharp
remarks die out, leaving only the reality of the house ahead of us, and I gather up whatever
courage I can find, building up my suit of armor around me.

The objective takes forefront and pushes away my fear and doubt. When boiled down, it is a
simple enough mission: find Harper, get back to the car, get the hell out.

Very few choices and infinite chances to fail—at least things are consistent.

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It takes all of four minutes to find Harper’s window on the far back side of the house, and I push
my face against the glass, cool relief flooding me at the sight of my sister curled up in a bed across
the room. She looks as she did the last time I saw her, and though I hadn’t expected to find her
beaten and bruised, it is still easing to see her unharmed.

The window eases up with only a little fussing, and I send up a silent thanks to my ignorant and
trusting aunt. The wood whines as it scrapes against the pain, agonizingly loud on the silent
night.

“Stay,” I order Alex and Luna, tone leaving no room for discussion. I hoist myself up, ducking
through the window and into the room, hitting the carpet with a thump and moving to kneel in
front of my sister.

Kneeling beside her, I nudge her arm. When her eyes snap open, I slap a hand across her mouth.
Her confusion deepens, and she reaches up to peel my hand off.

“Isla?” she asks, blinking against the darkness, an indecipherable edge to her tone. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” I say. “We need to go, Harper. Right now.” I push to my feet and tug off Harper’s
blankets. Still shaking off sleep, she swings her legs over the bed, in a state of disarray.

“You can’t be here. Isla, you can’t-“ Her gaze snaps to the closed door, and she radiates fear and
desperation, and it takes me a second too long to see it, to see how stupid I’ve been.

Nothing is ever easy where I’m concerned. This shouldn’t have been. What should have been
alarm bells were shrugged off as coincidence or arrogance, and my relief at finding my sister
pushed it all away.

The bedroom door swings open, hallway light filling the room, and someone flicks on the light,
the brightness overwhelming. In the doorway, a woman so similar to my mom it hurts stands
with a horrified expression. Behind her, figures in dark uniforms push into the hall, and my
stomach drops out from under me.

You can’t be here Harper said. I understand now. Why the curtains weren’t drawn, why the
windows were unlocked, why Harper looked at me like I was the last thing she wanted to see.

It’s a trap. It was always a trap. And I walked Luna and Alex right into it.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN – HARPER

It takes too long to realize I’m bait.

After six long hours of questioning in the main sentry office, in which my inquisitors become
more frustrated the more answers I avert, I’m carted north, to the home of Danielle Campbell.

Over the course of my time in the station, I learn Isla disappeared the moment she slipped out
my window, and no one has a clue which direction she went, where she ended up, or where she’s
going. They press and poke and urge, but I keep my mouth shut, the way I was taught.

At first, I think the sentry they station at the Campbell house is there as a silent pressure, someone
to stand on me until I slip up and reveal my secrets.

Isla isn’t the only one who prepared for a day like this. I have spent seventeen years protecting
my sister, and secrets are my second language. The sentries will get nothing helpful out of me,
nothing to lead them toward Isla, wherever she is.

But they aren’t trying to break me. They are waiting me out. Using me.

They are a blur of faces and names I don’t bother learning who linger and hover and wait for
something I don’t see coming. Their attention is concentrated on the streets outside, like they are
looking for something, or expecting something.

It takes me too long to realize they are looking for her—that I am looking for her, too.

It is the wrong thing to hope for, but at night, when I am tucked away into a spare

bedroom, forgotten by Danielle and her husband and forbidden from interacting with my young
cousin, I ask the universe to send her here. I will Isla to find me, to save me, to fix things—and if
she can’t, to stand by my side as it all falls apart.

Isla has always believed herself to be my shell, but without her, it is I who is empty.

Danielle Campbell stands in the doorway, sentries surging down the hall behind her, her eyes
pinned on my sister. She looks at Isla like she’s staring at a monster with bloody, dripping teeth,
and the urge to hide Isla behind me, shield her from the horrible things they believe about her, is
nearly overwhelming.

Isla lunges, lurching toward Danielle and snapping, “Boo,” and making Danielle stumble back
into the hall, her features twisted. I’m both amused and annoyed by the show, but before I can
reach for Isla to drag her away, she reaches for me, taking my hand. I let her pull me to the
window and scramble out the pane and into the yard without question, landing on the grass and
scooting to make room.

Isla climbs through next, straddling the windowsill as I step out of the way, and before she slides
off the sill, something tugs her back into the room. Panic courses through me as the shock of the
pull breaks Isla’s concentration and she falls back into the room.

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The window is too tall to climb from here, and all I can do is watch as Isla lands hard on the wood
floor, drawing her knees up to her chest and kicking violently. The sentry who has been hovering
over my head today, a cruel man with massive fists, sneers at my sister.

Isla thrusts a kick toward his knee, sliding from beneath him and back to her feet, gasping for the
breath she lost in the fall. She is feigning strength, but her exhaustion is clear, and she favors
certain parts of her body, like she is healing from something—her eyebrow is bandaged, face
bruised.

“Not very nice,” the sentry huffs, and I catch sight of a satisfied smile on Isla’s lips as she lunges
for the window, arms outstretched. Her motion is ungraceful, shoulders slamming hard into the
wood, but I help pull her torso through the window, making a note to apologize for the roughness
if we make it out of this.

The sentry catches Isla’s ankle again, but our coupled desperation is our advantage, and in that
moment, we are both more animal than human. I let out a growl of effort, and Isla squirms and
kicks, the momentum sending her over the ledge and onto the grass, the two of us landing in a
pile of limbs.

My body protests, pain sparking, but steady hands haul Isla and I to our feet. For the first time
since climbing out the window, I realize Isla has not come alone.

Alex Morales, my neighbor and the closest thing I have to a best friend, stands beside my sister,
and to his left, a girl a year or so younger than me chews on her lip, shifting her weight
uncomfortably.

I want to lay into Alex and my sister, find out how they both ended up here, why they did, but I
hold my tongue, the sentries in the house bustling and loud and reminding of us of our ticking
clock.

The three of us are looking to Isla for what to do next — I always do, but Alex and the girl are
doing the same — and Isla gives us a patronizing, though fearful, look.

“Run,” she says.

The sentry vehicles I watched pull away earlier this afternoon have been lingering out of sight —
waiting for the mouse to come for the cheese — are swarming the house, and it is only their
surprise at finding us outside preventing us being instantly caught. We weave and duck around
cars and hands, following Isla, though I know she has no destination.

It feels like ages since I ran, though it’s only been a few days. I did laps after my last soccer
practice, but where that was calm and composed, this is panicked and desperate and free.

The wind tears strands of hair from my ponytail, and each smack of my shoes against the asphalt
shoots vibrations up my calves. A full out sprint is something I usually enjoy, and even now, I
can’t help the adrenaline singing in my veins.

Sirens blare to life around us, breaking the spell, and I nearly slam into Isla’s back as she grinds
to a halt. Alex slows beside her, and I’m wondering why we’ve stopped, why we’re wasting
precious time, but I follow Isla’s gaze in the direction of the house, where half our pursuants have
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broken off to push a head of curly dark hair onto the asphalt, and just as soon as I’ve noticed the
stop, Isla has broken off toward the house.

I am too dumbstruck to do more than stumble after her, but Alex composes himself quicker,
chasing after her, seeing what she doesn’t: a sentry who has arrived late, climbing out of his car
as Isla passes it, lifting a stun gun and aiming at her back.

I open my mouth to warn her, but Alex sprints for the sentry, snaking a hand out to yank the
baton off his belt, a stranger to me as he raises the weapon and brings it down onto the man’s
back. The sentry crumbles, knees slamming into the concrete, catching himself on his palms.

Isla and Alex stare at each other for a long moment, an understanding I can’t discern passing
between them and stunning me further into uselessness—the world has flipped on its axis, and
while the others seem to have picked up the rules, I am scrambling.

Alex says her name, and she stiffens. She looks at the girl they are dragging into a car, and I know
she is wishing it was her in the cuffs—but it isn’t her, and unless she wants two arrests tonight,
we have to move. The sentries have shifted back to hunting mode with the girl detained and scan
the street for our trio around the corner.

Thankfully, Isla seems to realize this, and shakes Alex and I’s hands off her, continuing in the
direction we guide her.

As we run, the adrenaline I used to get this far is running out, and the only thing left is fear and
horror and dread and confusion. I have so many questions and so few answers and if I think
about it too long, I’ll fall apart.

I do what I always do when things get too hard. I turn to Isla to take the lead, and she does so,
now at the front of our pack and racing down the street. She isn’t trying to hide—we’ve already
been seen. The goal is to be faster, to put enough distance between us and them the sentries don’t
notice where or when we split off.

Though I know looking back only slows me down, I risk a few glances over my shoulder, badges
glinting off streetlights as they pursue us, their figures growing smaller by the second.

We are running for our lives, and it’s giving us an edge.

“Car?” Alex calls, and Isla nods, an understand passing between them as they pick up their speed.
They turn down a street lined with office buildings, darting into the first alley on the left. It
stretches back in the direction we came, spitting out onto the street, packed with overflowing
dumpsters from the offices and shops outside. For a moment, I think Isla is going to force us into
one of them, but she and Alex continue past it—and back onto the street, toward the Campbell
house.

I think I’d prefer the dumpster.

“Where are we going?” I ask and am unsurprised when she ignores me; I’ll figure it out soon
enough.

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We push back onto the street, not into the awaiting arms of sentry’s as I fear, and circle almost
back to the house we ran from, turning suddenly into a residential alley, a handful of cars parked
in front of back garages.

Alex stops at a dark Bronco, throwing open the back door, waving a hand for me. I jump
unsteadily into the car, Alex climbing in after me, dropping into an uncomfortable tuck behind
the front seats. Isla pulls herself over the middle row and into the cabin, landing roughly among
half empty cans of gas—the smell rises and burns my nostrils.

Just as headlights glint on the street, Alex tugs the door shut.

Isla shifts again, and nausea bubbles in my gut, not helped by the uncomfortable crouch and the
half-molded seats of the car.

“I’m going to throw up,” I moan, barely audible.

“Puke and I’ll kill you,” Isla warns. Alex laughs, and the plastic cans rattle as she shifts with
discomfort, as uncomfortable as I am confused by the camaraderie. I haven’t exactly seen Isla
interact with people, but I have known her my entire life, and friendly isn’t a word I’d use to
describe her.

The sirens blare outside, ebbing louder and quieter as the vans search the streets. Every time the
noise draws closer, the car goes silent as we hold our breath, wrangling the fear locking us in
individual prisons. My heart is a kick drum, and I pray its noise doesn’t bring the sentries right
to us—at least it drowns out the sirens.

After an hour, or an eternity, silence falls and settles, night and darkness wrapping around our
hiding place.

“We’re good,” Isla says eventually, when I’m seconds from breaking. I sigh in relief.

“But we can’t move until curfew lifts. Get comfortable.”

I should have known, but hearing the words is a punch to an already tender gut.

“Really?” I ask, as if the answer will change.

“No, I’m screwing with you,” Isla deadpans. The barely-fastened lid whines, and I swallow the
anger. She isn’t mad at me, isn’t blaming me for all this — even if I am — but the lashes still sting.

“Don’t have to be so rude about it,” I mumble.

“Sorry for the inconvenience.”

I inhale sharply, a retort finding its way to my tongue — usually, they never make it past my
throat — but before I can spit it, Alex speaks.

“Give it a rest,” he says, snappier than I’ve heard him.

Isla is too angry at us both to dignify us with a response, choking us with her silence.

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The cabin is large enough to fit all three of us, but neither Alex nor I join Isla in the back, remaining
tucked behind the front seats on the floorboards. Alex leaned up to turn the mirrors to give he
and I a view of the lot, Isla watching through the back window.

Alex and I volunteer to take the first watch — technically, the first ‘listen for cars or sirens or
sentries’ — in the hopes that Isla will get some rest, but she doesn’t fall asleep, though it’s clear
Alex believes she has—she’s controlling her breath, trying at the illusion, but she isn’t as good as
she thinks.

“I knew you had a secret,” Alex says, his voice so low I’m not sure Isla can hear, “but I had no
idea…”

I finish in a whisper, “I was hiding my twin sister in my basement?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I had no idea.” He says the words in Spanish, and I’m reminded of high school
classes, Alex and I combining his natural knowledge of the language with my textbook studying
of it to ace tests. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“That was the plan,” I say after a moment, rifling through my choppy and incomplete index of
words.

“Well done,” he says, and I think he might be smiling.

Isla stiffens, almost imperceptibly, and if I didn’t know my sister, I’d think she’s jealous.

“Señora Andino would be so proud,” Alex says. “All this practical application.”

I laugh quietly, the noise off-putting in this car pulsing with tension. Alex leans back, a sliver of
light from a streetlamp outside illuminating a nasty bruise on his temple.

“Isla didn’t do that to you, did she?” I gesture at his temple.

“No,” he says, as if surprised to be asked. He runs through the highlights, briefly summarizing
the events of the past few days: Isla’s sneaking into his house, a trip home for the notebook, a
motel, a place called the Nook—he is sugar-coating things, judging from the state of Isla’s injuries.

“Think she’ll ever forgive us for what happened back there?” Alex asks, after he’s finished.

“She will.” I let out a sigh, sitting back. “Isla is…a boulder when she’s angry. You can shove and
shove, but she won’t move until she wants to.”

“And if she never moves?”

“She always does,” I say, smiling lightly. “It just takes her a little longer. You have to work a little
more. And keep from making her angrier until she’s over it.”

“She’s always angry.”

“Until she’s normally angry then.”

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I can feel Isla’s irritation, but can’t bring myself to feel bad.

“If she does let you in, though,” I say, “she’s worth it.” I take a breath. “How is she? Really?”

Alex pauses. “I don’t know. The sentry at the house…I’m pretty sure he nearly killed her.”

“That’s Isla for you. Downplaying is her specialty.”

“I thought punching people was her specialty.”

“You can have more than one,” I say. “Isla has quite a few.”

Isla has stopped trying to regulate her breathing, but Alex isn’t paying enough attention to notice.

I hope she understands what I’m trying to say. If she is half the whole she has spent her life
believing, then I too, am halved.

I know what she thinks—that she’s a monster we have kept locked way. But she isn’t a monster.
I’m beginning to think, maybe, she’s the one who slays it.

“She saved my life,” Alex says again. “Back at the house. The sentry left me for dead at

the bottom of the stairs, and she wasted the time to save me.”

I tell him of the station, of the questions and eventual relinquishing of me to my aunt, of their
lingering presence. “I knew she would find me, and so did they. I knew she would play right into
their hands. And she did.” I shake my head, worrying the hem of my sweatshirt between my
fingers. “That’s why I was so… horrified when you all showed up. Because I know how far she’s
willing to go. I know that she’s willing to go too far.” Or maybe I’m not willing to go far enough,
I almost say. “So, thank you. For keeping her safe.”

“I’m pretty sure it was the other way around.”

“Still,” I say. “Thank you.”

The conversation lulls, our exhaustion taking hold, and we try to get more comfortable in our
huddle, curling against the car doors.

“You should get some sleep. I’ll wake Isla in a few minutes,” I say.

“You’re sure?”

“Go to sleep, Alex,” I say, sounding like my sister.

Within minutes, Alex is asleep, and though I wish I could follow, I look across the dim darkness
at Isla. No time like the present.

“I know you’re awake.”

Her mouth curves up in a smug grin.

“Am not,” she replies, eyes opening. She pushes up, leaning into a box.

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“I didn’t know eavesdropping was your thing.”

“You do realize we’re in a tiny metal can?”

“Totally eavesdropping.”

She grumbles a curse— she is jealous. My impermeable sister, jealous. It’s more satisfying than
I’d like to admit.

“Still mad?” I say, choosing not to poke for the moment, on the off chance Alex stirs.

“What do you think?” Isla retorts.

“You know what would have happened if you made it back.”

“It shouldn’t have been Luna.”

Luna. The girl with the dark hair and the youthful eyes, the girl who was taken.

“Who should it have been? You?” Isla doesn’t respond. I let out a sigh. “Isn’t the self-loathing
routine getting a little old?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Isla says, self-righteous as ever.

“Of course not,” I snap. I pause long enough to compose myself. “Because you won’t talk
to me.” She stays silent, and I can’t stop the words from coming. “You won’t talk to anyone,” I

continue. “You’re an island of one, Isla, and you always have been. You can’t be mad at us for
not getting through gates you keep locked.”
“I don’t care what you do,” she says.

“I know you do,” I emphasize. “As much as you pretend you don’t, I know you, Isla. I see you.”
“How many fingers am I holding up, then?” I don’t have to physically see her to know which one
she has raised.
It takes everything in me not to explode, years of swallowed retorts shoving at the flimsy wall
I’ve kept them behind. Isla doesn’t often bait me into a full-blown argument, and we are teetering
on the edge.

“One day,” I say, “people are going to stop trying to get in, you know.”

“Hopefully sooner rather than later,” she says, not near as convincing as she thinks she is.
“Whatever,” I say, dragging. “Just…whatever.”
Isla lets out a slow breath, and I feel a flash of pity for my sister.

“I want to know what happened to them,” she says eventually. “Mom and dad.”
I consider not telling her, keeping her in ignorance. There is safety in not knowing, in the waiting.
Sometimes, knowing is slamming a door shut, and it’s doing so right on your fingers.

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But I have never been good at lying to her.

“They found me in my room after you left. Brought me outside and stuffed me in one of their
vans. Mom and dad didn’t put up a fight, but they were both roughed up, and…god, Isla, the
way they dragged them out…it was like they were…”
“Criminals?” Isla asks.
The word hits me in the chest. “They’re not criminals. We’re not criminals.” I wish I had the
words to explain what I mean, to tell her I think she’s the bravest person I’ve ever known, and I
wish every day — however selfishly — more of her was left in me when our souls Split. I want to
tell her I see how scared she is, and I want her to know she isn’t alone.
I want to say so many things, but I fall short, as I always do.

“But they were alive?” she asks, the hope in her voice another hit.
“Yes,” I say, endlessly glad it’s true and endlessly afraid it isn’t anymore. “They were alive.”
“That’s all we can ask for, then,” she says, for my sake.
I wonder for a moment if life behind bars is better than a quick end but shove it away before it
takes me over. Avoidance is a comfortable coat I easily shrug into.
“I’m scared, Isla,” I say, because I know she is; because she will only admit it if I do.
“I am, too,” Isla says, voice strained. “But I promise, Harp. I won’t let anything happen to

you.”

“I know,” I say. It’s the truth—it’s the one thing I’m certain of. “I know you won’t.”
Isla falls silent, and I find myself wondering what the girl — Luna — is thinking. If she’s afraid
or angry or putting on a brave face. I know Isla would change places with her in an instant if she
could, and I think I would, too.
But none of us can change anything. We can barely even stay alive.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN — ISLA

Our drive back to the Nook goes off without a hitch, though it is an unbearably awkward ride,
mostly my doing, and completely unapologetically. All of Harper and Alex’s attempts to engage
are ignored, and I spend the entire time glaring out the window, leaving them to fumble at
conversation. This is not the soccer field or the cafeteria, and the recent events make for awkward
and painful discussion, so silence falls over the car quickly.

When we reach the lot, Alex pulling the bronco up behind the Nook’s collection of vehicles, I am
the first out of the car, ducking through the secret hole in the hedge before Harper and Alex have
their seatbelts unclipped.

I was the one who let Luna come with us on what I now know was a suicide mission—I am the
reason she didn’t make it back. The guilt eating me from the inside out is nothing, not when I still
have to tell Beth and Tessa what I’ve done.

I am the reason their daughter is in a camp, and there is no forgiving as far as I can see.

Using the key Luna had stashed in one of the spare cars, I unlock the Nook’s basement door and
slip inside, leaving it cracked for my sister and Alex, who duck through the brush as I dart inside.

Most of the residents, whom I have avoided so far, are gathered around the common area tables,
some propped on top, some in bean bags and raggedy chairs pulled up around them. Lunch was
recently finished from the empty bowls and cups stacked at the ends of the tables.

The sound dies out at my entrance, and Beth and Tessa stick out from the crowd, Beth’s features
twisted with anger and Tessa’s vulnerable with fear and hope. They pick around the others to
join me near the door as Alex and Harper catch up.

Tessa’s eyes jump between the three of us, searching for a fourth that isn’t here. My stomach
churns, every instinct telling me to run as far and as fast as I can—to run somewhere I can’t hurt
or lose anyone else.

“What have you done?” Beth asks, staring at Alex and Harper and the absence of a person where
Luna should be—no words are required for them to realize something has gone very, very wrong.

“This is all my—“ Harper starts, and I move in front of her, lightly shoving her back and out of
the way, taking the focus. She huffs indignantly, but I hold my position.

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“It was my idea to go after Harper. I convinced Luna to help. It was a trap. The sentries were
waiting for us. They grabbed her before we could get away,” I say, each word a flame across my
tongue. I leave out the second half: and they wouldn’t let me go after her. The blame doesn’t
belong with Alex and Harper, as much as I want it too. They made a smart, painful decision, but
Luna never would have fallen behind if she wasn’t there. Luna’s blood is on my hands now, too,
even if she’s still alive.

If she’s alive, she’s in a camp, and that isn’t much better than dying.

“The sentries have Luna?” Beth asks, seeming to need the clarification. Tessa takes her hand, her
eyes falling shut against my confirmation.

“Yes,” I say.

Beth looks to the audience watching us and jerks a chin toward the hall leading to the stairs.

“My office. Now.”

When Harper and I were kids, I was the mastermind of our escapades, she my loyal sidekick—
whether it be sneaking into the attic to peek out the window and sift through boxes or trying on
my mother’s nice dresses and twirling in front of the mirror or snagging extra snacks. And after
our inevitable discovery, Harper tried to take the blame, always willing to play the martyr. I even
let her until I realized my parents knew of my guilt all along—they knew which of us had the
defiant streak. Harper was impressionable and I was the hammer. After, I went as far as
physically removing her from the room every time she tried to falsely confess.

She’s always been willing to go down for my mistakes, no matter the consequences.

“Isla was coming for me. If she—" Harper starts.

“Shut up, Harper,” I snap, harsh but effective. I meet Beth’s gaze and force my voice to stay level
despite the shame burning a hole through me. “I let Luna come. I didn't realize it was a trap. I
didn't protect Luna. It's my fault. Not Harper's, not Alex's, mine. So, if you're going to be pissed,
be pissed at the right person."

“Isla—" I shoot Harper a venomous look—not even she is immune to my cruelty. Ignoring the
hurt on my sister’s face, I turn back to Beth and Tessa, though their anguish and anger aren’t an

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improvement.

“Why didn’t you come to us for help?” Tessa asks.

“If you had, I could have told you it was a trap. We have police scanners, Isla.” Beth rakes a hand
through her hair, frustration pulsing out of her. “None of this had to happen.”

“I know,” I say, though I hadn’t—my fatal mistake was not trusting the people who gave me
every reason to.

“We could have helped you get her without so much risk.”

Risk. The word needles at me. I am so tired of being told the risk—risk is merely another name
for excuse. But, in this case, Beth is right. I was naïve and impulsive and wrong, and Luna is paying
for it.

“I know,” I say again. I didn’t trust them, these women who have saved my life twice now, and
the shame curdles inside me.

“You were stupid and careless,” Beth says, eyes glinting with anger. “And Luna is paying for it.”
Tessa touches her arm gently, tears shining.

“She’s a child, too,” Tessa says. “They’re all just kids.”

“A child who should have known better,” Beth says, and I barely suppress my flinch, clenching
my jaw and lifting my chin. She’s wrong, I realize. I stopped being a child a long time ago. A
peaceful childhood is not a luxury I was afforded—not a luxury anyone here was afforded. I was
— all of us were — vaulted into adulthood before I was ready, and my deficiencies may be my
downfall, if they aren’t already.

“You’re right,” I say through gritted teeth. “I should have. But Harper and Alex aren’t to blame.”

“No,” Beth says sharply, “you are.”

Tessa doesn’t correct or scold her, taking her hand and leading her to the door. They are too
steadfast in their anger and sorrow to hear anything else, and I have nothing else to say, certainly
nothing to fix things. There is no easy solution or quick forgiveness here.

And there shouldn’t be. I don’t deserve forgiveness for this. I deserve to be in a camp, and Luna
deserves to be here, but we are both in the wrong place.

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Alex is the first out of the office in search of Tessa and another open room on the floor, and his
meager belongings are removed before Harper and I make it back. There wasn’t much to move
in the first place, but the absence rubs at me like sandpaper. Guilt chases the discomfort away at
the way I snapped at him, threatened him—the fuse on my anger burned out hours ago and my
reaction to Luna’s capture feels foolish. Of course, we had to leave her. One down is better than
four. It’s cruel and it’s harsh but it’s true, too.

Harper sits rigidly on one of the beds with her hands jammed beneath her thighs, staring at the
cement wall opposite her. Thin cracks snake up and down the gray, giving the impression of
vines crawling down from the ceiling, or the branches of a tree. I consider assuring Harper the
building won’t collapse on our heads, but a wave of exhaustion has me dropping onto my own
bed and leaning back.

It has been almost seventeen years since Harper and I shared a room, a pair of infants only settled
by the others presence. Once, my mom wondered aloud whether our tendency to curl together
like puppies was some way of going back to the moments before our souls allegedly split, like we
wanted to be one again.

I wish she hadn’t said it. As if I needed any more proof I’m not whole.

Harper moved up to her own room when she was old enough, and she was converted into the
normal girl they sent to school, leaving me behind. She had a sixth sense about nightmares,
though, and on nights dreams left shaking and sweating with sentry uniforms wrapped around
my thoughts, I awoke to find her in bed beside me. Before I grew up and learned to wake myself
before the terrors pulled me too far under.

“What is this place?” Harper asks. I make a note to explore the storage rooms for things to put up
on the wall; Harper says a room without decoration is one without life. It reminds me of Luna’s
room, every inch covered in personality, and the idea of it empty stings.

“The Nook. It’s a…I don’t know, safe house, I guess. There are a hundred or so sympathizers,
and a few Marked people. Nobody’s officially said it, but Tessa and Beth are in charge.”

Harper’s shoulders slump, and I notice the bags beneath her eyes—she has slept as little as I have
these past days.

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“How did you find it?” Harper asks. “Last time I saw you, you were climbing out the window.”

“Dad told me,” I say. “Sort of.”

Her eyes widen, and she leans forward, confused and fierce and sad as she asks, “Dad?”

“He left an address. He knew about this place,” I say. “That work he’s been doing for the last few
years? Not work. He and Hugo Nguyen have been keeping Tent Cities off the sentry’s radar.
Keeping them invisible.”

It is a lot of bombs to drop at once, and I pause, letting her take in the gravity of it, letting the
understanding click into place: this is why our world came crumbling down—it was always going
to come crumbling down.

“Mr. Nguyen? Head of the VPF, Mr. Nguyen?” Harper asks, brows arching up to her hairline.
She doesn’t wait for my answer, firing more questions. “Dad was working for the rebels? There’s
more of these places?”

“Yes, yes, though we’re not in some old movie so rebels sounds ridiculous for a group of people
hiding in a warehouse, and yes.”

“My god,” Harper breathes, lacing her fingers and pressing them to her mouth. Her eyes skate
around my bruises and bandages, seeming to lose her train of thought, pushing to her feet and
coming to sit beside me. She taps me on the shoulder expectantly and I shift toward her.

It is the first time I’ve truly looked at my twin since I last saw her in my bedroom — since I left
her behind — and her cheeks and nose are pink and puffy from days of crying. She’s wearing one
of our dad’s sweatshirts, oversized and faded.

“I know you’re angry,” Harper says, “and that everything is a mess right now, but I missed you.
I’m so glad you’re okay.” Something gives in her eyes, like I’m glimpsing through a façade I never
knew was there, and she looks tired and far older than she is.

I wonder if I really know her at all, this person I grew up next to.

One of the many knots in my stomach loosens and I bend toward her, Harper instantly holding
out her arms. It’s like shrugging off a weight, letting Harper wrap her arms around me and bury
her face in my hair. Her grip is tight enough to hurt, but it’s a comforting pain. She holds on for
a long few seconds and pulls back to look at me, her face scrunching up.

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“God, Isla, your face.”

“S’not so bad,” I lie. I tap her on the knee. “I’m glad you’re okay, too. Really. I missed your
lectures.”

She rolls her eyes, and I grab her hand, squeezing once before letting go. Her lips curl up in a
smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and she looks to the other bed.

“None of this makes any sense. One minute, you’re climbing out my window, and the next, you’re
breaking me out of Danielle’s house with some random Marked girl and Alex Morales,” she says.

I note the omission of the word aunt and intend to ask her about it, but the unspoken accusation
in her words makes me stiffen and shift back.

“He was unlucky. I had nowhere to go, and he was stupid enough to let me stay.”

“If he gets caught, they’ll arrest him.”

“No, really?” I retort. Harper huffs a sigh.

“He got into college. Scouts were looking at him for their soccer teams,” she says. The words cut
like knives, piercing a wall I didn’t know existed. Alex’s silence isn’t something I gave him a
choice with—I didn’t ask what he was giving up before letting him throw it away.

“This isn’t about Morales,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “This is about you and me.”
Detecting anger in Harper is a subject one can never know enough about, and my parents are
useless when it comes to it, but I can sense the simmering anger inside her; the silent wish she’d
never admit for me to instigate so she can retort. And I’m too eager to take the bait—a perfect
storm. “You’re mad at me. I wasn’t supposed to get anyone involved if the sentries came. But I
did. I came for Beth and Tessa, I got Luna caught, and I dragged Alex into it.”

Harper holds her composure for five seconds before the strings snap and she pushes to her feet,
facing me, face red.

“We’re all in danger, now. They could have followed us here, or used Luna to find us. It was a
risk you—"

“If I hear that word one more time, I swear,” I snap, and the glare she gives me would make me
proud any other time.

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“They won’t stop coming for us, especially not now.”

“And you think you know that better than me?” I bristle. The ice in my words makes Harper
clench her jaw, redness returning to her eyes.

“I know I do,” she says. “I have spent my entire life lying to everyone. Do you ever wonder why
I never talk about friends? Why my relationships don’t work out? Why I stopped going to
sleepovers when I was eight?”

My lips part, shock coursing through me, but there is no stopping Harper in her exasperation—
I’ve never heard her talk this way.

“I know you didn’t have a life, Isla, and I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t have one either. I spent
my life keeping you safe. I lied and kept secrets and put you before anything and everyone, and
I’ve never complained. And where did it get us? Our parents are in jail, our house is gone, and
we’re in some rundown warehouse in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by people the sentries
are desperate to find.”

“I assure you,” I say, voice hard as steel, “they are more desperate to find me than anyone else in
this place.”

Harper’s anger evaporates, fear taking its place. “What did you do, Isla?”

Shame prickles at me and I force my expression and tone to remain even as I speak. “Alex and I
broke into the house the day after the raid to get the address to find this place. A sentry found
us.” I’m hoping Harper will put the pieces together herself and allow me to skip the words.

“What did you do?” she asks again.

I avert my gaze and say, as casually as one can confess a murder, “I killed him.”

Harper’s face pales and she sits back, looking anywhere but at me. I can feel her horror, her
attempts to justify what I did, and the silence indicating her failure.

I haven’t regretted what I did to the sentry at the house until now, my sister’s morals managing
to shame and rile me.

Harper wasn’t there, didn’t see the fury in the sentry’s eyes or feel the intention in his fists. It was
kill or be killed, and I can’t find any regret for choosing my life and Alex’s over the sentry’s.

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“Well,” Harper says eventually, her voice strained, “at least you’re both okay.”

I open my mouth to challenge it, but Harper shakes her head—ever the avoider of conflict, she is
near impossible to argue with. I wrangle my frustration as Harper moves back to her own bed,
pulling back her covers and sliding beneath them, an obvious end to the conversation.

“I’m exhausted,” she says, “and it’s not as if we have anywhere to be, so I’m going to take a nap.”

I haven’t the slightest idea how to fix this and hate how unbothered I am by it. I have so many
other concerns battering around my skull that Harper’s silent irritation is low on my priorities.

