I have to go. Now. The fire is out, the emergency contained. And I don’t see anyone evacuating. Which means they have gone back inside. Any second the head count will begin. Soon they will realize that someone is gone. And they will come looking.

16

I FLY DOWN THE FIRST THREE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS, SLOWING ONLY WHEN I HEAR the voices from our floor begin to rise. One of the guards is shouting directions to the girls. I catch bits and pieces. “Find an available room.” “Transfer belongings.” The girls’ mumbling, grumbling. “Teresa?” someone asks. And then someone else replies. I can’t hear what they say. I don’t think I hear Kelsey’s voice either. I hope that means that she has somehow already managed to get herself out the door.

I slide quietly past our floor and race the rest of the way down, so fast that I trip on my stupid flip-flops a few times. But I am too scared to slow down.

And no one stops me, no voice calls out. Soon I am at the bottom of the steps. Right in front of the exit door. My hands tremble on the bar as I look at the sign—Emergency Exit Only. Alarm Will Sound. When the alarm goes off, they will know exactly where I am. They will come after me. And it will be broad daylight when I emerge. Not the best for a clean escape. Still, I have no choice. I take one last deep breath then push open the door.

There’s no sound, though. No alarm, at least not one I can hear. And that’s the last thing I think—no alarm—before I run.

The driveway is much longer than it looked from the roof. Longer and longer it seems, the faster I try to go. Soon my lungs are burning, my legs rubbery. But I keep my eyes locked on the city skyline ahead. There is only me and my breathing and the tall buildings in front of me. And I need to get there, to the crowds of Boston, where I can disappear.

Finally, the end of the hospital driveway is in sight. A stop sign and then the road, a main one—three lanes in each direction—that make the top of a T. Across the wide street is an office building next to some brick historic site, to the right a sandwich shop with people inside. That’s my best shot. I have no cash or ID. No phone. I am just going to have to hope that somebody buying lunch in there takes pity on me. But I’ll need a good story. A believable one that does not involve government quarantine or anyone chasing after me.