But it’s true, it’s real: I am no longer in the Block.

I let out a long sigh that, for a few moments, turns into sobs of pure relief, and then I get myself together and try to remember all that happened.

She was operating on me, I think, and more flashbacks burst into my mind. Delays; the scientific experiments that the government subjected us to in the Loop to push back the date of our executions, various surgeons cutting into my skin, injecting me with viruses so that they could try out experimental cures, slicing out cartilage from my ribs. But what had happened in this room had not been a Delay.

I look around; the tiled room is lit only by the dim light coming through a frosted glass window high up on the far wall.

I’m lying in a bed in the middle of the room. Kina is asleep on another bed on my right and Wren is on a bed on my left.

I look at the stained walls, the plumbing fixtures, the old rotted wooden cubicles against the far wall.

This is a bathroom! I think. They operated on me in an old bathroom? And then, Why were they operating on me?

On a small stainless-steel table in the corner of the room, I see a set of primitive medical tools: a scalpel; some long, pointed tweezers; a set of forceps that look as though they belong in a kitchen somewhere. All these instruments are covered in blood.

I pull the thin blanket off me and begin examining my body for signs of an operation. Of course, our wounds heal themselves rapidly, but they still leave a mark if the cut is deep enough. I see two long, straight scars up both of my forearms, and I realize that they’ve removed the electromagnetic cuffs from inside my wrists. Without thinking, my hand reaches up to my forehead where the Panoptic camera should be. I can no longer feel the little bump where the tiny piece of equipment used to sit.

Immediately I feel calmer, less conspicuous, safer. Ironic, really, seeing as the government had forced the Panoptic cameras upon the citizens of the world under the guise of increased safety.

The bathroom door creaks open a tiny bit, and I see Igby peering in.

“Hey,” he whispers, “how you feeling?”

“Not bad,” I whisper back, climbing down from the bed and walking toward him. “What time is it?” Igby holds the door open and I step out into the most enormous old library I have ever seen.

I’m frozen for a minute, staggered by the grandeur of the place. Three floors stacked with thousands and thousands of old-fashioned paper books.

“It’s almost five p.m. the day after you were sedated,” Igby replies, laughing. “You’ve been out for over a day!”

“What … where is this place?” I ask, still gazing at my new surroundings.