I’m more concerned with another thought: Haven Rehabilitation Facility. One of three types of
camps — nurseries, for those up to thirteen years old, testing and manufacturing for fourteen to
eighteen year old’s, and the elusive and allegedly-invasive testing camps for anyone older than
nineteen — and the closest to where Luna was picked up housing anyone her age, it is a near
guarantee she’ll be placed there.

A nagging and impossible idea presses at me: I am the only person who can get into a camp. I fall
down the rabbit hole of ridiculousness, and am so caught up in the looping train of thought I
nearly miss Harper’s words, spoken softly.

“Do you think mom and dad are okay?” she asks.

An image of Mr. Nguyen, dead on the grass and staring unseeing at the sky, flashes behind my
eyes, followed by the noise the trophy made when it smashed into the sentry’s head. I’d like to
think I’d feel it if something happened to them, but the truth is, I don’t know anything about
anything.

The fear I’ve been shoving down gnaws on my insides. Our parents aren’t here to comfort us
anymore, and neither of us has the answers.

“They’re okay, Harp,” I say, lying for the countless time. But Harper takes my deceit without any
doubt and nods, easily succumbing to sleep, leaving me with both our questions.

I find Beth in her office as soon as Harper falls asleep, and the frown and averted gaze of the
Nook’s leader indicates she is part of the ‘angry at Isla’ club, whose membership has
exponentially increased over the last two hours. Top members: everyone.

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“Isla,” Beth says in an even, disdainful tone. “Can I help you with somethin’?”

Instead of answering, I cross the room to get a better look at her monitors. One screen shows a
medical intake form, with the words LUNA – SUBJECT #AI3499 scrawled beneath the typed
words HAVEN REHABILITATION FACILITY.

I shift uncomfortably, and Beth seems pleased by the reaction.

“She entered the system last night,” Beth says. “In Haven, like we expected.”

“Beth—"

“I’m not in the mood for your apologies,” Beth interrupts coldly. I fold my arms against my chest,
ignoring the regret looking at Luna’s mother brings.

“I figured,” I say, “which is why I wasn’t apologizing.” I lean forward to inspect Luna’s intake
form, pushing away the image of a girl in a cage. “I had a question.”

“Not a good time, Isla,” Beth begins, exasperated.

“Too bad. Is it possible to get someone out of a camp?”

Beth, expecting anything but that to come out of my mouth, stares at me for a long moment. “Say
that again.”

“Is it possible to get someone out of a camp?” I repeat.

“Yeah, I thought that’s what you said.” She turns around to face me fully, scanning my face for
some hint I’m joking.

“Would it be possible,” I say, “to get Luna out?”

Beth flinches at Luna’s name, but recovers quickly, letting out a sigh. “Hypothetically?”

Of course not. “Sure.”

“From where we’re sitting? No. I’d need more time and access to their servers, which would
require someone on the inside, and even then, it’s a long shot. And by long shot, I mean shooting
at the moon with a rubber slingshot. So, no.”

“What if you had one?”

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“One what?”

“Someone on the inside.”

Beth catches on and pushes to her feet, shaking her head. She is more ruffled than I’ve seen her,
usually neat hair falling from its ponytail, a faded sweatshirt and sweats replacing her jeans and
sweater. Surely, she has considered this possibility.

“Absolutely not,” she says.

“Why not?”

“You don’t understand what you’re volunteering for.”

“I understand exactly what I’m volunteering for,” I say. “And I’m the only person here who can
do it.”

Beth’s expression hardens and she folds her arms. She opens her mouth to speak, but I do so first.

“I’m the only Marked person here under 25,” I say, letting Beth fill in the blanks for herself. She
has to know — my father did; why else would she risk all she had? ”Ophelia is too young, Divya
and Cooke are too old.” The other three Marked residents, at seven, thirty five, and over sixty.

“You know,” Beth says, voice low. “You know what they do.” I nod curtly. “And you still want
to go in?” Absolutely not, I think. I nod again.

You know what they do. I know they raise us, wait for us to be forgotten, and kill us off to keep
us from rising up. I know they keep the truth buried with us.

“Let me go in after her. I’ll bring her back.”

“It’s not as simple as that, Isla.”

“If you can figure out a way into their…server, or whatever it is, however you get those doors
open, I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I’ll do whatever I have to. I’ll bring Luna home.”

Beth stares at me for a long moment, desire sneaking into her expression as she considers my
proposition. Her hesitance to risk my life is admirable, but I’m not her daughter.

“I have blood on my hands. Luna doesn’t. She deserves a chance. Let me try and give her one,” I
say.
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Her defenses crumble and her jaw tightens. Blinking away her emotion, she straightens her
shoulders and nods. “I’ll need time. Time to find a way in, and time to prepare you for getting
out.”

“My dad taught me to fight,” I say. “I can handle myself.”

One side of Beth’s mouth quirks up in a smile I don’t expect—hope is more of a healing agent
than I thought.

“And who do you think taught him?”

Excitement flares in me despite the circumstances, and I don’t try to keep the grin off my face.

“You’ll train me?”

“If Tessa clears you, yes,” she says. “Might want to be nice during your checkups, yeah?” I frown,
which pleases her further. Swallowing my irritation, I clench my teeth and hold out a hand.

“Fine. Do we have a deal?” I ask.

Beth holds out her hand, and after a beat, I shake.

“We have a deal.”

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN — ISLA

“Tell me about the raid on the Docks.”

Beth swivels in her chair to face where I’m propped up on one of her cabinets; were this the desk
with the computers, I’d have been lectured, but she harbors little concern for the rest of the
furniture.

With a plan in motion to save Luna, her disregard of me has faded — or lessened enough to make
dealing with me bearable — and we are allies, scheming beneath everyone else’s noses.

“Why do you want to know about that?”

“You said the raid was five years ago.” I lean back against the wall, swallowing drily. “Five years
ago, I watched the sentries drag Amy Nguyen out of her house and into a van. We never saw her
again.” Beth’s lips pull into a thin line, and I know I’m right about the connection. “Tell me what
happened,” I say, an order, not a question. To my shock, she relents.

“I still have no idea how they got into my system. We always had issues with our tech out there,
so close to the water, but honestly, I think I missed something.” Beth’s tone is edged, and if I
wasn’t such good friends with guilt, I wouldn’t have recognized it in her voice. “However they
did it, they found us. Intercepted a transmission between Hugo Nguyen and me. We were
planning on moving our kids to another City. The patrols were getting too close, and Hugo was
supposed to fake an emergency out on his volunteer patrol to draw attention south. Instead, they
knew when we were moving the kids, and where to catch us.” Her eyes are glazed over with
memory, her mouth twisted into a deep frown. “They had us right where they wanted us, and by
the time we realized it was a trap, they were on top of us.” Beth takes a shuddering breath and
averts her gaze. “Fifteen Marked kids were taken that day. And Mags took the fall for Hugo.”

“Why the hell would she do that?” I ask.

“If she didn’t, they’d take Hugo and find Katherine,” she says. “And we would be…screwed is a
nice way of putting it.”

It always comes back to this: the lack of choices. None of us have many, no matter what we do,
no matter how we fight. The world never makes itself easier or kinder, despite the ones we’ve
lost and the sacrifices we’ve made.

Katherine’s mother took the fall and hid us all behind her confession.

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I think of her eyes on me across the street, her calm expression—like she knew if she fell, the
framework wouldn’t; like her arrest was a victory for a side she believed was destined to lose.

“And this place?”

A small smile pulls on her lips. “We were fleeing, like rats. We split up in search of a place to go,
and after weeks on the road, hiding, Tessa found this warehouse. Cooke got the generator
running, and we made it home. Fortified it, grew those massive hedges, blacked out the
windows.”

“You haven’t left since?”

“We don’t move between Cities anymore. Not after the docks. A raiding party goes out every
couple of months for whatever we can’t grow, and even they don’t go farther than a few miles.”

I shake my head and say, “I don’t understand how my parents are involved in all this.”

“You don’t know?” Beth tilts her head, and I frown. I hate how she has information on my parents
I don’t—she knows versions of them I will never meet.

“Clearly,” I snap, but Beth doesn’t appear affected.

“Your dad and I were born in a Tent City,” Beth says. “One of the first, and one of the longest
lasting.” She purses her lips, and I shove down the urge to ask for the story—it is clearly an open
wound, even now. “Down near Yakima, or what used to be Yakima. When your dad and I were
old enough, we were given fake identities to go out into the world. Like…sleeper agents, there to
listen and watch, and report back home if people started whispering about rebels lurking in the
shadows.” She waggles her brows, but I’m not amused. “That’s when we met Tess and your
mom.”

I struggle to keep the emotion off my face. My father had an entire life I knew nothing of—lived
in a world I didn’t know existed. Ricky Batali isn’t real. He was a plant, created to be invisible.

And my mother, gentle and kind and silly when I was young, was roped into the ashes of a
rebellion which has never made it off its feet.

As if sensing my unease, Beth gives me a sympathetic look.

“He knew the risks when he left the city. We both did. He chose this life.”

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“He didn’t choose this,” I say, lip curling.

“No,” Beth says thoughtfully. “But did any of us?”

Her words render me silent. I didn’t choose any of this—I’ve never made any choices, period.

The training room is one of the largest in the warehouse, other than the common area, at least
four times the size of Harper and I’s room. Mats of various ugly blue shades line the side walls,
and scratched mirrors occupy the wall opposite the door, with two rusty pull up bars protrude
above the mats, and two long, thin punching bags hanging between them.

The equipment is older than my parents, but I’m too grateful for the space to care. Skirting around
the mat in the basement at home was too restricted to allow for full freedom of movement.

“I can’t promise we won’t have an audience. We’re severely lacking in entertainment round these
parts, and they’ll take what they can get.” Beth’s lips quirk up in a playful, almost mischievous
grin—I have to remind myself she’s almost forty years old. “Plus, it’s been a long time since I had
a new sparring partner.”

“Tessa isn’t in here throwing punches, you mean?”

Beth snorts a laugh, and I find myself smiling, anticipation yawning awake inside me. “Tess
handles the aftermath of the punches. I got her onto the mat once. She cracked one of my teeth in
one swing, and never swung again.” She gestures to a small chip on her canine, and my grin
widens.

Crossing the mat to a collection of cracked tubs against one wall, Beth plucks off the lid and tugs
out two pairs of thick gloves, tossing one to me and slipping her fingers into her own, tugging
the fraying leather straps tightly around her wrists.

As she moves onto the mat, she sheds years, and I’m reminded of my parents, the way they
unwound downstairs in the safety and invisibility of my basement. The training room is Beth’s
sanctuary inside the larger sanctuary of the Nook—the constant fear for a hundred people isn’t
something I envy. Even my sister and Alex’s reliance on me is a source of bottomless stress.

I tug on my gloves, somewhat reluctantly, but figure my scabbed knuckles could use the reprieve.

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“You really trained my father?”

Beth props her gloved hands on her hips. Her hair is tucked back in a high pony, and tawny
strands fall to frame her cheeks. “Ricky’d be arrested four times over if it wasn’t for me. Got him
out of a few pickles here and there, too.” She reaches out to tap her gloves with mine and backs
up to the center of the mat. I join her, getting a feel for the springiness of the mat and awkward
sensation of gloves.

“I’m expecting a worthy partner,” Beth says, mischief flickering in her eyes. “Try not to let me
down.”

Flashing her a wicked grin, I say, “Try to keep up,” and lunge.

She dodges my swing easily, a smile playing on her lips, and steps back, bouncing to keep
moving. Her demeanor is playful but determined, and I know she won’t hold any punches.
Fortunately, I won’t either.

Anticipation and adrenaline sing in my blood, my restless limbs eager for a fight after their forced
recovery. I’m a pent-up child set loose at the end of a long day, energy bubbling out of me,
desperate for release.

Beth ducks to the left and swings at my side, grazing my hip before I jerk away and dodge the
quick second punch she throws. A laugh slips past my lips, and I circle Beth on my toes, smiling
despite myself.

The door cracks open behind me, and I catch sight of a handful of Nook residents — two middle
aged women, a man in his late twenties, and the elderly Marked man, Cooke — lingering in the
doorway, excitement written on their faces.

We’re severely lacking in entertainment. I find I don’t mind the audience—anywhere else, maybe,
but not here, not now.

Beth has years of experience on me, but I’m fast, and though Beth is clearly the superior fighter,
my scrappiness keeps me in the game. More residents push into the doorway, gathering along
the walls and watching intently as Beth and I dart around the mat. Neither of us has landed a hit,
and I’m dripping with sweat.

Salt stings in the cut above my eye, but it’s nothing compared to the adrenaline rippling through
me—I’d welcome more pain if it came from the mat.

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Beth lunges for me again, sending a fast, straight punch to my jaw, snapping my head back. Pain
flashes bright and hot, but I only laugh, an almost maniacal, excited laugh, and duck away,
dodging her fist. I taste metal, unsure whether I bit my tongue or caught my lip between my teeth.

In the doorway and along the walls, the spectators — growing by the second — murmur in
reaction to the punch. I stagger back, gasping for air and regaining my composure, dancing
around Beth as I catch my breath. With a grunt, I fake left, and when Beth follows, I duck under
her arm and slip behind her, swinging out a leg to swipe her feet from beneath her.

She hits the mat hard on her hands and knees, her gaze snapping up to mine, and she launches
back to her feet. I catch her by the arms and tug, dragging her to the side, my father’s voice
echoing in my head: fight dirty.

I let go of Beth’s shoulders and shove, dancing back as she catches her balance and spins to face
me.

The noise buzzes in the doorway, and I feed off the infectious energy. There are at least thirty
people now, watching us like we’re the most interesting show they’ve ever seen.

It is an odd sensation, to be watched without disdain or distrust. I’ve spent my time here avoiding
other people, and they me. But in this room, they aren’t wary or afraid of me—they don’t look at
me like I’m wrong.

Red hair flashes in the mirror, and I briefly glimpse Alex and Harper pushing into the room before
Beth comes for me again and I’m forced to return my attention to the woman with the flying fists.

Her face is flushed with exertion, and she breathes as heavily as me, but the smile on her lips
matches the exhilaration pulsing inside me.

“Your dad taught you well,” she says, lips curling in a smug grin. “Not well enough, though.” I
barely have enough time to plant my feet before Beth snaps forward, lighting fast, and slips
behind me, jamming a knee into the back of mine and making my legs buckle. As I try to steady
myself, Beth twists and sends me toward the mat, and I land on my back.

Propped up on my elbows, I gasp for breath, and Beth stands above me smiling triumphantly.
She holds a hand out to me, and after a long hesitation, I take it, letting her pull me to my feet.

“Seriously, kid,” she says, holding out a hand to shake. “That wasn’t bad.”

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“But am I worthy?” I ask, tone light. Beth rolls her eyes.

“A worthy sparring partner,” she says, “if you ever shut that big fat mouth of yours.”

I shrug. “We’re a package deal.”

Beth scoffs and says, “Believe me, I’m becoming aware.”

In the doorway, our audience has broken apart, residents returning to chores or free time. I try to
grab Harper’s gaze, but she refuses to meet it, exiting the room without a second look.

My sister is, naturally, stewing in the hall when I leave, her face twisted and arms crossed to form
a barrier between us. We have always bickered, always disagreed with the other’s choices, but
never have we felt so far apart.

“That was quite a show,” she says, tone unreadable. Her eyes trace along the healing cuts and
bruises on my face and the pink mark on my jaw from Beth’s fist. I resist the urge to cover my
face, to escape Harper’s pointed stare.

“Everyone else seemed to like it,” I say.

She hesitates, always cautious in the face of a possible argument, and there is the chance she will
shut it down completely, leaving me to feel horrible for reasons I don’t understand. And I am so
tired of feeling guilty for existing.

“Out with it,” I press.

“Nothing,” she says. “I just…I knew you and dad were boxing downstairs, but I didn’t know…”
As she trails off, my anger unfolds wider, and I clench my teeth to keep from snapping.

“Didn’t know what?”

“How dangerous it is,” she says. “How angry. Violent.”

“You think that’s what anger looks like?” I laugh mirthlessly. “That was more fun than I’ve had
in weeks. That is what kept me alive after I climbed out your window. Feel free to climb off your
high horse, Harper. You already fell.”

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Harper's expression tightens, her breath quick and eyes blown, but she doesn’t take the bait, not
yet. An anger I didn’t know was lurking below the surface punches through, and I realize how
angry I am at Harper for getting to live the life I didn’t, for judging me for not meeting her
impossible requirements.

“Sometimes, I feel like I have no idea who you are,” Harper says, more sad than angry.

“You mean, I’m not the silent girl who hides in the basement and never complains?” Harper’s
cheeks flush, indicating I’ve hit the nail on the head, and I push forward, anger carrying me.
“That’s never who I was. That’s who you and mom and dad decided I was. And I am so tired of
everyone else getting to decide that.”

“Isla, it’s…” She trails off, shaking her head.

“What?” I snap. “Evil?” At Harper’s wince, I let out a bitter laugh, easing into cruelty and letting
it wrap me up, hold me high enough no one can reach. “You know, you should really decide
which side you’re on.”

She recoils. “What are you talking about?”

Harper doesn’t deserve my wrath, not completely, but I have nowhere else to aim it.

“Half the time, I’m not evil, and half the time, I am. You can’t pick and choose. It doesn’t work
like that. I either am, or I’m not. Which is it?” I ask icily.

For a breath, I think she’s finally going to snap, to tell me all the things she keeps tucked away in
that head of hers, but the wall I recognize as quickly as I do my own rolls down over her eyes,
and she is unreadable. “You know what…” Harper huffs. “If that’s what you…” She tiptoes
around the truth, holding it tightly against her. “Maybe you have no idea who I am either, Isla.
Maybe you’re not the only one who had everything decided for them.”

We’re both staring at each other, gaping, trying to find the words or the courage to speak, but in
the end, neither of us finds anything. I break the stillness when it becomes unbearable, pushing
past my sister.

I feel a prick of guilt at walking away with so much unsaid, but Harper doesn’t call after me, so
maybe we’re both in the wrong.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN — ISLA

Of the hundred residents at the Nook, I only truly care for Cooke. Nicknamed so long ago most
everyone has forgotten what his real name is, Cooke is the oldest person here, and the oldest
Marked person I’ve ever met, at sixty three. Ill tempered, crotchety, surly, and always barking
orders in the kitchen, we get along well.

Chores are done on rotation, but Cooke is exclusively stationed in the kitchen, and when meals
aren’t being made, he can still be found here, admitting to me he prefers solitude—a sentiment I
can appreciate.

Whereas Harper has befriended most of the warehouse and tosses smiles everywhere she goes, I
make a point of avoiding the other residents, and they do the same to me. Beth and I’s sessions
on the mat may entertain them, but I am still the girl who got Luna captured. I am the Marked
daughter of the renowned Batali’s. The girl who killed a sentry with her bare hands, who found
the Nook all on her own.

They don’t know what to make of me, and in their hesitation, I make the choice for them, stitching
stern looks to my face and returning their questioning glances with glares. Curiosity turned to
disdain which has turned to nothing at all, and I am virtually a ghost, invisible.

I prefer it this way. The peace, the quiet. The lack of eyes and judgment.

There is no point in making connections with a group of people I’m leaving. Haven is a mission
I may not return from, and there are less bridges to burn this way. These people were always
better off without me, anyway.

Still, when I’m not training or planning with Beth, or bothering Alex and Harper, I am at Cooke’s
side, mentally noting recipes and techniques. The only place he doesn’t frown is when he’s
cooking, hunched over the stove, steam rising to shine on warm umber skin, dark locs pulled into
a low pony at the base of his neck, his expression smooth and calm.

“Salt. Top cupboard,” he instructs. Climbing down from my perch on the counter, I stretch to tug
the tall box of salt from the cupboard, plopping it beside Cooke. He glances to make sure I
grabbed the correct item, and hums in approval—or, as close to approval as Cooke comes.

“How long have you been with Beth and Tessa?” I ask. Cooke doesn’t miss a beat, dumping salt
into the massive pot of broth and jamming in a spoon. When he lifts his eyes to mine, there are
stories woven into every wrinkle and blemish. Sixty three years of freedom in a world who would
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have killed him at twenty five. If he is ever caught, his time is up the moment their hands close
around him.

He grabs a handful of chopped vegetables and tosses them into the pot. “I’m one of the few who
made it out of the raid on the docks.”

“The ambush,” I say, and he nods.

“I’ve been in the Cities my entire life,” he says. “It was easier to avoid sentries, in the beginning.
They make the round ups sound bad, but the truth is, there were too many of us and too few of
them. By the time they got their shit together, we had, too. I bounced between a few before settling
with Beth and your father’s community thirty or so years ago.”

“You knew my father,” I say. A smile ghosts his lips.

“Before he was your father,” he says with a nod.

A lifetime of running makes my time in hiding nothing, and I can’t help wondering how much
loss Cooke has seen—if his armor was pieced together with each person he let in and was forced
to let go.

So many lives. So many people I can do nothing for, and one I can.

Luna is out there, waiting. I can’t bring back everything these people have lost, but I can bring
back something.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I can’t imagine there’s anything I can do to stop you, is there?”

I grin. “No.”

He waves a hand, gesturing for me to continue.

“Do you believe what they say? About the Mark? About us?” I ask. The words have lived in my
mouth since I was a child, but I’ve never let anyone hear them.

No matter how much my family tried to hide it, they couldn’t erase the effects of living in a world
that didn’t want me. They treated me like a tame wild animal, rather than a domesticated pet —
rather than merely their daughter — like they expected me to snap and bite them.

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Cooke sets the spatula down and turns down the flame, letting the soup simmer and slapping a
lid on it. He sets his apron on the counter and turns to face me.

“Let me show you something.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Cooke almost smiles again, heading for the door, jerking a chin for me to follow. I hesitate.

“Your lack of trust is time consuming, you know,” he says. A shocked laugh slips past my lips,
and I force myself to move, letting him lead me out the door and through the back hall to a set of
stairs I’ve never seen. I haven’t done much exploring on the first floor, as this is where people
spend most of their time, and I scold myself for it as I realize where they lead: all the way to the
third floor, and above.

“If you’re taking me up here to mess with me, I swear, I’ll dump your soup off this roof, and you
with it,” I say, half-meaning it as I follow him up a thinner set of stairs to a door reading
ROOFTOP ACCESS in faded, red lettering. Cooke snorts a bitter laugh.

“Again with the trust issues.”

I can’t help the grin pulling on my lips; I haven’t been around another Marked person like this,
and it’s oddly comforting. Cooke isn’t afraid of me, doesn’t harbor an ounce of intimidation. He
is a tired old man who has seen more than me and knows how to choose his battles.

I hope I survive long enough to do the same.

Tugging a small key ring from his pocket, Cooke unlocks the door, swinging it open to reveal a
large rooftop covered in planters, vegetables and plants sprouting from each box. The edges of
the roof stretch up to my chest, allowing visibility over the top, but none in from the ground.

Even with the tall ledge, the vast blue water beyond the street and the crumbling town in the
opposite direction spread visibly around us, and the sky is a gray so light it’s almost white. The
breeze lifts the tips of my braids, and the soft dance of the wind, an unfamiliar but not unpleasant
sensation, draws a laugh up and out of me.

One side of Cooke’s perpetually frowning mouth shows a smile, and he crosses to one of the
planters, reaching down to lightly tousle the leaves with calloused hands. I have no knowledge
of botany, but Cooke explains he grows whatever he can here to supplement the pantry, though

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it is well stocked after five years of supply runs.

“People need to see something green,” Cooke says. “Something alive. Fresh.”

I cross my arms, ignoring the temptation of the brimming life before me.

“You never answered my question,” I press. I move to stand by Cooke at the planter, following
his gaze to the water past the ledge. When my dad tried to teach me geography, I complained
that learning of a world I’d never see was a waste of time; I preferred training on the mat or
tinkering on my keyboard. The body of water could be a pond or an ocean for all I can tell, but it
is big and beautiful and fills me with a deep, longing ache.

Cooke moves to stand against the ledge, leaning his forearms into his, his lack of anxiety soothing
my abundance. He survived for sixty three years as a Marked man, and if he isn’t afraid, I won’t
be.

“You asked if I believe what is said about the Marked,” he says gruffly. He wears long sleeves,
but my gaze seeks out his left wrist and the Mark hidden beneath it. “But it doesn’t matter what
I think. Doesn’t even matter what’s true. All that matters is what people believe. What the people
in charge believe.”

“Well, they believe we’re evil. Monsters.”

Cooke hums a low noise in affirmation. “So, you see, the truth is irrelevant.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?” I ask, the idea occurring to me for the first time it might not be. Cooke
doesn’t look at me, leaning further against the concrete ledge.

“For there to be good people, there have to be bad ones. Isn’t it easier for everyone if they simply
tell us who’s who?”

I’ve never considered the Mark to be anything but an indicator of my wickedness. All I know is I
was told I was a monster, and I never questioned it, not until now—now that it’s too late.

Cooke closes his eyes and tips his head back, the breeze flowing over his face. He doesn’t resemble
the grumpy old man from the kitchen—he is peaceful, the hard lines of his face smooth, the age
lifting off him. I can almost see the man he used to be, born into a world only beginning to see its
issues. He would have been a child when William Hill and his rebels attacked the first research
facility — only scientists back then, no prisoners, just volunteers — and a teenager when the first

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laws restricting Marked rights were passed. He survived it all, and somehow, he is standing here
beside me.

“You didn’t have to bring me up here to tell me that,” I say.

Cooke’s lips contort into his not-smile, eyes staying shut, and he says, “I wanted some air.” His
eyes open and meet mine. “And you needed some.”

I didn’t realize the absence of tension in my limbs until he calls attention to it. When I close my
eyes, I can hear the breaking of waves against the rocky shore, finding a rhythm in the sound and
my breath. It is a safety blanket tucked around my shoulders, like shoving my fear and doubts
into a box and slamming a lid on it. The box will fall open soon enough, its contents dropped on
my head, but I relish in this moment of peace in case another never comes.

We have all found ways to pass the time at the Nook.

I bounce between Beth’s office and the training room, Harper flits around joining work
assignments and befriending each and every person, and Alex — with a natural knack for healing
and steady hands — has become Tessa’s unofficial apprentice.

He is happy with the arrangement, as far as I can tell, and each time he smiles it melts some of
my guilt. I stole, ruined, Alex’s life, but he doesn’t appear to be suffering. Not outwardly.

Not bothering to check his room, I head for the infirmary on the third floor, finding the door open
and lingering in the doorway, gaze settling on Alex across the room.

The youngest resident of the Nook, a seven year old Marked girl named Ophelia, sits on one of
the cots with a scraped knee, Alex kneeling in front of her. Oscar — her twin, their faces identical
but hair cropped differently — stands beside them, watching the process closely, his evident
concern for his sister reminding me of my own.

I have never heard of a set of Marked twins of different genders, but according to Tessa, Oscar
and Ophelia were found abandoned after their parents supposed arrest, and from that time, they
were just Oscar and Ophelia, unapologetically themselves and lucky to find people who loved
them for it.

Alex dabs at Ophelia’s knee gently, speaking to her in Spanish in a soothing tone, and it makes

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my stomach twist, the kindness and gentleness of it. It feels like spying, somehow, as he deftly
cleans the small scrape and bandages it, smiling widely at Ophelia when he’s finished and
helping her to her feet.

“Ya terminaste, princesa,” he says, reaching out to flick a fallen curl off the girl’s forehead.

“¿La curaste?” Oscar inquires.

“Por supuesto que lo hizo. Es mágico,” Ophelia says. Oscar grins, sidling closer to his sister. It’s
as if a tether stretches between them, as if they’re conjoined, and they seem to have a conversation
in the span of a single glance. I think of Harper, and what we might be if we’d grown up with the
freedom Ophelia and Oscar had.

Maybe you have no idea who I am, either, Harper voice echoes in my head, and I shove it away.

I lean into the doorway, lips curling up in a smile of their own accord as Ophelia gives Alex a
toothy grin, two of her front teeth missing.

“Gracias,” she says. She notices me in the doorway, and her smile widens, making me stiffen.
Oscar pokes her inquisitively, and Ophelia turns to Alex. ““¿Es esa tu novia valiente?”

Alex frowns, eyes finding mine, and his lips twitch into a smile. He shakes his head at the girls,
nose crinkling. “Ella es valiente,” he says, flicking a glance my way, face indecipherable, “pero
no es mía.”

“Pero deseas,” Ophelia says. Oscar giggles. Alex gives them a small nudge, cheeks red, and they
saunter for the door with satisfied smiles, the scraped knee forgotten. He gathers up the used
gauze and dumps it into the trash as the girls leave, stopping at the sink to wash his hands, and I
take the freedom of his turned stance to stare at the curls at the nape of his neck, to wonder how
soft they are. When he turns again, I tear my eyes away.

“Shouldn’t you and Beth be beating each other up by now?” he asks, teasing rather than
accusatory.

“That’s after lunch,” I say. I incline my head. “Is it that crazy I’d come say hi?”

Alex leans back into the counter. “I know why I’m not at lunch. Why are you not at lunch?”

Crossing the room to drop onto one of the cots, I lean back on my palms and shrug casually.

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“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not the most popular person in this place. They like to pretend
I’m not here, and I’m making it easy for them.”

“I thought you were…” He pauses, a crease forming between his brows as he rifles through the
vocabularies in his brain. “Impenetrable.”

I shrug again. “The world is full of surprises.”

His jaw tightens and he comes to sit across from me, expression taut with more concern than I
expect or deserve. I’m so eager to escape the scrutiny — the kindness — in his eyes I speak.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did.” At my withering look, he grins. “Adelante,” he says. “Go ahead.”

“You’re eighteen. If you’re caught, they’ll put you in prison.”

“That is not a question.”

“Do I really need to ask it?”

He pauses, lips pulling thin. He doesn’t respond for so long I think he isn’t going to.

“When I was a kid, I dreamed about my brother, almost every night. It was always the same
dream: the two of us, running away from a camp. I stopped having it as I got older, but I never
stopped thinking about it—about him. Wishing I could…do something for him. Wondering if he
thought about me. If he thought I didn’t care.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing up his
curls, eyes far away. “We aren’t supposed to want that. We aren’t supposed to care about them.”
His eyes find mine for the briefest of seconds, and the unspoken words — not supposed to care
about you — ring in my head. “But I did. I do. And when I realized who you were, I figured…I
can’t do anything for my brother, but I could do something for you. I could try.”

I stare at him, something twisting through my veins, an ache I can’t reach or force away. It doesn’t
matter how many times I tell myself I’m not some inherently evil being, some monster; I feel the
darkness in me, the anger too hot to hold, the sharp tongue and cruelty I default to. I may not
have claws and fangs, but I am as close to a monster as this world has.

And yet, Alex isn’t looking at me like I’m dangerous. He’s just looking at me, and I’m not sure I
want him to stop.

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“You’re so sure I deserve it,” I say coolly. He frowns.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

My silence is answer enough, and he leans forward to say, “You did what you had to do back
there. I understand that. You saved our lives.”

“You and I have different definitions of the word ‘saved.’”

“That sentry left me knocked out at the bottom of the stairs and would have taken me to jail and
you to a camp. You had to stop him.”

“Kill him,” I say. “I didn’t stop him. I killed him.”

He shrugs.

“That doesn’t bother you.”

“Again, not a question,” he says. “And it did, at first, but…after Luna…after all of it…no. If you
did nothing, he would have taken you away. He might have killed you.”

I tell myself not to take the bait and fail.

“You care? How sweet,” I say, voice not near as even as I intend. I pray Alex doesn’t notice, but
he does, painfully observant. Harper’s words from the other day chime in my head: one day people
are going to stop trying to get in.

I don’t necessarily want Alex to stop trying.

“You know I do,” he says, tone serious, “and I know you do, too. Even if you pretend not to.” He
is pushing me toward the edge of a cliff, and if I’m not careful, I’ll fall—I’ll jump myself.

“Oh, I’m that obvious, am I?” I ask, only half sarcastic. Alex’s lips curl up in a smile that makes
my stomach wrench.

“If you pay attention,” he says, his gaze sharp, pinning me in place. Heat rises to my cheeks and
I tear my eyes away, forcing my traitorous heart to stop its pounding before meeting his eyes
again, nodding at his temple.

“You’re looking less gross,” I say. He laughs, fingers ghosting across the bruise on his head.

