Just thinking about that makes my skin crawl. No. I’m not going to let that happen. They’re scared. I am too, but I’m here now, and I’m not going to let anything happen.

We’re the same, can you tell, can you tell?

Nick comes up beside me. He’s been keeping his distance, hands clasped behind his back. I don’t blame him. I’ll have to scrub my hands raw as soon as we get back to the ALC, or Sadaf will probably have Cormac haul me out back and set me right. The Flood creeps in through the same soft parts of bodies that are so vulnerable in Graces, the mouths and eyes and mucous membranes, and it gets you any way it can. Clinging to skin and clothes, lingering in dead meat, sometimes traveling through the air on an infected person’s breath. At least the virus has the decency to show itself quickly.

“It’s calm,” Nick says, eyes fixated on the Grace’s cracked-open chest.

I say, “They’re safe now. They know that.”

His eyes narrow at the use of they, but he doesn’t point it out. “How?”

“I told them.” But whispering is more than just telling. It’s a live wire. Seraph to the Flood, the Grace to me, like the virus is some kind of current thrumming between us. I open my mouth to explain, but none of the metaphors sound right. A language, a connection deeper than that. Even Sister Kipling couldn’t put it into words. How am I supposed to?

Any attempt to explain is choked when I take off my mask and spit black sludge onto the floor. The Grace turns in bed as best they can, whimpering, free hand reaching for me. I grab their fingers as I straighten up, murmuring, “I’m okay, it’s okay.”

Screw practice. I need to make sure this Grace is okay.

“Does it follow orders?” Nick asks.

“They’re not a dog,” I retort. I don’t like the way he says it, and I can’t tell if it’s just the flat way he talks or if he truly doesn’t give a shit about the person in front of us. My skin burns warm, then hot, the way it did when Alex pinned me to the wall.

This is it. I said I would control it. I’m going to control it. I’ve spent years swallowing down anger the way girls are told to do, so I can learn to do this too. Breathe. Ask the question calmly. “Do you see a handcuff key anywhere? A little metal thing?”

Nick frowns. “What?”

Calmly. “Do you see one?”

“I heard you the first time. Why do you want one? You’re not thinking about…”

I bristle. No, no, get it together. “I am.”

Nick says, “Absolutely not.”

“They’re not going to hurt anybody.” They’ve been trapped here for years, this isn’t right. If I can help them, I have to. That’s what it means to be good. “Just help me look.”

“It’s dangerous,” Nick says. His calm voice isn’t matched by the look in his eyes, nervously flicking from the Grace to me. “I understand that this is important to you”—Don’t take that tone with me—”but this is taking it a step too far.”