“Happy didn’t make a million drones to track us down just to let us go. What’s the whole story?” Igby asks.

“They need one of us to go with them,” I say. “I told them I’d go if they let the rest of you go free, and they agreed.”

“Luka, you are not trading your life for ours,” Kina says.

“No,” I say, “I’m not. But I convinced them to call off the drones and the soldiers, so as soon as we’re all out of here, all we have to do is take out Tyco and make a dash for the Red Zone.”

I almost convince myself with this lie. When I see the smiles and looks of relief on all my friends’ faces, I wish the plan were real. But I know if we kill Tyco, or try to run from him, Happy will find us in seconds. I have to find a way to separate myself from the group and go with Tyco.

“Dr. Ortega,” I say, trying to hide the sorrow from my face, “help Sam and her baby out first. Wren, you go with them, okay?”

Abril slowly helps Sam get to her feet, and she hobbles toward the door. Malachai kisses Wren and she moves toward the door with Dr. Ortega and Sam. Once they are there, Igby spins the handle, and the four of them leave the room. More water gushes inside. It’s up to our waists.

I turn back to the remaining group.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Pod asks.

I nod my head. “Yes. I wanted to get them out of here first. Happy has refused to switch off the rain.”

One by one the meaning of this hits them all.

“Someone has to stay behind,” Kina says.

There’s silence for maybe five seconds. “Luka, you can’t stay,” says Pod. “We need Tyco to think you’re going with him.”

I nod. Even though I’ll be making my own sacrifice very soon, I feel guilty.

“How do we decide?” Kina asks.

“The books,” Pod says. “Aren’t there books in here?”

We all look to the shelves. Igby wades over, grabbing five books off the shelf. He nudges the old handgun as he reaches for them; it spins slightly, the barrel coming to a stop pointed right at me.

Igby hands the books out. “Last alphabetically stays behind?” he says.

We all nod. Pod opens his first. “What is it?” he asks, leaning close to the small print.

Igby takes the book from him. “It’s a D. Mine is M.”

Pander goes next. “A,” she says solemnly, and then leans over to check Malachai’s. “His is L.”

“F,” Kina says, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

Slowly, we all turn to Igby.

“All right,” he says, smiling joylessly, “fuck it, I’m staying behind.”