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“So are you,” he says. “I told you that was gonna be a wicked scar.” He gestures to my eyebrow,
and the slowly closing gash I no longer need to keep covered. Most of its angry redness has
disappeared, and after a week, it is no longer bothersome.

“You did.” I lean back, folding my arms. “Harper thinks it’s freaky.”

“It’s freaky as hell,” Alex says, “but it kind of suits you.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you?”

“Is that really your style?”

Warmth surges through me at the odd but comforting sensation of being known. One side of my
mouth turns up, and a smile that makes the strangeness worth it lands on Alex’s lips.

My idea of keeping Beth and I’s plan as close to my heart for as long as possible is suddenly
absurd, brutal, and the way Alex looks at me shatters any illusion I have of keeping the secret. I
open my mouth to speak, to tell him about Haven and Luna, but he speaks first.

“Did you expect to stay there forever? In the basement?” he asks. The abruptness of it shocks me
silent, and though my instinct is to lie, I pause, and I think.

I have lived day-to-day for seventeen years, not allowing myself to look too far into the future for
fear I’ll find nothing at all. Did I expect to live beneath the floor forever? If that can be considered
a life, it isn’t one I want.

I drop my gaze to the speckled concrete floor. “Harper had this idea I’d stay with our parents
until she got her own place, basement and all. Introduce me to the spouse when — if — they’re
trustworthy. She really believed it was possible.” I let out a small, envious laugh.

“Free babysitting for Harper for life,” Alex says. I scoff and lift my head.

“Oh, great idea. No five year old would ever go to school and start talking about their aunt who
lives under the floor.”

“Maybe no babysitting until they’re old enough, then,” he says. I don’t hide my smile, but it goes
as quickly as it comes, talk of home reopening wounds I’ve barely stapled together.

“My dad knew this was coming. It’s why he taught me what he did. I don’t know if I really
believed it, but he did.”

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“You’ve gotten plenty of use for it recently,” he says.

“Too much.”

“At least it’s over now,” he says. He pauses. Frowns. “It is over, yeah?”

Guilt presses on my lungs, and I take a long breath before speaking, using every ounce of strength
I have to keep my voice steady, but it tumbles out rough and ugly and spiked.

“I’m going after Luna.”

Alex stiffens like he’s been zapped, still for once, his features contorting.

“Luna is in a camp,” he says slowly, not processing, or not believing.

“Haven Rehabilitation Facility.”

“Isla.”

“If I can get in, Beth can get access to the server and get us out. I find Luna, and we ride off into
the sunset.”

“Isla, it’s suicide.”

I laugh bitterly. “More than you know.”

He frowns, and regret burns in my cheeks—I said too much, and if I know Alex, he will tug on
the string.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks, voice hard. I purse my lips and dig my fingers into my
thighs.

“Nothing.”

“Isla.”

The words are heavy and sharp on my tongue. “No one in the camps lives past twenty five,” I
say. “If we leave Luna in there, she’ll be dead in ten years.”

Alex lets out a sharp breath, shock replacing his anger. His lips part and his eyes widen, but he
doesn’t say anything for a long time, his frustration bubbling back to the surface. His eyes harden

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as it spills over.

“That’s not possible. We would know—”

“Would we?” I ask. He is putting the pieces together, pain weaving into his face as the truth
worms its way in.

It is how the camps keep from overflowing. It is how they’ve kept us silent; killing us before we
learn to use our voice.

“How do you…”

“Know it?” He nods. “My father did. Beth and Tessa do. Why else would they try so hard to keep
us all secret?”

“If that’s true, then if you go after her, you’ll be dead, too,” he says, hands curling into fists in his
lap. I’ve never seen him like this, simmering with a quiet rage similar to Harper’s—a pot never
allowed to fully reach its boiling point.

“Beth will get us out.” Or get Luna out. Best case scenario is freedom for both of us, but Luna
deserves it more than I do, and if there is a choice, I will choose her.

“You can’t know that!” Alex pushes to his feet, pacing a few steps away.

“I can’t leave her there, Alex,” I say softly, standing. The use of his first name tames some of his
frustration, but he is still taut with tension, a bowstring poised to release an arrow.

“We can’t save everyone,” he says.

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t save anyone.”

Alex takes a breath. “If you don’t get out…they’ll kill you?” He sounds more tired than should
be possible, older than his eighteen years, and it cracks me open inside. I steel myself before
replying.

“I’ve spent too long hiding behind the things I was told I couldn’t do. I can do this, Alex. I know
I can.”

He pauses, and after an agonizing minute, resignation settles on his face, and his shoulders sink.

“I cannot stop you, can I?”

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“No,” I say, shocking myself by adding, “I’m sorry.”

“Does Harper know?”

“No. And you can’t tell her. She’d only try to stop me, or freak out, and she’s already this close
to losing it.”

“And when you disappear? When Beth tells her where you are?”

“She can be angry when I get back.”

“If you come back.”

“If I come back,” I amend. Alex frowns, objections clearly written on his face, but he doesn’t
protest, seeming to realize I am immovable.

“Fine. But at least let me help you,” he says, defiance sparking in his eyes.

“No,” I snap, and hurt flashes before he hides it. I kick myself for saying the wrong thing, for
always saying the wrong thing. “My parents are gone. I almost lost my sister. I don’t have much
left.” I cross the concrete to stand opposite him, and the proximity renders him still, the offense
momentarily forgotten. “I can’t lose you, too. And I can’t do this if I’m worried about you. I need
to know you’re safe. I need you to keep Harper safe.”

“If you don’t come back—"

“Your thing is healing people, yeah? That’s what you can do to help. This is what I can do.”

“Why does it have to be you?” he asks, his tone like a child’s. It wrenches my heart in half, and I
hate how quickly I’ve come to care for the boy with the amber eyes and kind smile. I reach for his
hand, turning his wrist up and tracing my finger where his Mark would be, if he had one. His
breath hitches.

“I’m the only one it can be.”

He stares at my hand on his wrist until I take it away, and when he lifts his head, he looks almost
shy.

“I found something, the other day. I was going to clear out the ten-thousand spiders before I
stepped a foot back in there, but…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, and I’m grateful he

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doesn’t.

But you’re probably going to die.

“Found something?”

He nods and heads for the door, pausing in the doorway. “Trust me?”

I don’t hesitate, following him into the hallway. His pleased smile is more satisfying than I want
to admit, and I’m relieved to see something other than the sadness plaguing his features moments
ago. I’m reminded of the night in the motel, of the way he flinched when I did, and understand
the sentiment.

He leads me down the hall, stopping at a scratched metal door near the staircase entrance, and
pushes it open to reveal a dark room. Flicking on the light and stepping inside, he moves to give
me a view of the room.

Various cardboard boxes sit stacked along the walls, all moments from falling, and Alex wasn’t
exaggerating about the spiders and cobwebs, but the only thing I have eyes for is the piano. It is
old, faded, chipped, but I have only ever had a keyboard, and the worn wooden instrument is
nicer than anything I ever expected to play.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, feet carrying me forward. I run my fingers along the fall board, uncaring
when they come away covered in dust. Turning to Alex, a hand resting on the piano, I don’t try
to hide my astonishment. “How did you…”

He shrugs nonchalantly, but he knows how big this is; he wouldn’t have been so shy if he hadn’t.
“I was exploring. I don’t think anyone has touched the thing in years, but…”

“How did you know?”

A red flush creeps over his cheeks and he palms the back of his neck.

“You play on your thighs,” he says, gesturing to my hands and mirroring the playing of keys in
the air. The words twist at me, and to hide the blush threatening my skin, I flip up the fallboard,
running my fingers over the dusty keys. I tug the bench back and sit, looking at Alex over my
shoulder.

“You don’t have to hover by the door. I don’t bite.” I pause. “Most of the time.”

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His lips quirk up and he nudges the door shut with a foot, coming to ease down on the bench
beside me. The piano holds most of my interest, but Harper’s words — Alex and the future I took
from him — batter around my skull, making focus impossible.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to college,” I say.

“You never asked,” he says. “I was going to college, yeah. Harper was, too.”

“Harper wasn’t being scouted. She didn’t have a free ride.”

“It was not a free ride—" He stops, lips turning down. “You’re not actually mad at me, are you?
You didn’t exactly give me a—"

“I know,” I interrupt. “I know. I’m not—” The words slip through my fingers. “I’m just…sorry. I
never wanted to take all of that away.”

Alex is quiet for a long time, until he finally says, “For what it’s worth, I’m not sure any of the
things I had were real.”

I stare at him, too astonished to speak, before dragging my eyes away, forcing myself to ignore
the proximity and let my fingers settle on the key, testing. A few of the tones waver, an indicator
of disuse, but it isn’t so out of tune it’s unplayable, and I don’t care about fluttering notes anyway,
too excited to be seated in front of a real piano for the first time.

My parents brought down the cheap keyboard when I was nine in another attempt to give me a
hobby. It was one of many: prior endeavors including painting, which I was horrible at, crochet,
which I was terrible at, and puzzles, which I simply hated. They didn’t expect me to take to it,
but I grabbed tight and held, and spent hours on end teaching myself to play with books my
parents found and sheet music from Harper’s computer. It was my lifeline, the only drug I had,
and I’ve missed losing myself in the keyboard, playing until my hands hurt and my mind is quiet.

At fourteen, I started writing music, scrawling messy notes and phrases on scraps of paper until
I turned them into almost-tunes that weren’t complete until Harper came down with a notebook
of lyrics and a melody to fit my pieces. We wrote our first song that night, and never stopped.

My collection of sheet music was tucked in a folder in my basement, though it’s likely a pile of
ashes now.

Of all the songs I’ve learned to play, only a few stuck in my memory. Letting my fingers rest on

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the keys, I begin to play. The notes spill across the keys, the first movement of Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata filling the room. It takes a moment to adjust to the rhythm, to the difference in
the instrument.

A pang of longing for my mother runs through me—she wanted to find a way to get a real piano
downstairs, going on about quality and clarity of sound. For her, not learning to play was one of
her regrets. There were a million things I would never be able to do but playing wasn’t one of
them. A twisted consolation prize.

I have always been too prideful to let anyone but Harper listen to me play, only because I had to
to write, and I wish fiercely my mom could hear one song.

My mom can’t, but Alex can.

I close my eyes, light as air, letting the music mold a bubble around me. There are no Marks or
laws or camps, no dying or jailed or broken, only me and a song that becomes happier as I play
through the movements. When I reach the end, a complicated and quick progression of keys, I
finish and drop my hands to the bench beside me, fingers tingling and brain delightfully fuzzy.

I’m reminded of Alex beside me when he inhales sharply, and a rush of shyness courses through
me. I clear my throat and press my lips together.

“Isla,” he says, voice low, tone drawing my attention to him. His expression is wide open, awe
and something indecipherable — unsettling in its intensity — clear on his face. I can’t find the
strength to tear my eyes away, nor do I want to.

I don’t realize I’m biting down on my lip until I reopen the cut, metal blooming on my tongue,
and Alex reaches up, his thumb grazing the dip between my chin and lower lip, coming away
with a red finger. I suppress a shiver and drag my tongue across the wound, swallowing the
copper, refusing to be the first to look away but simultaneously wishing I could.

“I’ve never played for anyone but Harper,” I say, though I’m unsure why. A lopsided smile plays
on Alex’s lips.

“I can see why,” he says. “A little pitchy, there.” His smile widens, the teasing registering a second
later than it should—I accredit it to exhaustion instead of his closeness and snort a laugh, gaze
returning to the keys.

“Forgive me for being a little rusty.”

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“I mean, I was expecting a big show…”

“And I’ve disappointed you?” I let my mouth curve into a wicked grin, and Alex’s nostrils flare.

“Wildly,” he says. From this close, I can see dark brown flecks in his eyes, and wonder if they
shine in the sunlight—I chide myself for the thought‹.

In less than a week, I am giving myself up to the camps, with no way of knowing whether I’ll
return, or Beth’s plan will work. These may very well be my last days of freedom. What am I
doing here, sitting too close to a boy I will have to leave? A boy who doesn’t deserve all this,
whose life I have already screwed up beyond all belief?

Forcing my gaze away, I straighten my shoulders, swallowing the blood pooling on my tongue.

“Thank you,” I say. “For showing me this.”

“No problem,” Alex says, the disappointment is clear in his voice, but he doesn’t push, and I
pretend not to notice. It may feel like a betrayal, but it will be worth it. It has to be.

It is safer this way. For everyone.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN — ISLA

The morning Beth and I leave for Haven, I seek out my sister the minute I wake in an empty
room. While I have no intention of telling Harper a lick of the plan, I’ll never forgive myself for
not saying goodbye, on the off chance I never have the chance to say anything else.

Harper may be frustrated with me the majority of the time, and the distance between us may
never have felt so great, but at the end of the day, she is the other half of my soul. A life without
her is no life at all.

As expected, she’s ended up on the chore rotation, and I find her in the kitchen after exchanging
pleasantries — as in, a curt nod — with Cooke, where she’s sifting through a box of potatoes. At
my arrival, she straightens and gives me a smile.

“Finally decided to help out around here?” She teases, her good mood contagious, blurring the
edges of the dread I’ve been lugging behind me for days. It is a selfish, impossible thought, but
for a moment, I wish I could bring Harper with me, if only to soften the blow when the shot finally
comes.

I lean a hip into the doorway and jam my hands into my pockets, worried they’re trembling.

“Course not. Who do you think I am?” I ask. “Was looking for you.”

“Me?” Harper swipes a red curl out of her eyes and props her hands on her hips. “To what do I
owe the honor?”

“Am I not allowed to want to hang out with my sister?” I ask. Harper makes a face.

“Sucking up won’t work.”

“Won’t it? I missed your pretty face.”

“My face is your face.”

I grin. “Exactly.”

She laughs, and I try to crystallize the noise in amber to hold onto when I’m inside Haven.

“I have missed you,” I say, guilt at the tension between us burning hot, and I wish I could roll
back the clock, go back and stay close to Harper for as long as I can. “You’re always running

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around.”

“And you’re always locked up in Beth’s office or beating people up,” Harper says, tone edged
with disdain. Frustration threatens to surface, but I shove it away—it is not the time to argue. If
this is the last conversation we ever have, I’ll be damned if we spend it arguing about a point we
will never agree on.

“Can we not?” I sink further into the doorframe, playing at the ease I’m trying and failing to find.
“I slept like crap last night, and I’m too tired to argue.” It is a half-truth, but it is all I can give her.

Her features soften and she takes the bait, nodding and letting her arms fall to her sides. She lips
past me and out of the kitchen, and I’m close on her heels, Cooke and today’s help nowhere to be
found. Out serving, or eating, presumably. I’m grateful for the peace.

Harper peels off her gloves and chucks them into the trash, turning to me, an uneasy look on her
face. “How do you think mom and dad are? I know there’s no way to check up on them, but…”
She trails off, biting her lip. The worry lines on her face grow deeper each day—concern is an odd
look on Harper, so out of place on someone so effortlessly positive. I hate that my leaving will
only make it worse.

But it is either this or sitting with the shame and guilt of Luna’s capture and my parent’s arrest
for the rest of my life. Luna and my parents are only where they are because they helped me. If
they hadn’t, if my parents let me be taken or if I made Luna stay behind, it would look differently.
But it doesn’t. It can’t, unless I do something.

“Mom and dad will be fine,” I say, knowing full well it is a lie, but it is all I have to give. “I don’t
know if you heard, but they’re kind of badass.”

A tiny smile flashes on Harper’s lips: a minor victory.

“You think?”

“I know,” I say. Hope is a powerful drug, one keeping people going far longer than anything else.
If Harper still has it, I pray she holds on tight. She is going to need it—hopefully she has enough
for both of us.

Harper’s lip quivers, moisture glistening in her eyes. “I miss them.”

My heart wrenches, and I cross the kitchen to wrap her in a hug. Harper buries her face in my

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neck and grips tight—another thing to memorize, to lock away somewhere safe, to pull out when
the light becomes too blinding.

When I burn too bright and too hot, it is Harper who douses my flames; Harper who dims the
blinding light enough to see.

It’s taken seventeen years to understand I don’t truly know the girl I grew up beside — to
understand she doesn’t truly know me — and it is too late. If I don’t make it back, I will never
meet the real Harper Batali, never see the way she grows and changes.

I would give anything for more time, but I am already out of it.

“Me too,” I say, voice breaking. “Me too.” I hold on longer than I need to, but Harper lets me.
When Harper does finally pull away, swiping tears from her cheeks, she looks less fearful, less
broken.

I think maybe Harper is stronger than I’ve ever taken the time to realize.

“I’m sorry, Harper,” I say. I want to continue, to say, ‘I’m sorry for lying and leaving you and keeping
it all a secret,’ and, ‘even if I don’t come back, I love you, and I’m sorry,’ but I can’t say any of those
things without giving myself away, so I settle for another apology. “I’m so sorry.”

She sniffles. “It’s not your fault.”

It is, it is, it all is. “I know,” I say. “But it sucks, and I wish it didn’t.”

Harper gives me a thin lipped smile and holds out her hand. I take it, pumping once and letting
go.

“I love you, even if you are annoyingly saintly all the time.”

Her smile widens, becomes more genuine, and she says, “I love you too, even if you are foolishly
reckless all the time.”

“Untrue,“ I say. “Definitely only half the time.”

“We’re gonna be okay,” Harper says, and I can tell she believes it. “We’re together, right?”

I give what I hope is a reassuring smile and nod. We’re together, for now. Maybe, never again.

But now is all we have.

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Next on the goodbye train is Alex, instantly located in his room, still rousing from sleep. I don’t
bother knocking, waltzing in, making a sleepy Alex levitate near off the bed.

He jerks to a sitting position, his hair a mess of curls and tee shirt rumpled and gathering halfway
up his stomach, showing a strip of tanned skin and the thin white scars above his hip. I force my
gaze onto his face, not trusting my cheeks not to flush.

“You know it’s almost eleven?” I ask. He waves a hand dismissively, swinging his legs over the
bed.

“Smart observation,” he grumbles. It takes a moment for him to wake fully, but when he does, he
straightens like a rod and snaps his attention to me. “Wait. Is today—"

My stomach is in knots as I clench my teeth and nod curtly. He curses beneath his breath in
Spanish and stands, running a hand through his hair, facing me with pure desperation pulsing
off him.

“It is not too late to back out,” he says. “No one even knows your plan, so no one can blame you
for staying.”

“You know that’s not an option.”

He lets out a sigh, shoulders sinking. “I know there’s no talking you out of it.”

“Smart boy.”

He narrows his eyes and says, “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No. It means you have to keep your mouth shut.”

“Isla, if something happens, and you don’t come back—"

“I’ll come back,” I interrupt, the intensity of the words surprising me. I’m not sure I believe them,
but I want to.

I want to, because I want more; more days on the roof helping Cooke pick vegetables off vines,
more time on the mat with Beth, more exchanging stories with Tessa, more laughing with my
sister, more minutes bickering harmlessly with Alex. I want more of this life I resented, more of

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the people I spent so long pushing away.

“But if you don’t.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the pessimist?” I ask, aiming to ease some of the tension. Alex shakes
his head.

“This is serious, Isla. You could die in there.”

I stiffen, licking my dry lips and taking a long, shaking breath.

“I know,” I say. “I know.”

“How are you not scared?”

Were it anyone else, I would lie. I’d feed them the same line I’ve fed Beth each time she asks—
say the risk is worth the possible reward. But the truth, the agonizing truth, is I’ve never been
more terrified. Not when the sentries came for my family, not during the fight in the office. This
fear is a noose, tightening around my neck with each breath. It is a boulder pressing on my lungs,
cracking my ribs. It is strong enough to be paralyzing, if I let it.

The time for denial has run out, with Haven no longer the shadow at the end of the road but the
monster slavering and stretching its claws out at me from five feet away.

“Not afraid? I’m terrified,” I say, usually steady tone wavering.

I don’t have a choice, have never had a choice. I’d never have been able to leave Luna behind or
survived the self-loathing already burning me alive. If I die in there, I’ll die saving Luna. It is the
only way to clean the red from my ledger before it stains.

The vulnerability in my words has Alex speechless, but he recovers in seconds, coming to stand
opposite me, the closeness pulling my gaze to his face.

“I know I can’t convince you to stay,” he says, “but I can’t not try.” His words are a thousand
needles to my heart, piercing every inch of me. “Please, Isla. Please don’t go.”

A wave of emotion rolls through me, shame and regret and sadness and fear all wrapped in a
heavy knot. I want so badly to say, I’ll stay, to erase his painful expression and save my sister the
inevitable horror of the next few days.

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“You know I have to,” I say softly, softer than I’ve ever spoken. Alex closes his eyes for a long
time.

When he opens them, he says, “I know.”

“Promise me you’ll take care of my sister,” I say. “While I’m gone, and if I…”

“I promise,” he says, though he flinches.

“Good.” My words are thick in my throat, but the idea of leaving with so many unspoken words
between me and Alex Morales is far more painful. “Just in case I don’t get a chance to say it—"

“No,” he says. “We’re not doing goodbyes.”

“We are. So, shut up.” He frowns, but listens, seeming to understand the situation's gravity even
if he resents it. “I need you to know I’m sorry. I never meant to drag you into this mess.” A new
type of fear claws its way to the surface, different and twisting, frantic and fragile. “But if it had
to be anyone, I’m glad it was you. You have to know that. I’m glad it was you.”

His lips part, and he takes a step closer, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, “I’d do it again,” and I think my heart will beat out of my chest. The
happiness rolling through me is strange, tinged with sadness and longing, new and nearly
indecipherable.

Alex lifts a hand, thumb grazing the healing slash through my eyebrow, ghosting the fading
bruise on my cheek.

I’m struck suddenly with how much I’m going to miss him, how much I’ve enjoyed these last few
weeks with him. Alex with his curls and kindness and easy smile.

Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck, burying my face in the soft fabric of his shirt.
He stills, unsure and awkward for a beat before his arms wind around me. Another beat, and his
grip tightens, and he ducks his chin, holding me like he’s worried I’ll disappear if he loosens his
arms.

“Haven has no idea what’s coming for it,” Alex murmurs, voice muffled by my hair. I pull back,
but I don’t pull away, not yet.

Five seconds. Five seconds to be safe and warm and wanted, to simply be; to be Isla and Alex, not

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Marked and unMarked. Easing out of his arms is like ripping off a band aid.

“You watch out for my sister, Alex Morales,” I warn, “and for yourself. You hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, smiling.

At the very least, if I don’t return, Harper and Alex will be okay. They are safe, and they have
each other. It isn’t much, but it is more than I’ll have, if it comes to it, and I hope it will be enough.

I have to force myself to move to the door, but as my fingers brush the handle, panic busts open
in me and I whirl to face Alex, who stands across the room where I left him with a ghastly
expression—sad and scared and a little hopeful.

“Come back to me, okay?” he asks. It isn’t a promise I can make, but I want to, anyway. I want to
pretend saying the words is enough to guarantee them.

“I promise,” I say, and even if it ends up a lie, I believe it.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN — ISLA

Though Haven Rehabilitation Facility is located somewhere near Mount Baker, not even Beth
knows the exact location and we can’t exactly pull up to the front door and drop me off. Instead,
Beth gets us as close as possible.

We take one of the spare cars for an eventless trip, Beth using her police scanner to avoid sentries
on the way. The further we move from the coast, the sparser the population, the more Beth relaxes
and the more wired I become. Normally the lack of sentry presence would be a positive, but our
plan relies on my capture, and we need sentries for that.

Beth stops in Deming, a small city with a population boasting of two thousand residents. Small,
but big enough to have a consistent sentry force, multiple patrol vehicles chirping on Beth’s radio.
She pulls into the emptying lot of a grocery store—with curfew an hour away, the quieting streets
near silence.

“You ready for this?” Beth asks, shifting halfway to face me.

My stomach drops, and I pray Beth can’t see the storm brewing inside me; I’ve been breathing
through gags for the last half hour.

When I go into Haven, Beth will set up shop at a motel, as close to camp as she can physically
get—an old ski village, far past its prime but clinging to life. Her part of the plan is larger but
depends wholly on my ability to complete my task. The techno jargon is lost on me, but Beth
dumbs it down enough for me to comprehend; a flash drive, no longer than my pink, glued to a
bobby pin and tucked under my braids. The pressure against the back of my skull is a comforting
reminder I may be going in by myself, but I am not completely alone.

Once inside, all I need is to find a computer and give Beth remote access to the system. From the
moment the drive is in, I have twenty four hours to get Luna ready for Beth to scramble the system
and unlock the gates. If it all goes well, Luna could be home in two days.

Because things usually go well.

“Not even a little bit,” I say. Beth’s lips quirk up in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, the only
indication she is as nervous as I am.

“Rendezvous in Glacier,” she says. “It’s a trek, but we don’t know exactly where this place is, so
I don’t want to risk being too far. Plus, I need to stay unnoticed.”

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A trek. If we’re right, if Haven is anywhere near where we believe it is, the distance is twenty
miles, presumably on foot.

I add it to the list of things I can’t think about right now.

“Glacier,” I say. “Got it.”

“Just follow the highway west.”

“West?” The word means nothing to me, not after seventeen years essentially under the ground.

Beth’s eyes glitter as she raises her hands, starting at the top, moving in the direction of the clock.
“Never. Eat. Soggy. Waffles. North, south, east, west.”

I gape at her, trying to decide whether she’s screwing with me, and she smiles, continuing, “It’s
a way to remember.”

I hesitate, but mirror her actions, mouthing the words, forcing myself to solidify them.

“So, you’re saying waffles will save my life?”

Her grin changes, turns affectionate and tender, and she says, “Yes. Waffles will save your life.”

“If you can get that drive plugged in, I’ll have eyes on you the whole time. You’re not alone in
there.”

I urge the words to reassure me, but they do little to ease my growing panic.

“Just don’t forget to let us out, yeah?” I bite through gritted teeth.

Beth goes serious, but a trace of affection bleeds into her tone.

“You don’t owe us anything, Isla,” she says. “if you don’t want to do this, you can come with me
to a motel, and we’ll go home first thing in the morning.”

She reminds me so much of my mother in this instant I have to force back the tears threatening
my fragile composure. I swallow the stone in my throat and shake my head—it is a kind offer,
but Beth wants Luna back as badly as I want to bring her back.

“I’m not doing this for you,” I say. It sounds cruel, but it’s the truth. The thing Beth and Alex
don’t understand, the thing they can’t understand, is this isn’t some attempt at alleviating blame

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or guilt, and it isn’t completely for Luna’s sake.

It is for all of them, for every Marked person doomed to die in the camps; for every one already
lost.

I need to prove to them, to the sentries, to myself, that this system is not untouchable; that the
empire they’ve built on our backs is not invulnerable. I am not enough to topple the tower, but I
can strike a shot at the base.

Beth lets out a long sigh, jaw clenching. Resignation settles in her expression, and she is all
business. It is easy to see the leader of the Nook, the woman who has protected one hundred
people all this time.

“Okay then,” she says. “I guess that means it’s time to raise a little hell.”

I flash her a wicked grin. “Now that, I can do.”

The urge to chase after Beth’s car is near-overwhelming—she won’t be far, already heading east
to Glacier and its one motel, and the moment I get the drive in, I’ll have the comfort of Beth’s
eyes.

Until then, I am alone. It is the first time in my life I have been truly, utterly alone, and any other
time it would be invigorating. Unsurprisingly, it isn’t. Maybe it’s the impending death sentence.

I consider heading for the street and waltzing through town until I’m noticed, but the longer I
drag this out, the harder it will be not to back out. Fear is already twisting its knife deeper with
every breath, and I am not as brave as I thought I was; I want to run far, far away.

The grocery store at the other end of the lot is empty and dark, its employees recently departed
for the night. I drag myself to the front door, bending to pick up a large rock on the way, stopping
in front of the glass.

The girl in the reflection, her face scarred and bruised, mouth twisted into a grimace, looks
nothing like me—looks nothing like Harper. She is someone new, someone I am not sure I’m
happy to meet, but she is all I have.

I tug off my hoodie — Alex’s, and though it will be taken when I am, I couldn’t stop from drawing

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the now-familiar fabric over my head and inhaling the fading scent of bergamot and melon —
and wrap my hand with it, gripping the rock tightly and ramming the rock into the glass door.

The glass shatters, and I release the rock, ducking and covering my eyes. Shards rain down on
my sneakers, the concrete glittering.

A shrieking alarm pierces the quiet, and I jump despite myself—this is the plan, this is what I am
supposed to do. I have spent years in the dark, and it’s time to bring the sun down on my face.

Stepping over the metal frame, the glass crunching beneath my feet as I pick over the debris and
move into the front of the store. Even in the dark, the place is massive, aisles upon aisles stocked
with food and supplies and medicines that could keep the Nook fed and healthy for years. It
seems wasteful and pointless to stuff building upon building with more than anyone could
possibly use.

My captors will come soon enough, and I go exploring, locating the candy aisle instantly and
ripping open a bag of mini peanut butter cups. Morsels spill to the ground and go ignored as I
pop the chocolate into my mouth, reveling in what might be my last meal uncaged. It would
horrify my mother, but nutrition is at the bottom of my priority list at the moment.

The thought of her makes me twist with longing, and it finally hits me I will never see my parents
again. If I survive this, if I get Luna out, I won’t find them waiting for me. They have gone
somewhere I can’t follow—somewhere I can never follow.

What would they say if they saw me now, blatantly breaking every rule they’ve ever made?
Would they be angry, or proud?

I hope it’s the latter.

The soft sound of sirens reaches my ears, growing closer and more piercing by the second. I drag
myself back to reality and drop the chocolate, returning to the front of the store, my stomach
sinking like a stone at the sight of a sentry vehicle speeding into the lot. It stops a few yards from
the front of the store, headlights moving across the front of aisles, and doors click open.
Silhouettes move against the bright headlights — two, maybe three — and I resist the urge to
bolt, to find a back door and run until I can’t anymore.

I hang back, tucked between registers until the uniformed men reach the front of the store,
flashlight streams dancing in my vision as they slowly approach the smashed door.

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I instinctively collect the stats, the way I was taught, preparing for a fight I’m not going to have.
Three men, all with seventy five pounds or more on me, adorning belts strapped with weapons.
If the goal were to escape, I’d be screwed.

Luckily, or unluckily, it isn’t.

My mother’s voice, quiet and confident, echoes in my ears, “Five seconds,” and I let the fear snap
forward, counting in my head.

One, two, three, four, five.

The first boot crunches on glass, and I spring up, darting for the door and leaping over the frame,
smacking the asphalt hard. Exclaimed shouts rise and the sentries stumble back, but they recover
instantly, barking orders as I push past.

I fight every instinct and run hard with everything I have, and though dread sits heavy on my
shoulders, these last moments of freedom are elating, and I take them for the small victory they
are.

The sentries haven’t seen my Mark, but they don’t need to; strange behavior is sprung upon. It
has to be; order is maintained through silence and invisibility.

Picking up the pace, I change direction as another sentry car speeds into the lot, and it is
surprisingly difficult to make aimless running look purposeful—to move fast enough to sell the
escape ‘attempt’ and slow enough to let them gain ground. When I reach the end of the lot, I turn,
heading for the street, and the cars follow my course.

I reach another corner, and a third sentry car arrives — likely half the small town’s force — with
dizzyingly bright lights. I slam to a halt, and the car stops inches from me, drivers invisible past
the headlights. The other two screech up around me, doors opening all at once, six sentries
spilling out like ants.

You’re trying to get caught. I repeat the mantra over and over, but bile is clawing up my throat, and
my legs tremble so badly I can barely stand.

No faces are decipherable as they descend on me, and I struggle to keep balanced as I am snatched
by the arms. Their grips tighten as they discover the Mark, none of them expecting to find a
Marked teen in the lot of a random store.

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Once they’ve cuffed and stuffed me into the back of one of the cars, they still, seemingly unsure
how to proceed. The clock on the car’s dash tells me forty five minutes have passed by the time
another car joins us.

I watch through the tinted windows as a man steps out of the driver’s side, his presence clearly
unsettling them all—the same man from outside my house, from Danielle Campbell’s. The one
who, I realize, has been chasing me.

He converses with two of the other sentries for a long time, occasionally sending glances my way,
each look filling me with dread. I’m wound so tightly by the time he breaks from the group and
heads for the car I’m sitting in I’m no longer nervous, simply ready for something.

