“Why?”

He shakes his head and drops his hands into his lap. He looks at them as if they’re covered in blood. “Soon, Lynell. I swear. But just . . . promise me.”

“Price . . .”

“Lynell,” he turns to her again, eyes so full of pleading that, for a moment, Lynell falters and forgets that this man will kill her in less than two weeks. She sees so much of her own fear in his eyes that a small part of her wants to reach out and give him a hug.

But mostly, she wants to slap him and demand answers.

She makes a compromise with herself and grits her teeth before saying, “Zach.”

He grins. “I wish you weren’t who you are, Lynell. But you are. And I am who I am. This is our situation, and we have to deal with it as best we can.” She’s about to ask more questions, but Price leans forward, grabs a pill and a cup from the bedside table, and hands them to her. “Go to sleep. Tomorrow, we’re going home.”

DAY 4

Nightmares wake her up and cling to her all morning. She ignores Price when he asks what’s wrong but takes the pain meds he offers as she heads for the bathroom. With no shower, Lynell settles for splashing water on her face and taking deep, calming breaths. She leans over the sink and gently places two fingers under the cut on her cheekbone. Color is just beginning to form around the wound, and she knows in a few hours it will be a proper black eye.

She’s no stranger to cuts and bruises. She’s even had her fair share of broken bones. But something about seeing her reflection this morning makes her feel small and insignificant. Soon, she’ll just be another casualty of the Registration.

Not a victim. Those who are Registered are never referred to as victims. Eric Elysian once said, “The real victims were the citizens oppressed and practically enslaved by the government before the civil war. But you are no longer a victim. You are free. You have power and a choice. You have the Registration.”

She once watched that speech four times in a row, trying to convince herself to take a stand against Alan so she would no longer be victimized.

But she didn’t. And now she’ll never have the chance again.

“Just ordered a car. They’re seven minutes away,” Price says when she emerges from the bathroom, hair in a loose bun to ease the growing headache.

Lynell nods and grabs one of the plastic cups sitting next to an empty ice bucket. She fills it with water from the bathroom, ignoring how cloudy it is before downing all of it. It’s not like she’ll be alive long enough to worry about getting sick from unfiltered water.

The car is waiting at the curb and the driver, an older man who grew up here, talks nonstop during the drive. He tells them about all six of his children, that his oldest is planning to run for office.