I stop just short of the rooms and try to think strategically. Teresa will need the most help. Woken in the middle of the night, she’ll definitely panic. Ramona will stay the calmest. If I can get Ramona up, she can help with the others.

When I reach Ramona’s room, I slip inside the darkness and quickly pull the door shut behind me. I feel my way over to the bureau to switch on the small light beside the mirror. If I startle Ramona awake with the big overhead, she might scream. It’s a relief when the room finally lights up, but only until I turn to look at the bed.

Empty. Stripped. No Ramona. No nothing.

Am I in the wrong room? I must be. Half the rooms had been empty the whole time. Maybe Ramona’s room wasn’t the closest to the common room like I thought. I am turning to leave when I spot something on the floor, under the edge of the bed. Small and balled up and black. I duck down to investigate. It isn’t until I pick it up that I can see it’s the bracelet Ramona was always snapping, twisted up into a tight knot.

Wait. Maybe they moved everyone to the other side of the hospital after the fire? I overheard that when I was running out. To the side where they brought me in the beginning. That would make total sense. Of course, it would be much better if I even remotely believed that’s where everybody was. I’m still crouched down staring at the bracelet when Ramona’s door starts to open.

Shit. I drop to my stomach. And scramble to hide in the only available place: under the bed. I want it to be Jasper. But I don’t think it is. He’s way at the other end of the hall.

My heart pounds once I’m under the bed frame, pressed against the cold linoleum. I watch as feet appear in the doorway. Women’s shoes—lizard, high-heeled. I feel like I know this person. At least, she knows me. Or thinks she does.

My heart is thumping so hard that I’m starting to feel nauseous. But I can’t come out. Those shoes are still in the doorway. And they are taking way too long to leave. Finally, they move, but inside. A second later the door eases closed.

“Wylie.” A woman’s voice, so quiet and calm. “Come out, please.”

The voice, the fancy shoes. Rachel. My mom’s ring. My mom’s photographs. My eyes flood with furious tears. Does Rachel work for these people—the NIH or Dr. Cornelia or the Defense Intelligence Agency? There remain countless options.

“Please, Wylie,” Rachel goes on when still I do not move. “They haven’t given us much time. I need to talk to you.”

They. Us. Still trying to pretend that she’s on my side.