The best place to catch the LA sunrise is the roof of the Clarke house. Alycia, Nick, and I have spent dozens of sleepovers stargazing atop the roof, and when the morning comes… oh, it's beautiful.

Before the sun is high, I sneak out the front door, take a right, and find myself at old, rusted metal that used to be a truck. Mr. Clarke's. It's been here around a decade; when he was still alive, he didn't have the heart to scrap it. Now it's as much a piece of the Clarke house as the actual house.

There's two ways to get on the roof. The easiest is to climb through Nick's window. The truck way requires some parkour, but nothing too hard. Jump into the bed of the truck, hop on top, and hoist yourself on the roof's edge. I do it without thought and climb to the highest spot, quiet as I can. Most people inside are still asleep.

The sky is a deep mix of purples, pinks, and oranges. I lean back against the rooftop, curling my hands behind my head as I stare up at the molding colors. Bob Ross would be in awe.

Pretty.

I've missed sunrises. Mum and I were always early birds, so we'd leave the apartment in the early hours of the morning and watch the sky from the hood of her car. I smile softly, closing my eyes. Those are great memories.

I rest quietly, until the sun beats against my face. The warmth is soft, barely-there, and I watch as the purples and pinks and oranges even out, transforming into a bright yellow that burns brightly. If I had a clock that worked, I'd guess it'd say six or seven in the morning.

A faint pounce on the ground catches my attention, and I watch a pair of hands hoist a body up to the ledge of the roof. "'xcuse me, spot's taken."

My words make Chris jump; I grin quietly. Guess you didn't expect anyone up here, huh?

"Sorry, Tina!" He stutters, pulling himself all the way up. "I normally vlog up here." Chris pulls out his camera from his sweatshirt, holding it up for me to see.

"Take a seat, Pete." I pat the tile beside me as my eyes stare out at the sky. "I'll leave in a minute. I just wanted to see the sunrise."

Chris takes a couple tentative steps towards me, and I hear him settle onto the empty tile, a gentle clunk as he sets his camera down, too. Softly, I murmur, "Y'know, Alycia, Nick, and I would sneak out and see the stars?"

He hums in response, not committing to actual conversation. That's fine; I don't know him very well. He seems more like an introvert, anyways. Probably thrives in silence.

I continue, my eyes searching through clouds. "Whenever I slept over—when I first met them, anyways—we'd sneak out at midnight, or one in the morning, and stare at the sky. We'd try to pick out constellations, make wishes on shooting stars, all that."

"You know any? Constellations, I mean."

"Besides Big Dipper, nope. But that's what made it fun. Just like looking at clouds."

Chris is quiet for a minute, then adds, "When my parents and I went camping, that's what we would do. Stargaze in the middle of the night. He's the reason I know the scorpius constellation by heart."

I twist my head to look at him. "What's it look like?"

"Okay, so… Imagine, like, a swirly line, right?" He gestures into the air with his hands. "Kind of like a capitol C on one end, then a bit of a curve, then the other end is sort of like a pitchfork."

"A pitchfork."

"Yeah. It has three prongs." Chris looks to me, noticing the confused grin on my face, and shrugs it off with a smile. "I'll show you one of these nights. It's really pretty."

"I bet." I pull myself into a sitting position and stretch out my back. "I should get going, I promised Alycia I'd help her fold laundry today."

I get ready to push myself off the roof before Chris asks, "You two aren't… like… Together, together, are you?"

Laughter escapes my throat before I can stop it. "Absolutely not, Chris! No, nonono. You really think that?"

"Hey," he cracks a smirk. "Yesterday I found out you were into girls. Just wonderin'."

"For your information, I love all of god's creatures equally. And Alycia is very very straight. Besides, she's my best friend. I don't see her like that. She's like family."

"Gotcha. Like I said, just wondering."

Before I can come up with any witty remark, Travis's voice beams from the truck. "Kids! Breakfast!"

"What's that you're looking at?"

I jump at the sudden noise, flicking my head to the opening of the kitchen. "Oh, hey Liza!" She's already in her scrubs and throwing up her hair into a bun for the day. I can't remember how many patients she has but it's more than enough to keep her busy. Her days are long. "It's an EMT book. I found it yesterday."

"Mind if I take a look?" She asks.

I gesture openly to the book on the table; an offer. Liza smiles in thanks and treks over, leaning above it and scanning through the pages.

My hands busy themselves with straightening out my notebook. I gently erase some messy lines and rewrite a section of notes. I figure if I write the information down, it'll stick better in my mind. There are some acronyms to help with procedures. For example—RICE. Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate. How to treat a sprain.

