Eric knocks on the door and as it opens, he glances back at Lynell one more time. “Think hard, Lynell. Make the right decision.”

Then they leave, and Lynell is alone.

Lynell manages to keep herself awake by detailing everything that has happened in the last six days. She spends hours remembering every second of her time with Daniel. She thinks about the way he mouthed, “I love you!” before Zach took her away. She tries to remember the way the train rocked or the look of fear on Daniel’s face six days ago.

Six days ago. She’s been running for seven days.

Halfway. She’s managed to stay alive halfway through the fourteen days in which Zach and the others could complete their Registration.

She should be proud of that. Maybe it’s enough. Maybe she can give up now.

When she feels exhaustion threatening to take over, she rubs her arms against the restraints which is enough pain to keep her awake but not enough to make her pass out.

She prays.

She can’t remember the last time she prayed. Living under Alan’s roof made her believe nothing could really be out there.

Somehow, being tied to this bedpost makes her anxious for the belief in a god. Buddha, Zeus, Mohammed, Allah, Jesus, Brahma. She asks each of them by name to take away the pain, to let her stand up, to let her go home, to tell her it’s okay to give the letter to Eric.

Nobody answers, and she’s still connected to the flat, metal cage when she hears the door unlock and the knob turn. Skin prickling, fear spiking, heart racing, Lynell looks up and sees Zach enter the room and close the door behind him. Her eyes go wide.

“Zach,” she breathes, ecstatic to see him.

“You stayed awake,” Zach says.

His words are loud and bounce off Lynell’s bare skin, leaving unseen bruises. She watches him pick up the chair, confusion filling her mind.

“Zach, please help me. You told me to choose—” she stops short at the look on his face. He’s leaning over the chair with his back to the door. He narrows his eyes, which are bright red, and shakes his head.

She swallows and rolls her lips between her teeth. Zach places the chair next to her and sits, leaning forward on his knees.

She feels his warmth and her body strains to reach for it, but the restraints keep her from moving. He sighs, and his breath hits her face. She closes her eyes and takes a breath.

“You’re doing good, Lynell,” Zach says. His voice is low but she’s under no impression that they aren’t being listened to.

A knot of unshed tears forms in her throat.

“Forget what I said,” he says, each word tight and terrified. “Just give me the letter. Please. There’s still time.”

He doesn’t mean it, Lynell thinks. He’s just scared. But the effort to convince herself falls flat. She wants to give in. To give it to him.