She broke into a run as they stepped outside. It was sunny, and warmer than it had been in Georgia. He squinted and nearly stumbled.

She held on to his arm harder, and Lennon realized he was unsteady on his feet. He was swooning. He was literally the least-manly kidnapping victim ever. People would tell stories about his lack of manliness for generations to come.

They were headed for a bus. It was covered in graffiti—or art? Hard to say.

She practically shoved him inside. He collapsed onto the first seat he saw.

Her face appeared in front of him, eyebrows knitted in concern. “Did they give you anything?”

He shook his head. “You gave me something.”

Now her eyebrows thought he was a dumbass. He searched his memory for the first name she’d given him.

“Mary?”

“Maisie.”

“What?”

“My name is Maisie.”

“Maisie.” His vision began to tunnel. “I feel weird.” His body slumped. He fell onto his side.

Maisie put her hands on her hips, peering down at him. She was becoming a tiny spot in his vision. When she spoke, she sounded far away.

“I think this dude just fainted.”

—

He was on the bumpy bus, and then someone was dragging him to his feet.

“I didn’t hit him!” Maisie said. He couldn’t see her. It was too bright. “He just fainted out of nowhere. He’s very delicate.”

He tried to mumble that he was not delicate, but no words came out. Besides, there were two men on either side of him, supporting nearly all of his weight, so maybe she had a point.

It suddenly wasn’t so bright, and then he was on a soft surface. A man stared down at him. Olive skin. Dark beard. Glasses.

“Holy shit,” he said, and sat up so quickly that he got dizzy and promptly ended up on his back again. Jesus Christ. He was delicate.

“Nice to meet you too,” Dr. Franco Lopez said with a hint of amusement.

“Is this a reaction to that stuff we injected him with?” Maisie asked. She was sitting in a chair across the room, one black boot propped up, an arm slung across her knee. He could see her tattoos more clearly now—a black butterfly on her arm, one wing detailed, the other destroyed, a wispy mess of lines. She had her left hand, the one that she’d used to punch his captor, tucked into her body like she didn’t want anyone to see it.

“Could be,” Dr. Lopez said. A younger man appeared beside him. He was probably in his early twenties, but with the same olive skin and black hair as Dr. Lopez. He regarded Lennon suspiciously.

Dr. Lopez looked down at Lennon. “They didn’t give you anything, did they? Those boys who grabbed you?”

He shook his head, which felt foggy. “But I haven’t eaten in, like…What day is it? I haven’t eaten since Georgia.”

“Who is Georgia?” Maisie asked.

“He means the state,” Dr. Lopez said. “They grabbed him in Georgia, two days ago.”