He tugs the door open, and his name tag is visible, giving me a name to the man who still doesn’t
know mine: Pearson. His lips curl up in what can only be described as an evil grin, revealing
yellowed teeth.

“I hear we caught us a beast?” His voice is grating and rough, making it near impossible not to
punch him in the face—were I uncuffed, his nose would be broken.

Seeing as I can’t smash his face in, I settle for gathering a wad of saliva in my mouth and spit it
directly into his eye. He recoils, face contorting, and he ducks halfway into the car to slam his fist
into my nose.

The pain following the sickening crunch of bone is like a thousand bees swarming and stinging
my nasal passages, like white hot fire. Blood rushes down my face, dripping off my chin, but I
have no way to staunch it, or block Pearson if he throws again.

I snap my gaze to his, smiling with scarlet teeth, pushing past the dizziness washing over me,
and say, “And they say I have anger issues.”

Pearson rears back, and I tense for a hit that never comes. His expression is twisted so tight, I
consider warning him it’ll get stuck there, but before I can, he calms, as if a switch has been
flipped. He calls over his shoulder to a sentry, a boy barely older than I am with a baby face.

“I think it’s nap time for our little pet,” Pearson says. “Bring me that syringe, will you?”

It is not a request, and the boy nods, quick and eager, and practically sprints to Pearson’s car,
popping the trunk and pulling out a small black pouch.

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No. Ice shoots through my veins, the pain in my face far away, and I scramble back. Pearson turns
back to snatch me by my cuffs, dragging me back to the open door, lips curved in a sinister smile.

I wonder how it is that I am the violent, vicious creature—me, handcuffed and gushing blood,
not them, with their sick satisfaction at my pain and their unrelenting hatred.

The boy brings the pouch over, unzipping it to reveal a bundle of syringes filled with milky white
liquid. I stiffen, but am immoveable under Pearson’s grip, unable to do anything but struggle.
The boy hands Pearson a syringe, and he pins me roughly in place with one hand, lifting the
needle.

“When you wake up, you’ll be right where you belong,” he says. I curl my lip, snaking out a foot
to kick him in the knees, only managing to piss him off further; a victory nonetheless.

“You’ve got something on your face,” I say, spitting blood onto my lap.

Pearson reaches up to swipe the last of my spit off his cheek, the cap on his rage bubbling over.
With lightning speed, he thrusts out a hand and plunges the needle into my neck. I barely snarl
a curse before weights drop onto me, dragging me down and into the dark. It takes only a moment
to swallow me whole.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN — ISLA

The pain in my nose wakes me up, the dull throbbing growing in intensity and dragging me back
to consciousness. My thoughts are languid and fuzzy, and when I open my eyes, I believe the
lights above me to be those in my room at the Nook.

I roll over to berate Harper for turning the lights on so early, but the unfamiliar crinkling beneath
me — not a sheet, but paper — cinches my memory together, and I jerk to a sitting position,
blinking past the dizziness.

The closest label I find for the room I’m in — movies and Tessa’s makeshift infirmary providing
context — is a doctor’s office. It is windowless, with a sink and cupboard, various unidentifiable
tools hung on taupe walls, and a small desktop atop a tall rolling desk. A rush of elation briefly
dims the pulsing throb in my face, and I lift a hand to the back of my head, relieved to find the
small drive tucked safely against my skull.

The broken, and likely unset, nose is a painful nuisance, and I’ll have two black eyes for weeks.
Someone cleaned my face, and I’m wearing a scratchy pale gray jumpsuit—I was undressed and
redressed in my sleep, which is somehow more horrifying than being sedated at all.

Alex’s hoodie is gone, as I knew it would be, but I still miss the comfort of it around me.

Forcing myself to focus, I scan the ceiling for the camera inevitably watching my every move.
Sure enough, a small lens pokes out from one corner of the ceiling, a red light blinking every few
seconds. I have no clue how long I’ve been out, and hope Beth hasn’t been waiting long.

The camera makes any moves riskier, but I was prepared for that, and I have a small window of
time before the lens’ monitor realizes I’m awake. Pushing off the examination table, I cross to the
computer slowly, letting my gaze trail casually over the room. The lens lurks above me, and I
maneuver so my back blocks its view of the desktop.

My stomach sinks at the sight of the monitor — minimalist, with no plug-ins, not so much as a
disk drive. Nowhere to plug the drive in. Anger and despair crack open in my chest and I drop a
hand to the desk, swiping everything off, and justify it to myself as covering my reason for
exploring.

I hit the sink next, sending the soap and tongue depressors onto the floor, heading for the black
tools hanging on the wall and plucking the largest, as if to smash my way through the door.

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It is thick wood with no handle, but has a small window, and any Marked kid who ended up here
would have no way of knowing it only opens by code. If I didn’t know, it’s what I would have
done. Smash the glass, try to find a handle on the other side.

My destruction has earned the attention of whoever sits behind the camera, and a woman is white
scrubs is buzzed through the door seconds before I shatter the glass, her demeanor
disconcertingly calm. I lower my hand, but keep the tool gripped tightly in my fist.

“Well, well. Someone’s been sleeping a long time!” The chipper woman says. Her skin is colorless
and pale, hair so blonde it is almost white, and though she can’t be more than a few years younger
than my mom, she seems older. Her cheery mood radiates insincerity, so exaggerated I resist the
urge to groan outwardly. “My name is Amelie, and I’m the head nurse here. You got hit pretty
hard in the head, it seems?” She gestures to my swollen nose, and I bristle.

“Where am I?” I ask, playing dumb.

“This is the Haven Rehabilitation Facility,” she says.

So, if nothing else, I’m in the right place. Great? Good? A death sentence nonetheless?

“Rehabilitation?” I ask, lips curling in a sneer. “Is that a synonym for murder these days?”

Amelie’s happy go lucky attitude vanishes, all the blood draining from her face. I shouldn’t know
this. Amelie is struggling to discern how I do, what to do with the information, her mouth gaping,
opening and closing like a fish.

“You’ll catch flies, you know,” I say, nodding to her lips. She snaps her mouth shut, forehead
furrowing.

“I don’t know what you think you know—"

“No?” I say casually, shrugging. “You’re sure you’re the head nurse? Haven doesn’t have anyone
a little less…” I trace a lazy path up her form — scuffed white shoes, lightly stained scrubs, too
much hair gel. “Dim?”

Amelie stiffens, anger making her ugly. Satisfaction warms me, dulling the throbbing pain in my
face. Her lips part, the beginning of a protest forming, interrupted by the door opening and boots
squeaking on the linoleum.

Pearson steps through the door, his presence making my stomach wrench so tight I think I’ll
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throw up. I’m torn between wanting to rush him and slam my fist into his face, and wanting to
cower in a corner. As if reminded of itself by the sight of him, the pain in my nose intensifies, and
I bite down on my tongue until I taste blood.

“Causing trouble already, are we?” Pearson asks, waltzing further into the room, letting the door
swing shut behind him. A buzz traps us together. “You’ve been awake two minutes.” I stagger
back as he crosses to me, backing up until I slam into the counter, Pearson stopping a foot away.
His grin makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise; everything about him makes me want to
run. “I’ve never caught a live one.”

I turn my nose up, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my fear.

“Lieutenant Pearson,” Amelie says, cheeks beet red. “I didn’t realize you’d be handling this
personally.”

Pearson turns to face her, that same unsettling smile tugging on his lips.

“Normally, I’d be back at the tower drinking shitty coffee by now,” he says, “but seeing as I
brought in the beast, the big guys thought I deserved a crack at her.”

“I was already in cuffs,” I snap. Amelie’s lips pull thin, and she flicks a glance at me.

“You’re taking her for questioning?” She asks uncertainly.

“Yes,” he chirps. “I’ll be taking her now.”

“But I haven’t had a chance to look over her yet—”

Pearson takes me by the arm, wrenching me toward the door, paying little attention to Amelie.
As he passes her, he says, “Don’t worry. She’ll be back soon, and there’ll be more for you to do.”
He yanks the door open and drags me through it, my thrashing falling flat, and I’m unable to do
anything but be dragged down the hall to whatever questioning is.

It can’t be good. Not with the disgusting smile plastered to Pearson’s lips—only my pain could
make him so excited.

Pearson tugs me out into a hallway with beige walls and stained linoleum, fluorescent lights
flickering overhead. Despite my attempts to mark the route mentally as we move, note the doors
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and turns, the dread pooling in me has me shuffling to keep up.

He stops at the far end of the hall and nudges open a door, unceremoniously shoving me inside
and tugging the door shut behind us. Two sentries stand on opposite sides of the room,
motionless.

The room itself is nothing special, about the size of the office I was in seconds before, but
completely empty save for a chair in the center. Old and bulky, with straps on the armrests and
ankles.

I stumble back instinctively, stomach churning, but only run onto Pearson, who grips my
shoulders and pushes me forward.

I am going to throw up, or pass out, or scream, or all of the above.

Though not without a fight, he manages to wrangle me into the chair, the silent sentries leaving
their posts long enough to assist Pearson in strapping me down. The straps cinch painfully
around my wrists and ankles and I snap my head up to glare at Pearson, who smiles smugly.

The wall opposite me is mirrored, likely one-way glass parading me for whoever waits in the
observing room. I don’t recognize myself, purple blooming around fading bruises, lips curled in
a snarl. It is here, for the first time, I truly see what the world warned me about.

Seventeen years denying the accusation, and with one look in this mirror, I know I’ve become the
very thing I refused to acknowledge: evil; monstrous; broken. I don’t want to be, but when has
this world ever cared what I want? What anyone down here wants?

Maybe the world filled up with so much badness and blood and brokenness it finally splintered—
maybe I am what came from the ashes.

“We’re going to get to know each other a little better,” Pearson says, coming to block my view of
the monster in the mirror. “How does that sound?” His condescension is nauseating, and an
inventory of insults line up behind my lips, shuffling into order of most venomous. I yearn for
free hands—for a weapon, or a moment.

He looks to one of the other sentries — mid-twenties, soft featured and stony faced — and jerks
a chin. “You,” he says. “Here.” The sentry steps forward to join him. Pearson nods at me and
looks at the sentry. “When she gives us an answer we don’t like, hit her as hard as you can.”

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My stomach drops, blood rushing out of me, my heartbeat battering loud against my throbbing
skull. So, questioning is torture with a fancy name.

Uncertainty passes the boy’s face, and he looks between us a few times before settling his focus
on Pearson. He is conflicted. How touching.

“Excuse me, sir?” He asks.

“Was I unclear?” He gestures to my exposed gut, shooting me a smile and slamming his fist into
my belly. It is not the hardest he can hit, but it scatters my thoughts and knocks a gasp free. The
sentry flinches, less noticeably than I do, blanches, nods, .

“No, sir. I understand.”

Pushing down the dizziness wrought by the punch, I give Pearson a snide smile.

“Which part of this gets you off?” I ask, voice rough and raw as I gasp at breath. “The whole ‘sir’
thing, or beating the shit out of innocent people?” His jaw tightens. “Or is it both?”

Pearson’s jaw clenches briefly, the only indication I’ve made an impact, and I ready myself for
the next hit. Instead, Pearson’s gaze has gone fuzzy, concentration lining his face. A small piece
of plastic shines in his ear—presumably, someone telling him what to do, what to say.

The power he pretends to have isn’t as expansive as he wants me to believe. From Amelie’s
confusion at his presence, I’ve gleaned Pearson doesn’t often take part in one-on-one’s, but having
retrieved me, feels he has some sick claim on me, and Haven’s people probably think it makes
him more intimidating.

But I don’t scare easily. I have an exit plan laid out, and with it, Pearson’s reactions are more
amusing than anything. He is a child in adult boots, stomping about and trying not to lose his
balance. I can survive a trumped-up patrolman for a few days—I have to.

Pearson’s focus snaps to me.

“What is your name?” He asks. The sentry beside him has gone stiff, all hard edges as
interrogation begins. I resist the urge to laugh at both of them, these kids playing grown up.

I ignore the question and catch my breath in preparation for the inevitable pain coming.

Pearson leans in, acrid breath hot against my mouth.

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“I said,” he emphasizes, “What is your name?”

My eyes fall shut, a line from a play Harper read, and subsequently complained about, for school
popping into my head. I read lines with her for weeks, preparing Harper for a presentation she
obviously nailed. It’s been at least three years, but the words flit forward, giving me something
to say in place of the truth I can’t provide.

“What’s in a name,” I drone, “that which we call a rose—" Pearson nods to the sentry—he steps
forward to ram a fist into my gut. Stars flash in the corner of my vision, words dying on my lips
as I double over, choking on the air in my lungs and straining to draw more in. My head lifts,
lolls back, the lights dazzlingly bright above me.

You can do this, I tell myself, because you have to.

“You piece of—" I curse, another punch interrupting me, and I half expect to hear a rib crack.

“I’ll ask once more,” Pearson says. “What is your name?” The sentry readies for another swing,
and I clench my teeth; I can’t hold it all inside. They will get some of my cards, whether I want it
or not.

My job is to choose which they get.

I take a breath, and say, “Isla.”

“Last name, maggot,” he snaps, gripping armrests and my wrists, the leather straps digging
painfully into my skin. I refuse to let him see me falter and lift my chin, eyes narrowing.

“I told you,” I spit. “Isla. Not maggot. Or are you as much of a dolt as the nurse?”

Rage flashes in his eyes, and he lunges, punching me so hard in the belly I nearly choke on bile,
gasping for breath. Wave after wave of pain joins those already rolling through me. I am Atlas,
holding the world on my shoulders, and if I drop it, if I say too much, the underground world
keeping sympathizers and Marked hidden shatters.

Spitting out a string of expletives — varying combinations of the mother-insert-curse-er equation

— earns lifted brows around the room.

“Someone’s ego,” I wheeze, “is fragile.”

Pearson curls a lip, anger slipping from its controlled case, and he punches me directly in the jaw.

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My inner lip splits open, warm metal pooling in my mouth, and flames spark with pain, joining
the party pulsing in my head.

Fear and rage and helplessness weave together, forming a battering ram to slam against my
defenses.

“I can do this all day,” he says. “Now. Name.”

Spitting a gob of blood onto the floor, I lift my chin to meet Pearson’s stony gaze. I don’t need to
see myself in the mirror to know I resemble something horrifying, all bloody and bruised.

The words taste like ash, but I can only avoid questions for so long—I merely have to survive and
stall until time is up.

“Batali,” I snap. “Isla Batali.”

Satisfaction settles on his face. If I weren’t so tired, didn’t hurt so badly, I’d fight, struggle, but
the pain snaking through me dissolves my thoughts as soon as they form.

“Isla Batali.” My name is poison in his mouth. “Now, was that so hard?”

I’m unable to do more than glare at him as he claps his hands and gives me a sadistic smile.

“Next question,” he says, and all my hope swirls down the drain. It no longer matters if I have an
escape plan—I’m not even sure I’ll survive the day.

The interrogation drags for an eternity, or likely a few hours, Pearson leveling questions I try
desperately not to answer, and the sentry hitting me until I do. Still, I haven’t given much away—
though, he is asking all the wrong questions. With each passing minute, my confidence in my
resilience falters, the building pain growing harder to think around.

“I’ll ask you again,” Pearson says, pacing slowly. He hasn’t broken a sweat, whereas I can no
longer tell the difference between blood, sweat, and tears. “Where is Harper Batali?”

One question I will die before answering.

I gasp for air, chest heavy and aching, tongue thick and dry. My head is heavy as I lift it, vision
fogged at the edges. My sister’s face — my face, before it was broken — flashes behind my lids,

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and hot tears prick my eyes.

“I don’t know,” I say—silence is a guaranteed punch, and evasion gains seconds to catch my
breath.

“See, I wish I could believe you...” Pearson says. He tilts his head, listening through his earpiece
before flicking a glance my way. I’ve become familiar enough with that grin over the last few
hours to know nothing good follows. “Actually, I don’t wish. And I don’t believe you.”

“That’ll be all,” Pearson tells the sentry, the boy whose face shines red with exertion, whose
knuckles are swollen from so many swings. He nods, letting out a small sigh of relief and stepping
back to join his partner as a fly on the wall.

Pearson’s focus returns to me, and he tugs a wickedly sharp knife from his belt, the tip glinting.
He twirls it in one hand, amused by my sharp inhale.

“Let’s try this again,” he says, stepping toward me, lifting the blade and digging the tip into the
right corner of my mouth. I recoil, straining away from the blade, and Pearson snaps a hand up
behind my neck, locking me in place and resting the tip at my mouth once more.

I can’t move, can’t think, can’t breathe.

“For each lie you tell, I’ll leave something for you to remember it by,” he says, digging the blade
in. I swallow the scream bubbling up in my throat, refusing to give Pearson the satisfaction of my
fear. “Maybe that will make honesty easier.”

I curl my lip, struggling against the bindings, more trapped animal than human. I want out, need
out, need to be back in my basement where the world is simpler and hurts less.

“Where is Harper Batali?” Pearson asks, inkling his head. I scream at myself internally not to
speak, clamping my mouth and clenching my teeth against the urge to be honest and be rewarded
for it. At my silence, he shrugs.

The knife digs into my cheek, skin splitting open, and I writhe and scream as Pearson drags it all
the way up to the tender skin beneath my right eye. He pulls it back an instant before it blinds
me, and warm liquid rakes rivers down my cheeks, dripping onto my neck, bringing with it a
flaming, agonizing burn.

“Where is Harper Batali?” Pearson asks again. A cry slips past my lips, another in a string of

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many, but the fire licking up my cheek burns away any shame.

The gratification in his is almost as painful as his knife, and I am powerless against both, bound
as he slashes me to ribbons.

Reality twists, shifts, shimmers, pulls out of my reach as the questions come and keep coming.

Please, Beth, I think. Please get me out of here.

But there is no one to help me, and Beth can’t see me—not yet, not here. For now, I am utterly
alone.

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CHAPTER TWENTY — ISLA

Time loses its meaning as Pearson carves into my face and tears apart any coherent thought.
When he finally stops, either satisfied with the answers I’ve given — unlikely, as I gave so little
— or finished for the day, I can’t find relief in the break. My body is heavy, sinking with pain and
the dread of another moment in the chair.

The sentries on the wall undo my restraints and drag me to my feet, and I am too weak to fight
against them, letting them lead me back down the hall to the room I woke in. I am dumped
unceremoniously on the examination table and locked inside, and I have barely pushed up on
my elbows by the time Amelie enters. My gaze stays locked on the drops of blood sliding down
my cheeks and falling to the plastic of the bed’s top.

I have no clue what Pearson carved into my face, was too busy choking on fear and blood to
follow the trail of the knife, but Amelie’s sharp inhale and ghastly expression indicate it is as
horrible as I imagine.

“My god,” Amelie says, a hand flying to her mouth. She crosses to the bed, inspecting me with
wide eyes.

“Take a picture,” I wheeze, falling back onto the exam table. “It’ll last longer.” With the last of
my strength, I pull on a wicked grimace and add, “Might not want to put it on your billboards,
though.”

Amelie ignores me, stepping up to the edge of the bed, closer than I’m comfortable with, but I
can barely lift my head, let alone continue antagonizing the nurse. I shift onto my back, a groan
slipping out as my stomach muscles contract, the hits I took screaming in protest.

“If you stop moving and moaning,” Amelie says, completely shedding her happy go lucky
attitude, “I’ll give you something for the pain.”

Rather than pulling a bottle from one of the drawers, Amelie kneels in front of the sink and tugs
open the cupboard, punching a code into a small safe and removing a blue fabric purse. She fishes
for a packet of painkillers, and I notice she has her back turned to the camera—how many rules
is she breaking, and why is she breaking them?

The idea of pain medication is almost as intoxicating as the pills themselves, and the fight falls
out of me, my body relaxing on the table. Amelie flutters around the table as she cleans and covers
the carnage on my cheek, her touch intentioned but gentler than I expect. Even with her clear
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disdain for the Marked, she is mopping blood off my face and bandaging me anyway. She slips
a few of the pills from the packet into my mouth, instructing me to swallow, and folds the
remainder into their package, tucking it into the back of my sports bra.

“For later,” she says. “And you didn’t get them from me.”

I wonder how she justifies it, sending kids to be tortured or killed and cleaning up the ones who
come back. Even if I am evil, if I am a monster, how is it any less monstrous to be on the other
side? To be the one slamming cell doors on children each night and knowing every bandage lands
on someone who won’t survive past twenty five.

“Does it bother you,” I murmur as Amelie fastens a bandage across the right side of my face,
“what do they do to us?”

Her hands still over my face and she pulls them back, turning to toss the bloody gauze into the
trash and peeling her gloves off with a snap. She doesn’t ask how I know what I do, nor does she
turn around when she answers, “Of course.”

The response quiets me, and I push to a sitting position, ignoring the twisting ache.

“But you’re here.”

She turns, fiddling with the collar of her scrubs—her nail polish, lightly colored, is severely
chipped.

“The law is the law,” she says. “Without the camps, we’d find ourselves back in the Dark Ages.”

It feels rehearsed, a speech shoved into her mouth and stapled into place—a toy with a string and
a set of preset phrases, parroting words that lose their meaning.

“You don’t think we’re already there?” I ask, gesturing to myself. Amelie’s mouth pulls into a
thin line and averts her gaze, but her silence says enough.

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CHAPTER TWENTY ONE — ISLA

The pain medication kicks in as another pair of sentries comes to escort me, wobbly and haggard,
out of the office—what was overwhelming is now bearable. My thoughts have begun stringing
themselves back into order as I am led down the hall to a thick metal door, guards stopping to
punch a code into the pad by the door. A beep sounds above the frame, and a click noise follows,
one sentry shoving the door open.

Morning came sometime between my capture and now, the shining sun forcing me to lift a hand
to my eyes, but when the sentries stiffen, I let it fall, tucking my arms behind my back before they
reach for the cuffs on their belt.

We exit the building, and I sneak glances to decipher where I am in the camp. From our study of
the very rough blueprints, I knew Haven to be a square compound, with medical testing and the
infirmary along one edge, a female dorm along the second, the manufacturing — grunt work, like
sewing or shoe assembly — warehouse and cafeteria on the third, and the main gate and male
dorm along the last. The inner circle, a guard station and guard watchtower, has a perfect view
of all other buildings, but the cameras tucked into each corner are a further assurance of the
compound’s message: we see all.

A handful of the ten camps in Washington have as many as ten thousand people, but Haven,
tucked up near the border, harbors only one thousand, and only those between fourteen and
twenty. One thousand teens, chugging toward a death they don’t see coming.

I am led to the female dorm building, the layout differing to the infirmary, the lights brighter and
doors thicker. Each door has a code, rather than just the outer. The sentries stop four doors down,
turning to the right, punching in a code and popping the door open.

“Meet your new roommates,” one sentry says. Both men glance into the room, but make no move
to enter, and the moment my foot crosses the threshold, the door slams shut behind me. I spin to
catch amused smiles through the small window as they walk away.

Ignoring the flare of frustration and turning back, I find a long room with bunk beds stacked
along the walls, over thirty girls all around my age sitting on beds or in circles on the concrete,
their commotion grinding to a halt at my entrance. I stare out over a sea of distrustful faces, all
unfamiliar.

Almost all.

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Halfway down the room, climbing down from a bunk, is Katherine Nguyen—not the one I
remember. This Katherine is gaunt, has bags beneath her dark eyes, and her once-luscious and
shiny black hair knots in a haphazard bun atop her head. She was slender, toned and tall, but her
weeks in Haven have the clothes hanging off her.

The room stands in wait as Katherine crosses the room to me, stopping and staring at the large
bandage covering half my face.

“Harper?” She asks, horrified. “What the hell are you—" Her gaze falls to my exposed wrist and
Mark. Her mouth snaps shut. “You’re not Harper.”

“I’ve heard the resemblance is striking,” I say.

She snorts and jerks a chin toward the bed she climbed down from.

“Let’s get you a bed, so you can explain.” Her gaze traces up and down my figure, battered and
bandaged as it is. “You kind of look like you’re going to pass out.”

I don’t reply, following her across the room to the bunk. She taps the metal frame, making the
bed shake. The eyes of the other girls burn into my back, but it is more curiosity than suspicion
at this point—after all, I’m one of them.

“You’ve got bottom bunk,” Katherine says, dropping onto the thin mattress and narrowly
avoiding smacking her head on the metal frame. I sit beside her, clenching my teeth against the
ache in my torso. Amelie didn’t mention broken ribs, but each breath is a struggle.

“Where is Harper?” Katherine asks, concern weaving into her features. “Is she safe?”

My gaze snaps to the ceiling, tracing the edges until it lands on a black camera tucked into one
corner, too far to pick up noise even if it has a microphone. Still, I don’t know Katherine Nguyen,
and I’m not sure how well Harper does, and my inclination to hold information close is hard to
shake.

“She’s safe,” I say, hoping it remains true. “You’ve been here since the raid?”

Her face pales. She nods once. “How long has it been?”

“Three weeks. Ish.”

She stiffens and exhales. “Damn.” The abruptness of the curse makes my lips curl in a smile that

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stings the corner of my mouth under its bandage.

Seeing Katherine up close, it’s kind of impossible to believe anyone thought her unMarked. I
haven’t spent much time in this world, but I have seen enough to start to sense the differences.

The unMarked world is static. In all the years of Tent Cities, their goals were defense and
scrabbling to stay in the shadows, never focused on how to get back to the light.

“They took you in for ‘interrogation’ too?” she asks.

“This?” I wave at my cheek. “Walked into a pole.” She snorts a laugh, and I press forward, eager
to escape Pearson’s knife and the room with the chair. “You went to school with Harper,” I say.
It comes out accusatory, but Katherine doesn’t notice or mind. “You lived right under their noses
for seventeen years. How?” Another thought makes my stomach churn. “And where the hell is
your sister?”

Katherine’s expression twists, and her gaze slides to the bunk on the opposite wall, a girl a few
years junior napping beneath a thin blanket.

“Katherine died when I—we were one,” Katherine says. “There’s some fancy name for it, but
basically, she just…didn’t wake up. And I…took her place.”

The familiar ache coming from missing Harper returns with a vigor, and I can’t — nor do I want
to — imagine never meeting her, never knowing the other part of myself.

“I became Katherine, and no one was the wiser.”

“Until…” I say. Not-Katherine lets out a mirthless laugh.

“Yeah, until.”

I watched her live a normal life through my window; watched her hide in plain sight until the
day she didn’t.

“If you’re not Katherine,” I ask, “who are you?”

She pauses. “Allison Nguyen.” She smiles triumphantly. “Alli.”

With a name, things become exponentially more complicated—I can’t leave Alli here, just as I
can’t leave Luna, who I still have to find.

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My head throbs in response to the massive knot to unravel.

“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, Alli,” I say, “but…”

“But it’s really not?” Alli asks, and I understand why Harper is drawn to her, why she turned red
each time Alli waved across the street. Her smile is infectious, even in this place.

“But it’s really not,” I say.

Alli makes herself comfortable on my small bunk, leaning into the peeling wall and stretching
her long less across the mattress. I find comfort harder to grab, stiff and sore and shaken, but
settle beside her, the darkness provided by the top bunk alleviating my pulsing headache, the
pressure of the tiny drive against my skull keeping me from spiraling.

The curious stares have all but stopped, and when a few girls come over to introduce themselves,
my short responses end in their fast retreats—I’m not here to make friends.

Alli, alternatively, is overly friendly, but more reserved and hesitant than Harper in her honesty
and kindness. Growing up in Pleasantville has softened the edges which hardened in me.

I’m briefly envious but remember how much Alli has lost. She lost her family; she left a life
behind, not a basement and a box of memories. Still, I miss my small basement and the house
above it and the people who lived there.

“There are a lot of empty beds. They expect more victims soon?”

Alli shakes her head. “No, that’s just the medical crew. We get pulled for things every day. I
haven’t figured out the pattern, but the Homegrown get it.”

“Homegrown?”

“As in, suckled on the camp’s—"

“Yep, got it.”

She grins and shrugs a shoulder dismissively. “Only a few of us weren’t raised in Nurseries.”

“What are they taking us for?”

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Alli’s expression darkens and she says, “Depends,” in a low voice. “Sometimes, you get blood
drawn, and sometimes you…” She trails off. “Sometimes, it’s other stuff. If you’re lucky, you get
pulled for Manual, and the only thing to worry about is hammering your thumb.”

“That’s not ominous,” I say. She frowns, good mood evaporating, and I don’t ask—I don’t want
to know.

I lean back, injuries objecting, sweeping a look around the room. It gives the impression of what
I’d imagine a college dorm to be, not the prison it is. But this is their life, and it is as normal to
them as odd to me. Nearly everyone here has never stepped foot outside a camp, and never will.

One thousand journeys, all ending here, and not one knows it. If they did, they wouldn’t be
pulling decks of cards and worn novels from beneath mattresses and passing around their
contraband, talking and laughing.

The light above the door flashes, a loud beep and a click following, and the door swings open. A
sentry waves in a line of twenty-odd girls, all exhausted—today was not the worst day, but
certainly wasn’t good.

When Luna steps through the door, her scraggly curls a mess, her bright eyes dim, I nearly miss
her. Her skin is washed out in the jumpsuit, and she has her arms wrapped around her torso as
if to make herself smaller. She passes Alli and I without a glance.

Climbing off the bed, ignoring the temptation to bolt for her, I call her name in a low tone. She
stiffens a few bunks down, hesitating, but when she turns, she seems to grow three inches, some
of the life and hope returning to her eyes. I give my head a curt shake, and she clamps her mouth
shut in understanding, making her way to the bed and sitting beside Alli

“Isla,” she says, and I drop onto the bed, against the metal frame. It pokes uncomfortably into my
back but allows a clear view of the door and camera. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m fine. Are you alright?”

“I’m okay. I mean, they asked me questions, but I played stupid, and they stopped asking. But,
Isla, your face-”

I shoot her a glare, and she momentarily quiets. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m the rescue mission,” I say, flashing her a wicked grin.

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My confidence doesn’t reach Luna, who frowns deeply. She’s been in Haven a mere few weeks,
as Alli has, but fading bruises disappear beneath the collar of her shirt, and her hands tremble
where they are tucked into her sides. Her suit of armor is cracking, and fear is bleeding through.

“What?” Luna asks.

“Yeah,” Alli says, “What?”

I do another scan of the room; the return of the girls from testing draws attention off me.

“I didn’t get caught. I let them catch me.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” Alli asks.

“To get out, we needed access to the servers to open the doors. Couldn’t do that without a man
on the inside.”

“So, what, you volunteered?” Luna asks, incredulous.

“I’m the reason you’re here,” I tell her. “Figured I should be the reason you get out, too.”

A half-truth, the other part being I don’t think I’d survive the guilt of leaving her. I eliminated
the options until only two remained: get her out or die trying. At least, this way, I won’t have to
live with it if I fail.

Luna’s face twists, and Alli too is unconvinced.

“It’s impossible. No one gets out,” Alli says.

I make the decision as I speak the words, ignoring my rational mind’s reminder I’ve barely begun
this journey, and say, “We are.”

Alli wars with herself, disbelief and hope struggling to find footing, but to my surprise, she
doesn’t argue—her desperation to be free outweighs the impossibilities of our reality.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” she says. “What’s the plan?”

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CHAPTER TWENTY TWO — ISLA

I sleep like the dead, even with the thin scratchy blanket of my bunk and the noise from fifty girls
sharing a room. The piercing sting radiating through my body has settled into a heavy ache as
the automatic lights flick on and wake me, and the bandage on my cheek is sticky, the wound
reopened in the night. I resist the urge to mess with it—whatever Pearson carved into my cheek
isn’t something I am ready to see.

The other girls climb down from beds and gather piles of clothes from trunks shoved under the
bunks, moving into a routine I hope never to learn. Alli eases off the bed atop me, feet slapping
the concrete, and she ruffles her hair and stretches her hands up, yawning loudly.

Even after all her time here, her hair shines, and her smile is contagious—I see what Harper does,
feel the pull to be near her. Alli was one of my many window-born daydreams, up next to Alex
and another boy down the block whom I will never see again.

“Did I mess the memo?” I nod around the room, and Alli shakes her head.

“Guards should be here with daily assignments. It’s a Friday, so it’s just testing. If you’re not
picked, you get to shower and eat.”

“And if you are?”

Alli frowns. “You’re a real downer, you know that?”

