If I leave now, could I bring it with me again?

My violin is the single personal possession I was allowed to keep here, against normal regulations. Presumably because the warden thought I wouldn’t be able to harm anyone—or myself—with a graceful instrument.

Jemma’s voice in my mind. The board is aware that you are a status offender, and your assignment here is suboptimal. So we’re willing to do what we can to help you with your needs. She was supposed to help me. Why didn’t she do anything to stop this?

I take the tarnished bronze saint medal attached to one of the straps and turn it over between my fingers. On the saint side, it shows a man with heavy eyebrows holding a holy book. He’s smiling. A flame is etched above his head. I trace the raised edges with my thumb.

Saint Jude, pray for us.

My dad gave me the medal the night before my audition for the St. Agnes school orchestra. Between stage fright and repeatedly messing up the piece I wanted to play and increasing dysphoria, I’d felt out of sorts for days. My parents simply thought I was worried, so the night before, my dad sat with me.

“This was my older brother’s,” he said. “Patrick gave it to me before he left for seminary. It’s time for you to have it. To remind you that you always have someone willing to listen when you worry and who won’t judge you when you do.”

I guess he was talking about Saint Jude, because it certainly wasn’t true for him.

Is this God’s plan for me? Is this my grand purpose in life?

I looked up the devotions to Saint Jude a few days later and found a prayer for hopeless cases. The lost cases. He must have known that. Maybe he thought it inspirational, but for me it was a reminder that something was wrong. That I didn’t—wouldn’t—fit, no matter how hard I tried.

And still I kept it.

I turn the medallion over and over. It’s not shiny enough to reflect the light, but the differences in color and texture are still clear.

I could leave now, but where would I go? I don’t think anywhere out there would be better than here. I don’t ever want to be denied again. I’d rather take care of myself, and this is the safest place to do so.

I stay on my knees for a heartbeat longer. My fingers on the medal. My thoughts far away. Saint Jude, pray for us.

All of us hopeless and desperate cases.

* * *

Hunter’s crew leaves Hope with bombast, like they’re staging a Hollywood jailbreak instead of walking out of the front door. At the very last moment, a ninth person joins the group. A brown boy with sad eyes. I don’t know his name, but he’s the only boy in the west wing who wasn’t part of Hunter’s crew initially. He wears his work clothes and carries a duffel bag, though it looks relatively light and empty compared to the others. Underneath his short-cropped hair, he is tense.