So there was just this one thing between me and my family. I had to pass this test, no matter how hard it was.

Logistically, having Mitch with me could go either way. He could prove himself to be helpful and tough, or he could be a huge hindrance whose weight I’d have to carry. But at least we would have some time alone. Maybe being outside would bring back parts of the old Mitch. Maybe out there, we would actually be reunited.

“Okay, bring it on.” I stripped down to my underwear and went through my workout. I had to be in tip-top shape for whatever marathon I was asked to endure tomorrow.

I waited until bedtime before I allowed myself to feel the excitement that was eating its way through my belly. I was going to pass this test, and I was going to get back to my family, back to Rose. I let every scenario play out in my head—their faces, their disbelief, their joy. I imagined running through a field with Rose, running toward the trees that would give us cover so we could kiss and touch and hold each other. I imagined more than holding.

And just before I fell asleep, I wondered if my family would have any doubts about me. Would they think I was a traitor? What about the Agent? Would they believe they were just a fellow runner?

“Don’t be stupid, French,” I told myself, punching the thin pillow to make it comfortable. “They know you. They would never doubt you.”

But the thought remained as I drifted off. What if I had changed? Did I even believe myself? And could I possibly pull this off?

CHAPTER 25

THE FINAL TEST

French

“I DON’T THINK I’M READY.” I FELT SICK.

“You’re ready,” Mellin answered. There was nothing tender in this reassurance.

I was pacing, patting my pockets as if there were answers in them instead of just an old compass, a worn book of matches, a roll of greying gauze. They’d returned everything I was brought in with. Nothing extra. Why the hell did I have to put these clothes back on?

“Completes the illusion.” Agent Mellin answered my unasked question, watching as I took more items out of a plastic evidence bag in the prep room. “And they’ll make you feel more in character. These are, after all, authentic items from a runner.”

I watched her nose wrinkle in distaste as she said it—runner. As if we were cockroaches scavenging in a kitchen instead of people trying to survive state-sponsored genocide. I pocketed a small knife and the worn nub of a pencil.

“Why do I have to be authentic?” My nerves about being released were getting the better of me, and I asked more questions than were good for me. I figured the test would be about how I moved in the woods; maybe it would involve avoiding Recruiters or showing I could survive.