“We’re in a death camp, you know that?” The retort doesn’t carry much anger—I like Alli, don’t
mind her teasing, don’t even mind her rolling constantly above me while she sleeps. Is this what
having a friend is?

I haven’t had one before. Harper is my sister, and Alex is whatever he is, but maybe Alli could
be. The thought warms my aching insides and I almost smile.

Alli tosses her hair over her shoulder, bending to tug the trunk from under the bunk, popping it
open to reveal a stack of jumpsuits, another of folded undergarments, a towel, and in one corner,
two polaroid photos: one of Alli’s parents, younger, holding a newborn Katherine and Alli, and
another of Alli and — to my shock — Harper, in soccer uniforms, laughing, arms wrapped around
each other.

Noticing my interest, Alli slams the box shut, and her expression is guarded and touched with

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fear.

Do you ever wonder why none of my relationships worked out? Harper had asked.

Harper’s sacrifice stands in front of me, with no clue my sister was equally as much Alli’s sacrifice.
Alli, who has more secrets than Harper does.

I recall a night the year prior, Harper’s championship game. Despite beating the other team,
solidifying a trip to the regional games and heading off to celebrate, Harper stumbled home after
curfew and down to my room, something she hadn’t done since we were children. Her clumsy
journey through the basement had me up and gripping a knife, but at the sight of Harper, puffy
faced and frazzled, I tossed the knife and pulled my sister to the couch.

She said little, only hiccuping, “It’s not fair,” over and over through tears. Shocked by my goody-
two-shoes sister’s breaking of the curfew, I did nothing but hold her, stroking her hair and telling
her it would be alright, whatever it was. And a few days later, when Harper remarked casually
Katherine quit the soccer team, she was angrier than she usually let show, going on about how
selfish it was to leave when they needed her.

But Harper wasn’t angry Alli left the team—she was angry Alli left her.

“You’re the girl,” I say. “The girl that broke Harper’s heart.”

Alli stiffens. “She…told you?”

“No,” I say simply. A reluctant Alli drops down to sit beside me on the bed.

“If it counts for anything, she broke my heart, too,” Alli says, leaning forward on her elbows, dark
hair falling to cover her face.

“I get it,” I say. Alli straightens. “I…understand wanting to protect the people you care about…”
An image of Alex, lips turned up in a smile, makes my stomach twist. “Wanting to protect them
from what you are.”

Her smile is goofy when she asks, “Yeah?” Her lips pucker, inevitable questions building, but the
beeping of the door interrupts her.

Daily assignments. My stomach churns. A shower, or inevitably invasive testing. What kind of
options are those?

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It derails Alli’s interrogation, has her sitting rod straight, her eyes — and everyone’s, including
Luna, across the room and putting on her best attempt at a brave face — on the door.

A guard steps into the room with a clipboard. “231, 249, 272, 299—" He drones the numbers, and
with each a girl stiffens and heads to form a line at the door.

I look to Alli for explanation, and she leans in, but keeps her eyes on the guard.

“They don’t name the Homegrowns. Just slap them with numbers,” she murmurs.

“They don’t have names?”

“They do,” she says. “Sometimes they name themselves, but usually they name each other. It’s
like a…familial thing. If someone names you, or you name them, you’re part of their…I don’t
know. I haven’t figured it out, exactly, but it’s like tribes.”

I purse my lips, still curious, but swallow my questions—Alli is taut with tension and listening
for her number.

Twenty five numbers are called, but neither Luna nor Alli’s, to my relief.

The guard at the door scans the room, his gaze settling on me.

“And the newbie. Let’s go.” He jerks a chin, and Alli reaches out to grab my arm. I shove it off,
heading for the door, and shove my fear as deep as it will go.

I am the only person deemed a flight risk, my wrists clamped by cuffs before I’m escorted out,
and the sentry puts me at the front of the line, leading our group out the door and into the
morning light. I wish I’d had time to stash the USB beneath my bunk, but it is a comfortable
reminder of my one way out of this place, and I cling to it like the lifeline it is.

The sun shines bright and warm above me, clouds billowing, and birds sing freedom songs in the
woods beyond the fence, rubbing their liberty in my face.

The sentry leads us across the concrete to the infirmary but goes to a door a few yards to the left
of the entrance, punching in a code, the door buzzing open. The small room is a waiting area of
sorts, filled with chairs the girls automatically split off to and settle into. I move for a chair in the
corner, but a guard grabs me, stilling me. I tense, snapping to face him, straining against my cuffs.
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“Not you,” he says. He looks to the other girls. “231 and 249. You’re up first, too.”

A short, frail girl pops to her feet, and another, at least three years older than me, stands with a
frown, the pair joining the sentry and me. He opens a door across the room and walks us into a
hallway similar to that of the infirmary, though far longer. The sentry opens the first door on the
right, a room with three examination tables differing from those in Amelie’s office; thick straps
hang off the hides, ties to bind.

Two women and a man in scrubs stand around a tall table piled with thick needles. My breath
hitches and I slam to a halt, only to be shoved forward and forcefully guided to the farthest bed.
Powerless with cuffed hands, I climb awkwardly up onto the table, cursing at the sentry as he
flips me onto my stomach.

The other girls, stone faced and reluctant, lay on their stomach beside me, the scrubs coming to
tug thick straps across their shoulders and the backs of their thighs. The sentry straps me down,
ignoring the expletives I spit and my thrashing limbs.

Once he’s finished, the man in scrubs takes his place, unzipping my jumpsuit, the rush of cold air
to my back making me stiffen and snap my head. He ignores me, swiping a cold, antiseptic wipe
against the small of my back.

“Get your hands off me, you bastardous piece of—"

With no warning, no preparation, and no anesthetic, he plunges a large needle into my spine, the
sudden pressure making me buck against the restraints. Pain pierces deep within me, burning
through like a wave of fire, my panic rising to join. I strain helplessly against the straps, the
sensation pulling my thoughts apart like cotton and leaving only desperation in its place. It is like
having a nail hammered into my bones, and the sound, nails on a chalkboard, is sickening.

“Please.” The word is quiet and small, and shame strikes hard and fast. I hate myself for begging—
hate them for making me. Not even when Pearson had his hands on me did I plead. But this,
being opened up and twisted apart, is breaking me into pieces.

The man ignores my pleas, unaffected by the begging that quickly loses meaning. In other beds,
the girls cry, silent and agonized.

The scrub yanks the needle out of me, tugging out a yelp, and slaps a bandage across my back,
zipping my jumpsuit up carelessly. I am a vermin, an insect, worthy of no more energy than it
takes to swat me aside.
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He peels off his gloves and tosses them, the other scrubs following suit. Neither girl made noise,
but their faces are flushed and glistening with sweat as they shudder against their binds.

“Next,” says one of the scrubs, and the guard raps his knuckles against the door. It opens, and
three more women in scrubs enter, one face familiar: Amelie. The other women go to the girls,
and Amelie stops at my side, reaching to unclip my straps. They unsnap with a loud click, and
some of my knotting fear loosens.

“Touch me, and I’ll—" I snarl, pushing up dizzily the moment the straps give, sliding unsteadily
to the floor and gripping the table for balance. I sag, losing my threat mid-sentence, and though
Amelie lunges to grab me, a venomous glare gives her pause.

“I’m just bringing you to the infirmary,” she says, nodding to the girls being helped to the door,
and the three new girls — numbers — filtering in. “To a bed. That’s it.” I glare at her, searching
for dishonesty and finding nothing but a hint of frustration—a typical side effect of being in my
presence.

“Fine,” I huff, blinking the stars out of my eyes and willing my legs to hold me. The leaden ache
in my back is hot and radiating, but merely another injury atop an already full pile. “Lead the
way.”

Amelie purses her lips but doesn’t try to help me as I limp to the door, nor does she comment
how slow I’m going. We shoulder on down the hall, me gasping for breath and Amelie pretending
not to notice.

Haven’s infirmary is similar to Tessa’s, though far larger and updated with the modern tech and
medicine the Nook couldn’t attain in its wildest dreams. Fifty cots, twenty five on each side, line
the walls, and with each bundle of minutes, another test subject filters in and is directed, limping
and favoring their back, to a bed. I’m propped on the bed nearest the door, one hand cuffed to
the frame, snapping threats at every set of scrubs who tries tending to me.

Amelie and the other scrubs flutter about over the next hour, shouldering in Marked girls and
boys and double checking the bandages carelessly pressed to their skin and bringing water to
those more disoriented or pain-ridden.

The influx eventually slows, beds filling, and I am able to relax without the constant flurry of

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motion, leaning into the pillows propped behind me, no way around the aching of my back from
the extraction.

The door pushes open, another unlucky test subject, and I look instinctively, finding the one
person who can’t possibly be here: Alex Morales.

Except, he isn’t Alex. He is, but he isn’t, with skin a shade lighter and hair closely cropped to his
skull. He is all hard edges and stiff shoulders and untrusting eyes as he limps inside, glaring at
anyone who looks his way. The scrubs know the drill, letting the boy — Alex’s brother — hobble
to the bed next to mine, where he drops with a sharp exhale.

He pushes back onto the cot and draws his legs up, thin sneakers on the blankets.

My heart pounds, nerves twisting and writhing like a pile of snakes. What are the chances, that
of all the camps, all the cities, Alex’s brother is here?

My heart makes the decision for me, and I’m leaning forward to get his attention before the
rational part of my brain warns me otherwise.

“511.” A scrub, scruffy bearded and frowning, stops at the end of Alex’s brother’s bed, folding
his arms. “Feet down.”

He ignores the man, leaning back, digging his shoes further into the bed.

“511.” The scrub repeats, angry. He goes ignored, the boy stretching his legs out further, lifting
his shoe-covered feet and smacking them down against the bed. Steam is almost visible coming
out of the scrub’s ears, and his lips part, but Amelie approaches first.

“Ronan,” she says, addressing him by a name — something Alli said they don’t do — and Ronan
meets her eyes, all innocence. “Please, put your feet down before you give another of my guys a
mental breakdown.”

A smug smile plays on his lips as he kicks his shoes off, nudging them onto the floor.

“Hardly a mental breakdown, was it, Jana?” Ronan calls, voice deeper than Alex’s, gravellier and
sans the touch of an accent. A woman across the room stiffens and glances at Ronan, her cheeks
flaming scarlet. “More of a…what was it? Panic…”

“Panic attack,” Amelie supplies, tapping him on the shoulder. Ronan turns halfway onto his side,
revealing an open back, his jumpsuit untouched and back unbandaged. His tan skin is prickled
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with bruises and scars from a lifetime in Haven. Nausea churns in my gut.

Amelie tugs a small bandage and a packet of antiseptic gauze from her pocket, ripping open the
pack and swiping the cloth over the hole in Ronan’s back where the thick needle went in.

“Panic attack,” Ronan says.

“You’re done,” Amelie says, bandaging and re-zipping Ronan’s suit, pushing him back over with
more care than any of the other scrubs. Before she can move on to the next waiting bed, Ronan
shoots a hand out, fingers closing around her wrist. She stiffens, a trace of fear in her eyes.

“They’re not bringing Charlie in today?” he asks, voice edged with emotion I can’t decipher.
Amelie glances around the room once and shakes her head.

“No,” Amelie says. “He’s not scheduled for the next four days.”

Ronan holds her wrist a beat longer and drops it. “Good.” His eyes narrow to slits. “Keep it that
way.”

“You know I can’t promise—"

Ronan’s expression reminds me of the lions and tigers on animal shows, prowling for pretty,
confident in the claws hiding behind their fingers. Amelie closes her mouth.

“I’ll do what I can,” she says. “You know I will.”

Ronan dismisses her with a curt nod, and Amelie, flustered, departs. It spurs a million questions
in me, but my time on this cot is limited, and surely monitored.

Now that I’ve seen him, I’m not sure I can leave him and face Alex—especially not with the sand
clock of Ronan’s life running out. I shift onto the edge of the cot, ensuring the scrubs are occupied
by kids in beds, and look to Ronan, who has a façade of relaxation plastered but scans the room
every four seconds, as if always seconds from finding a threat and facing it.

“How’d you get her on your good side?” I ask softly. Ronan stiffens, gaze skating over my
mottled purple eyes and bandaged cheek and cuffed hand. Amusement flickers in his eyes.

“You’re the newbie,” he says, not answering my question. “The one that pissed off Pearson.”

I shake my cuff lightly in agreement, and gesture to Jana across the room, who is pointedly giving

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Ronan a wide berth.

“Looks like you’re as popular around here as me,” I say. His mouth twitches, and he settles back
in the bed, gaze trailing around lazily. I lean forward as far as I can without drawing attention.
“You really crack that lady?”

His mouth turns up, but he doesn’t speak—he is as closed as I am, with harder edges, and the
similarities that should comfort me make me nervous.

If I tell him, and he turns us in, we’re all screwed. But I saw the way he came in, stumbling alone
as if he’s made a habit out of it; the way Jana avoids him; the way he pokes at Amelie and she
dips beneath the weight. He could come in handy, if I could ever trust him.

With each moment inside these walls, the danger on a steady exponential uphill climb, and I’m
not sure how much steeper it can get before we all slide back down.

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CHAPTER TWENTY THREE — ISLA

The third day at Haven brings a surprising respite as the sentries enter the dorm and give us ten
minutes to get ready. According to Alli, the longest resident in our trio, the day will be spent in
the cafeteria, more for social than eating purposes. The sentries act as if the day off is a reward,
but it is merely an excuse to toss us into the cafeteria and lock the doors on us and the few
unfortunate guards stationed to watch over us.

“They say they’re in there cleaning the dorms…” Alli says. “Like we don’t all know they’re just
going through our stuff.”

Alli, Luna, and I follow the line of girls through the grounds and to the cafeteria, and Luna rolls
her eyes at the comment.

“Cleaning? Fat chance,” Luna says.

“Even sadists like a day off,” I say, earning a snort from my allies and sharp glares from those
around us — warning and fear, like my words will bring us all pain.

“We don’t even get to snack all day,” Luna sys. “Just the same crappy breakfast and dinner.”

“We’re not on vacation, Luna,” Alli says. “What are you expecting? A pancake breakfast?”

“Don’t know. Never had one.”

“Well, you’re not going to get one here,” I say. Luna crinkles her nose and huffs in dismissal,
falling behind me in line.

The sentry at the head of the pack leads us into the large building, double the size of the dorms.
Since my arrival, I’ve bounced between interrogation, the infirmary, and Amelie’s office, and
haven’t yet seen the cafeteria, though I’ve had my fill of the chalky meals given to me on cracked
plastic trays.

The cafeteria is not actually a cafeteria, but a huge windowless room with one exit and wobbly
metal rectangular tables stretched across the room, adorned with tattered chairs and cameras
tacked across the ceiling. The room is half full, boys and girls of fourteen to eighteen talking
quietly in groups.

The girls in line split off, some joining partially-filled tables and some straying to empty ones.
There is more gender overlap than I expect—I haven’t seen the boys outside the infirmary, and
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barely seen the girls in other dorms in passing.

“Score.” Alli heads for the empty end of a table at the far corner of the room, Luna follows silently,
and I take a moment to note the cameras and join them.

Luna drops into a chair with her back against the wall, and the ease and nonchalance with which
the young girl looks about the room reminds me of myself. I sit beside her, and Luna flashes me
a smile, resuming her scan—constant observation is as deeply woven in her psyche as my own;
we grew up watching our backs, only in different places.

Alli, far more relaxed than us in her chair, brings our differences to light—showcases the
remnants of our upbringings in our stances. Luna, a cornered animal, quiet and observant, me in
the same class, though less cavalier in my tension, and Alli, coming from freedom built on lies.

I’m not sure which is worse—which one of us lost the most in the way we got here. Maybe all of
us.

At the cafeteria’s front, seated around a sturdy metal table directly beside the door, are our
babysitters—sentries, slacking on their job, chattering and stuffing their faces with helpings not
afforded to us.

Meals are provided twice a day, morning and night, but the sentries have unfettered access to the
cooks and pantries.

“Do they have to be so...” Luna shakes her head, staring longingly at a bag of chips in a sentry’s
hand. “So braggy about it?”

“You realize all they do is shove their freedom in our faces,” Alli says.

My gaze catches on the sentry table as another line of boys is led inside, the sentry closest to the
door tossing his comrades a smug grin and sticks out a foot. One of the Marked boys walking in
trips, goes sprawling onto the floor with a thud and cry of pain that quiets the rest of us.

The slash along my cheek itches in remembrance of the violence directed at me, and the last straw
falls away. It is a small thing, a fall not my business, but it balloons, gargantuan and blinking like
a flashlight in my eyes, impossible to ignore.

The sentries are given an inch and take twenty miles.

Without thinking, I push to my feet, and a hand closes around my wrist before I can take a step
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from the table.

“Isla, sit down,” Alli hisses, and I’m about to smack her when I follow her line of sight around
the room—not a single person out of their chair, the unspoken rule of stay put remaining. We
stay in our seats, the sentries stay in theirs, and we all have a peaceful, quiet day.

Neither Alli nor Luna so much as shift in their seats, but this doesn’t surprise me—we bear the
same marks, but the similarities in our upbringings end there. Alli was raised to be someone else,
Luna to be invisible, and me to be invincible.

I fix Alli with a murderous glare, and she releases my hand, a trace of shock in her eyes—she
knows Harper but has only met me.

Alli’s expression shifts to pleading and she says, “Please. Don’t.”

My hands curl into fists as I force myself into the chair. Across the cafeteria, the boy who fell
pushes to his feet, silent as he stumbles to a table, his eyes locked on the floor. The room hangs in
silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and when it doesn’t — when the sentry turns back to
his coffee mug as if nothing happened — the chatter rises again, and the blood that dribbled from
his nose is ignored on the faded linoleum.

The incident is forgotten—forgotten by all but me.

Luna stiffens suddenly at my side, and I’m on defense before I follow her gaze to the door where
the last group of boys is led in, a sentry shutting and locking the door behind them.

“Isn’t that—" Luna starts. Alli tosses a look.

“Alex’s brother. I know.” Alli and Luna frown at me, and I keep my voice low—if the cameras
have microphones, they are surely listening to me more than most.

“His name’s Ronan,” I add, watching as he splits immediately from his line, accompanied by a
boy his age, Asian, hair a tad longer than Ronan’s, distinctly jawed and handsome. He rolls
forward in a rickety wheelchair, and his face prickles at the back of my memory, like I’ve passed
him on the street.

Discomfort and distrust poke at the fragmented plans I made upon seeing Ronan, and my already
tense opinion of him crumbles. He is Alex’s brother, but a stranger, maybe even a dangerous one.

Alli leans into the tabletop, picking at the fraying edges of her sleeves. “Speaking of, I’ve been
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thinking...”

“Good for you,” I say. Alli rolls her eyes.

“It’s been, what, three days? And you’re still no closer to getting that drive plugged in. Maybe
we need help.” A protest builds on my lips, but Alli continues before I can loose it. “Ronan and
the boy with him, Charlie, are special. One of the girls says they take pictures of Charlie all the
time, and I’ve never seen him in labs.”

“Ronan has...” I pause, considering. “Control over people here. Amelie, and the other doctors. He
keeps Charlie out of testing, somehow, and apparently he set off one of the nurses last week.”

Luna nods approvingly, and a wicked smile — unexpected— plays on Alli’s lips.

“Oh, I was here for that,” Alli says. “Chick fully lost it in the infirmary. I don’t know what he
said, but she started chucking stuff at him until one of the sentries dragged his smug ass out.”

“I miss everything good,” Luna says. I give her a withering look, and she raises her hands in
surrender. Alli ignores her.

“I’m saying if anyone can help us, if anyone knows this place, it’s them,” she says. “And even if
they didn’t, he’s still Alex’s brother.”

I shake my head. “The more people involved, the less likely it is we make it out. Do you want to
spend the next ten years poked and prodded?”

“We can’t leave him.”

“I didn’t come for Ronan. I came for Luna.”

“And me?” Alli asks. “You can’t save me and damn Ronan and Charlie.”

My lips pull thin and I fold my arms. “You’re more than welcome to stay.”

I’m almost ashamed at the satisfaction worming into me at the sight of Alli’s struggle at
composure.

“What about Harper?” she asks. “You just going to tack that secret onto the Ronan one?”

Guilt prickles in my chest before I’ve opened my mouth, but the poison spits like it has a mind of
its own. “That won’t be your problem, will it?”
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“You don’t get to pick and choose who to save,” Alli snaps, an anger I’ve not seen from her
rushing to the surface. I note how long it took to reach the breaking point and think of the facade
Alli was forced to live. “Say we make it out of here. Say we make it back to the others. How are
you going to explain to Alex that you left his brother behind? How do you justify that?”

“I’m not trying to justify anything,” I say flatly.

Alli stops, chest rising and falling quickly. When she shakes her head, she isn’t angry, but sad,
and somehow, it’s worse.

“You know,” she says, “maybe we do belong here.”

The words are knives to the flimsy curtain I've strung up in front of my crumbling wall, and if I
didn’t know I’d be pinned to the floor by a sentry within ten seconds, I’d punch her straight in
the jaw—I’d prove her right.

Luna inhales sharply, suddenly neutral and desperate to quench the fires Alli and I are stoking. I
should be grateful with her, I shouldn't need mediating in the first place, but when she does
speak, I burn hotter.

“Alli’s right,” Luna says. “We might need them. Beth can’t get us out until that drive is plugged
in. The outer doors are easy, but the buildings are locked up tighter than the Nook’s.”

“You don’t know they can do it,” I say.

“And you don’t know they can’t,” says Alli. She doesn’t bow beneath the weight of my stare,
merely lifting her chin higher.

“I don’t trust them.” I don’t elaborate, but Luna understands, lips pulling thin.

“They’re prisoners here, too. That should be enough.”

“Exactly,” I snap. “They’re prisoners, and we’re strangers holding the only ticket out.”

“He’s Alex’s brother—"

“That doesn’t mean the same thing to him as it does to you,” I say. To Ronan, Alex may simply
be the person who is free while he isn’t. “He’s manipulative. Vindictive. He’d probably kill us
before helping us.” I shake my head and repeat, “I don’t trust him.”

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Alli and Luna exchange a look, and they’re smiling like they’re in on a joke and I’m the punchline.
Alli clears her throat and composes herself, but Luna’s attempts to hide her amusement are less
successful.

“Think she sees it?” Alli asks, bumping a shoulder into Luna, who grins and shakes her head.

“The irony? Nope.”

I huff in indignation, waving a hand, and Luna continues, “What I wouldn’t give to see those two
duke it out.”

“Ronan and I are not the same,” I snap, and am unsure why I’m so defensive—I’m the one with
blood on my hands.

“You are,” Alli says. “Which is why you don't like him.”

Harsh only because it’s true.

“I don’t not like him. I don’t—"

“Trust him,” Alli finishes. “Yeah, we know. But do we have a choice?”

I recall the conversation between Alex and I at the Nook, about risks and recklessness and the
horrible outcomes of every horrible option I’m presented with.

There is a chance bringing in Ronan and Charlie will land us in more chains before we’ve even
tried to undo the first set, but there is also the chance bringing them in is the very thing that gets
us out, and as much as I want to go it alone, it isn’t all on me anymore.

If I fail, Luna and Alli die here—we all die here.

“People like us don’t get choices,” I say.

Ronan and Charlie occupy the table in the opposite corner, and while other kids tossed them
smiles on their way in, the boys are left alone and unbothered by the chatter around them—inside
this bubble we’re all stuck in, they have formed one of their own, heads bent together, talking
quietly.

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I haven’t the time to plan an ideal approach, nor would I have if I had the time, and cross the
room, Alli and Luna on my tail. The sentries clock our movement with suspicious eyes but stay
seated.

We sit across from Ronan and Charlie, both boys guarded. Ronan’s energy is that of a panther
before the pounce, but Charlie’s eyes narrow in a way that makes the hair rise on the back of my
neck. I resist the urge to drag Luna and Alli closer to me.

Charlie’s gaze sweeps over us, taking in all discernible weaknesses, pausing on Luna.

“You’re the one they chased down,” Charlie says. “It true it took four to tackle you?”

“Three,” Luna says, cheeks flaming pink. Alli smirks, impressed, and looks to me—the unofficial
spokesperson of our trio.

Ronan’s eyes remain on me, as if he senses the weight of the words I’m struggling to push out.
Words have never been my thing; what I wouldn’t give for a keyboard, for wordless notes saying
everything I can’t. But I am all I have, and it has to be enough.

“This isn’t a social call, Charles,” Ronan says, the name softer out of his mouth than I thought
him capable. “They want something.”

All eyes turn to me.

The decision is harder to make than it should be.

The way Ronan came into the infirmary, stumbling alone, like he made a habit out of it. The way
Jana avoided him and sent occasional worried glances in his direction. The way he pokes at
Amelie and she dips beneath it.

Neither boy is cuffed, but they are watched as closely as we are—Ronan and Charlie are flight
risks, old enough not to warrant restraints beyond the walls they were raised within.

And Alli is right: Ronan is Alex’s brother, regardless of anything else he may be. I can’t leave him.
I can barely leave the rest of them.

“I’ve got something to give, actually,” I say, leaning forward, grateful for the steadiness of my
words. “A way out.”

Ronan scoffs, dismissive, and Charlie’s expression twists with concern and confusion and

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distrust. Ronan opens his mouth, likely to tell me to screw off, but I push forward.

“No, I’m not screwing with you, and no, this isn’t a trap.” I swallow the stone in my throat. “I
have a way out of here, but I…” I pause, looking to the girls beside me. The words stick to my
tongue like molasses, but I nudge them forward and out, ignoring the shame at the admission of
weakness. “We need help.”

Ronan and Charlie exchange a look, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Charlie
meets my eyes and asks, “Why?”

It is the last question any of us expect. Alli mirrors, “Why?”

“Yeah,” Ronan says. “Why?”

I frown.

“Because you could die in here,” Alli says.

“We’re all dying in here,” Ronan says.

They know what is coming for them; where their path will lead. As far as I can tell, none of the
other Marked kids are aware — Luna and Alli were horrified upon learning, and Alli and I spent
twenty minutes talking her down from a panic attack — but they are. The rest of society isn’t
aware, but they are. “Why?”

I hesitate, reluctant to any one of my cards, but especially this one. Alex.

“Your brother,” I say. “His name is—" The words gets trapped behind my teeth, clawing to the
back of my throat. “—Alex.”

Ronan recoils and snarls, “Count me out of whatever test this is. We’ll take the strike.”

“It’s not a test,” I say. “And if you don’t help us, we’ll find someone who will.” A bluff, but one I
hope holds strong.

“You’re insane,” he says, shaking his head.

“Never said I wasn’t.”

“Why should I trust you?”

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“Trust me or don’t.”

“I don’t.”

“The feeling is mutual,” I snap.

“Ronan.” Charlie draws the other boy’s focus. “If she’s telling the truth…”

I don’t have to see Ronan’s hand to know they’re curled into fists, but I can also tell the moment
Charlie takes one of the hands—his expression softens briefly before he fixes me with a fierce
look.

“If you’re lying, I’ll kill you.”

“Give it a shot,” I say. Ronan narrows his eyes, but the last of his hesitation gives to the infectious
hope talk of escape brings.

“Say we agree to this suicide mission of yours. What’s the plan?”

“It’s simple,” I say. “If we can get this—" I give the room a scan, lingering on the sentry table, and
reach to pluck the USB tucked against my skull, the small rectangle a comfortable weight in my
palm. How it survived all this — how I survived all this — I’ll never know. “—drive plugged into
a computer, we just have to wait for the doors to unlock. There’s someone waiting for us if we
make it.”

The if hangs heavy in the air around us, but I can’t lead anyone down this path without warning
them of what lurks along the way.

“It doesn’t sound simple,” Charlie says, lips pursed.

“It’s all we’ve got,” I say.

Ronan lets out a sigh, folding his arms across his chest. “I told you I’ll kill you if you’re screwing
with us, yeah?”

My lips quirk up in a lopsided grin and Alli says, “You mentioned it.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR — ISLA

A sentry collects me from the dorms as the other girls are lined up and taken to the warehouse,
where they’ll spend their days doing the grunt work the outside world can’t be bothered with. I
expect to join them, even have a plan to pocket as many tools as I can for makeshift weapons for
our escape attempt, but my hopes are dashed when the sentry pulls me aside and in the opposite
direction—to the interrogation room and infirmary building.

My heart thunders with each step to the room Pearson is waiting for me in, a different set of three
sentries at attention against the walls, only acknowledging me long enough to strap my wrists
and ankles to the chair.

Any fear I might have had was sliced away with my cheek in the last session, and only a burning
rage remains. I grip the anger tightly, letting it soften the blows and numb the edges on the pain
I’ve carried for four days.

Pearson takes the role of questioner and punisher, and with each averted question or lie, his
frustration grows to meet mine and soars past it. After half an hour of the back and forth, his face
is red and shining with sweat.

“This can end,” Pearson says, pacing slowly in front of me. “Tell me where to find Harper Batali.”

“But we’re having,” I huff, blinking past the sweat dripping from my brows, “so much fun.”

My belly is a bruised and biting sea of soreness, but it’s as if I’ve crested a set of stairs, and so
long as Pearson stays consistent, I won’t fall back down. This, I can survive a little longer.

The day has to end, and Pearson has to drag me back to the dorms, and eventually, Charlie has
to get the drive in — he has to, because I can’t let myself think about what happens if he doesn’t.
By tomorrow, I could be free—we could be free.

“Where is Alex Morales?” He asks, another familiar subject. They’ve pieced together Alex and I’s
disappearances in the last day, and Pearson may not be the sharing type, but I’ve gleaned it took
so long because Alex’s mother never reported him missing. Only after my capture did the sentries
go knocking and find him weeks away from home.

“Who?” I shove back the flickering images of Alex’s smile and his slender fingers curled around
the steering wheel.

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A thin sheen of sweat rests above Pearson’s lip; no number of hits can take my satisfaction with
each inch of anger I drag from him. He steps back, listening to the man in his ear, and shoves up
the sleeves of his uniform slightly, revealing a tattoo loping up and around his wrist,
disappearing beneath the fabric.

Tattoos are not uncommon, but a tattoo, or covering of any kind, over the left wrist of the
unMarked is a rarity. Harper equates it to a statement of pride, a declaration to passerby of their
purity, as if us monsters aren’t already locked away.

Pearson’s tattoo is dark, seeming to curve around the edge of raised skin barely visible past his
shirt. A Mark.

A sick, maniacal laugh slips past my bloody lips, and I tip my head back, shaking it and dropping
it to meet Pearson’s eyes.

“I get it,” I say, throat raw. “I get it, now.”

The blood drains from his face and the tension simmering in the room solidifies, looping itself
around all our necks—fortunately, I can barely breathe as it is.

“I thought, maybe, you were pissed about the parking lot,” I say, “but it’s more than that, isn’t it?
You don’t hate me.” I give him the most wicked, most monstrous smile I can muster—the girl in
the mirror looks scary, dangerous, and for the first time, I don’t dislike her. “You just hate
yourself.”

He stares at me for a long moment, the cap to his rage rattling, the intensity of his eyes making
me tense for what may be a fatal blow—is this what sends me tumbling down the stairs?

As quickly as he froze, Pearson addresses the other sentries, “Leave us.”

One man frowns, flicking a look at his comrades, and asks, hesitantly, “S-sir?”

Pearson snaps toward him, making the man flinch. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

The sentry hesitates a beat. “No, sir.” He gestures to his fellows, and the men head for the door,
the lock buzzing behind them and trapping me in Pearson’s grasp with a mirror forcing me to
watch every moment of it.

I’ve kept my gaze pinned on myself in the mirror every second I’ve spent here, with the exception
of the few times I’ve thrown up — once on Pearson’s shoes and utterly worth it — or spit the
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pools of blood from my mouth. It feels like a small victory, an act of resistance; I am all I have,
and I cling to it.

Pearson stands with his boot tips against my flimsy slip-ons and leans down, face in mine, and I
stare through him, into the dark blue of his uniform.

I’d noticed the difference in his uniform instantly, but I attributed it to his status as a part-time
bounty hunter and full-time sadistic sentry. I was right, in a way. The sentries regard him the way
they do me, because Pearson is like me.

“You’re Ma—" I start. Pearson slaps me so hard across the face I lose my breath, scraping against
the bandaged cuts, and I dry heave through the pain.

