He nods and parts his lips. I bring the water to them and pour it in slowly. He’s sallow and sweaty, but he wouldn’t be bad-looking if he weren’t a Dweller. He has a strong face, with a heavy brow and eyes that look like they don’t miss much, even in their glazed, sickly state.

All the Dwellers are fair, with no wrinkles or scars or blemishes. I guess those qualities were done away with in the Pods. I feel very lucky that I look as good as they do—or better, actually—just by plain good fortune.

I can tell Soren is taking small, careful sips so as to keep the water down. “What’s your name again?” he croaks when he’s finished.

“Not telling you again.” All I need is forty Dwellers moaning “Brooke” to me all day long.

Drinking has made Soren out of breath. He’s panting a little when he says, “Outside . . . what’s happening?”

“Aether. Lots of it.”

His eyes narrow like he’s trying to picture the sky outside, and a small worry line appears on his brow. “How are we going to—”

“There’s nothing you can do to help,” I assure him, “especially in your pathetic condition, so just go back to sleep.” I get up and move on to the next person.

Molly says I’m not making enough of an effort with these people, but I really don’t think she’s been paying attention.

My path through the cavern is methodical. And targeted. I work my way toward Aria, who I’ve avoided until now.

I didn’t want Molly watching me around her. I didn’t want to feel like she was policing me. Like she thought I might hurt Aria. Being suspected of that would streak me, even though the idea of doing her harm does hold some appeal.

It takes me ten minutes to reach Aria’s side. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching me, I kneel next to her, moving as quietly as I can. She is in a deep sleep or maybe unconscious, but she is an Aud. I don’t want to take any chances that I’ll wake her.

As I look her over, my heart starts thudding and my face warms with anger.

Her right arm is bandaged, but blood seeps through the wrap, staining the white gauze with bright red spots.

Her arm was shot, apparently.

It’s becoming infected, apparently.

I should feel bad for her, I suppose.

I don’t.

She looks good for someone who’s wounded. That actually is apparent. Her hair is as black as the darkness around me but still shines like a diamond. Her skin is as pale as the moon, and she breathes like an Aud.

Soundlessly. Elegantly. Gently.