"This is a good book," Liza nods approvingly, flipping back and forth on the sprain page. It was the section I left off on. "Where'd you find this?"

"At home," I shrug. "In my apartment with my mum's other books. Figured it'd be more useful being used instead of gathering dust."

"Smart move."

Liza grins approvingly before grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and running it under some water. "Travis told me you'd be like your mom. Medicine is an exciting field." She takes a hearty bite of the red delicious.

My cheeks flush at the attention. "I'll be sure to tell him thanks for the praise. He's such a mush."

"Always has been; don't expect that to change anytime soon."

"Never," I chuckle. Then I ask, "If you don't mind my asking, have you heard anything about Scott? I know you checked in on him a few times."

Liza stalls on her next bite. Ruefully, she shakes her head. "No, sorry. I'm sure they're taking good care of him."

I press my lips in a thin line. "I hope so." She was against the militia moving him from his family. Another reason I'm grateful for someone like her taking care of us.

"So," she perks up. "Sprains. Have you ever had to bandage one?"

I shake my head. She smiles. "You can practice today. That's your homework. I have an extra ACE bandage you can use."

"Really?"

"Of course!" She throws out the core of the apple into the trash before heading to her purse. A quick rifle through and she pull out one still wrapped. The ACE bandage is a beige material, stretchy and moveable to help immobilize a part, but not cut off circulation. "Practice on yourself. It's not as easy as the diagram pretends it is."

"Aye aye, captain." I grin. "I'll be a master before you come home tonight!"

I start reading the section of common extremity fractures when the front door creaks open. "'Ello," I wave when I see Ophelia's familiar form. I still need to get some payback from last night.

She doesn't reply; instead the door swings itself shut with a loud clunk. My teasing thoughts fly away as I take in her furrowed brow, set frown, and twitching fingers that rest on her elbow.

"You okay, love?" I ask, concerned.

"Yeah, sorry." She shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts, rubbing her arm up and down hastily. With quick strides she goes to the table, sitting directly across from me. "Just a little worried, is all."

"About what?" I drop the pen on my paper, focusing on her. To keep myself fidgeting I grab the ACE bandage, unfurling it slowly and stretching the material before rolling it back up. I've set it a few times on myself; Liza was right, it's harder than the diagrams.

"There's a doctor in town today." Ophelia explains. She rests her elbows at the edge of the table, wringing her hands. "And she said she would take my mother to treat her. My papa is going, too. But I'm not allowed."

"Why?" I take one of her hands and pull it down to the table gently—stopping her worried fidgeting—and hold out the bandage. "Mind if I practice?"

She shakes her head, and I begin to unravel it at her wrist, pulling it upwards and spinning it around her palm. "They can only take so many people from the community at once, and if I'm not at risk I'm not important enough to leave."

Ophelia sighs, shutting her eyes tight. "I don't know when they'll be coming back. If they're coming back."

I finish the wrap—securing it tight with the two metal clips—and look to her. Her frown deepens with the last thought in mind. Can't have any of that.

My hand grasps at her uncovered one, and I smile reassuringly. "Of course they'll come back, babes. I know it's not exactly the best situation, but the medical treatment there is better than here. They took Scott yesterday, remember? He'll get treated and come home, just like your parents."

She gives a grim smile—perhaps still unconvinced—but says, "Thank you, really."

"Anytime." I smile and pull away. "Now: Is the bandage okay?"

She tries to bend her hand. "Um, I think I lost circulation."

"Bloody hell." I grumble. With a quick tug the bandage unravels itself, and underneath the skin is red and angry. "Bugger all, I'm sorry!"

"Want to try again?"

"If you don't mind."

"Here, let me see the book real quick." Ophelia grabs the spine and flips through a couple pages, finding the chapter quickly. "Okay, how about this time we—"

"You took your homework to heart," Liza nods in approval.

I grin. "Told you I'd be a pro before you came back."

She pulls off the metal clips from the stretchy material and undoes the wrapping on her wrist. "Who'd you practice with?"

"Ophelia was my test subject for a good hour earlier." I call to the living room, "Which I am very thankful for because I know my first few were quite painful!"

An endearing laugh follows. "It was my pleasure, Tina."

I was silently as she bounds up the stairs—most likely to spend some more time with her parents before the cavalry comes barging in.

Liza begins to re-wrap the bandage as she jerks her head to my notebook. "How many notes did you take?"

