I can remember the taste in my mouth at the bottom of the stairs: metallic and earthy. I remember the feel of my blade over his arm, the slickness of his blood on my hands. I remember pressing those fingers to my lips to stop from heaving.

There’s no trace of blood on them now, and I realize he must have washed me after I passed out. A strange sensation sparks in my stomach at the thought of it, at his tenderness and consideration.

But then my mind clears. I was asleep and he had his hands on me. I rub my free hand up my arm, not sure what to think about this information.

“I’d know if I was infected,” I say firmly enough to convince both of us. Though there’s a tiny bit of dread in my mind now—worry that what he’s saying might be true and even now the infection is taking hold.

I’ve never really allowed myself to think about what it would feel like. I’ve imagined being dead, being one of the Unconsecrated. But I’ve always avoided thinking about the time in between—the knowing part of it. I wonder what that must have been like for him: the feel of the dead teeth, the realization that everything was over.

Catcher’s still staring at me, almost as if he cares about me, which doesn’t make sense and makes me uncomfortable. He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. I shouldn’t feel safe with him. I shouldn’t still be here. I should kick his knee out and run for the surface, but I don’t do any of these things because I still haven’t figured out who this guy is and how he knows both my sister and Elias.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, snapping the words.

Relief washes over his face and he turns away, trying to hide it. Trying not to show me how afraid he was. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice weak.

I nod. “I hit my head when we fell. I’m dizzy and nauseated. But I’m not infected.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his fingers to them. I feel like I’m watching something I shouldn’t, seeing a part of him that’s too personal for a stranger like me.

I glance away and clear my throat, needing to break the silence and desperately wanting to figure out what’s going on. “Why were you on the roof last night?”

He raises his hand to his neck again and I almost scream at him to stop it, stop reminding me of Elias. I even take a deep breath, ready to say something when he runs his fingers over his head, through his hair.

“You looked like you needed help,” he says. I scowl. It’s another non-answer, and I’m starting to realize he’s good at those.

“How did you know who I was? Or do you make it a habit to rescue any damsel in distress when you come to a new city and almost drown?” My words echo slightly, tracing up and over the soaring arches above us.