I don’t say anything, kicking at the dirt. This place is strangely silent. “Is anyone else around? You say this is your home, but does anyone else actually live here?”

The tunnel answers for me.  Down below, it opens up into a room, crammed with a group of people, at least fifteen or so. Crates are tipped over for chairs and the tables look like large wooden spools. There’s nothing sterile about this place and I like that it’s not.

“Don’t go anywhere for a minute,” Aiden instructs. “I’ll be right back.” Then he disappears down the tunnel.

I watch the people from over the railing, noticing how young most of them are. And they look so happy, smiles on their faces, bright eyes, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I’m so used to everyone being terrified, but these people, well at the moment no one seems afraid of anything. They just sit, eating their food, talking, laughing, and it seems so real.

I spot Ryder through the crowd, chatting to a group of guys with similar markings on their skin. She laughs, throwing her head back. Is it really that easy, to be that happy?

When Aiden returns, his dark hair is ruffled, there are red lines running up and down his arms and trails of blood.

“So you have two choices,” he says, putting his hands on the railing. “Either you can go down and meet everyone or clean up first and then go down.”

I glance down at my mud-caked clothes. “I’ll clean up first, I guess.”

“I thought you’d say that,” he says. Then he takes me to a small room with a metal bed pushed against the dirt wall and a few wooden trunks stacked in the corners. Clothes hang from hooks in the ceiling and there are some strange looking objects cluttering the floor.

“So this is my room.” He points to a curtain. “The shower is behind there.” He eyes my clothes. “And I’ll go see if anyone has anything you can borrow until we can get your clothes cleaned.”

I nod and he leaves, shutting the door behind him. I hear the click of a door locking.

I shake my head. “Unbelievable.” I start to remove my muddy clothes, making a lap around his room.  There are some clothes, a knife—not mine—and a pair of boots. There’s also a book. I’ve never seen a book before—heard of them, but never actually seen one. I pick it up, noticing how old the tattered cover looks. I flip through the pages, but it’s nothing more than ink to me.