He leans close and that silver tooth catches the light, winking down at me. “Think you’re so good now?” His gloved fist floats inches from my face, ready to connect. I fight the need to flinch that shakes through me.

I swallow my fear in a bitter wash of saliva. “Made you work for it though, didn’t I?” It’s all bravado. For him. For anyone watching. But I say it . . . spit the words out.

His face burns ever redder. A drop of sweat drips off his nose and splats onto my cheek. “Yeah. So this is going to be even sweeter.”

He spares my face.

A gloved fist connects with my side. Pain explodes in my ribs. I gasp, choke for air through the blur of agony. I haven’t recovered before he does it again.

The world darkens for a moment. And then flashes of light spin and twirl above me until my vision eventually clears. Then it’s him again. Tully in my face. Filling my world.

“So tough with your imprint? But you know what I think of all you guys walking around here with imprints?” He leans his face close to my ear. “You’re a bunch of tools to ever get caught doing anything in the first place. Me? I’ve done lots of things. Especially to girls like you. There was one girl that rode my bus. She had a big mouth. It was so easy to pin her to the backseat . . . break her finger. Like snapping a twig. Her mouth wasn’t so big after that. And I made sure she knew it would be worse if she told on me.” This he says with particular relish, his eyes getting an almost glazed look . . . like he’s remembering the pain he’s inflicted. “And I ain’t never been caught.”

He lets this sink in. Doubtlessly to feel and appreciate my chill of horror. I school my features, struggling to let nothing bleed through.

He continues, “If I hadn’t been tested, nobody would ever have known about me.”

The irony is that he’s right. Wainwright did something right getting this guy off the streets.

I struggle to free my arms. No luck there, I scan his fleshy, perspiring face. His nose, like the rest of him, is larger than average. Bulbous almost, veins popping along the outsides of his flaring nostrils. Before I chicken out, I lift my neck and crash my forehead into his nose. I hit him as hard as I can—overlooking the pain in my skull, knowing it’s only a fraction of the agony he’s feeling.

He howls and pulls back, slapping his hands over his nose.

It does nothing to block the gush of blood. I ignore it, shoving back my disgust at the dark red spray splattering my shirt.

Taking advantage of the moment, I jump to my feet. While he’s still down, I kick him in the stomach. Once. Twice.

He turns, angling his body into a protective ball, one hand still clutching his nose. I deliver a few more kicks, seizing my opportunity, knowing he could recover at any second and be on his feet. I simply act, not thinking about what I’m doing . . . about how it feels . . . heady and euphoric. He starts to push up, and I press my gloves together and bring them down on his head. He collapses back down from the blow.

My chest rises and falls with heavy pants. My arms hang at my sides. Incredulous, I hesitate, gawking at him . . . marveling that I beat him. All by myself. Grinning, I look around.

And that’s my fatal mistake.

He rushes me, shouldering my legs at the knees. I hit the ground like a limp doll. I fall harder than last time. My head collides into the mat so hard I think it rattles my brain. Jars my teeth and whips my neck.

He shows no mercy. This time his fist connects with my face in a vicious crack. The force stuns me. Every nerve in my face screams out. And when he brings his glove down a second time, I feel the skin split in my cheek. I bring my glove to my face.

My vision blurs, but I can make out his mangled face, the mashed nose dripping blood. His gloved fist is pulled back for another blow, and something tells me this time, when he hits me, I won’t stay conscious. It will knock me out. No way can I stay awake for more of this.

Then he’s gone.

I’m free. My aching lungs swell with air, but even that movement makes the pain in my face worse. Unbearable.

I force myself up, but my movements feel slow . . . like I’m underwater. My side screams and I clutch my ribs.

I hear them before I see them, before my gaze focuses, locating the pair on the mat. Sean wrestles with Tully, their bodies writhing and straining against each other.

Sean is fierce and wild, his body moving with a fluidity and ease that almost seems at odds with the power behind the violent blows he’s delivering every chance he gets. He’s getting more punches in than Tully. Pounding him in the face, the side of the head, the shoulders, the torso . . . anywhere he can reach. Finally, Tully’s not lifting his arms up to defend himself at all anymore. He just takes every blow, lies there like a sponge.

Dimly, I realize a crowd has gathered to watch. Several call out words of advice and encouragement. To Tully or Sean, I’m not sure.

Sitting on the mat, seeing what everyone else sees: Sean rescuing me, pummeling my opponent because I failed . . . because I had dropped my guard; disgust washes over me.

I stand, swaying a little. Another weakness. I blink, fight through the dizziness. Luckily, no one pays attention to me, all eyes are focused on Sean trouncing an insensible boy. I step forward to stop him and drop, falling to my knees. I don’t reach him before an instructor is there, tugging Sean away.

“C’mon, O’Rourke. He’s finished.”

He’s finished. Meaning Sean finished him. Not me. Disappointed in myself, I watch Sean as he climbs off Tully.

His gaze scans the crowd, searching. For me, I realize. As though he needs to see me and satisfy himself that I’m okay. His gaze lands on me, and his shoulders seem to relax, the rigidity slipping away ever so slightly, water through a sieve.

For a moment, something unfurls inside me and lightens. A loosening in my chest. A flutter in my stomach. And then I remember myself and what I am. What I’m supposed to be. . . .

