“Mom,” Tom says. She hears the smile in his voice. She can tell he’s proud.

She goes to him, crouches, and feels for his eyes. They are covered with what feels like cardboard, and Malorie thinks of Tom the man wearing a helmet of couch cushions and tape.

The relief she feels is not tempered by the chaos in the halls. Her children are with her again.

“Get up,” she says, her voice still trembling. “We’re leaving.”

She steps farther into the room, finds the beds, removes three blankets.

“Are we taking the river again?” Tom asks.

Beyond them, the madness does not quell. Boots clamor up and down the halls. Glass breaks. Children scream.

“No,” Malorie says. Then, frantic, “I don’t know. I have no plan. Take these.”

She hands them each a blanket.

“Cover yourselves from head to toe.”

She thinks of blind Annette, blue robe, red hair, the knife.

“They can touch us now,” she says.

“Mom,” Tom says, but Malorie reaches out and takes his hand. The violence swells, swallowing the questions he was close to asking.

Olympia takes Malorie’s other hand.

Malorie breathes in, she holds it, she breathes out.

“Now,” she says. “Now…we go.”

They step, together, out of the classroom and into the hall.

“The front door,” she says.

The same door they entered two years ago, Malorie’s body and mind then ravaged by rowing and the constant bowstring terror of navigating the water blind.

And the fear then, too, of a man named Gary.

“Malorie?”

Malorie, under the blanket, grips the hands of her children. It’s a man named Jesse who speaks to her. Malorie knows Jesse, when sane, had a crush on her. He does not sound sane now.

“Malorie? Where are you taking the kids?”

“Go,” Malorie says. She does not turn around. She does not answer Jesse, who now follows close behind.

“Malorie,” he says. “You can’t go.”

Malorie makes a fist, turns, and swings.

Her fist connects with what she believes is Jesse’s jaw.

He cries out.

She grips the hands of her children.

Tom and Olympia move in concert with her, the trio making for the open front door.

“My blindfold worked,” Tom says. Still, despite the horror, there is pride in his voice.

“It’s here,” Olympia says, indicating the door.

Malorie places a palm against the doorjamb. She listens for Jesse. For anyone.

She breathes in. She holds it. She breathes out.

“How many are out there?” she asks. “How many do you hear?”

The kids are quiet. The frenzy continues deeper into the school. But it feels far now. Farther. Malorie knows Tom wants to answer her questions exactly. But he can’t.

“Too many to count,” he says.

“Olympia?”

A pause. A crash from far behind. A scream.

“A lot,” Olympia says.

“Okay. Okay. Don’t take the blankets off. Wear them until I tell you otherwise. They touch us now. Do you understand?”