I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

“Let me put it like this . . . we’re a cell. A single hub on the resistance’s underground railroad.” She smiles. “You’re lucky Caden found you. Patrols could have picked you up. Or some other lowlife trolling the border.”

The heavy steel door clangs open as Dr. Phelps breezes into the room. He wears a faded graphic T-shirt. A washed-out yellow smiley face covers his chest. “Ah, our patient is awake.” He drops down on a stool and rolls over to me with a clatter of wheels. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been shot.”

He chuckles, scratching his scruffy chin. “Yeah, I bet. Good thing Caden found you when he did.”

“Yeah, if it had been Marcus, he would have left you out there.” Rhiannon grimaces. “He’s not the kind of guy to stick his neck out for strangers, even though that’s sort of the whole point of what we’re doing here.” Rhiannon wrinkles her freckled nose as she goes back to organizing her cabinet.

A flicker of something flashes in Phelps’s eyes, like maybe he’s going to add a comment about Marcus, but then it’s gone. “If you’re up to it, I’d like you to try standing today. A little exercise will help. Don’t overdo it. Just move around a bit.”

Unease shoots through me as I realize I’m probably not going to Mexico anytime soon. The doctor must see some of that sentiment reflected in my face, for he continues, his voice softer, almost consoling, “You won’t be able to travel for some time. We don’t send anyone out without a clean bill of health. The journey is risky enough. The Agency knows there’s a bigger, more organized resistance cell in these parts. They’re constantly looking, so we have to be careful. You need clearance from me if you want to go out with the next convoy.”

I suddenly imagine them as prairie dogs, sticking their noses out of burrows to see if the coast is clear. Mental image aside, finding them, being among them here, saved my life. Yes, I’m grateful for that, but I need to find my friends. I need out of this place. My skin itches just thinking about the last time I was in a place full of carriers.

“When do you think I can leave? When will I be healthy enough?”

Phelps smiles uneasily, his gaze flickering to Rhiannon and back to me. “It’s . . . delicate. We’ll get this all sorted out and figure out what to do with you. Tomorrow or the next day we’ll see about moving you into one of the dorm rooms.”

Suddenly it feels like the walls are closing in. I’m back in the Cage again. Someplace to stick me, contain me. An animal. I shake my head, fighting the feeling. I remind myself that we’re all on the same side here. These people don’t work for the Agency. They’re like me. Just trying to survive. They’re helping me.

Still, I hear myself asking, “Who’s in charge? I need to talk to them.”

Dr. Phelps stares at me with such over-the-top patience that I feel like a child making unreasonable demands, and I feel bad. He’s been good to me . . . kind. I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for his care. He sighs and slides his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “Very well. I’ll let them know, but you’re only going to hear what I’ve already tried explaining.”

I nod and offer up a smile. “Thank you.”

Shaking his head, Dr. Phelps places his hands on his knees and pushes to his feet with a sigh. He leaves the room with quiet steps, the door clanging heavily after him.

Rhiannon closes a cabinet sharply, deliberately. It echoes in the mostly empty room.

I study the girl’s back. “What?” I ask, preferring to get to the point.

She whips around, slamming a bottle of peroxide on the counter. “We saved your life.” Color heats her skin beneath her freckles. “You should be thanking us instead of . . .”

“Instead of?”

Her chin firms. “Instead of being a bitch.” It’s almost funny. Watching her spit that word out like it’s something she’s never tasted before. She’s here. She’s a carrier. Swearing can’t be the worst of her transgressions.

I hold her stare for a long moment, showing no reaction to her insult. Really, it’s hardly the worst thing I’ve been called since my life spiraled into this.

I finally point to my neck. “See this?”

She crosses skinny arms over her chest. “Half the people in here have those. Is it supposed to impress me? Scare me? What?”

“It should let you know what I am. Am I grateful you people saved my life? Yeah, I am.” I incline my head in a small nod of acknowledgment. “But I still need to leave.”

Her top lip curls. “Maybe they should just let you go. Waste all our efforts so you can get yourself killed for good this time.” Turning, she marches from the infirmary. I resist calling her back. The old impulse to apologize is there. To be a polite, well-behaved girl. I remind myself that I’m not staying here. No need to invest myself, but some habits are hard to kill.

Mom had drilled manners and societal niceties into me since I could walk. It went right along with the voice and instrument lessons. It was important to her that her children be well-bred. I assumed that was simply what a woman like her, raised with everything, did. Now I understand there might have been more to it than that. It might have mattered to her simply because the world was sliding into a place where such things no longer existed. No one asks. They do. They take.