Mostly because I didn’t think we’d make it this far.

I reenter the auditorium as quietly as I exited it and lay on my mat. Rhys is on my left, facing away from me. His gray shirt is splattered with dirt and blood. Trace is on my right, on his back, his mouth hanging open. I stare at the skylights overhead until weak rays of sun filter in. A new day. If what I hear beyond them is any indication, it’s the same as the last.

Someone stirs. Cary. First awake, not counting myself. So strange. I think of him in English class at the back of the room; how he listened with his head in his arms and answered all of Mr. Baxter’s questions in the same unhurried way: I don’t know, and how he couldn’t afford to because he was repeating eleventh grade and didn’t he just want out of here like the rest of us? I close my eyes but he tiptoes his way over to me—no, Rhys. He wakes Rhys and they soft-shoe across the room. I hear the slight jangle of the keys he stole from Principal LaVallee’s office and then the sound of the kitchen door gliding open and closed.

I open my eyes. Trace is next to show signs of life. His eyes flicker back and forth beneath his eyelids and he moans, curling his fingers into fists. His whole body tenses until he shouts himself awake, bolting upright before collapsing back on his mat, sweaty and shaking. Grace is next to him in a heartbeat. He grabs her hand, eyes still shut, chest heaving. But he doesn’t—can’t—speak.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m here.”

The way she says it, the way she’s beside him—I want to be between them. I want to be in the direct path of their togetherness so I can steal some of the feeling for myself. Grace’s eyes drift from Trace to me and I look away, self-conscious. Grace is beautiful. Dirty and covered in blood, she is so beautiful. Prettier than me. But that shouldn’t matter, I guess.

Harrison is last awake. He sits up and rubs his eyes, digging his fists into them. He does this for so long I wonder if he might need someone to tell him to stop until I realize he’s trying to cover up the fact he’s crying. Wasted effort. When he finally lowers his hands and notices the two empty gym mats, he freaks.

“Where are they?” He twists around. “Where did they—”

The kitchen door swings open. Cary and Rhys march into the room, each carrying trays loaded with food. I sit up and watch as they set them in front of our mats and I see bagels and apples and bananas and rice cakes and globs of peanut butter and jam packets on plates surrounded by plastic cutlery. Juice and water. I’m hungry. I crawl over to the tray and Grace and Harrison follow suit. The bananas are browning so I reach for an apple instead.