I want to look away but can’t. The left side of my face is swollen so much my eye is slightly squinty. Two butterfly bandages cover where the skin is torn open in an ugly, crescent-shaped cut.

For a moment, I can only stare. Take in the face. The straggly dark blonde hair. The notably darker eyes, a tawny brown with faint smudges of blue underneath. Twin bruises. And then there’s the ink band circling my neck.

Who is this girl? The well-bred girl who sang opera and carefully styled her hair every morning so that it looked artfully messy is gone. As good as dead. Strangely enough, she has to be if I want to survive.

Shaking off morbid thoughts, I quickly braid my hair into one long rope, not even bothering to tie the end. I let it hang down my back as I quickly change into shorts and a cotton T-shirt.

Sabine enters the bathroom. “Hey,” she murmurs, propping a narrow hip against the bathroom sink. “You missed dinner.”

“Yeah. Not that hungry.”

“You okay?” Her gaze travels my face. “Saw what happened during drills.”

“Looks worse than it is. They gave me a couple Tylenol. I should be fine tomorrow.”

Her nostrils flare. “You smell nice. Is that the soap they gave us?”

“Uh, no.” I fumble for my bath gel. “It’s this. Want to use it?”

She takes the bottle, looking it over as if it’s vastly interesting. “Thanks.” She looks up at me, her gaze probing, hopeful. “It’s pretty nice here. I mean, we have it good. Right?”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“Is that the only alternative then? A detention camp?” She toys with the cap, glancing up at me and then looking back down. “We could run away . . . maybe go to Mexico. I hear that’s where lots of carriers are heading. They don’t screen over there.”

We? I’m not sure if she’s speaking in the hypothetical or not, but I feel the need to squash the notion of “us.” At least when referring to the possibility of running away. I look around nervously, as though we might be overheard by some invisible person.

“How? How would we get there? We have no transportation. No money.” I point to my neck. “I wouldn’t make it into the next town.”

She nods, her wan expression all the more stark with the yellowish bruises on her narrow face. “I know. I heard security at the border is really tough. My father looked into it. He might have risked it, ran with me . . . but he was worried about the rest of the family.” She shrugs as if it’s okay that her father chose the welfare of his other children over her.

“Our best shot is sticking it out here.”

She waves at me. “That might be easier for you than me.”

“Hey. Have you seen me run? And what are you talking about? You speak three languages. They want to keep you around, too.”

She nods again, still looking miserable. “I just miss my family.”

“I know, but we’ll probably see them again after we finish here.”

“You think so?”

I smile encouragingly, unable to bring myself to say an outright yes. I don’t want to make her that promise. I couldn’t.

“You’re lucky you have those guys. Sean and Gil. I wish I came here with someone.”

My smile falters. “Yeah.” Suddenly, I feel wrong for being so angry with Sean. What was I going to do? Ask him not to care? To ignore me and not lift a finger if I got into trouble? That’s not him. Ever since I met him in the Cage, he’s proven himself to be the type who helps others. Gil. Me. He tried to help Coco, only she didn’t want it. Well, I’m not Coco. I need people. Friends. Sean.

Snapping my attention back to Sabine, I squeeze her arm. “You have me now.”

Smiling, she ducks her head and studies the bottle of shower gel again. “I think I’m going to try this now. I’ll bring it back when I’m done.”

“Take your time.” Turning, I leave the bathroom.

I’m alone during Independent Study, practicing guitar in a room on the second floor. It’s a beautiful instrument. Solid, flamed maple wood. Triple-bound body inlaid with intricate rosettes. My fingers move over the strings, strumming, testing the sweet, pure sound.

In the distance, I can hear pops from the firing range. Occasionally, voices drift from the corridor outside, other carriers or the guard talking on his radio to someone. Next door, an instructor teaches Spanish to a handful of students. Her muffled words carry through the wall.

I already spent an hour on the piano. Several other instruments occupy the room. A violin and bass. An electric guitar with the requisite amp. It’s my very own music room. I guess it makes me feel better . . . knowing they went to so much trouble for me alone. They must really want me to succeed. But that’s not the only reason it makes me feel better. Losing myself in music is a familiar comfort, a reminder of what I was.

Still, being in here, indulging like this makes me feel guilty. I should be running or working out in the weight room during this time. Especially after yesterday. I haven’t forgotten how to play or sing. It’s imbedded in my DNA. Among other things. A year-long break from the piano, and I would still be able to play it. That’s what they don’t get about me. No one taught me when I was three how to play. I just knew.

I don’t have a choice though. Dusty said I had to spend independent study in here.

My fingers move, falling into their own rhythm. A song buried somewhere in my subconscious stirs within me. Without deliberation, the smooth, smoky chords of an old Johnny Cash song come to me. I slide into it, humming the lyrics of “Hurt” lightly. Closing my eyes, I lose myself in the song, letting the words sweep through me and flow from my lips. “If I could start again, a million miles away, I would keep myself, I would find a way. . . .”

My fingers graze the strings, letting the final chord reverberate through the room long after the last words die on my lips.

