We walk as one, led by fire. Eleven campers, Briggs, and Karaoke Bill—an amoeba of silent, steely eyed pain—travel the wooded path back into camp. Escape is close, but it feels dangerous to hope. Even though the Reverend is dead, Briggs is on our side, and Bill is in our custody (and thoroughly zapped), no one in the group has let their guard down since we departed the bunker. The weight of eyes, just beyond the dark trees, still lays heavily on my back as we march slowly over the Coral Road. When we left the bunker, we were expecting to find gray-shirts surrounding us, but there was no one. Something is wrong. The gray-shirts are waiting for us, somewhere.

It’s not over yet.

Miss Manners still has her rifle. Any of the gray-shirts could have a rifle.

We take no chances. The Beginners march along the middle of our amoeba, and around them, we form a protective circle. Lacrishia guards the rear, torch in hand and rotating in circles every few seconds to make sure we haven’t been followed. Darcy clasps her hand tenderly. In Darcy’s other hand is Briggs’s taser, her arm wrapped fiercely around Owen as if he were their lion cub. No longer crying, Owen swivels his head suspiciously, his courage buoyed having his moms finally reunited beside him. Further ahead, Anke, Christina, and Alan fuse together like a chorus line of dancers, sandwiched between Vance and Jack, each of whom wields a Nightlight staff taser (confiscated from Bill and the Reverend). Ahead of them strides Molly, armed with her spear, which she spins from side to side in a roving sphere of protection over the Beginners. Leading the amoeba is pure trouble: Marcos, Briggs, Bill, and me. Briggs guards the front line with a torch, the only weapon we allowed him to hold. The man has at last gone dry-eyed, except for the occasional sniffle when a renewed swell of emotion strikes him. In his free hand, Briggs drags Bill, who has regained sense enough to walk, and who in the glowing darkness resembles a lurching zombie. Marcos and I hold our spears to Briggs’s and Bill’s backs, with Ricky’s urn tucked under my left arm like a football.

I wish Marcos could wrap his warm, sturdy arm around me, but he has too important of a job: primary hostage taker. Should Briggs or Bill get out of line, Marcos does the poking. I told him we’d hug each other plenty once we’re safely on the boat.