When Ron opened his eyes again he was sprawled face down on the grimy mattress. Some sort of red-brown bug was crawling an inch past his nose.

He jerked away from the insect and bumped into Sylvia, who was sitting next to him.

“You okay?” She looked guilty.

It took a long moment for Ron to get everything together in his head. “There was something in the drink . . . you stoned me!”

“I had to, Ron. Honest . . . you was gonna drag me out t’ th’ gate . . . you woulda just got us both tossed in th’ Tombs.”

“But I was going to take you back to my home.”

“They wouldn’t let us through th’ gate. Al was jest tryin’ t’ get rid of you. I thought he was gonna help ya. When I found out what he did I came after you . . .”

For the first time, Ron saw that there was daylight filtering through the dirt-caked window.

“What time is it?” he shrieked.

“Morning. Tuesday morning. All th’ gates’re closed.”

Ron scrambled to his feet. “No, it can’t be! I’ve got to get out of here.”

“You can’t,” Sylvia said flatly. She got up and stood beside Ron. “Nobody gets out now. Not ’til next summer.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. Hard. “You did this to me! First you robbed me and now you’ve locked me up in here!”

She wasn’t scared. And if his grip hurt her, she didn’t let him see it.

“I ain’t gonna let nobody get me put in th’ Tombs,” Sylvia said. “I like you, Ron. I toldja that before, right? But you was jest gonna get both of us into th’ Tombs. Them hardtops down at th’ gates don’t listen to nobody that ain’t got an ID.”

He let her go and turned to stare at the window. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he muttered.

“Not now,” Sylvia said. “Not ’til next summer. And you gotta get yer ID off Dino before he sells it.”

Ron looked sharply at her.

“I gotta get Davey,” Sylvia said.

She left him alone in the grimy, crumbling room. Ron walked slowly to the window. There was nothing to see through its gray-filmed panes except the cracked, stained back wall of another brick building.

His mind was spinning. I can’t stay here for a year! There must be some way out. Dad will get the police to come in and look for me. Got the National Exams . . . got to make my Career vector choice . . .

He turned and looked toward the open door. Sylvia! It’s all her fault. But his mind kept picturing her face, her body, how it felt to hold her, how much he wanted to be holding her right now. She saved my life. And if the Tombs are as bad as she says they are . . .

Then a different thought came to him. He tried to picture what his mother and father would do if he brought Sylvia home. Ron couldn’t imagine what they’d do. Except that he knew they wouldn’t let her stay. They’d turn her over to the police. That’s just what they’d do. Maybe she really is better off here.