“You’re not asking the questions here,” he snarls. He’s lost all control, and though I’ve never hurt
more in my life, satisfaction takes the edge off for a blissful second.

I smile, head lolling and eyes fluttering, and say, “Oh, it’s not a question. It’s a statement. Fact.”

His nostrils flare, and I have enough time to realize I’ve gone too far before his fist connects with
my eye, knocking my head back and opening the nearly healed scab from the first sentry’s rings,
all those weeks ago. My vision blurs red as blood courses down my eye, and a second knocks me
further, the chair rocking.

The blade he sliced my cheek with on my first day rises, presses into the tender skin of my neck,
and my confidence dies.

Harper said I go too far, and now, I believe her.

The knife nicks me as I strain away from it, Pearson pressing harder, and a scream is building on
my tongue when the door buzzes open and an older sentry steps inside, bald and bulky and
bitter-looking, his uniform the same lighter navy of the other sentries. He doesn’t acknowledge
me, staring coolly at Pearson.

“You have your orders,” he says. “We need its information, not its brains on the floor.”

Pearson flicks a murderous glance my way, but reluctantly exits, and the older sentry calls to one
waiting in the hall, instructing them to bring me to the nurse.

They unbind and shoulder me out the door, and I blink in and out of consciousness, the fog in
my mind lingering until I’m deposited on the examination table. The men leave without a word
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or look, and I count to five at least fifteen times before the door buzzes and Amelie walks inside.

Her tense expression twists tighter when she sees me, and she curses softly under her breath as
she tugs open a drawer and gloves up, pulling out gauze and alcohol and a suture kit. She piles
them on the rolling tray and drags it across the linoleum, one wheel whining.

My breath hitches at the idea of a needle in a stranger’s hands, but each moment brings more
blood from my head, and I’m too tired to fight. When I don’t recoil, instead leaning forward,
Amelie steps up to the bed and douses the gauze with alcohol. She dabs tenderly at the cut, and
I clench my jaw so hard I think my teeth might chip.

The stitches are worse, and I spend the entire time sitting on my hands to keep from shoving
Amelie away. I hold onto the belief the pain will end with my escape; if I can make it a little
longer, it will all go away.

There is a limit on how many times I can tell myself that, and surely, I’m reaching it.

Once the wound is sealed, Amelie removes a pill bottle from her purse—I know little of medicine,
but even I know a narcotic versus a simple painkiller, and I make out the word Hydrocodone before
Amelie caps and tucks the bottle away.

“One now,” she says, dropping two pills in my hand, “and another in twelve hours. And, as
before—"

“I didn’t get them from you,” I finish. A smile ghosts Amelie’s lips as she tosses her gloves and
goes to wash her hands.

The tray table rests a foot away, holding tools — a needle, gauze, alcohol, an unused scalpel. I
sneak a look at Amelie, still scrubbing my blood off her hands, and snatch the scalpel from the
tray, tucking it into my sports bra. She turns as my hands fall back to the cracked material of the
exam table.

She pushes the table away and to the side, eyes lingering on the empty spot the scalpel was. She
looks at me, expression unreadable, and for a moment, I regret not keeping it gripped in my hand.

Then, as if noticing nothing at all, her features relax, and she gives me the same look she did the
first day I met her—hesitation, a little fear, maybe some pity.

“I saw Pearson’s tattoo,” I say, easing her attention onto something else.

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Amelie exhales sharply, leaning back into the sink, and her relaxed stance takes me by surprise.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s impressed.

“I wondered if you might figure it out,” she says.

“How?” I ask. “Why?”

Her lips pull thin, and she doesn’t speak for so long I think she isn’t going to.

“Pearson was taken to the Sanctuary when he was born,” she says. In explanation, she adds, “The
only Nursery in Washington.” She worries the hem of her scrubs top between her fingers, eyes
on the wall across from her as if staring through it. “Spent thirteen to nineteen here, twenty to
twenty five in Remedium. And then he was given a choice.”

“A choice.”

“Join his peers in retirement or join the sentries as a Marker. Work in their camps, bring in their
toughest rogues—"

“Do their dirty work.”

Amelie nods, face tinged green. Was I a better person, I’d end the clearly uncomfortable line of
questioning.

“You know,” I say coldly, “Join or die isn’t a choice.”

Amelie stares at me, still frustratingly unreadable, and says, “Sometimes, there aren’t really
choices at all.”

The words, so reminiscent of my own, make my sore body ache.

“Is that why you’re here? You think cleaning us up after they break us is making the right choice?”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“It is nothing,” I snap. “Our blood is on your hands even if you don’t look at it.”

Amelie bristles, and a sick satisfaction worms at me at the idea of causing an existential crisis. I
hope every stitch and scrape she bandages haunts her each time she closes her eyes.

She shuts down, expression smoothing and tension ebbing away, once more the sheep she was

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raised to be, and I am once more the wolf in the trap she is watching bleed out.

“Don’t forget to take the second pill. You’ll regret it,” she says, but the last words carry a silent
warning. If only I cared.

The dorm is empty when I’m locked inside, the long row of bunk beds along each wall covered
in tossed sheets and pillows holding imprints, waiting for their residents to return.

Dropping onto the bed, I open the gates on the sobs I’ve been swallowing since I got here, tears
raking down my cheeks, my throbbing chest shaking with the intensity of the cries I muffle
behind a hand. I tell myself five seconds, but each time I reach five, the weight of it smashes into
me again, and only when I’ve cried out everything I have do I go fuzzy and numb.

I stare at the bunk beds across from me, the trunks tucked beneath containing the entire lives of
the girls who sleep above them. I’ve been here long enough to understand touching someone’s
things is impermissible, but inside Alli’s trunk, beneath me, is a photo of my sister, something
even I don’t have—it is the closest thing I have to home, even if it’s not mine.

I pull the trunk out, carefully removing the photo of Alli and Harper hugging, both their lips
spread wide in smiles, their eyes bright.

If I close my eyes, I can pretend; pretend I’m sitting on my bed downstairs, waiting for one of my
parents to come down to tell me breakfast is ready, or maybe Harper with an outfit question. I
miss them so fiercely it hurts, a hunger pang running bone deep.

I will never see my parents again, but I can get back to her.

“I’m coming back for you,” I assure her, trying to convince myself and Harper in the photo it isn’t
a lie.

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CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE — ISLA

When the doors clicks open half an hour after lights out, it lacks the distinctive beeping I’ve come
to dread. I’ve only been an occupant of Haven for a few days, but a sentry has never stepped foot
in the dorm after dark, and as far as I know, most kick off and away from us delinquents the
second their shifts end.

All, that is, but Pearson. He isn’t lurking in the windows at night, and I know he must leave at
some point, but he seems to be here every second I’m outside the dorm—at the head of
interrogation or pacing the halls or standing in corners, constantly watching.

I understand his hatred. He is me, and I’m him, and rather than accepting his monstrosity or
controlling it, he became the worst kind of beast: the kind who steps on his brothers to reach
toward the very people who shoved him down.

It isn’t Pearson at the door, or a sentry. It is Charlie.

His silhouette is dark against the bright hallway lights as he turns, scanning the bunks. On the
bottom bed nearest the door, a girl Luna’s age sits up and groans, other beds around the room
creaking as they stir.

“Charlie, you’re gonna get us all strikes,” the girl grumbles with a heavy lisp.

“You’ll get over it, Blue,” he says, rolling forward and stopping a yard from my bed. “The box
isn’t all bad.”

Blue groans again, and says, “Get out. I ain’t goin’ to solitary for one of your little night walks.”

Charlie cranes his head to look at Blue. “Night what, you say?”

Even in the dark, Blue’s discomfort is obvious, and Charlie watches with amusement for a beat
before looking to me.

“Isla, right?” He asks, like the circumstances are normal—like he didn’t break out of his dorm,
cross the grounds, and unlock our door. “We met earlier.”

Curiosity piqued, I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and nod. His confidence is oddly
alluring, and I think of Alli’s assurance that Charlie and Ronan were special.

“Come on.” He jerks a chin to the door, and at my hesitation, one side of his mouth lifts. “Trust

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me.”

“Why?” I snap, mostly on instinct.

“Guess you don’t really have any other choice, yeah?” The words might have been a threat in
another mouth, and while I’m certain Charlie can handle himself or hurt me — try to — if
necessary. And yet, his tone is even, and his eyes are honest, and above all, he is right. He and
Ronan are a package deal, and I need them.

I hate how badly I need them.

“If you don’t get out of here in thirty seconds—" Blue says from the door.

“You’ll tell one of the Boots, and I’ll tell them about all the pills you snagged from the infirmary,
and how you’ve been trading them for—”

“Give it a rest, Charlie,” another girl calls, her tone reminiscent of my sister’s when she’s irritated
with me. “Some of us are trying to sleep here.”

“Big day tomorrow?” Charlie asks. Groan echoes through the room, only widening Charlie’s
smile.

“Isla, please, for all of our sakes, just go,” Alli says above me. I shift my weight, shaking the bed,
earning a less-than-angelic reply from Alli, to which I slide off the bed and join Charlie.

“Well?” I ask. Charlie simply shrugs, heading for the door, and I follow him into the empty
hallway, the other dorm doors securely locked with inhabitants slumbering peacefully. He
nudges the door shut behind us, carefully replacing the cover of the keypad, backboard relight
as the metal clicks into place.

Questions batter around my skull, but I hold my tongue. Charlie seems casual about this
nighttime escapade, but my wounds are raw, and getting caught outside the door will lead to
fresher injuries. I doubt Charlie plans on having a chat in the middle of the hall, and wait as he
turns down the hall—not toward the door.

Halfway down, he stops at a door marked STORAGE and turns the handle. To my surprise, but
clearly not his, the door opens, and Charlie rolls into a storage room half the size of my basement
at home. Hardly a large space, but devoid of other people, and quiet; impossibilities at Haven.

The shelves on the walls are stacked with toiletries and cleaning supplies and extra jumpsuits,
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but the center of the space remains empty.

Charlie closes the door after I enter, and I lift my chin at him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, gesturing to my swollen eye. His words remind the injury of itself and
it throbs in protest of its existence.

“Are you going to tell me how you just pulled this off?” I ask, pointedly avoiding his question. “I
haven’t peed without an escort in days, and you’re out traipsing the halls.”

Charlie laughs and says, “Yeah, well, you did take out one of their guys. They don’t like that.”

“That’s not an answer,” I say.

“The short answer,” he says thoughtfully, “is they know I’m not going anywhere. Plus, they’ve
tried to change the locks a million times. Ronan and I keep getting past them.” His face pales a
moment, and he swallows. “Not the outer gates, those are way more complicated, but the dorms,
at least.”

“So, they just…let you do this?”

His face darkens. “They don’t let anyone do anything. But they don’t care what Ronan and I do
as long as we’re doing it inside their walls.”

“And the long answer?”

Discomfort twists at his features and he averts his gaze, seeming to stare through the stack of
jumpsuits on the wall. When he looks at me again, his forehead puckers.

“You lived outside for seventeen years. What was it like?”

Frustration rears its head, and I snap, “I don’t have time for this. I don’t need another visit to
Pearson’s chop shop.”

“You don’t trust me. I get that,” he says. He pauses, weighing the words before letting them go.
“But we need you. And you need us.”

“Do I?” I ask—a stupid question, one we both know the answer to.

Charlie presses his lips together, takes a breath, and says, “Three years ago, Ronan and I tried to
escape.”
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With those nine words, my reservations slip through my fingers.

“It’s something we all talk about. Bedtime stories to keep us sane after another shitty day of labs.
But for Ronan, it was never just talk. I can’t remember a time he didn’t have some crazy plan.
And they were always crazy,” he says. His smile is affectionate but sours within seconds. “Until
they weren’t.”

“There was this nurse, brought her big purse into work, and she carried it down the halls at the
crack of dawn, keys and stuff rattling and banging. Woke everybody up. Drove us mad.” He grits
his teeth, and a chill settles over me as the story shifts. “One day, Ronan chats her up, and I steal
the keys. We figured out what car was hers, when she got on and off, how many guards were on
each shift. Everything. We knew when to leave, which gate to go through. It was before they
coded the inner doors, so we just had to pick the locks. Ronan went to the guardhouse, knocked
him out, and opened it up.”

My stomach churns, and part of me wants to ask him to stop, but I don’t.

“I almost made it,” he says, the pain in his voice breaking my heart in two. “But she noticed the
keys were gone. They sent one of the vans after me. Plowed into me and flipped the car.” His
tone is light, but the words sting.

“I don’t remember much,” he says—a lie that I don’t push. “I woke up in the infirmary three days
later, and I’ve been in this chair since.” He shakes his head. “Ronan made it out the gates. He
came back when he saw me crash. He came back for me. And he’ll die here because of it.”

The edge his words carry indicates a depth he shouldn’t have; one he isn’t supposed to have.

“You know,” I say simply. He nods. “Then why save you?”

He drops his head, jaw tight. “My mom is…someone big. A politician, I think. I don’t know much,
but I know she’s important. Important to the camps,” he says. “Every year, the guard’s stage me
in photos to send her, to show her how good I’m being treated, or something like that. I die, the
pictures stop coming, and the spotlight is on them. Some hotshot’s kid dying here doesn’t exactly
make them look good.”

A politician. The frayed edges snap together, snapping me in the face with the obviousness of it
all.

I step back against one of the shelves, leaning into a stack of latex gloves, letting out a breath. This

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whole thing is a mess that only gets more and more tangled, and more and more lives are stacked
on my shoulders.

“Governor Wu,” I say. “You’re her son.”

“She’s my mother,” he says, defensive, harsher than I expect, “but I am not her son.”

“How is this selling your case? If I bring you with us, there’s a bigger target on our backs.”

I know the answer, but distrust is difficult to shake, and too many people will be damned if I
bring war down on their heads. It isn’t their battle to fight—I’m not convinced it’s mine.

“For one, Ronan can fix anything that runs on electricity. The sentry’s drag him in to fix their
computers all the time. He’s the one who figured out how to hack the doors.” He smiles. “And I
can fix anything else.”

I force myself to look unconvinced, waiting to see if he’ll go on, and he does.

“Half the reason is…” He stops, considering. “They can’t kill me, and they can’t hurt me in a way
that shows up on camera, but they can kill him. They will kill him. And I can’t—I can’t sit around
and wait for him to die.”

“We’ll probably die trying to get out of here,” I say.

“And we’ll die for sure if we stay,” he says. “Isn’t there anyone you’d risk everything to save?”

I purse my lips. The list he’s referring to grows longer each day; so many lives, so little clue how
to protect them. I started this journey with Alex and Harper strapped to my canon, but where I
stand now, I have the Nook, Luna, Alli, and possibly Charlie and Ronan. It is far too much for
one person to hold, but I have nowhere to put it down and no one to give it to.

Alex said I can’t save everyone, but that can’t mean saving no one at all. I won’t let it.

“Can you get the chip in?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “I can.”

“How?”

He smirks and says, “Sometimes, when people think you’re helpless, it’s smarter to let them
believe it.”
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I press my lips together, crossing my arms against my chest. The offer is tempting, so hard not to
reach out and take, and I’m no longer sure why I’m resisting.

“Say I agree to this. How do I know you won’t screw us over?”

“Because we’re both marked for death,” he says, one side of his mouth turning up. “If you can’t
trust us, who can you trust?”

I soften, relax, unclench my perpetually tight fists. It should take more, but I’m already locked in
his cage, and he’s right—if I don’t trust my fellow hostages, who do I have?

I toss Charlie’s confessions over in my head, struggling to weigh them and see the right answer.
I’m an amateur playing in the pros, and it is sure to catch up to me sooner or later. The more lives
I intertwine with mine, the more complicated it becomes.

But I need them. They challenge things, but if anyone can lead us out, it is them. Charlie has
proven this merely by bringing me here, and he knows it.

Plucking the drive from its bobby pinned home on my head, I hold it out and ignore the urge to
close my fingers around it and hold it tight to my chest.

“If you betray me…” I start.

He waves a hand and says, “Yeah, you’ll kill us, I know. You and Ronan can argue that out later.”
He smiles, and though his next words are far from friendly, they don’t offend. “And if you try to
throw us under the bus, know you’ll get pulled under, too.”

I can’t help my smile as I step forward, holding out a hand for him to shake like I’ve seen in all
those old movies. Charlie stares at my hand a beat and takes it, shaking longer than necessary.

“if this all works out, you know,” he says, “I think we could be friends.”

“We’ll see,” I say.

And I hope we do.

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CHAPTER TWENTY SIX — ISLA

I lay wide awake and aching in my bunk after lights out, counting the minutes by playing every
song I can remember on the mattress at my sides. It’s the second night I’ve clung to consciousness
waiting for something I don’t know is coming; I have no way of knowing if Charlie completed
his task, if tonight is the night. I spent my day in the labs doing blood draws, vitals, hair and nail
samples; covering their bases with a new physical subject — and while the girls glimpsed Ronan
and Charlie in the warehouse, they didn’t so much as exchange glances.

Above me, Alli tosses and turns, her nerves seeping down and threatening to punch through my
weak defenses.

“Hey,” I call softly. Alli stills, sniffles. “You’re going to wear a hole through the mattress.”

“Sorry,” she says, quick and curt. She shifts again, sheets rustling. I huff, bringing my hands to
my stomach, half regretting the words before I speak them.

“Come down here.”

She pauses. “What?”

“Before I change my mind.”

Another pause, more sheets rustling, and a pair of legs, and Alli, silently sliding down and
climbing onto the small bed beside me. She lays flat on her back, arms pressed against mine, and
lets out a long breath.

“Thank you,” she says, barely audible, and something in me softens. I bump her shoulder lightly.

“She used to talk about you, you know,” I murmur, my sister’s pink cheeked face behind my
eyes. “Never said your name, but it’s pretty clear who it was, now.”

“Think she’ll hate me, when she sees me?” She clears her throat. “If.”

“She’ll probably be more excited to see you than me.”

Alli snorts a quiet laugh, and I’m smiling despite myself.

“He will, too,” she says, and I don’t have to ask to know who she’s referencing—I say nothing,
which only confirms it for her. “Who would have guessed you’re not all fists?”

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“And who would have guessed you weren’t all sugar and spice and everything nice?”

She starts to speak, but her words die with the soft beeping of the doors — Beth — indicating the
shutdown that still makes Alli and I levitate. I swallow my panic, exchanging tense looks with
Alli before climbing off the bed, slipping our feet into Haven’s flimsy sneakers.

It feels like there should be more to mark the moment, flashing lights or an alarm, but I reassure
myself over and over that silence is what we want until the sentiment becomes abstract.

Luna’s silhouette moves as she leans to put on her shoes a few bunks down, and I don’t wait for
either of them before heading for the door, not trusting the ninety seconds Beth gave us and
desperate for the door to open. I tug on the handle, and like a miracle — or maybe just like Beth
— it opens.

A few girls stir at the clicking of the door, heads lifting off pillows around the room, but no one
moves as Luna and Alli join me in the doorway. I fight the urge to look back at the girls I am
leaving to die, already burning with shame and not yet out the door.

“Y’all ready?” Luna asks, anxiety making her bouncier than usual.

“Not even a little bit,” Alli says coolly.

I step into the hall, sending a silent wish to Ronan and Charlie to do the same. If they don’t,
there’s no more we can do for them.

“Are you sure about this?” Alli asks, looking both directions down the hall, stepping out after
me, Luna on her tail, the door falling shut on the rest of the girls behind them.

“You shouldn’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to,” I say, setting off toward the door I
was carted through earlier.

Alli grumbles, she and Luna picking up the pace to reach us. I push open another door, leaning
out to inspect the hall leading to the main dormitory door. Alli and Luna practically leap through
after me, as if afraid it will shut on them as soon as they step forward, and when the door clicks
behind them, both let out sighs of relief.

I feel only shame for the hundreds of girls I’m leaving in this building, the hundreds of boys in
the other. Their stories end here, and I can’t save them. Alex was right—I can’t save them all. And
even if I save these four, it will not be enough. It will never be enough.

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The hallway leading to the main door, spotted with locked doors leading to more dorms — some
with as few as ten girls, some with as many as fifty. Each door we pass is a twist to the knife in
my gut, but I keep walking, thinking only of getting Luna and Alli out the door, of finding Ronan
and Charlie once I do.

“How long until the doors lock?” Luna asks at my side. We all want to run, but my injuries make
it impossible—neither mentions it, but I know I’m slowing us down.

“Sixty seconds,” I say. To Alli, I continue, “Get to that door. We can’t afford to miss our window.”

She smiles, mischievous, and bolts, flimsy shoes squeaking as she runs.

A door down the hall creaks open as she passes is, and fear unfurls in my gut as a guard steps
through, turning our way. He slams to a halt at the sight of us, reaching for a taser on his toolbelt.

Luna stiffens, a deer in headlights, and I want to do the same, but the sentry’s approach makes
us targets, and Alli is waiting for us—so many people are waiting for us.

“Luna.” I grab her arm, squeezing tight enough to break through to her. Her head snaps my way,
pupils blown. “Run. Now.”

“No. I can’t—" She sputters.

“Now,” I say. “Right past him, to the door.”

“Isla, he’ll catch me—"

“Look at me,” I snap. “I won’t let him catch you.” She straightens, clenches her jaw. “Run.”

She takes a deep breath, swallows, steels herself, and takes off. The sentry’s lips curl into a smirk,
and I see his plan falling into place.

I let the adrenaline numb my aching bones and follow, using the sentry’s focus on Luna to my
advantage. By the time Luna reaches him and he thrusts a hand out for her, I’m a yard away and
swinging with the scalpel I pocketed from Amelie.

The shock sends him careening to the side, reaching up to block me. He fights against me, breath
hot, his strength and size nearly toppling me. I hold tight, thinking of the girls at the door, of the
boys, of everyone at the nook, ignoring the protest in my back and ribs and face, ignoring
everything but the faces of those who need me; the people waiting for me to come home.

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I tuck my chin, releasing my grip on the scalpel and reaching for his shoulders, holding him still
as I ram my head upward into his jaw, sending his head snapping back. My skull rattles, but my
broken body can’t hurt me until the adrenaline wears off.

He staggers back, slamming into the wall, and I blink the stars from my eyes, catching my balance
and stumbling forward.

At the end of the hall, Alli holds the door open and shifts weight from foot to foot with each
breath. Luna jogs for me, slipping an arm around me and shouldering me out the door and into
the night. Any other moment, I’d shove her off, but I attribute it to the shock from the heat-butt—
I’m too busy trying to puzzle out my surroundings.

Right now, survival is the only thing that matters.

Alli’s month inside Haven leaves her best prepared to navigate, leading Luna and I along the
back gate, out of sight of the cameras at the top of the posts. Even with her assurance we aren’t
in the lens range, that the guards are as lightly staffed this time of night as they’d ever be, my
heart pounds, and sweat pricks along my temples.

I fake calm, urging the easily-spooked Luna along each time she flinches at a cricket’s chirp in the
trees beyond the gates, my thoughts are a raucous cyclone pulling at the threads of my sanity
each second.

I don’t realize we’re nearly at the boy’s dorms until Alli stops before the end of a building,
gesturing to the brick structure across the concrete walkway. I gesture in question, and she nods.

Scanning the darkness for the boys, I start to believe they never made it past their dorm door, but
a flash of movement along the building’s side catches my eyes, and Ronan steps forward enough
for the lights from the guard tower to illuminate his face, Charlie emerging a beat later.

A third figure steps out of the darkness, coming from one of the other buildings, the sentry
uniform flashing in the dim lights lining the edge of the facility. My fear tastes of ash and metal,
and I yank Alli and Luna back into the shadows as the sentry calls out to Ronan and Charlie.

“—the hell did you get out here?” His snapped tone is barely audible across the dark space
between buildings, and if he doesn’t shut up, the rest of the camp will be on us.

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I’m two seconds from ditching them entirely when Ronan lunges and slams a fist into the sentry’s
face—the crack of his nose is far louder than his voice was. Behind him, Charlie rolls forward and
thrusts his hands out, shoving the sentry as he tumbles back, losing any balance he didn’t in the
punching, landing unconscious in the dirt with a thud.

Approval blooms inside me, and I shove down the smile threatening my lips; maybe bringing
them along wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. Neither is someone you want to meet in a dark
alley—or a dark labor camp walkway.

“Follow me,” I say, and without argument, Alli and Luna take off after me, slowing when we
reach Ronan and Charlie. Ronan looks much less like he wants to wrap his hands around my
throat, and I’m pleased to find I feel the same. Now, we are allies, solitary predators on truce until
the bigger evil is out of sight.

He is so like Alex, and so different. He skates his fingers across his head the way Alex runs his
through his hair, and their confused frown is the same, but where Alex is soft, he is all hard edges.

“Isla?” Luna asks. I give her what I hope is a supportive smile.

“Now, we get out of here.” To Charlie, I ask, “Main gate?”

He says, “Follow me,” but his words are drowned out by the sirens blaring to life around us.

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CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN — ISLA

The alarm takes Charlie and replaces him with a rigid, trembling husk, his fingers a vice grip
around the wheelchair bars. Ronan’s composure breaks for a heartbeat, and he steels himself,
kneeling in front of Charlie, a gentleness in his eyes.

“Not again, Ronan. Not again. I can’t—" Charlie is wide eyed and unfocused, sweat gleaming
above his lip, his skin shining.

“Look at me.” Ronan’s tone is commanding but doesn’t reach the other boy. He places his hands
above Charlie’s on the bars and leans forward, their faces inches apart, Ronan all Charlie can see.

Beth’s system reset gave us needed seconds, but we aren’t going to get anymore, and the alarm
will have sentries on our tails in seconds—we are sitting ducks.

“Charlie,” Ronan says, cold tone drawing Charlie’s focus back, slightly. “It’s time to go. For real
this time.”

Charlie’s lips part, a whimper slipping past—wherever he is, Ronan can’t reach him.

Part of me, the horrible part, the selfish part the world is right about, tells me to grab Luna and
Alli and run. I didn’t come for Ronan or Charlie, don’t owe them anything, certainly not my life.

I think I could do it, grab and drag them, give Beth and Luna their daughter back, give Harper
Alli back. I can get them out.

Shame hits me like a punch, and I nearly double over beneath its weight.

Luna’s life doesn’t matter more because I knew her name before coming through the gates.
Everyone within these walls deserves to live, and I am already leaving hundreds behind.

Luna, Alli, Ronan, Charlie, me. That is who is leaving this compound—that is who I can save.

“Ronan,” I snap. “We have to go.”

He is conflicted, but nods. “When I run, we run. I’ll get us to the gates. We don’t have a lot of
time before the grid locks back down.” How he knows that I’ve no clue, nor do I have the time to
ask. I’m simply grateful he does.

I nod, mostly because I have no other choice and no other plan. Whatever I came into Haven with

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has gone up in flames, and I have to make what I can with the ashes.

“How long?”

“Three minutes,” he says. To Charlie, he says, “I’m sorry.”

Charlie’s delirium breaks for a moment, but he doesn’t get a chance to respond before Ronan is
shoving the chair forward. Alli, Luna, and I take off after them, Ronan trying not to tip the
wheelchair as it rattles and rolls across the concrete, turning when we reach a parking lot full of
cars. Cars, and sentry vans.

An idea flickers to life in my head, reckless and dangerous and quite possibly suicidal, but as
hope rises, reality crashes down upon it, headlights flashing on a car parked four down from
where we stood as its owner locks it. A silhouette emerges from the darkness, moving with
purpose toward the building, lights catching and illuminating her face. She slams to a halt, eyes
finding mine across the asphalt.

Amelie.

My stomach sinks, and I curse myself for dropping the scalpel—Amelie has only been kind, but
kindness runs out.

“Isla.” Luna’s voice is edged with fear, and I swallow my dread, stepping forward to meet
Amelie’s questioning and confused eyes.

Understanding dawns, and her lips part, her shock keeping her silent. I feel briefly sorry for her;
the poor woman is clocking in for the night shift right as we launch an escape, merely in the
wrong place at the wrong time.

I consider lunging, sure I can reach her before she screams, but I find myself hesitating. Pain
meds, illegally slipped to me. The look in her eyes each time I was dragged in, bloody and broken,
to her office.

It isn’t a sure bet by any standards, but I settle on words instead of a punch.

I let all the fear I’ve been pushing down out of its cage and into my face, and say, “Please.”

Amelie’s mouth opens wider, and she looks to the others briefly. The struggle plays out on her
face, and I’m worried I’ve made the fatal blow to myself, to all of us.

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Amelie reaches a hand toward her pocket and I lunge, ignoring her, “Wait, wait—" and stopping
when metal glints in her hand. Not a weapon, but a set of car keys.

I stop a foot from her, hands in fists at my sides, and before I can strike, she holds out the keys. I
take them, following her gaze to the gray minivan she locked a minute ago.

Distrust yawns to life, and I’m about to throw the keys back when, like a miracle, completely
erasing everything I thought I knew about Amelie, she turns and walks away, as if she’s seen
nothing at all.

“We can’t let her leave,” Ronan says.

I watch the woman disappear into the darkness, knowing undoubtedly the woman’s mouth will
stay shut, for reasons I can’t understand or begin to explain.

“We can,” I say. “And we have to.”

I don’t leave time for protest, heading for the van Amelie gestured to, grateful it’s large enough
to fit us all and Charlie’s wheelchair in the back.

Alli and Luna climb in the back as Ronan helps Charlie into the front seat and hastily pulls the
wheelchair into the trunk. He hops in between the girls, shutting the doors behind him, looking
to me where I stand staring at the empty driver’s seat.

“You waiting for an invitation?” He asks tersely, a failing attempt at calm.

Panic knots in my belly. Ronan, Luna, and Charlie can’t drive, nor can Alli, despite growing up
in my sister’s world—the risk of walking into a government office was too big to take.

I am all we have. Unfortunately.

I climb into the driver seat and pull the door shut, jamming the key into the ignition, the engine
rumbling to life beneath me. Adrenaline makes every hair stand on end, my panicked energy
making it difficult to sit still. My head aches, my stomach throbs, and all I want to do is heave
onto the concrete, not drive with no idea how, but there is no going back now.

“The hell are you waiting for?” Ronan snaps.

“Give me a minute.”

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“We don’t have a minute,” He says. “You hear those alarms? When they turn off, the gate shuts.
You want to be stuck in here when they do?” Ronan’s eyes flash with anger, but he leans forward,
softening as his gaze sweeps over Charlie. It is with this silent admission I understand Ronan for
the first time—he is not interested in saving himself.

This, at least, I can relate to.

“Ronan,” Charlie murmurs. “I can’t do this again.” He looks ready to open the door and roll out
of the car, words dripping with fear. Again.

It is not the first time Ronan and Charlie have attempted escape, and if they’re caught, their mercy
will likely end. And I can’t go back to the nook without Ronan and Charlie, not knowing they’re
here, and explain to Alex I left them behind.

I can’t leave them here to die, whether it be today or when they turn twenty five, but mostly, I
can’t leave them, because I am them, if things were different. Rotting in a camp, waiting for a
miracle that is never coming, risking everything to escape only to fail.

Their faces are contorted in the rearview mirror, these people I’m risking everything to save, and
I shove down my fear, realizing they are fighting their own.

“You don’t know how to drive, do you?” Alli asks from the back seat. All three grip the car’s
frame tightly, though I’ve not yet taken it out of park.

“Does that really matter?” I bite out, roughly moving between gears and taking my foot off the
break. The car rolls back, and I impulsively slam on the brake, making Ronan fall into Luna,
cursing as they land in a heap.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Luna grumbles. Ronan grunts dismissively, crawling back up to lean
between the seats. I take my feet off the brake again, slower, the car rolling back, my only focus
on not hitting anything. The van’s bulkiness doesn’t help, but I manage not to scrape the sides off
anything pulling out of the spot.

“Put on your damn seatbelts,” Alli says, plopping into one of the bucket seats and clipping her
belt. Luna does the same, but Ronan stays between the seats, leaning against Charlie’s shoulder.

I do my best to stay calm as we approach the exit, trying not to swerve off the road as we drive
off the lot and down the main road, but the alarm blares around us, and though the gate is still
open, all five of us hold our breath, waiting for it to swing shut.

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“How convenient,” Charlie says — having returned to reality between the lot and the gate — as
we approach what appears to be a deserted guard booth. Most likely attributed to the alarm, but
I don’t pause to think about it.

