When I’d finally put Cal’s file down, I went to the kitchen sink and turned both knobs all the way, until water spilled lazily from the faucet over my fingers. How many times in how many millennia had I put my lips to this very faucet, or the plastic mouth of a bottle, driven by heat or hangover or the ancient body memory of thirst? How much of myself, exactly, did I lose per sip?

On the Second Floor, the one kindness we ever showed the people on the belt was during break, the whistle blowing sporadically and infrequently and welcomed by all. It was then that we would hold the bases of their skulls in our palms—not just the bone but the whole thing, skin and hair and everything intact—and pour slowly into their mouths cold, clean water.

Our only relief was also our erasure. It was brilliant and cruel and completely on brand.

But with the way time moves here, or the lack thereof, maybe the General was wrong. Maybe it isn’t a trick, a method of war.

Maybe the water is Hell’s clumsy attempt at mercy.

But what then, if rejected? If a person on the belt refused water, what would our creative supervisors on the Third Floor come up with in retaliation? How would we twist their rebellion into our weapon, for as long as it took?

You know the answer as well as I do. As well as Cal and her blistered skin.

We would make them burn.

SILAS

SILAS HAD JUST DECIDED to give up his search when he heard his son’s voice.

“I don’t know what your deal is, but Mickey isn’t like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means. I’m glad you guys are friends or whatever; it seems to make her happy. But she’s not a Barbie you can play with until you get bored.”

Sean pushed off the wall, freeing a gap through which Silas could see the shoulders of both of them outlined by blinding sun.

Ruth pulled herself upright.

“I can’t believe you think that.”

It was the quietest sentence Silas had heard her say all summer.

“Look, I’m not trying to be an asshole. You’re—you’re cool, you know? It’s just . . . she’s my little sister. And I don’t want her doing things because you said she should.”

Silas felt proud of his son. He had been acting like he didn’t care about any of them for so long, Silas had begun to believe he really didn’t.

“I can’t believe that’s who you think I am,” Ruth said. “I thought we were all getting along, you know? I thought I was connecting with you, teasing-like. But if you just think I’m some kind of bad-influence whore—”