Very slowly, I turned my head. We were mostly hidden by a net of leaves, but through the gaps we watched a procession of flatbed trucks roll by.

Each loaded high with cages.

Each cage filled with a kid.

The sounds were the worst part. Hacking and gagging and rent-open sobbing.

They looked like chicken trucks brimming with hens stuffed into little cubes. Except hens didn’t have fingers that clutched the bars. They didn’t plead and sob. They didn’t thrash violently, making the metal jangle.

The trucks kept on, the tires less than ten yards from where Patrick and I lay flat in the dirt, protected only by the mesh of branches. To avoid the barricade, they must’ve backtracked, then circled all the way around to Bristol, a six-hour detour through several towns in the low valley—too dangerous an option for us. Then they must’ve refilled their tanks somehow and driven up the southern shoulder.

Now we watched the trucks veer up toward Lawrenceville at the top of the pass. The turn was abrupt, the tread throwing up pebbles.

A cage slid free of the straps and plummeted down the sheer rock face, a girl’s scream growing fainter and fainter. The cage pinged once off the stone and vanished into the abyss. The other cages on the top level shifted around, a few more sliding off, bouncing against the lip, and plummeting into space.

I can’t describe the sounds those kids made as they fell.

Though I didn’t dare look over at Alex, I could hear her muffled sobs.

Finally the procession ended. As the last truck chugged upslope, I caught a glimpse of the crates in the very back. Crammed into a battery cage, Nick stared out at the kicked-up dust on the road, his face blank, his eyes as black and lifeless as those of a Host.

That last truck rumbled off into the darkness. We stayed perfectly still until the final vibration of the engine faded from the air. Then we dragged ourselves out of the clearing, raw from what we’d witnessed.

“They just kept going,” Alex said. “Those kids fell off … into the … and they just kept driving.”

Patrick put his arms around her.

“We gotta move,” I said.

On stiff legs I headed north, toward Stark Peak.

After a moment their footsteps pattered behind me. The incline steepened, my thigh muscles aching. I bent into the rise, cutting through a stand of pines to get us out of plain sight. Cassius trotted at my side.

“Good boy,” I said. “Good, good boy.” He grinned up at me, unconcerned. Taking his kid for a walk.

Crossing my arms in front of my face, I forged through pine needles. Something hard came underfoot, and I opened my eyes just in time to find myself on the brink of a granite ledge, staring at a drop that seemed to fall forever.