A crowded hallway hurtles forward into darkness. Crates of boating and fishing equipment stack on top of each other on both sides of the hall, leaving only a narrow, snaking path ahead. It resembles a self-storage unit after hours: massive, yet somehow claustrophobic. Outside, a generator rattles, feeding power to two bare light bulbs dangling from the bunker’s iron rafters. The light is weak, but thank God for them, or else Marcos and I would be creeping into a complete unknown. I advance one step at a time—not too slow to give the pins and needles time to paralyze me, though not fast enough to let myself get ambushed in the dark. Anyone could be crouching behind one of these crates. Behind me, Marcos slows. His fingers snap—his fear is taking over. I raise my spear, pitching its pointed end toward the shadows, and Marcos shuffles closer to eliminate the gap between us.

You’re safe with me.

A briny, rotting wood stench infests the bunker—no wonder the flowers are dying. Along the left-hand wall, a row of flowerpots house several botanical corpses, each wilted stalk covered in a layer of gray fuzz. Beside the pots, work boots—caked in dried mud—are scattered in a careless line. Karaoke Bill doesn’t keep a clean home.

“There’s a door,” Marcos whispers, thrusting his spear past mine.

Indeed, beyond the pots and shoes, a second door hides under the cover of the bunker’s low lighting. “Good looking out,” I whisper. “Maybe Darcy’s in there?”

“The cages are farther back. Sorry.”

It would be against every speck of bad luck I’ve had this week for Darcy to be kept so close to the exit. We have to push deeper inside. “Keep your spear on that door. I’ll walk a bit closer and see if I notice the cages.”

“I’m not sure I love that plan—”

“HELLO?” Darcy screams from the shadows at the end of the hall. She’s close.

“Darcy, are you alone?” I call back.

“Not really, but it’s safe.”

“What do you mean, ‘not really’—?” I ask, but two steps closer answer my question: at the end of the crate-choked hallway, a man stands facing the corner. Briggs. Motionless, he waits against the wall, his expansive bodybuilder’s back to us. I swallow my gasp and stagger backward into Marcos so hard, I ricochet off his belly.

“He’s taking the wall, he can’t move,” Marcos whispers, settling a steady hand on my neck. The calm in his voice instantly balances me.

Just as the Reverend ordered, Briggs is still “taking the wall”—the popular Nightlight punishment that, apparently, isn’t off-limits once you graduate to staff member. Briggs isn’t completely motionless, however; as we approach, it becomes obvious he’s crying. Those shoulders like boulders bounce at the end of each hiccupping sob. He mutters softly to himself, but I can’t make out what.