I shrug. "I want to say… twelve or so pages?"

"You're very ambitious."

"Just like keeping myself busy. And if it's useful…"

A rough knock on the front door makes me jump. The militia. Right.

"I'm going to make sure they're all ready," Liza points her thumb up the stairs. I nod silently. As she bounds up the stairs I head to the front door, hand outstretched to the handle.

"I'll get it."

My eyes peer to the darkness of the garage where Madison steps from. Her gaze doesn't meet mine when she passes me and I frown. She always gives at least a half-smile in acknowledgement. What happened?

A petite woman—older, with short black hair neat in a bun and clipboard in hand—is surrounded by men in army uniforms. Some faces I recognize from yesterday at the Ardnois house. "We're looking for Griselda Salazar?"

"Up here!" Liza calls from the top of the stairs. The militia barge their way in, making sure to stomp on every single step on the way up. We get it, guys, you're big strong burly men who answer to no one. I follow quietly behind them. I want to keep Ophelia company after her parents leave; hopefully it'll help lessen the sting. My weight lean against the wall by Alycia's bedroom silently, allowing them some space. I'm sure they don't want a crowd.

As the doctor and Liza converse, Ophelia holds tightly onto her mother's hand, whispering hastily in Spanish. I'm not close enough to hear it fully, and even if I did it'd be a lost cause. I was shit in basic spoken Spanish at school.

Some men in green trail outside, bringing in a stretcher to move her. As they grip Griselda, she cries out in pain. The sound makes Ophelia whimper. Poor thing.

When Griselda is finally settled and being wheeled out, Ophelia plants a chaste kiss on her forehead, hands holding onto her mothers' until she's out the door. Daniel gives her a tight hug goodbye. "I don't know how long we will be."

"I know, I know." Ophelia grimaces, whispering back.

The sound of a door squeaking behind me grabs my attention. I turn around, looking as Nick and Alycia walk out of his room, standing by the side of the hallway.

"Hey! I was wondering where you two were." I give them a smile.

"Busy day," Alycia offers. I nod at the explanation before turning my attention back to a worried Ophelia.

I murmur over my shoulder, "More pool lounging for you, yank?"

He stays silent; the quiet air makes me frown. He's never quiet. My eyes flick back and take in his expression. Nick's arms wrap around himself tightly, a quiver in his figure. One eye is bruised and black, along with a purple mark at his jaw. "Yank?"

He shakes his head, a small sob threatening to exhale. What the hell happened? I don't see him all day and miss something bad. Did he get in a fight?

"Hey," I say softly, pulling away from the Salazar festivities and turn to look at him. "What happened? Talk to me."

Nick shakes his head again, speaking for the first time. "No. S—sorry, T…"

"Sorry, what?" My eyes gaze past his shoulder at Alycia; she lets out a huff and shrugs. No idea either.

"I don—I don't want to talk about it."

"About what? What happened?" Gingerly I bring a hand up to his shoulder—attempting to comfort him—and instead of leaning into it like he normally does, he pulls away like I'd hurt him. My frown deepens. With an ache in my chest, my hand drops to my side.

My eyes search over his face; at the marks, the gentle, panicked breaths escaping pursed lips, the pained expression in his eyes. He almost looks… guilty?

"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to stop." The rough voice of a soldier captures my attention at the top of the stairs. I look over, his hand held out in front of Daniel.

"No, it's okay, it's his wife." Madison says. Yeah, he's supposed to go with Griselda. He should be on your list, too.

"I have two names." The soldier holds up his clipboard.

"Griselda Salazar." Daniel points out the door, then to himself. "Daniel Salazar."

"No, not you. Nicholas Clark?"

… What?

My blood freezes as I hear his name. His eyes capture mine; the guilty look molds into one of fear.

But he—he's not sick.

"W—what?" Madison stammers.

"C'mon, man." The soldier says, looking to the men of our group. "Free medical care on behalf of the US military."

My eyes catch Nick's and I whisper, "Run."

He does. He's quick to turn and run from the army men, down the end of the hall and back to his room. Smart move. Jump out the window, get down the truck.

"No, no, that's a mistake." Madison persists. "It has to be a mistake!"

"He's not sick!" I nearly scream as the army men barge into his room, pulling Nick by the jacket and dragging him out. He writhes in their grasp, an elbow connecting to one's face. Angrily, the soldier takes his pistol and clocks Nick in the back of the head. He drops to the floor like dead weight, groaning at the pain.

