He dropped the duffel next to Britney and flopped her limp body into it. Then he rose, lifted the dripping mop from the bucket, and tossed it at Patrick. Patrick caught the handle in front of his chest.

Crouching, Ben hoisted the hefty duffel bag and headed out, muscles straining beneath his shirt. Already the bag had started to spot.

Ben disappeared, and Patrick mopped up. Alex stayed on the floor, her face slack, staring at nothing. Patrick finished, squeezing pink water from the mop. When he wheeled the bucket across to the storage closet, one of the wheels gave off the faintest squeak.

Everyone stayed silent, out of either respect or shock.

A moment later Ben returned, the front of his shirt covered in blood. More blood than made sense. What had he done with Britney’s body? As everyone stared at him, he cuffed his flannel sleeves back from his thick forearms, twice each. “So,” he said. “I guess we figured out the age cutoff.”

I glanced over at Patrick and saw him swallow. Hard. He caught my eye, then looked away fast.

His eighteenth birthday was next week.

Dr. Chatterjee worked his way back across the court. He paused behind Alex and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. Continuing on, he flipped over the dry-erase board to reveal the blank back side.

Then he regarded the rest of us. “Everyone line up by age,” he said. “Youngest in the front. I’m gonna write all your names and birthdays in order here. So we know.”

After some jostling and confusion, we formed a single row. Everything proceeded in orderly fashion, pretty amazing given what was going on. Maybe we were just happy to have something easy to do. Marina took her spot ahead of Maria, having been born a few minutes before her. Dr. Chatterjee listened to everyone, then jotted his or her information up on the board in his neat hand. The line moved slowly forward. I tried to choke down my fear, to keep my gaze ahead at Rocky’s black curls, at JoJo and the Mendez twins, but every step of the way I sensed Patrick back there toward the end of the line. I didn’t want to know how near the end he was.

Finally I couldn’t fight the urge anymore, and I turned and looked back along the long line of kids, past Ben and Alex and Eve.

Patrick was the second kid from the end.

The last in line was Chet Rogers, his big ruddy face downcast. His arms trembled, and his left knee jackhammered. He twisted one sweaty hand in the other.

Whereas Patrick was trying to fight off his fear and doing a pretty good job of it. I don’t think anyone except me could tell how rattled he was, but I knew him the way only brothers know each other. The way he knew me.