“How many sisters?”

“Two. Both younger.”

Gotcha. Emma raises a finger. “One older.”

“Your family getting by okay, after what happened?”

She shrugs. “They’re okay.”

“And how do you get by?” Bell keeps his eyes on his coffee when he asks, as though the question isn’t important.

“I run.” On the earth, and sometimes in my dreams. Emma doesn’t voice that thought.

He meets her gaze. “I lift. Hit the weights, hit the bag. It helps.”

“Running definitely helps. Sometimes you need to funnel the energy somewhere. When my mind starts looping, I run through it.”

He nods. He understands. “It’s good to have a strategy.”

“I can run through almost anything, I think.” Emma sets her spoon down. “It’s not just moving your feet—it’s a mental discipline. I haven’t had a chance to move much since I left Ohio, though,” she admits.

“Well, hell, you should go out as soon as we get back to Quantico,” Bell says. “I’ve been to the gym room already—the equipment’s real good. And there’s a track all around the base.”

“I’ve heard about it.”

“You should check it out. Okay, I’m gonna pay.” Bell flips his napkin onto his plate.

They get back on I-64, heading deeper into coal country. Soon they’re on the Industrial Park Road outside Beaver. They’re close; Emma feels a humming in her blood. They arrive at a checkpoint before the parking area, the stone sign carved like a grave marker.

Visiting hours are from eight until three—they need at least an hour for the interview, so they’ve just made the cut. Signing in, they have to show their flimsy new ID cards and hand the paperwork over for inspection. The guards inspect them, too: a girl with a buzz cut and a boy wearing his father’s suit. Bell acts like law enforcement, though, and he seems to know the right way to talk. Emma’s already noticed that his social intelligence is far from standard-issue.

There’s a bitter taste in her throat, like she’s been chewing aspirin. As she initials an entry waiver, the pen shakes in her fingers. She works to tamp it down.

Before the metal detector, they hit a snag when Emma is informed her T-shirt is inappropriate and she can’t wear it into the prison.

“It’s orange, ma’am,” the guard at the station explains. “Same color as the inmates’ jumpsuits.”

“Oh.” The guard’s hair is about the same color as her shirt, but Emma’s not inclined to point that out.

Bell frowns. “Is there a shirt she can change into?”

“On site?” The guard looks confused. “No, sir.”

“Or maybe I can just wear my jacket?” Emma suggests.

“No, ma’am, no hooded jackets of that type allowed. But you can go back into Beaver to the charity shop there. They got supplies for cheap.”

Emma and Bell exchange glances. By the time they get back from Beaver, visiting hours will be nearly over and this whole trip will have been for nothing.

“One second,” Bell says to the guard. He pulls Emma away a little. “I’ve got a white T-shirt on under my button-down.”