My blood pressure spikes as I shriek, "Hey, don't hurt him!" I take two hasty steps forward, arm outstretched, heart catching in my throat. He's not sick, they have no reason to take him.

"HEY, HEY!" Alycia screams. She, too, hastily treks to the men but one grabs ahold of her arm and pushes her aside.

I take another tentative step forward before one of the men shoves me away. "Stand down, miss—"

"Don't bloody touch me!" I shriek, flinging my back into the wall.

Madison runs to the commotion, trying to pull one of them from Nick. "Hey, leave him alone! Leave him—"

Another soldier pulls her off. "Ma'am, he'll receive the best medical care around. There's no reason to worry." Bullshit. He's not sick!

"Let me talk to Moyers! He knows me! Just let me talk to him, we'll sort this out!" Travis pleads.

One of the soldiers traps him and Madison in a corner. "Stand down." He orders, eyes piercingly angry.

They pull Nick from the ground harshly, holding his arms behind his back as they stride down the stairs. "I didn't—" Nick groans, "I didn't do anything wrong, man."

"Stop! Stop, don't take him!" I run down the stairs after them, grabbing at one of the men holding him. "He's not sick! Your orders are wrong!"

"Stand down, miss." Another soldier pulls me away, his hand gripping my forearm tightly as they walk out the door. "Medical will take good care of your boyfriend."

One, he's not my boyfriend. Two, I don't believe half the shit you say.

"Oh, piss off!" I yell, yanking my arm from his grasp. In a fury I run out the door. "Nick!"

He gazes to me as the soldiers bend him over the edge of a truck, one holding him tightly as the other zip ties his hands together behind his back. His eyes are wide and dark and terrified.

The solder from earlier grabs me again, pulling me backwards before I can run to Nick or sock one of the militia men. "I said stand down, miss. He'll be fine."

"He's not sick!"

His grip is tight on my forearm. "That's not what we were told."

My breath comes out in pants as Nick mouths something. I furrow my brows, attempting to understand. He tries again, slow enough that I can make it out. "I'm sorry."

And without a care for his safety, the soldiers' zip-tying him throw him in the back of the truck. "No." I shake my head. "No."

I try to pull myself out of the soldier's grasp, but he's too strong for me to shake off. Liza hops into the back of another truck, her eyes staring at the house as the vehicles roar to life and pull away. The soldier finally lets me go as he feels me slump—worry and anger replaced by utter grief and dejection.

Why did they take him? He was fine, he was almost clean and in remission for two weeks.

… Right?

"Where is he? Where did you take him?!" Madison runs out the house, screaming. "Nick!"

"He's gone." I say, monotonous. "They took him away." My eyes are glassy as I watch the trucks and soldiers leave through the gate, away from view.

"That's not what we were told." The sentence replays in my mind. That, plus the guilt, the fear, him saying sorry…

"Why did they take him?" I turn to Madison. She'd know. She knows everything about Nick. "He wasn't sick, he didn't need any medicine."

I wait a beat before adding, "Or did he?"

She sighs, her whole body drooping as sad eyes look to me. "What do you think?"

He was using again.

I leave her, turning swiftly and heading inside the house, movements rigid and stiff. He was using. This whole bloody time he was using and lying to me. My mind wanders to last night. Was he lying then, too?

"Cristina?" Ophelia's soft voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Are you okay?"

"No." I'm quiet, but the answer is immediate. I don't look up. My vision stays planted to the ground, at the old tile beneath my sock-clad feet. Another pair comes into view. Then arms envelop my firm stance.

"It's gonna be okay." Ophelia whispers softly into my ear. "They're gonna come back, okay? Just like you told me this morning."

My rigid stance melts in her arms slowly, my own going around her, too. But suddenly, I don't agree with the statement. "They won't."

She pulls me closer, tight and strong. "Then we make them come home."

When she pulls away, I see the determined glare in her eyes. So hopeful. "You hear me?"

I nod, a small smile forming as I give in to her strength. "I hear you."

"Did you sleep at all?" I hum.

Ophelia shakes her head. "Managed an hour. You?"

"Some. Not much though."

Last night was horrible in terms of sleep. I was too much in my head for me to actually settle a few hours. They're gone. They were taken. Liza went willingly. What happened? Why did she go? Why did Nick lie? Why, why, why…

I might've managed three hours? Doesn't matter; even through our insomnia Ophelia and I will cause hell today. My hand readjusts the four glass bottles in hand—stolen from the recycling bin; enough to make noise and cause a scene—as Ophelia gives me a shy glance.

"What?"

"I just wanted to ask… did you two ever talk? That night?"