Cool relief washes over me as we clear the gates, the car too clunky to maintain the speed I want,
bouncing over the cracked asphalt, but all that matters is the freedom down the road, if we can
make it.

“Problem. Big, big problem,” Charlie says.

“Damnit,” Roan curses, peering through the back window. I throw a glance at the rearview, and
immediately wish I hadn’t, catching sight of a black van barreling past the gates right before they
swing shut.

I press harder on the gas, but the van is gaining on us too fast, the acceleration tripling ours, the
black car inching closer by the second.

We aren’t going to make it, and I know it, but I slam my foot on the gas as hard as I can.

Thirty seconds later, he bumps us from behind, sending the van lurching. Alli and Luna slam into
the armrests, and Ronan topples forward between the front seats, Charlie’s hand shooting out to
grab the back of his collar the only thing keeping him from smacking his head into the dash. The
van rocks as the sentry rams into us again, and I jerk the wheel. Ronan is jostled again but has the
foresight to grip the armrests between the front seats to keep from being thrown.

The sentry speeds up, pulling in beside us with a terrifying swerve. A tease, not enough to knock
us off the road, but a warning that he can. I yelp as the van scrapes against our, white knuckling
the steering wheel, struggling to keep the car straight.

The chase comes in fragments. Ronan leaning between the seats, Charlie holding him. Alli
scrabbling to grip the armrests, Luna’s sharp breaths. The screech of metal on metal. My hold on
the wheel, slipping. Charlie tucking Ronan’s head against his lap, arms around his shoulders to
pin him, eyes squeezed shut.

We’re hit again, and there is nothing I can do to keep control. We veer off the road, and someone
screams — maybe me — and we hit the tree.

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CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT — ISLA

I used to wake in the middle of the night with migraines at least once a week—somehow, Harper
always knew, descending the stairs minutes after I woke with a cool, damp cloth. She’d climb
into bed without a word and coax my hands from my skull, laying the cloth on my forehead and
forcing painkillers into my mouth. For hours, she’d stay, until the fog cleared and the shaking
stopped.

This pain is like that, throbbing and pulsing with the beat of my heart, but I’m not in bed at home.
I feel as if my skull will split open, my body curled uncomfortably on hard ground, one foot
asleep and tucked beneath me.

When I open my eyes, I’m on the dirt beside the wreckage of a minivan. I can’t recall how I ended
up here, or how I ended up with ties on my wrists.

A rush of pain rolls through me, bringing with it a groan and the memory of the minutes before
the crash. The sentry. Haven. The others. Where are they?

I push onto stiff limbs, searching for the others through blurry vision, shaking the fog away. The
van that hit us rests a few yards away, its back doors wide open. Inside, Ronan, Charlie, Luna,
and Alli are zip-tied and propped against the sides, relatively unharmed if not seriously pissed
off. I lean toward them, and a familiar face moves into my view, blocking the sun, a towering
dark shadow.

Pearson.

Anger burns through my thoughts, and I lunge, no plan other than pain, no consideration for the
ties around my wrists or the crash I’ve woken from. I’m on my feet, unsteady, and Pearson’s hand
shoots up faster than I can blink, silver flashing as he slashes the knife deep into my side. I
scramble back, tears brimming in my eyes, wishing for the pain of the interrogation, wishing for
the needle in my back, wishing for something other than this twisting, stabbing, sharp fire licking
into my side. I swallow my scream, threatening my consciousness to hold, falling to my knees.

“You’re one of us,” I snarl.

“I can’t be,” Pearson sneers. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

I struggle off my knees, pushing to my feet for two seconds before my feet give out and I sink
again.

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Pearson turns to Ronan and Charlie, a sick smirk playing on his lips.

“How’s round two playing out for you?” he asks.

“Better than another day staring at your ugly mug,” Charlie says. Pearson grins, hands finding
his hips, guns and knives flashing on his belt.

“You won’t miss all those midnight rendezvous of yours? All those adventures you thought no
one knew about?”

Ronan’s face burns with rage, and even Charlie appears on the verge of explosion.

“Fuck you,” Charlie spits.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that when we get back,” he retorts. Ronan jerks, but Charlie presses
into him, keeping him in place.

Hatred and disgust unfurl in my chest, the adrenaline numbing my pain and bringing the fight
back to my tired limbs. The fire in my side dims enough to breathe past.

We aren’t going back. Not Charlie, with his kindness and the smile Haven should have erased by
now; not Ronan, exactly who I’d be if I’d grown up different; not Alli, who has never had her
own name; not Luna, whose only crime is trusting me.

And not Pearson.

“Or maybe you,” Pearson continues, gaze sliding to me. “The little mastermind of this little
escapade.”

If my hands were free, they’d be around his throat. Ronan practically growls.

I need time to think, to figure something out. I catch the eyes of the four teens in the back of the
car, willing them to understand. Charlie straightens first, shifting closer to Ronan as if to protect
him from what I’m about to do.

“Didn’t know you swung, L.T.,” Charlie calls, too loud, but effective. Pearson’s nose wrinkles, lip
curls.

“You forget, you’re nothing more than a lab rat when your boy is gone. Maybe he won’t make it
back,” he snaps. Charlie grins as Pearson takes the bait, and I take my chance scanning the ground

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for something, anything, to use against him.

Sitting a few feet away, a chunk of concrete broken off from the road, the size of two fists. Light
enough to pick up with my hands bound in front of me, but heavy enough to hurt.

I push back to my feet, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, stars dancing in the edge of my
vision. I shuffle across the gravel and dirt to the rock, struggling to get my fingers around it. The
sharp rocks bites into my palm, but I grip tighter.

Pearson faces the van, solely focused on Charlie.

Don’t underestimate your opponent: another lesson my dad taught me.

I run at him, gait off balance, each step slicing into my side, and raise the rock above my head,
clutching it awkwardly in my tied hands. Pearson is tall, but his head is in range.

I am not going back. None of us are going back.

I take a breath. Plant my head. Swing the rock upwards.

It knocks him off balance, forcing a grunt out of him, and he whirls to face me, anger roaring to
the surface. I swing again, and this hit brings him to his knees. Nausea blooms inside me, but I
swallow the bile clawing up my throat and hold the sticky, bloody rock.

I do not want to be this, a harbinger of death, the monster everyone believes me to be, but I do
not have time for a moral compass—it hasn’t gotten me far, anyway.

If Pearson doesn’t die, I do. All of us do, and no one at the Nook will ever know why. I don’t trust
my strength to survive a lifetime of interrogations, and if given the chance, they’ll keep pressing,
and I will come undone.

We are not going back.

Pearson stares at me blankly, blood sliding down his forehead, and I know better than to expect
to find regret in his eyes; there is none in mine.

I bring the rock down once, twice, three times more, until Pearson’s body stills beneath me and
his blood has turned the rock and my hands a bright red.

There is no going back.

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My hands are bleeding. The cuts from the rock trickle slowly, blending with the blood of the
second man I’ve killed. Pearson’s blood. Bright, metallic, another life yanked by my hands.

In the van, I’m being watched with varying emotions. Ronan and Charlie, brimming with
approval, and Luna and Alli, horrified but relieved.

It isn’t my finest moment, but when I lean over to retch into the dirt, dry heaving until my empty
stomach contracts, I’m unashamed.

I don’t have time to panic, to be ashamed, to cry or scream, even if I want to do all of them. I push
back to my feet, pressing an arm to my side, fabric sticky and damp as blood seeps into it. The
pain flares briefly at the pressure, but it has turned to a fierce, throbbing ache, and there isn’t time
to deal with it, not with the others tied up and Haven right behind us.

We’d been driving a minute when Pearson caught us, and the gates are still in sight. Even if
Amelie keeps quiet, we didn’t leave quietly. Biting down on the inside of my lip until I taste
blood, I steady myself in the metallic taste, forcing myself to look at Pearson, or what once was
him.

He lays face down, head a wreckage, but his belt is securely fastened around his waist, tools and
all. The knife he used to carve into my cheek, the one he slashed my side with, is pinned beneath
one arm, and I kneel to shove him with my knees and roll him onto his side.

More bile follows the limp weight of his body, but I push again, bending with my bound wrists,
shutting my eyes when my fingers brush the handle of the knife. Once it’s in my bloody hands, I
hobble to my feet, meeting Ronan at the back of the van. I sew against the plastic, careful not to
cut his skin, his hands falling apart with a sigh of relief. He takes the knife and hops out, cutting
my ties and moving to Charlie, then the others.

“Get this car started. I’ll grab the chair,” I call to whoever decides to listen, limping back to the
van we came in. It’s no longer smoking, but destroyed, nonetheless. In the back, the wheelchair
was jostled but is relatively intact, and I run it back down the road, grateful the wheels still turn.
While Ronan helps Charlie into the passenger seat of Pearson’s van, Alli and Luna load the chair
into the back, coming to meet me where Pearson’s body lays.

“Grab his feet,” Ronan says, kneeling with clenched teeth. Alli and Luna stare blankly at him, but

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I do as asked.

“What?” Luna croaks.

“We can’t leave him here. Not if we want any kind of head start.”

“Do it,” I instruct, and after a breath, Alli moves, bending beside me and reaching for Pearson’s
legs. Luna joins, taking the other side, and I move to help Ronan at the sentry’s shoulders.

Looking at him, a man of malice and hatred, who finds joy in the spilling of blood and carved my
skin to ribbons for the sake of seeing it slice, I can’t help feeling he deserves this. He deserves to
rot here, alone in the dirt.

He is heavier than I expected, and hiding my newest injury is an added difficulty. Charlie calls
sarcastic support, Ronan firing back lighthearted insults as we hobble along. Even with our
combined strength, the four of us are panting by the time we cross the tree line, and we make it
a few yards before I can’t hold on anymore and let go, Ronan, Alli, and Luna losing their grip
with me. Pearson hits the forest floor with a thud.

“Should we say something?” Alli asks, reminding me of my sister.

“Sure,” Ronan says. “Good riddance.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY NINE — ISLA

If it weren’t for Alli, we never would have made it a mile away from Haven. She may not know
how to drive, but her familiarity with geography from school is something none of us have, and
she manages to direct us to a highway entrance. With a little trial and error, it is smooth sailing—
as smooth as it can be with five fugitives, one of whom is hiding a knife wound to the side. Every
bump in the road pulls my thoughts apart like cotton and fills me with fire, and my lack of
training doesn’t help controlling the vehicle.

“Glacier,” Alli says from the backseat, taking Ronan’s place between the seats and leaning to point
at the sign up the road. I take the exit, pulling off the highway and into a small town boasting of
a town of three hundred. The minute size of the town makes locating the only motel easy.

“We should ditch the van before they track it,” Charlie says.

“Head start,” Luna adds, and Charlie gives a tiny smile.

I nod, driving past the motel lot entrance, turning down a dirt road a few blocks down that
stretches back into the woods. I pull onto the side of the road, undoing my seatbelt and
swallowing the curse that bubbles up as the belt scrapes my blazing size.

Ronan tugs open the back doors, Luna and Alli following, the trio silently working Charlie’s
wheelchair from the backseat. Their attention elsewhere, I push my own door open and ease out,
biting back the cries of pain punching at my teeth. I hit the asphalt with a thud, sending sparks
of pain up my spine, and slap a hand against my side, the pressure alleviating the discomfort by
a mite.

The hair rises on the back of my neck, and I snap my head up to meet Charlie’s eyes where he sits
in the passenger seat. He flicks a glance at my side, the spots of red bleeding through the
jumpsuit’s fabric.

He’s going to tell. He’s going to tell, and they’ll all fuss, and the sentries will catch us, and we’ll
all be as doomed as we were this morning. My injury won’t matter if we’re dead or destined to
be within ten years.

The blood of two sentry’s stains my hands, and while the others might earn mercy, I won’t. I
surely won’t find forgiveness.

I open my mouth to speak, beg, or threaten — I haven’t decided which — but Charlie shakes his

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head curtly, as if urging me to stop. My mouth stays shut, and Charlie’s smile is half apologetic,
half sympathetic, as he pops his door open and leans out to yell at Ronan.

“Ro, you planning on getting me out of here anytime soon?” he calls. Ronan maneuvers the chair
to the passenger side, giving Charlie a withering look.

“You planning on shutting up anytime soon?” Ronan retorts. Charlie undoes his seatbelt with a
grin and says, “Not really, no.”

One side of Ronan’s mouth twitches, a smile gone as fast as it comes, reserved for Charlie and
Charlie alone. He ruffles the boy’s hair and bends down, dropping a kiss to his head and
straightening, the gesture more tender than the edged Ronan seems capable of. It makes me think
of Alex, of come back to me okay? And I promise.

I can see the look on his face now, the shock and joy and disbelief when I show up with the brother
he never expected to meet. It is that thought — of seeing him, of seeing my sister, too — giving
me the strength to move.

I limp the long way around the car, willing the deafening beat of my heart to quiet enough to
think. Alli and Luna lean against the back of the van, Ronan and Charlie joining a beat later.

“Kind of wish we could burn the thing,” Alli says.

“Oh, me too,” Luna says. She looks to me. “Can we?”

“No,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “We can’t waste an hour trying to burn this metal hunk of junk.
We have to find Beth.”

“They burn slow,” Charlie says, and I don’t want to know how he learned that; another story for
another time. If we can get to Beth, we will have the time—more time than we know what to do
with.

Luna pouts, but is rejuvenated by the idea of seeing her mother. She leads the charge down the
dirt road, Alli ambling beside her, Ronan and Charlie side by side behind, me trailing slowly at
the back. I need to move faster, but my thoughts are harder and harder to hold, and my legs are
numb, and the throbbing of my skull is a song too loud to ignore.

We reach the road sometime later, my thoughts disconnected, and I feel I’m jumping in and out
of consciousness, blinking and finding myself ten yards farther than I remember. Once we reach

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the small main road, we move quickly through the ghostlike town. It has to be past three AM,
now.

The bright lights of the motel’s VACANCY sign beckon, and I scan the windows of the rooms,
looking for the small folded piece of paper Beth told me she’d place on the sill.

There. First floor, far end of the motel.

I set off wordlessly, an arm pressed to my side to push away the darkness trying to drag me away.

“This is it?” Alli asks. “You’re sure?”

“Nope,” I say, and lift a hand to knock on the door. Dizziness rolls through me, and I reach up to
plant my palms against the door for balance, but it swings open, and my legs are unable to catch
me as I jerk forward.

The last thing I see before darkness swallows me whole is a flash of light brown hair and green
eyes.

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CHAPTER THIRTY – HARPER

When the world rearranges itself, it does so instantly and without warning, and while I should
be accustomed to it after the last few weeks, it still sweeps my feet out from under me when it
happens again.

One moment, I am sitting with Alex in Beth’s office, where we have spent the last five days
waiting for some sign from Beth or Isla or the Haven facility, and the next, Tessa is running in
and out of the room, telling us we need to go downstairs, now, and before either of us can ask why,
she’s racing toward the stairs—toward her infirmary.

There are many reasons we could be needed, many reasons Tessa might be so tense, and though
neither of us has any proof it’s her, somehow, we know. We have been waiting for the other shoe
to drop, and now it has, and we’re fearing the worst because we have seldom been handed better.

Isla is downstairs, and Tessa is running to the infirmary to get supplies, and my thoughts are
spiraling down, down, down the drain. I blindly follow Alex out into the hall, thundering down
the stairs, Tessa pushing past us with a med bag on her shoulder.

The entirety of the Nook stands in the common area, around a small group I can’t make out past
the bodies, and while I expect chaos and noise, there is only silence. Silence, and stillness, and a
hundred held breaths.

Silence is not all I find.

A handful of new realities stand in the common area, too many to process, the facts rolling
through me without their attached emotion. My brain is an overloaded computer, spazzing out
with all the input.

Katherine Nguyen, the girl I’ve loved since before I had a word for it, standing beside Luna, the
girl lost trying to find me. In a wheelchair beside them, the boy whose face I’ve seen on billboards
and in newspapers for seventeen years, the son of the country’s biggest camp supporter.

Beside them, a boy who has to be Alex’s twin, his hair shorter and his grimace deeper, Beth at his
side.

And in Alex’s brother’s arms, my sister, pale and weightless and bloody.

She hangs limply in his arms, feet supported by Katherine, so still I begin to unravel all over

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again. Seventeen years are rolling through me like film credits, and I fear I’ve reached the end
before I even realized I was watching the movie.

It cannot be possible. She can’t be—

My sister, the other half of my soul, the one person I cannot survive without, has her eyes closed
and little blood beneath her skin, and I think she might be—

Katherine and Alex’s brother shoulder Isla—Isla, who might be something I can’t consider—over
to a couch, lowering her, Beth, the boy from the billboards, and Luna standing around them in a
makeshift protective fence.

Alex lets out a strangled, painful noise, similar to the one I’m holding inside, and we rush
forward, ignoring the other pressing aspects of this scene in favor of the one we care for most.
The possibility of Isla not surviving this is one we have pointedly avoided since I initially tracked
Alex down and laid into him until he relented and confessed Isla’s mission.

I was so angry with her for leaving, but the anger is long gone, dread taking its place.

“Ronan, here—” Beth instructs as they lower Isla onto a couch, and as they move her, her eyes
snap open, and she lets out a blood curdling scream, all pain and no person. Beth straightens,
tension shining with the sweat on her face, and turns to Tessa. “She’s been in and out for two
hours. They don’t know when she was hurt, but—”

“Today,” says the boy I recognize but have never met. Katherine nods curtly.

“We have to stop the bleeding,” Tessa says, swallowing her emotion and calming instantly, the
only still creature in this sea of chaos. She glances around, the crowd buzzing with anticipation,
and looks at Isla again, jaw set. “Alex.” She jerks a chin at him, and at his brother. “Ronan, is it?”
At his nod, her focus shifts to Katherine. “And…”

My lips form the first syllable of Katherine as she says, “Alli,” and I am confused, so confused,
but my sister is dying, and I shelve it for later, with all my other questions. If I am good at
anything, it is compartmentalization.

“Alli,” Tessa says with a nod. “We need to get her up to the infirmary.” She kneels in front of Isla,
touching her clammy cheek gently, speaking to her, though my sister is too far to reach. “This is
going to hurt, my love, but I promise, I’ll make it stop.”

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Isla mumbles incoherently, arguing even in her unconscious state, and I’m struck with
overwhelming relief to see her again, and the numbing fear it will be the last time. I’ve laid awake
for days wondering what her return might look like, and my worst nightmare is playing out in
front of me.

Isla, texting the first boy who broke my heart and telling him off when he wouldn’t leave me
alone; Isla, laughing with her head tipped back, a freedom in the noise I have never possessed
but always envied; Isla, brave and strong and smart and better than she will ever believe she is.

“Help me lift,” Alex says, taking Tessa’s place when she stands, jerking a chin at his brother — I
can’t imagine what he’s thinking; I don’t know what I’m thinking — and Katherine. Alli, I correct
myself.

“Harper,” Tessa says, and I realize she’s said it multiple times. I blink out of my daze, nodding,
and she continues, “I need the room ready as soon as we get her up there. As much gauze and
alcohol as you can find, and the suture kit, beneath the sink. Understand?” She doesn’t voice the
unspoken reality, that we are running out of time, might already be out, and I’m grateful she’s
maintaining calm, even if it is a lie.

I nod again, and though it rips me apart to turn away, I take off in the direction of the stairs,
hearing nothing but the beat of my heart—nothing, that is, until Isla’s scream breaks the sky apart
once more.

I am pacing the hall outside the infirmary, waiting for Tessa to exit with news — if Isla were dead,
this would have ended an hour ago, and I know that, but I can’t shake the fear wrapped around
me like vines. Neither Alex nor I is allowed inside as Tessa cleans my twin’s many injuries, both
too emotional to handle ourselves, and as much as I resent it, I don’t argue.

Alex was drawn away a few minutes prior by the boys I have come to know as Ronan, his brother,
and Charlie, Ronan’s boyfriend — looking at them, the way they move around each other like
orbiting planets, boyfriend feels too small a word, but it is all I have — for what I imagine to be
the most awkward family introduction of all time.

I feel a prick of sympathy for him as he’s led away, but it dissipates as my own outstanding knots
come to be unraveled.

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Katherine — Alli — finds me after I’ve worn a track through the long-staining marks in the
concrete, approaching slowly, hesitantly. She is not the girl I remember, her face gaunt and her
eyes dimmer and our secrets standing between us.

She says nothing, simply coming to stand near me when I halt in my pacing, and chews on her
lip the way she does when she’s nervous. The box with her name on it, so long tucked away in
my heart, finds its way to the surface, the lid toppling off, and all that I feel for Alli comes rushing
back, the pain and longing and the aching.

“She’s going to be fine, you know,” she says, not looking at me. “She’s…she’s something else,
Harper. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I can’t find the words to reply, to say I know or to pull out all the things I want to say to Alli, so I
stay quiet, instead leaning back into the wall beside her, exhaling. I’ve never known her to
struggle with silence, but I’ve also always made an effort to fill it, and now that I’m not, she’s
squirming beneath it.

“I know,” I say eventually, and realize I don’t know her the way I imagine I did; she doesn’t know
me. We are creatures of lies who found our way together once, unaware we wore the same coat,
and now that it has been shrugged off, all that remains is us—people we ourselves do not know.

“I wanted to tell you,” she says after another long pause. “But I…”

“You couldn’t,” I say. I smile sadly, shrugging a shoulder. “I couldn’t, either.”

She meets my eyes, intense and genuine, and I’m falling back into the expanse of her hickory
eyes. She doesn’t voice the words, but I hear them, anyway.

Do you hate me for it? For the secrets, the lies, all the things I left unsaid?

They are the very words I want to ask her, both of us thrown into messes we were unprepared to
deal with. A mountain of things to say rests between us—it always has, but now, it is visible.

I don’t know how to voice them, nor does she, and when we lapse into silence, I fear this, too, has
broken beyond repair.

A moment passes. Fingers graze mine, a silent question. My heart skips a beat, and I twine my
fingers through Alli’s the way I’ve missed doing for a year, since we walked away from each
other—toward each other, it now seems.

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She squeezes, and I squeeze back, and one broken piece glues itself back together.

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CHAPTER THIRTY ONE — ISLA

I have no idea how much time has passed since I lost consciousness outside the motel door, but
when I open my eyes, I’m in a bed in Tessa’s infirmary at the Nook. The fire in my side has
subsided, the pressure around it indicating bandages; Tessa fixed me up.

The events of the previous day stitch together in my head, panic brimming as the crash flashes in
my memory, as I remember stumbling along a dirt road with Luna and three extra Marked
teenagers behind me.

Alli. Ronan. Charlie. Where are they? Did they make it back, too, or are their bodies littered on
the forest floor like Pearson’s? Or, worse, are they already back in their invisible chains?

“Isla.” A familiar voice breaks through my fear, and Harper shifts into my line of sight, face
twisted with concern. She sits in a folding chair next to my bed, deep bags beneath her eyes,
looking as exhausted as I feel.

“Harper,” I breathe, cool relief washing over me. Harper scoots the chair closer, taking my hand
in hers. Her eyes well with tears, looking at me through glittering lashes, and my own tear ducts
prick with warning before I swipe the moisture away. “The others. Where—"

Harper hesitates, understanding, and nods. “Luna is with Beth and Tessa. Ronan and Charlie
and—" She hesitates, and I make a note to properly interrogate her about the subject at a later
date when she adds, the word weighted, “—Alli are here.” She shakes it off quickly, proceeding.
“You’ve been out for a day.” She pauses again, and when she speaks, her words tumble out in a
rush. “God, Isla, when Ronan came in carrying you—I thought you—”

I squeeze her hand, drawing her frantic attention to me. She is staring at the bandage on my
cheek, hiding cuts I haven’t brought myself to look at, and I clear my throat.

“I’m fine, Harp,” I say, and we both know it’s a lie.

“You were stabbed,” she emphasizes. “You almost died. What were you thinking?” The anger
simmering in her since my departure breaks through, her nostrils flaring and shoulders stiffening.
She is buzzing with heat; with a frustration I’ve never seen in her. “What the hell were you
thinking?”

Her curse is more unexpected than her anger, but I can’t imagine mentioning it will go over well
and push forward.

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“I couldn’t leave her there to die.”

“That’s a little dramatic, Isla,” Harper snaps. “It’s a camp, not a—"

“They kill them.” Harper’s words die on her lips, her mouth hanging wide open.

“They…what?” Harper asks. I swallow drily, struggling into a seated position, ignoring the
twisting pain in my side and drawing the blankets up higher.

“At twenty five. They kill them.” At Harper’s shock, I add, “Can’t have a rebellion if none of your
rebels are allowed to grow up, can you?”

Harper shakes her head. “No. That isn’t…. it’s not—"

“That’s why I went in,” I say. “Why I had to.”

Harper’s protest builds, seconds from snapping. I try to push up further, pain slicing me apart
and making me lose my balance, a hand slipping. I yelp as I catch myself, huffing and leaning
back into the pillows.

Guilt and something too close to pity for my liking flickers in her eyes, and Harper leans forward,
taking my hand again.

“If something happened to you…” Tears gleam in her eyes.

“You’re not getting rid of me,” I say. “Sorry.”

She lets out a tiny laugh, shaking her head. “Good. I’m nowhere done being annoyed with you.”

“And I’m nowhere near done annoying you.”

“Good.”

Harper hesitates, shifting uncomfortably, the topic I knew was coming burning on her tongue.
It’s wrong to let her squirm so much, but I can’t help the free entertainment.

“Did you know,” she asks, “about Kath—" She clears her throat, tries again. “About Alli?”

“That she was Marked, or that you and her—"

Harper’s cheeks flame scarlet, and I grin.

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“Didn’t know she was Marked,” I say casually. “As for the other thing, yeah, it was pretty clear
you had a massive thing for her.”

“It was not massive,” she says. “And people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”

“We don’t live in a house, period,” I add, and Harper rolls her eyes.

“You know what I’m talking about.” Her smile is borderline mischievous, and I resist the urge to
swipe it off her mouth.

“I do not—" I push up again, only to fall back at the brush of pain—I’ve never learned quickly.
Guilt twists at Harper as she frowns, leaning to shove me back into the pillow, to which I
immediately straighten. She rolls her eyes but seems more amused than irritated.

“It….” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. Right now, you need to get some rest.”

“You just said I’ve been asleep for a day.”

“You want out of the bed, take it up with Tessa. She’s the one who’ll kick your butt if she finds
you walking around.”

“She wouldn’t,” I say, and know instantly that, she in fact, would. I settle back into the pillows.
The words that have battered around my skull press against the surface, the cavern between
Harper and I no smaller than it was when I left.

“What you said before,” I start, anticipating Harper’s protest before it flickers to life, “about us
not knowing each other.”

“Isla, you know I didn’t—"

“You did,” I interrupt. “You did mean it.”

Her lips pull thin, nose crinkling, and before she can stop the train, I shove it onto the tracks—
this conversation is seventeen years in the making, and for all I’ve survived, it scares me more
than most of what I’ve seen and been through.

“And you were right. I don’t know you. And you don’t know me.”

She says my name again, like a plea, but it is half-hearted.

“I’ve been hiding behind this idea that we’re….” I shake my head, struggling to pull the
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fragments into words. “—that we’re not our own person. That I’m Isla, Harper’s sister, the one
who got all of her bad parts.”

“And I’m the one with no bad parts left,” Harper says, and there is an honesty in her tone I have
never heard—a resentment, a frustration, a desperation to be more.

We have been two halves of a whole for so long, neither of us bothered to figure out whether we
could be something on our own. And as much as I have resented Harper for pushing me into a
box, I never stepped back enough to see that I was staring into a box I made for her, too.

Without our labels, we are just people, and that is a terrifying prospect.

“But we’re not half a person. We have to be whole.”

“For better or for worse?” Harper asks, one side of her mouth curling up.

“Probably for worse,” I say, smiling back. “I’d like to meet the real Harper, though. I know she’s
in there, somewhere.” I reach up, tapping her on the temple, and she closes her eyes, laughing
lightly. When she opens them, it is as if I’m staring at a whole new person; her chin lifts, her
shoulders rise, the ever-present smile softens into a neutral line.

“I don’t think I know who that is,” she admits. She takes a deep breath, lifts her eyes to mine.
“Since we’re getting it all out there, there’s something I need you to know.”

My curiosity — and suspicion — is piqued, but I force a casual, “You know, you’re a much better
liar than I realized. Maybe some of my half got left behind.”

Harper ignores me — at least parts of us haven’t changed — and leans forward, eyes burning
with a ferocity I thought only flared in me.

“None of us ever bothered to tell you this, because we figured you knew, but since you clearly
don’t, I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen,” she says, an instruction in the words I obey
without thought. “You are not evil, Isla Batali, and you have never been anything but whole.”

I’ve always thought I looked like her, but right now, she looks like me.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she says. A sad smile plays on her lips. “I think you’re pissed
off, and you have every reason to be.” I’m so surprised to hear her curse again, I can’t argue with
her; I’m not sure I want to. “But you’re not a monster. You’re just a person. And maybe that’s
harder.”
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Anger. The armor that has settled in my skin and made a home in my heart. It is a fuse, one I am
watching burn out.

My sister has a point. When all of my anger runs out, what will be left, if anything?

“Harper…” I falter, fall short, and in the end, she takes my hand, and gives me a little nod like I
get it, and I think she does; we both finally do.

“Fugitives for life, right?” she asks. A half-sob, half-laugh breaks through my lips, and I bend
forward just as she does, her arms coming to wrap around me. I drop my chin onto her shoulder,
gripping her tightly.

For the first time in our lives, I am not the first to pull away.

Harper shifts back, clearing her throat, swiping at the moisture glistening around her eyes.
Movement to my left catches my attention, a bundle curled on the cot beside me, dark curls
poking out over a blanket pulled up to someone’s head.

My stomach twinges, longing and nerves and relief and a whole collection of things I don’t have
the words for. Alex.

With a knowing, smug smile, Harper says, “He’s been here with me since they brought you. Tessa
threatened to sedate him if he didn’t take a nap.”

I meet my sister’s eyes. “I am sorry,” I say, “for not telling you.”

For not saying goodbye.

Harper’s lips purse and she releases my hand.

“Did you not…trust me?”

“Is that what you think?” I shake my head. “I don’t know if you know this about yourself, Harp,
but you have a tendency to worry yourself into insanity. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want
you to freak out.”

“And you didn’t think you disappearing would make me freak out?”

“No,” I say. “I…” The reality slams into me, so long hidden by my own hands. “I didn’t tell you
I was leaving because I knew you’d ask me to stay.”

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“When have you ever cared what I want you to do?” She asks.

I soften, willing her to understand.

“If you asked me to stay, Harper, I’d have said yes.” I shrug.

“You should have,” she snaps.

“Maybe.”

Harper grumbles, then gives a tiny smile, somewhat reluctant. “You make it so hard to stay mad
at you.”

“Thank you,” I say, lips twitching up.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

I tilt my head, puckering my lips. “Pretty sure it was.”

She rolls her eyes, and in the bed to my side, Alex shifts again, stirring at our voices. He mumbles
incoherently, and Harper pushes to her feet.

“I’ll let Tessa and Beth know you’re awake. I’ll do my best to keep the masses out,” Harper says
with a smile, “but you’ve got a list going of people who want to come check on you.”

“On me?”

“You saved Luna’s life,” she says. “Saved Alli, and Ronan, and Charlie. They’re grateful.”

“Touching,” I say dispassionately, earning another eye roll. When Harper reaches the door, I call
her name, and she turns halfway.

“I love you, you know,” I say. Her lips pull into a gentle smile and she says, “I love you too, isla.”
Then she steps out into the hall, pulls the door shut, and leaves.

Alex is clinging to sleep in the bed beside me, and with a frown, I tug one of the spare pillows
tucked around my legs free and launch it in his direction. It thumps off his shoulders, and he
groans, shoving it away. With a scoff, I free another pillow, and chuck it directly at his face.

“I’m up!” He jerks to a seated position, batting the pillow away, taking a long moment to notice
me sitting beside him. His relief is near-palpable as he swings his legs over the bed and crosses

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the space between our cots, dropping onto mine. The mattress sinks beneath his weight, and my
heart skips a beat.

