Boiling over with tears, Marcos abandons his tray and races for the double-doored exit and vanishes into the courtyard outside. “Oh, baby girl,” Vance mutters, pressing an anguished hand to his heart.

I’d be annoyed with Vance’s theatrics if they weren’t my exact same sentiments. We’re forcing Marcos into the same predicament with his family that Ario put me in with mine. Do it, it’s the right thing! So what if you get thrown out? I should’ve known better, even though Darcy is also correct—she, Jack, and Vance have risked a lot more than Marcos and I have for the greater good.

What a complete mess.

I didn’t think it was possible to be any more desperately sorry for Marcos—maybe even desperate to kiss the sadness out of him—but here I am, spinning around on the bench to run after him. Darcy’s sinewy hand lands on my wrist. “Don’t,” she says. “You’ll make it worse.”

“Ah, you just know what everyone needs, don’t you?” I accuse. One of my weaker barbs, but still effective. Darcy briefly turns into a quivering bowl of Jell-O.

“Good going, Darcy,” Jack moans. “You didn’t have to punch low on Marcos like that.”

“Listen to me,” Darcy says. “Marcos isn’t the only smarty-pants here who got his hopes and dreams vampired out of him by Nightlight.” Discreetly, she pushes a tear back with the edge of her thumb. “I’m just trying to get us home, is all.”

While I crawl inside my own belly button, Molly cautiously waits to speak until everyone has finished lobbing poison darts at each other. “Our emotions are high, and that’s okay,” she says. “Marcos will be fine. We’re all looking out for each other. So, what’s next? Actionables!” She swirls a finger at Jack and Vance. “One of you chipmunks is heading up that watchtower,”—she swings over to me—“and Connor gets himself thrown in the bunker. Is that right?”

“We still need keys for the bunker plan to work,” Darcy says.

“I can get Marcos to give me the keys,” I say as if it’s a fact. Marcos is the sort of puppy you have to approach carefully—but if you do, he’s all yours. What you don’t do is bark, “Help us because it’s the right thing, asshole,” as honest as that may be.

The tone in the room changes in a blink.

Outside, Bill’s country music halts as searing radio feedback cuts through the watchtower speakers. At the harsh sound, Bill and the Reverend leap from their table. Almost immediately, a new song begins—a woman’s silken voice croons over a lush, old-fashioned piano recording.

“What the hell…?” Bill asks, his happy-fool face crumpling like paper.

“This is the same record as your lunch music?” the Reverend asks.