Not some girl who swoons when a boy flexes his muscles. Not someone who should be letting her heart feel anything. In this place, feelings, sentiment, will only bring me down.

“O’Rourke?” The instructor faces him, his expression annoyed. “Why did you abandon your assigned activity?”

Sean says nothing. The instructor follows Sean’s gaze, glancing back at me and I resist the urge to cover my face. I can feel the warm blood trickling down from the gash in my cheek. He surveys me from head to toe with a quick sweep of his eyes. His lips quirk, amused. The instructor nods as if he understands perfectly. And I’m sure he does. Everyone does. Sean fought my battle because I made a mistake and dropped my guard.

The instructor sighs and shakes his head. “It’s critical for your training that you prove you can follow directions.” That said, he pats Sean on the shoulder, glancing down once at Tully on the mat. He snorts at the pitiable sight of him.

Sean might have broken away from what he was supposed to be doing and interfered in my training, but he demonstrated his strength. Apparently, that scored him some points today.

Just what I was trying to do.

Sean’s gaze locks on me. He’s slightly winded, but as far as I can see there’s not a scratch anywhere on him. His eyes are bright, alive, and alert in a way they never are when he’s his usual stoic self. Which makes me wonder if this isn’t the real him. More beast than man, reveling in breaking someone else down.

The instructor is at my side now. Something in his voice heightens my sense of failure. “C’mon, Hamilton. Let’s get you to the infirmary so they can clean up your face.”

The infirmary. Where no one has managed to come back from yet.

“I don’t need to go—”

“Your face is bleeding. C’mon.” He grasps my arm. There’s no refusing him.

I look away from Sean, who stares at me searchingly. As I’m marched out of the gym, I keep my eyes straight ahead, determined to meet no one’s gaze. To give no one the slightest clue of what’s going on inside me. That I’m not screaming inside, panicked that I’m not strong enough for this place, that I’m stuck with this imprint on my neck forever. That I just put myself one step closer to a detention camp.

Dear Davy,

They said we could write to you. I don’t know if you can write back, if you have the time, but I’ll keep sending you letters. It’s enough to know that you’re getting them and you know that we’re thinking about you. We’re so very proud of you. They’ve quarantined San Antonio like so many other cities now. Things are bad. Since the mandatory testing, more and more carriers are being identified and they’re running. Not that there’s anywhere to run. They’re trying to get to Mexico, but anyone caught crossing the border is shot on sight by patrols in Mexico. They might not be screening and testing over there yet, but they don’t want our carriers, either. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re safe, that you’ve been spared. That you’re safe. You’re going to be great at whatever it is they’re training you to be. . . . You have to be. . . .

Letter sent from Mitchell Hamilton

Never opened

Destroyed upon receipt at Mount Haven

TWENTY-FIVE

AFTER AN HOUR IN THE INFIRMARY, ONE OF THE nurses releases me. My heart pounds with elation as I hurry down the building’s steps. I walk quickly, as if I’m escaping . . . as if they might change their minds and pull me back and throw me into a vehicle and drag me out of here to the detention camp I saw on TV.

I leave Tully behind in the infirmary, too. I heard him several curtains down from me, moaning as they treated him. One of the senior instructors entered, walked right past me where I sat on a cot, and whispered for several moments with the nurse, their voices too low for me to understand. Maybe Sean hurt Tully badly enough that he needed a hospital. Even if Sean beat him, I can’t imagine they would kick a guy like Tully out of here. And thanks to Sean, he’ll probably keep his distance.

I know Sean was trying to help me, but this isn’t a game where I get a second chance. I have to prove myself. Nobody can doubt that I belong here for even one second.

I pass the dining hall. Through the glass windows, I can see dark shapes moving around. Dinner must have started.

I keep going, deciding I’d rather skip a meal than walk in there with a bandage on my face advertising my weakness. I can imagine the smirks. They probably all think I’m a wimp who can’t cut it on my own without Sean.

A golf cart approaches, its engine a low, bug-like buzz. The cart slows. The driver squints at me in the fading daylight.

“Just coming from the infirmary.” I motion behind me. “The nurse told me to rest.” I risk the lie.

He nods. I watch as the guard drives off to continue his surveillance. Aside from the perimeter wall and guarded gate, it’s the extent of security and only heightens my need to stay here where I have a semblance of independence. I don’t kid myself that I’m totally free, but if I left here I’d be trading that in for barbed wire and guards with guns herding us around the clock, ready to shoot. Here, I have the hope of a future.

The building is tomb quiet as I enter. Once dinner is over, the halls will fill with footsteps and voices. The pipes will creak in the walls as the showers start running.

I take the stairs instead of an elevator, ignoring the way my body aches like it just got stomped all over. My face throbs, and I start to fantasize about a warm shower with none of the other girls in the bathroom, watching, sizing me up. Always watching. Judging.

I gather my things from my room and enter the girls’ showers. As soon as the water meets my body, I close my eyes and use the cucumber shower gel I brought from home. For a moment, I can pretend I’m still in my shower. That when I step out it will be onto a rug so plush you actually sink an inch. And when I look up it’s going to be my bathroom with its familiar gilded mirror.

Shutting off the shower, I wring out my hair and wrap myself in my towel waiting on the hook. Stepping out onto the tiled floor, my plastic flip-flops squelch under me. I wipe the fog off the glass and proceed to brush out my hair, examining my reflection.