“Careful now. Don’t hurt yourself.”

She slipped a little and felt the drill bit twisting just barely, unexpectedly, nicking the inner velvet of her cheek. Salty blood trickled over her molars and down her throat. The drill withdrew.

Snow didn’t talk. Maybe it was the light, but his face appeared thinner, gaunter, some critical moment of slippage taking place. For the first time since the lights went out she was reminded of how sick Snow had looked when she had first laid eyes on him. He looked like that again, now, coming down off a manic cycle.

“Now get on down from there.” He raised the drill, blunt-end first. “Time to put the rest of the night into motion.”

“I don’t—”

She saw the blunt end coming at her, so close that she saw two of them, one on either side, then blackness.

32.

Eli?

In his hiding place in the basement storage room, he opened his eyes, almost involuntarily. He hadn’t been sleeping exactly, though he sensed an indistinct slab of time had slipped past without his knowing it, like when he woke up in the middle of the night and heard his parents snoring in the other room. His body felt cold and cramped except for where he’d been clutching himself, his palms and armpits, where the fabric of his shirt was moist with perspiration and, as he rearranged his limbs, swiftly became cold upon exposure to the air.

Then he remembered the hands.

They’d pulled his shirt up in the darkness and he’d felt something slashing over his skin, making big up-and-down and sideways lines all over his chest and shoulders and back. It hadn’t hurt exactly, but it was wet. There was an inky smell, too, and a squeaking noise that reminded him of Magic Markers on a dry-erase board he had at home, the one where his mommy wrote down errands. Some uncertain time later, the hands yanked his shirt down and shoved him back into the closet again.

Thinking back on it, fresh tears welled in his eyes, making the dried ones crackle up against his eyelashes.

Hullo, there. Hi! It’s me. Don’t cry.

He caught his breath, bit his lip, and listened. It was the voice of Thomas again, but fainter now, coming from somewhere far away.

Listen. You have to listen to me.

He couldn’t answer.

Just listen, Eli, okay?

He nodded, his face tightened into an eye-clenched mask, and listened.

At first there was nothing. Not even the distant little creaks and dripping noises he’d heard every few minutes as he’d curled back here, phasing in and out of awareness.

But then, in the very remote periphery, he heard a sound—a thin and far-off voice—coming from outside the closet door, down one of the dark halls.

He raised his head, opening his eyes.

“…Eli…?”

He recognized the voice.

“…Eli…?”

It was his mommy.

He sat up fast, fingers clutching for the door he’d pulled closed behind him, and heard the other voice pipe up vigorously from wherever it was inside his mind.