I flatten my fingers against the strings, killing that final, haunting echo. I’m aware of the warm slide of tears on my cheeks. I lift my face, letting the air dry them.

“Davy.”

My eyes fly open and I spin on my stool, the back of my hand wiping furiously at my face.

Sean stands just inside the room, his back to the closed door.

I push to my feet, my fingers squeezing tightly about the guitar’s neck. “Sean? What are you doing here?” His shirt clings damply to his chest. He must have come from working out.

“That was beautiful.”

My face heats. “How long were you standing there?”

He pushes off the door. “I had no idea you could sing like that . . . and play the guitar. . . .” He shakes his head as though marveling. All my life people have reacted this way. Awed. Impressed. But it’s different coming from him. Somehow, it feels special. For the first time in a long time, in his eyes, I feel important. I feel like I’m someone again.

“No wonder you’re here. You’re amazing.”

The heat in my cheeks intensifies. My ears burn. I inhale deeply, fighting back the emotion swelling inside me. “What are you doing here?” I repeat.

“I needed to see you.”

“You saw me at breakfast,” I remind him. “You’ll see me at lunch.”

“But we can’t really talk. We’re never alone.”

I nod. “We never are.” We’re always with other carriers, guards, and instructors watching our every move.

“You shouldn’t be here. Where are you supposed to be? The guard outside—”

“I’m supposed to be in Spanish, but don’t worry. The guard stepped out.”

“But he’ll be back.” Anxiety rides my voice.

“Yesterday—”

I set my guitar on its stand. I don’t want to talk about yesterday. About how Tully got the best of me. How Sean stepped in to rescue me. My feelings about that are all a-jumble. Relief. Humiliation. Fear. How am I ever going to make it in here? Or even out there? “You have to go.”

He moves across the room and grasps my shoulders in both hands, forcing my gaze back up. I flinch at his touch, his nearness. I haven’t been touched . . . or touched anyone since arriving here. Discounting getting my ribs punched, of course. It’s amazing how, in so short a time, it could become such an alien thing for me. How I want to melt into his hands.

He raises an arm, and I jerk reflexively. I guess I’ve learned that here . . . how to be on guard. He frowns but doesn’t back off. Instead, his hand lifts to my face. I tense, forcing myself to stand still, resisting the urge to bolt as his fingers lightly land on my cheek. He gently brushes the bandage there. I know from my reflection this morning that a bruise discolors the flesh beneath my eye. He winces as if it hurts him.

“Why are you here? Are you going to tell me I need to watch my back again? That’s kind of hard to do when I’m sparring with someone, you know?” I laugh hoarsely.

His fingers slide around my neck until he’s cupping the back of my skull in his hand, and any hint of laughter flees. “I just want you to be safe.”

“Look where we are . . . this world. How can that ever happen?”

He drops his forehead to mine. Noses almost touching, he whispers, “You just need to make it out of here, okay?”

Me. He makes no mention of himself. It’s almost like he doesn’t care what happens to him and this saddens me. He should care. Someone should care. He deserves that.

His smoky eyes mesmerize me, pull me in. “What about you?”

“Me? I’ll be fine.”

And I realize, of course, he has someone who cares. I care.

I step back. His fingers drop from my face and I can breathe a bit easier again. “You need to go. We’ll both be in trouble if you’re caught in here.”

He nods slowly and moves for the door. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

I nod and bite my lip to stop from asking him to stay. As if he could. As if there’s a choice in the matter. Every once in a while the girl I used to be rouses her head and wants all those things she had before. Friends. Freedom. A boy who looks at her and touches her with lingering hands.

It’s a hard battle. The life I had is a dim dream that haunts me still. Somehow, Sean makes me forget. And remember.

A dangerous combination when I’m only supposed to be looking ahead to the future.

Carriers are like a cancer to this once great nation. And like any disease, sometimes the only way to battle it is with poison. . . .

—Dr. Wainwright in a hearing before Congress

TWENTY-SIX

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, THE SIREN PEALS OUT across the air an hour before lights-out. We all step into the dusk wearing similar expressions of confusion. We never deviate from the schedule. Several kids are wet from the showers. A few others join us, looking sweaty and red faced. Evidently, they were getting in an extra workout. Sabine materializes by my side, her long brown hair damp from a recent shower.

We converge as a herd on the center of the grounds in front of the main building, where we meet up for our morning run. Several instructors wait there beside a table loaded with small black packs. Colored stripes mark each one. Guards on ATVs surround the table, watching us with their ever-wary stares.

Harris, the instructor in charge of the boys, calls out, “We have an exercise planned for you tonight.”

I glance to the sky, wondering how long this exercise will take. It will be dark soon.

“We are dividing you into seven groups, to be identified by color. When your name is called come forward with the rest of your team.”

Sabine inches a step closer. “What’s happening?”

“I’m sure it’s just a team exercise. Probably for morale.”

She nods, but her hazel eyes still look nervous.

Harris holds up a clipboard and shouts: “Blue team! Jones, Henke, O’Rourke, Morales, Stone, Bustros, and Ruiz.”