I didn’t realize the Alex-sized hole in my chest until he slid back into place. His name is an
exclamation point in my mind, echoing and pulsing, magical and musical.

Alex.

“You’re awake,” he says in a low voice, like he can’t believe it, or doesn’t want to—it is a
sentiment I understand, being afraid to trust a good thing for fear you’ll lose it.

“So are you,” I say. “Good nap?”

He ignores the quip, lifting a hand to my uninjured cheek, hovering an inch from my skin in an
unasked question. I have been shoved and sliced for so many days, the gentleness of it forces a
stone into my throat, and I swallow it down. I lean into his touch, another unrealized weight
falling from my chest as his cautious fingers brush my cheek.

“You’re okay,” he says, even softer. “When Ronan came in carrying you, I thought…” He shakes
his head. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Isla.”

“They’re all safe?” I ask again, though I know I won’t be settled until I see the faces of those I
brought here.

I have been a solitary creature for so long, thought I needed nothing and no one, but now, all I’m
concerned with is the ever-growing list of people I care about.

“They’re safe,” Alex says. “The Alli thing was a surprise, though. So was the Ronan thing.” He
purses his lips for a beat. “And the Charlie thing…” He stops. “It doesn’t matter. The others will
catch you up when you’re a little further from death.”

“I’m fine,” I protest. Alex makes a face.

“You were stabbed,” he says, “and scared the hell out of everyone when you passed out.” His
hand falls from my cheek, a playful smile on his lips. “You think next time you’re mortally injured
you could let someone know earlier?”

Next time. It’s oddly endearing, if not disconcerting, to realize he knows me well enough to expect
more. Being known is uncomfortable, but not completely unpleasant, and I don’t think I mind it.

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“I’ll consider it.”

His smile widens but turns serious in an instant. He licks his lips, forehead creased.

“Thank you,” he says. “For getting Ronan out. I don’t…I don’t even know how to thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just don’t take it for granted.”

Alex, back pressed against my thighs, leans closer, and I bend instinctively, the relief at seeing
him numbing my aching and filling me with warmth.

“I told you I’d come back,” I say. Alex’s floppy smile makes my stomach twist.

“You did,” he says. My gaze flicks to his lips, pink and plump and so close to mine, and back up
to his eyes, flecks of dark brown shining through the gold.

I’ve never been more aware of the scars peppering my skin and the bruises painted across me. I
never cared about it before, never had a reason to—Harper was pretty, and I assumed I was by
proxy, if not plainer. But it didn’t come up until Alex, until he looked at me the way he does, like
he never wants to stop.

I pull back to look at him, amber eyes and a kind smile, a sheep who isn’t afraid of wolves, who
wishes he were one.

“Alex.”

A crease forms between his brows.

“Don’t move,” I say. He stills, and I lift a hand to brush a stray curl off his forehead.

“Not a chance,” he breathes, as I shift closer, closer, closer until his breath is warm on my lips.
Even when I tilt my chin up, our faces centimeters apart, he stays frozen; unmoving, waiting.

“Yes,” I whisper, and it takes a moment for understanding to dawn. He closes the distance
between us carefully. It is the ghost of a kiss, so soft and small I could have imagined it.

I shift back, struggling to think beyond the flames in my cheeks and the racing of my heart. I meet
his gaze, tongue dragging along my bottom lip, and his eyes dart down and come up again. His
lips part as if to speak, but I don’t give him the chance, leaning forward to kiss him again.

This time, I feel it. Slow, careful, his mouth against mine. Soft melon and lemon shampoo and the
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tickle of fallen curls on my skin.

I’d let myself imagine what it would be like to be kissed, but I hadn’t gotten it close. This is
melting and sinking and coming alive all at once—if sparks in my toes and coils in my intestines
and pushes up my throat.

I give his hair an inquisitive tug, and his head tips to the side, a low noise rising from the back of
his throat. He grips the hem of my shirt and tugs me closer, and I let my hands climb to his hair,
fingers winding into his curls, careful not to hit the ring in his nose with the tip of my own. The
bruises and bumps don’t matter now, not with Alex’s hands on my skin and his mouth on mine.
I may not know what I’m doing, but Alex does, lips parting against mine, gentler than I thought
possible.

When I pull away, catching my breath, he dips his forehead against mine, the only spot of warmth
in the hold. My heart thrums with the speed of a hummingbird’s and my skin is alight everywhere
he touched.

“I never told you,” Alex murmurs, breathing heavy, “the real reason I came with you.”

I frown, rearing back. “What?”

“It wasn’t because I’m Harper’s friend, or because I knew I would go to jail the second I got
caught. It was because of you.”

“Me,” I say dumbly.

“When I saw you on the lawn that day, all those years ago, you were the only one who looked
angry. Like you wanted to run across the street and save Mrs. Nguyen yourself. You were the
only one there. No one else cared enough to even watch them take her away. But you did,” he
says, eyes still unfocused but intense in their honesty.

“And I forgot about it, until you broke into my living room, and there you were again, unlike
anyone I’ve ever met.” He shakes his head, a smile flickering briefly. “I think they were right
about your Mark, Isles, and I think they’re afraid of you, but I don’t think it’s for the reason they
say.”

I’m reminded of Cooke, on the rooftop, of for there to be good people, there have to be bad ones and
Isn’t it easier for everyone if they simply tell us who’s who?

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“And what’s the reason?” I ask, suddenly afraid of what he’s going to say.

“Because you could change things. You could change everything.”

I frown, my assessment of Alex filtering through my mind. A sheep who wishes he were a wolf.
Does that make me the wolf?

“Harper thinks it was nuts,” I say, “to go after Luna. To even find this place.”

“It was nuts.”

“Why did you come with me, then?”

“Why?” he asks. “Because you’re brave, and you’re tough, and you never do what I think you’re
going to. Because you risked your life to go after your sister and risked it again to bring Luna
back. Before you showed up, it’s like I was…living in this fog, because I had to, because it’s the
only way to keep your head down. And…I don’t know, I look at you, and it’s like I can through
it. I can see, period.” He looks away, clearing his throat; he hadn’t meant to reveal as much as he
had.

A blush rises to my cheeks. I have spent seventeen years believing I was a monster hiding behind
a saint’s face. It is easier this way, comfortable. But the room to hide what they told me I am has
run out, if it ever even existed.

Maybe monsters aren’t born, but made, through bad choices and ignorance, sometimes through
no fault of their own.

Maybe they told me I was a monster, and I didn’t question it until I was.

Alex lifts a hand to my cheek, thumb grazing the gauze.

“What happened here?” He asks.

Memories of Pearson’s interrogation push panic and nausea to the surface, and I bring a hand to
my bandaged cheek, swallowing bile.

“A knife,” I say, and Alex flinches. I start peeling the tape off the edge of the gauze, and Alex
shoots a hand out, fingers closing around my wrist. At the narrowing of my eyes, he drops his
hand.

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“What are you—"

“I need you to tell me what it looks like.” My voice wavers, and with the falter, Alex softens, nods,
taps my hand gently to nudge it out of the way. He peels the tape and bandage away, and it stings
as blood catches on the fibers as he frees the gauze, letting his hand fall away and giving himself
a full view of my cheek.

The blood drains from his face, and his lips part, a small gasp slipping out, horror flashing in his
eyes. I’m rolling through every horrible thing I could be stuck with on my face for the rest of my
life, trying to fit an image into the aghast look on Alex’s face.

“Out with it, Morales,” I spit. He opens his mouth, silent for a beat, and when he does speak, his
words are strained, strangled.

“It’s…it’s an M,” he chokes. “They branded you.”

A deafening ringing builds in my skull, the room spinning around me. I shove my legs over the
bed and push onto unsteady feet, stumbling toward the small mirror above the sink along the far
wall.

Alex lunges to catch me as my knees buckle, but rather than forcing me back to the bed as I expect,
he helps me forward, guiding me to the mirror and holding me upright.

The mirror is dusty, and the purple bruising around my eyes and face hides an inch of the cut,
but its shape is undeniable.

The letter M. Beginning at the corner of my mouth and stretching up just below my right eye,
down an inch, and up to my hairline, and down by my ear. Crudely carved but painstakingly,
clearly, an M. Marked.

There will be no more hiding behind Harper’s face anymore—it isn’t hers, but mine alone. I am
cattle in a herd, branded as one thing and doomed the moment the metal hit my skin. Bile claws
up my throat and I force it down, holding my gaze in the mirror and not recognizing the girl
staring back.

Little more than a month has passed since I climbed out my sister’s window and ran across the
grass, since I last saw my parents, since I slept in my own bed.

A month ago, I’d never so much as punched anyone apart from my father, and now, the blood of

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two men — evil, horrible men, but still men — stains my hands. What would my parents say, if
they saw me now? Bruised and bloody and branded?

“Monsters,” Alex says, mouth twisted in an angry frown. I turn, unable to look at my mess of a
reflection, and Alex’s expression, all anger and sadness and fierce protectiveness, opens the
floodgates in me, letting out all I’ve shoved down to keep moving forward.

My parents are in prison, and my home is gone, and my body is broken, and each time I close my
eyes, I am in the interrogation room, strapped to a chair, powerless.

Tears prick the backs of my eyes and a sob bubbles up in my chest. My flimsy control crumples,
and I sag into Alex, who guides me back to the bed. He pulls me gently down beside him, drawing
me into his arms.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, ducking his chin, voice muffled by my hair. “I’ve got you. Te tengo.”

He holds me as my body shakes, tears streaming down my cheeks and soaking through his shirt,
holds me until the tears run dry and after, murmuring softly in Spanish and English, easing the
chaos out of me.

I pull away a long time later with a shuddering breath. Alex reaches up, fingers ghosting my cut
cheek along the unharmed skin, and he pushes to his feet, stepping to Tessa’s cabinet and pulling
out gauze and medical tape.

“I can cover it back up, if you—"

“No.” The force of the words surprises me, and I stand unsteadily. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“People need to see it,” I say. “What the camps are. Who they are.”

Alex crosses the room, lifting his hands but not touching. At my nod — permission — his hands
settle against my neck, thumbs on my jaw. He is careful not to touch anything that hurts, which
is a task, as near everything does.

“Who the real monsters are,” he says, and I can’t help my smile.

There are monsters in this world, but maybe they aren’t the ones I have been told. Maybe they
are someone else, someone in hiding. And if that is the case, I’m finishing letting them cower in

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the shadows.

Only a monster can beat a monster; luckily enough, I am a monster, too.

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CHAPTER THIRTY TWO — ISLA

At Tessa’s request — and Harper and Alex’s pointed stares — I spend another night in the
infirmary, only agreeing at the assurance no visitors beyond the three of them is allowed in.
Harper accidentally let slip the fact that all conversation in the Nook centers around me and my
‘valiant’ rescue of Luna and the others—I’m not ready to deal with the annoying smiles and
inevitable discussions and having to pretend to care about being polite and social.

My rumbling stomach forces me out of the sanctuary of the infirmary near lunchtime, the scent
wafting all the way up to torture me. I pad down the hall at a painstaking pace, grateful to be
alone for the long journey down the stairs. At the bottom, I stand against the wall for a full five
minutes before I’m certain I won’t pass out, and head toward the growing chatter and smell of
the common area and lunch time.

A hush falls over the bustling tables and couches, a hundred pairs of eyes on me in an instant. I
stiffen, scanning the faces for a familiar one, relieved to see Harper sat at a table with Beth, Tessa,
Alex, Luna, Alli, Ronan, and Charlie. I weave through the bodies and furniture, ignoring the
attention burning holes in my skin, and join them at an old wooden bench table at the edge of the
group. Alex and Harper shift apart to make space between, and I ease over the bench, a huff of
pain I can’t control slipping past.

Cooke appears out of thin air, coming up behind Ronan, Charlie, Alli, and Beth on the other side
of the table with a bowl of soup and a chunk of bread, leaning to place it in front of me. He plops
a spoon into the bowl and gives me a curt nod, but the approval and appreciation in his eyes is
so overwhelming I have to look away.

I swallow at least five spoonful’s before remembering I’m surrounded, pausing with the spoon
midway to my mouth and glancing around the table. They — and the entire common area, with
the exception of Ronan and Charlie who are as interested in their food as I am mine — stare at
me with varying levels of amusement.

“Someone’s feeling better,” Beth says with a wink. Charlie drags his attention from his bowl and
the plate of bread torn into dozens of pieces in front of him, rolling closer to the edge of the table
and leaning into it.

“We thought you were dead. Really dead,” he says. Ronan snorts. He, like Ronan, like Luna, like
me, didn’t grow up with the pleasantries or intricacies of social construct, and neither know of
nor care for them. They are unfiltered, free of tongue.

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“Yeah, you wanna tell us why you decided not to share that important piece of information?”
Luna asks. “It’s pretty simple. You say, ‘I got stabbed,’ and then you don’t pass out in the doorway
of a shitty motel.”

“Language,” Beth chides. She turns to me. “You did scare the shit out of us.”

“Oh, so you get to do it?” Luna asks. Beth shoots her a grin.

“It’s an unfair world,” she says, and Luna rolls her eyes, pouting.

At the other end of the table, Charlie taps Ronan lightly on the arm, arching a brow slightly, and
Ronan nods, nudging his bowl aside as Charlie slides his plate between them. They exchange
another look, one that might be some silent thank you. It’s fascinating to watch, this language
they’ve created in the space between sound.

Ronan pops a handful of bread into his mouth, and Charlie nods, contented. Beth, noticing the
interaction, calls for Cooke.

“You can have seconds, you know,” Beth says, standing to meet Cooke as he brings out two
mismatched plastic bowls and setting them in front of the boys. At her proximity, Ronan is a stiff
rod, but Charlie gives a shy smile over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says, the words lilted, like he’s unsure how to say them; like he never has before.
As Beth returns to her seat, he leans to whisper to Ronan, “The hell are seconds?” just loud enough
to hear. Ronan shrugs.

“Hell, if I know,” he murmurs. “Gets us more food.” He meets Charlie’s eyes, and for the tenth
of a second, a blink, he smiles.

“You’re going to get fat,” Charlie tells him affectionately, and I swallow my own smile—
eavesdropping is frowned upon, and I avert my gaze, but I don’t miss the lightning quick
movement as Ronan bends as if to scratch at his calf and sweeps a kiss across Charlie’s shoulder.
He catches my eye after, an unspoken dare in his expression. I give a dismissive shrug, letting
him interpret it as he wishes, and let my attention trail back to the others.

Harper tugs at my sleeve, and with the turn of my head, she gets her first clear view of the scabbed
slashes on my cheek. She inhales sharply, a hand rising and falling as she decides against
touching, taking my hand instead.

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“My god, Isla,” she whispers. I push down the nausea that finds me each time I think of the brand
and force a reassuring half-smile, though the strained look on her face tells me it isn’t convincing.

“I’m fine, Harper,” I say, for the Nth time.

“Actually,” Tessa pipes from farther down the bench beside Harper, “she has a broken nose, two
black eyes, eight stitches, and bruised ribs—again.” The faces around the table scrunch up, and I
cower beneath it. “And that’s not to mention the medical procedure you had done two days ago
under no anesthetic, and the stab wound.”

“It was just some extraction,” I say, squirming under the growing concern, “and stabbed is an
exaggeration.” All eyes are on me—all but Ronan and Charlie, too interested in their soup to pay
attention; Ronan looks around every five seconds, but it’s more for gauging threats than keeping
up with our conversation.

“A spinal tap, isla,” Alex says. “Spinal tap.”

I wave a hand. “Whatever.”

Harper tugs her hand away. “You are the most foolish person I have ever met-”

I give her a lopsided grin, and her defenses falter just as I intend.

“And here I thought I was the bravest.”

“You can have more than one specialty,” Alex says. I snort, my smile finding its way to him, and
his eyes widen at the sight of it.

Across the table, Alli waggles her brows at me, and I aim a hard kick at her shins under the table.
She yelps, and Harper’s attention snaps her way.

“Oops,” I say. Alli shoots a kick back, striking me in the knee.

“If your parents could see you now…” Tessa says, looking between Harper, Alli, and I. “They
would be so proud of you.”

“For what?” I scoff. “Almost getting killed? Pissing off the sentries even more than we already
have?”

Beth and Tessa are quiet for a long time before one of them speaks.

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“The thing you have to understand,” Beth says, “is that we survive by playing defense. We’ve
been holding our ground for fifty years, and even then, we’re been losing it. And you come along,
and you don’t just hold our ground. You take more.” Moisture glistens in her eyes, and my
stomach twists, emotions swirling and building and threatening to bust out of me.

I can’t help but think of my parents, rotting in a cell and doomed to stay there. But unlike my first
life, the one I left behind when I climbed out Harper’s window, their bars will never be bent—
there will be no windows to climb out or tunnels to dig or locks to pick.

And somehow, looking around at a table — a room — of people deemed inconsequential or evil
or broken, people born into timelines I broke apart, it doesn’t hurt as badly.

My parents are gone, likely always will be—it is a mountain I can’t think about climbing. But I
made it over this first hill, however small, and the first hill is always the hardest. I hadn’t even
realized I was climbing it.

Alli, Luna, Ronan, Charlie. Because of me, however insane my plan was at the start, they have
lives. Choices. Chances. They aren’t great, are nowhere near the best, but they are still there. And
that isn’t a luxury any of us has been presented before.

I attempt to slip off to the stairs after lunch and retreat to my room for a nap, but Harper jogs to
catch me on my way down the hall, easily done in my maddeningly-slow state. I slow, a protest
already building on my lips.

“You know, for someone who almost died, you move really fast,” Harper says blowing the
escaped strands of hair from her bun out of her eyes. It’s odd to see her without a perfectly curated
outfit—odd to see her like me, in sweats and ponytails and with dark half-moons pressed under
her eyes.

“Haven’t I been social enough for one day?” I ask.

“Beth and Tessa need to see us in the training room. Something to talk to us about.” She shifts her
weight. “I don’t know.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now,” she says.

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“No rest for the wicked, I guess,” I say with a huff, earning a disapproving noise from Harper. I
veer, headed in the direction of the training room, and Harper falls into step beside me.

“I was expecting more of a fight,” she says.

“I mean, I can give you one—"

“Thanks, all good.”

I toss her a smile, and we reach the training room as Alex approaches from one side, Ronan and
Charlie from another.

The ice isn’t fully broken between the brothers, evident in the stiffening of their shoulders and
setting of their jaws. They are a mirror, taking in their alter, Alex quiet and nervous, Ronan wired
and anticipatory. The buffer of the others is gone, and neither boy knows what to do with the
other. They grew up apart, expected always to, and now, they’re two feet apart.

“Batali,” Ronan says in greeting, nodding at me, which I return. Charlie gives me a smile and
nudges the door open, Ronan catching it and pushing it wide enough for Charlie to enter through,
ducking in after and holding the door for us.

Alli, Beth, and Tessa are already inside—no Luna. Her absence makes my skin crawl; a meeting
for the so-called adults can’t be a good thing.

Someone closes the door behind us, and we’re gathered in a small clump near the door, everyone
waiting for whatever bomb we’ve come here for to drop. Regardless of our differences, it is a
blow we prepare for at all times, raised on caution and concern.

“Who did what now?” I ask. I wish I had a chair to sink into, exhausted from my brief time on
my feet, and feel myself sway. Hands close around my shoulders, effortlessly supporting my
weight, and I stiffen, glancing over my shoulder to find Alex behind me, his eyes on Beth. I resist
the urge to step away and out of his touch, instead leaning back and easing more pressure off my
back and side.

I notice Harper’s eyes on me, a curious look on her face, tinged with amusement and something
that clearly says called it.

“No one,” Tessa says. A pause. “As far as I know.”

“Give it half an hour,” Beth says. Tessa’s lips twitch, but she shifts into focus mode, focusing on
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Charlie. Ronan stands with a hand on his shoulder, inclined against the chair, Charlie leaning in
his direction.

“Charlie. Tell me what you told me.”

Ronan tenses, his grip on Charlie tightening as the boy speaks, seeming to push strength through
his contact. He tells the story he told me, sugarcoated even further but true at its core. Faces
around the room twist and pale as Charlie talks, and Tessa looks on the verge of throwing up
when the connection to Governor Wu is revealed.

“What does that mean for us?” Alex asks.

Neither Beth nor Tessa responds immediately, and a sour pit fizzles to life and burns at the back
of my throat. There will be no downplaying of the danger with Luna absent, and I steel for it.

Of course, the peace couldn’t last. Of course, this couldn’t be over.

“I erased as many of our tracks as I could,” Beth says, “but they’re not going to stop. They’ll never
stop looking.”

Harper deflates in my peripheral vision, and I wish she were close enough to reach out and take
her hand.

“Tell us what it means,” I say coolly.

“For now, we operate as normal. The Nook stays on lockdown.” Beth purses her lips. “But it’s
not a permanent solution.”

“We have to leave.” I step forward on shaky legs. “That’s what you’re saying.”

Harper’s sharp gasp is all that breaks through the rising slam of my heart, and I take another step
away from Alex, willing the world to stop spinning.

“We have to leave?” Harper asks.

I can’t look at Ronan or Charlie, but I can feel their burning despair—it burns in me.

Tessa winces. “Not yet,” she says. “Not right now. But…”

“But the camps will catch the trail. They always do,” Beth says. She looks between me, Alli,
Ronan, and Charlie, an apologetic, almost pleading expression on her face; us, the doomed and
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hunted. “It isn’t fair, not after what you’ve done for us, but…”

“But you have people to protect,” I say, like it doesn’t taste like ash.

“There are one hundred people here. Kids. And as much as I want to tell you it’s safe for everyone
if you stay, it’s not.”

“Where are we supposed to go?” Alli asks.

“We can get you the closest Tent City. They can get you to another,” Tessa says, face clouded.
“You can bounce around until you find somewhere safe.”

Alli joins the crew of shocked silence growing around the room, leaving only me, and I too am
dangerously close to falling.

I thought after saving Luna, after finding our way back here, I could breathe—for the first time
in weeks, possibly for the first time ever. But, of course, the danger still clatters behind us like the
cans on a newlywed’s car.

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CHAPTER THIRTY THREE — ISLA

Only Beth, Tessa, and Cooke — my source of access — have keys to the roof, but somehow, Alex
finds me outside the evening after the meeting in the training room, pushing through the door as
if it’s always accessible, coming to drop beside me on an old and splintering bench.

I’ve been up here for hours, running around and around Beth and Tessa’s confession: our
sanctuary is temporary. The purpose of my rescue mission after Luna was cleaning up the mess
I made by getting her tossed in, not to make a million more. How can I clean anything up if I’m
too busy running for my life?

“Did you steal a key?” I ask. Alex scoffs, leaning back and stretching out his long legs in front of
him. “Pick the lock?”

He gives me a withering look. “You really don’t think Luna has a copy? Said she’d take my head
off if I told anyone, so let’s keep it hush.” He pokes my shoulder with a finger. “You been out
here the whole time?”

“Tessa tried to rope me into another checkup.”

“So, you’re hiding.”

“That’s a word for it.” I sit back, moving to fold my arms, but the twinge of pain draws my hands
to my sides again. Alex frowns, and I feel the interrogation building.

“How are you, Isla? Really? And don’t give me your I’m fine bullshit,” he says. “It doesn’t work
on Harper, and it doesn’t work on me.”

I let out a breath, a small plume of white in the frigid air. The heaviness in my lungs is lighter
than yesterday; it will be lighter tomorrow. I ignore my instinct to lie.

“I thought I was going to die in there,” I say, staring into the dark horizon above the ledge. “I
thought I was going to die, and they were all going to die with me.” Acid burns up my throat.
“But the rest of them….the people I—”

A muscle twitches in his jaw. He might not have seen their faces, but he feels part of the loss, too.

“What is it you told me? Just because we can’t save everyone doesn’t mean we shouldn’t save
anyone. And you did. You saved four people.”

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It isn’t enough, will never be enough, but he doesn’t understand. He may have jumped on this
ship, but he didn’t watch it sail past the eyes of hundreds destined to die. He didn’t leave them
behind.

“I see their faces,” I say, images rolling behind my lids, names I know and names I never will. My
parents, the sentry in the house, Pearson, the kids in the camp. “A thousand Marked kids who
didn’t make the cut. I see them, every time I close my eyes, and I don’t think—” I press my lips
together. “I don’t think it’ll ever stop.” The honesty is exhausting and uncomfortable, but the
breath I take isn’t as acidic.

Alex straightens, taps my knee to get my attention, waits a beat before lifting a hand to flick a
fallen curl from my forehead. He seems much older then, sorrow lining his face.

“I’m not going to lie,” Alex says, “and tell you this is going to be easy. It won’t. It won’t be easy
for a long time. But you’re going to be okay.” His smile is warm, and it softens my ice. “Okay
enough.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, no life in my fight.

“I do,” he says. “Because I’ve been at the end of the road a thousand times, and it always keeps
going. Even when you don’t think it will. Even when you don’t want it to.”

“So, what, you just...keep on keeping on?”

He snorts, giving a half nod, half shrug.

“You decided to live,” he says.

“And if no one else wants that? If there’s no room for me here?” I ask, and am grateful he
understands what I mean—understands belonging is about more than this warehouse.

For a brief moment, I could swear the smile he gives me is wicked.

“You make it,” he says. Pauses. “We all do.”

My gaze shifts to the dark expanse beyond the rooftop, the black water blending into a black sky.
How is it possible the landscape remains unchanged, that the same waves lick the shores and the
same moon crests overhead and the same stars shine, as the rest of us are in a constant state of
chaos.

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“It might be a good thing my parents aren’t here,” I say, bitterness rising. “That they’re not here
to see how wrong they were.”

“Wrong? What are you—”

“They gave up their lives for me because they believed I was good,” I say. Alex stiffens, and a
spark of frustration flickers across his features.

“They gave up their lives for you because they believed you deserved a chance,” he says.

I continue like he hasn’t spoken, lips curled in a humorless smile. “I don’t feel bad about it. What
I did, to those men. I don’t regret it, and I’d do it again, if I had to.” The honesty in my own words
sends a rush of shame through me, and I stamp it down.

Alex doesn’t take the bait, rather shrugging a shoulder dismissively with a frown, almost sad.
“What do you want me to say, Isla? Want me to run away? Yell at you? Tell you I think you’re a
monster? Because I don’t. You know I don’t.” He waves a hand. “And it doesn’t matter what I
think, does it? It matters what you think.”

I shake my head, willing him to see the pieces the way I have, afraid of what it might mean to see
them his way.

“Everyone keeps telling me they don’t think the Mark means anything. You, Cooke, Harper. But
it does, even if it’s not the way we thought. And I don’t know what it means, or what it makes
me, but what I do know is Harper never would have done what I did. You wouldn’t. Beth, Tessa,
my parents,” I shift to face him on the bench, drawing a leg up. “But I did. I can. And because it,
because of whatever’s broken in me or different, I got Luna out. I got them all out. And I can live
with that.” I take a shuddering breath, meeting his eyes and holding them. “You tell me I’m not
a bad person, but maybe I am. I want to be good. I’m trying to be, but I’m never going to be like
any of you. I can’t be.”

Alex laughs, a quick, surprised laughs.

“You know, you’re really smart, Isla, a fucking genius for someone who grew up the way you
did, but you still don’t get it,” he says. I stiffen; if not the tone, not at all accusatory, I’d cut him
off. “We aren’t these perfect people you’ve made us out to be. I’m not, and Harper isn’t, and your
parents aren’t. It isn’t some…” A wave of frustration crosses his face as he rifles through his index
of languages, “It isn’t this inherent thing. We’re all just trying to be good. And maybe it is easier
for Harper, maybe it’s not, but that doesn’t mean you or me or anyone is worse than her. It makes
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us human. That’s just…being human. Trying to be whatever you decide you are. And that’s not
what we were told, but I think maybe they’ve been telling us different for a long time,” he says,
eyes bright, passionate and animated.

His words crack the vault on the thought that has nagged at me for weeks.

Cooke’s words on the rooftop, about good and bad and how much easier it is to be told who is
which. Seeing the way the unMarked people in the Nook, in my life, don’t move forward unless
one of us pushes them. I can sense it, something just out of grasp, a missing piece of a puzzle none
of us knew we were part of.

“So, you’re saying you don’t think I’m an evil, corrupt creature that belongs in a cage?” I ask,
teasing—surprising myself.

“Because cages seem to hold you so well,” he says.

I smile, satisfied with the answer, holding my hand out for him to take; he threads our fingers
together, letting them rest on his thigh. His thumb traces along the space to the right my pointer
finger and I struggle to pull some kind of sentence together.

I will never get used to this, being touched this way.

“You certainly played your part in keeping me out of one,” I say.

“No, that was all you, Isles,” he says, and I think I might burst with feeling, “I was just along for
the ride.”

“You drove,” I point out. He gives me a lopsided grin and reaches out to tuck a fallen strand of
hair behind my ears, hand settling on my neck.

“It really doesn’t bother you?” I ask. “All the things I’ve done?”

I know I won’t lose much — a little, but the cost outweighs the consequence — sleep over my
sins, but for some unknown reason, I care what Alex thinks; care he thinks positively of me.

He dips toward me, shaking his head, and says, “No. Against what is probably better judgment.”

I laugh, catching his mouth in mine, fingers rising to his cheeks. He kisses me back, despite my
brokenness and my difference, despite the blood on my hands and the brands on my skin. I knot
my fingers in his shirt, pulling him closer, his skin a warm contrast to the icy night, making my

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toes curl like one of the heroine’s in Harper’s romance novels—the ones I absolutely did not read.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against my lips, “for saving my brother. For saving me.”

I pull back and tip my forehead against his. “I think,” I say, “it goes both ways.”

He smiles, ducking to drop a kiss that makes my stomach flutter on my shoulder. He sits back,
slipping an arm around me, cautious of my weary frame. I consider reminding him I haven’t
broken yet, and he likely won’t be the one to do so, but find I don’t mind the tenderness of the
gesture.

“How are Charlie and Ronan?” I ask, eager to move to a subject that won’t redden my cheeks.

Alex snorts. “Charlie keeps asking permission for everything, and Ronan looks like he’s going to
kill someone every time a door opens—” He flicks a shy smile at me. “—but that one isn’t really
new.”

I roll my eyes.

“Eighteen years is a lot to catch up on,” I say. “But they’ll get there. We all will.” It is more
optimistic than is typical, but it isn’t a lie.

Ronan is already softening, degrees of relaxation edging into visibility; the one time he doesn’t
flinch when someone besides Charlie says his name, the one time he smiled at a joke Alli made.
Charlie, too, is opening up, his smiles far more frequent than any of us expected and infectious
each time.

It will not be an easy fix—the Nook is stocked full of broken children, and there is no wishing it
away.

“We’ve got time, right?” Alex asks. He smiles, the cold giving his honey skin a hint of pink, a few
unruly curls falling over his head—beautiful. His question is loaded, and one I wish had a simple
answer.

But our days here are not infinite, and we are on a deadline with no calendar to refer to. Covering
our tracks will stretch out our time, but one day, and one day soon, this band will snap, and we
will have to leave the sanctuary we fought tooth and nail to return to. One day soon, this will fall
away, as everything else has.

I am not naïve enough to believe we have much time left. The basement hadn’t been safe, nor had
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Alex’s house, and this place can’t be different. Not with so many new variables. The sentries will
find us, and it is not a possibility, but a reality.

And, even with all that, I want to risk it all again, to slash those days if I have to. There are kids
inside Haven, children’s and teenagers who grew up alongside Ronan and Charlie, who weren’t
‘lucky’ enough to make it out with us. Thousands more are scattered throughout the state,
destined to die in search of a cure for something that might not be a disease; something that may
not be what we thought. I can’t abandon them, these kids I left behind, ones who watched us
walk away.

I don’t know how to tell Alex and risk standing alone. Harper’s reaction is a given, the reigniting
of a flame I so recently put out, and Tessa, too, will protest, but I have seen the fire in Beth’s eyes,
the indecision in the boys’ at leaving the only family they’ve known. I have seen Luna’s ferocity
and Alli’s strength. I have allies, if I need them; when I need them.

Alex looks at me expectantly, and for a moment, I want to tell him, to crack open the bubble we
crawled inside, warm and safe. But I want to stay inside for a bit longer, for just another moment.

I suppose we have a little bit of time.

“We do,” I say.

We won the battle. I plan on winning the war, too.

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