My stomach is pushing up into my throat and I feel light-headed. If Quentin knows about the baby, there is a chance he really knows something that could get me out of here. And I do need out. My dad needs me out.

“You don’t know anything.” A test. I need to feel his answer.

Quentin smiles. “But I do,” he says, and with such awful, unavoidable certainty. Quentin stands, pushes a note card across the table to me. “Here’s my number. If you change your mind about helping me, give me a call and we can make arrangements.” He looks around the room and frowns. “But if I were you, I would hurry. Terrible things can happen in a place like this.”

I AM SURPRISED to discover myself back in the TV room some time later. I walked there somehow and now I am sitting on the couch, limbs attached, heart beating. But otherwise I am completely numb. I don’t remember the last thing I said to Quentin. I don’t remember making it back down the hall. I am sure only of the overwhelming sense that I have lost, even if Quentin hasn’t really won.

I don’t know how long I sit there. Girls come and go. The TV show changes, time moves on. Eventually, I hear a distant sound at the back of the room, rattling metal, something squeaky.

“Librarian is here,” one of the guards calls out. And there’s an edge to his voice like he can’t believe he’s got to bother with this crap. “You got ten minutes to pick out some books.”

Books. The idea seems so ludicrous to me. What with the world on fire and all. But the other girls head over, whooping and jostling like they are headed to an ice cream truck. It’s been the same each time the volunteers have come by—a different overly kind old woman each time.

“US Weekly!” I hear someone shout, triumphant.

“You still don’t got the last Harry Potter back?” someone else asks. “That is such bullshit. They can’t keep it forever.”

It’s sad, hearing how excited they are doing something so many others their age complain about. It makes me wonder if that is how I will feel before long, excited by things I have always taken for granted. And how long it will take before I do—or say—whatever they want? Before I confess just so that they will stop asking questions. At least then I’d never have to talk to Quentin again.