High industrial shelves line walls stocked with paper products, cardboard boxes and linens. Food cans are stacked in neat pyramids. Every supply must be stored in here. It’s a looter’s dream, which also explains the huge, metal blast doors and the giant control panel next to it. There’s a few machine guns mounted above the panel, grenades, bullet-proof vests. They’re taking no chances in defending their stock.

Two vans are parked just inside the doors. The first is a polished supply van, but the second is dusty and battered. Through the darkened windows people move inside.

My sobs subside. “What’s this?” Rayburn’s already shuffling toward the van, muttering.

The passenger door opens and Rayburn leans in. I crane my neck, but the windows are black. Rayburn talks to someone inside. Then he stumbles out, closes the door and shuffles back to me, raking a nervous hand through his greasy hair.

I strain forward wildly. “Who’s in the van, Rayburn?”

He gives me a sidelong glance, as if he’s forgotten me. Then he starts undoing my handcuffs, a slight tremor back in his hands. “Don’t run,” he says, as he leads me to the van. “You’ve got nowhere to go.”

I struggle against Rayburn as he pushes me up to the back doors. “Who’s in there?” I scream. “Tell me!”

The doors pop open. A giant, bare-chested man in overalls stares blankly at me, his mouth open, his eyes slipping over my body. His giant hand cinches around my bicep.

“No!” I scream as the thug pulls me into the van. His hands are the size of baseball mitts. They clamp me to his large sweaty body. The van doors shut. The engine starts up.

Pressed against some strange man’s chest, his hot breath in my ear, the reality of my situation sinks in. First plan B. Now this. What is happening?

Huge biceps block my view. I can’t see over the frayed backseat. I struggle against the beast holding me. We pull out of the hospital warehouse and bounce onto the road. We’re leaving Mama. I open my mouth to protest. Then several things happen at once.

A head pops over the bench seat. “Riley!”

It’s Ethan.

My fear recedes at the joy of seeing my brother. Ethan. What’s he doing here?

There’s another voice from the front. “Let her go, Hatch.”

That voice. I turn toward the front of the van and there he is. Clay’s climbing over the bench seat toward me. His dimpled smile washes over his face as he drops into the back and pulls me from Hatch’s grip.

“I thought I’d never see you again.” His fingers delicately cup the skin of my wrists. He kneels, his face expectant, astonished, relieved.

Clay. Clay’s here. I meet his eyes.

Then I lean back and punch him in the face.