Oh. "I still need to get payback for that, mate."

She chuckles softly as we round a corner. The fence comes into view; most of the soldiers are on the other side lounging. God forbid they do actual patrolling around the perimeter. "I'm not apologizing. Seriously, though, did you?"

I shrug. "Yeah. We did."

"And?"

"And I'm not sure what to think. He's been using the whole time—what if he didn't actually mean it?" That's what my brain keeps going to. What if it was all lies? What if he just wanted someone to tease, to mess with? What if he doesn't actually care?

Ophelia readjusts the grip on her bottles—five in hand—before her eyes catch mine in a soft gaze. "Just because he's high doesn't mean his feelings change."

"I dunno, love…"

"You will; you'll get to ask when we see them."

Most of the militia men rest on the backs of trucks; large guns in hand, staring out to the dead zone. They just like to look tough. They've barely done anything in days.

Ophelia and I set the glass bottles down on the hot pavement. Nine altogether. Make them count. She asks, "You want to throw the first one?"

"Don't mind if I do." I take an old beer from the group, giving a heavy heave and hitting the fence toward the top. "Hey, wankers! Where did you take them?!" The glass sprinkles on the ground as it breaks, tiny shards hitting the sunlight at a perfect angle to glow bright. The men turn to look at us, confused.

Ophelia grabs one, tossing hers with veal. "Tell me where they are, you fascist pricks!"

One of the men resting on the edge of a truck sighs. With unhurried movement, he grabs a megaphone and orders, "Cease your hostile action and return to your home."

"Tell me where she is, assholes!" Ophelia bangs on the fence with her hand, shaking it with rage.

"We'll show you hostile, you cock-ups!" When Ophelia moves from the fence I throw another. "Where is our family?!"

Ophelia launches another bottle, soaring. "Come out here, you cowards! We'll show you hostile." Under her breath, she mutters something in Spanish. If only I knew what you were saying. I'm sure I'd get a kick out of it.

"Where did you take them?" Bam, another bottle to the ground. Five. "Where are they?"

Ophelia turns at the sound of others muttering behind us. I turn my head, noticing some locals staring from their front doors and the streets. Safe; away from the "hostile action."

"What are you afraid of?" Ophelia calls to them. "You know they're not here to protect us! You've seen what they do. When are you gonna step up?"

"Huh? When they come for you?" I challenge. "When they come for your families? They've taken a seven-year-old! What's going to stop them from taking your kids, your loved ones?"

"Why are you hiding?"

My heart drops as I see some close their doors, or shut their blinds. Others walk away shaking their head and humming in disapproval. Rhea's parents are out on their lawn, eyes trained on me before they cast down in shame. The response alights a fire in my heart. They stole your child and still you defend them?

"You won't fight for him?"

Rhea's mom looks up confused. I stare her dead in the eye. "Your child. Your sweet, kind Scott was forcefully taken from your home by these wankers and you won't lift a bloody finger to protect him? To bring him back home? Don't you miss him?"

"What's done is done," her husband lays a reaffirming hand on her shoulder, eyeing me angrily. "They're helping him. Our boy is fine."

"What if you never see him again? You won't fight for him?"

"We are—"

"No. You're letting these gnats tear your family apart. If you won't fight for Scott, I will."

With renewed energy the next bottle flies high, shattering into thousands of tiny shards. Two green-clad men hop from the bed of one of the trucks. My heart does a flip; I don't know what to expect. They trek up the dirt path to the gate. I ready another bottle in hand. Just in case.

"Cease your hostile actions, return to your homes." The man with the megaphone orders. "If we must detain you, we will."

Ah. The men coming up are to silence us. "Piss off," I throw back, tossing a bottle at the pair of men coming close to the gate. Seven.

"I want my mother!" Ophelia throws the second-to-last bottle half-heartedly. Her hand runs across her face, quickly wiping away any visible tears. I bring a hand to her forearm and rub it comfortingly.

The gate opens, letting in the two soldiers. Ophelia grabs the last bottle in preparation. "Go ahead," one of them says. "I wouldn't blame you."

"Andrew." Ophelia whimpers, barely loud enough for me to hear.

I look to her, curious. "Boyfriend?"

"Sort of." Defeated, she lets the bottle clank against the pavement and roll away, dropping on her knees. She lets out a soft sob as Andrew kneels beside her and wraps an around her shoulders.

The other man in green goes to me, hand outstretched to pull me aside. I step back with a sneer. "Piss off."

"Hey." Andrew says softly to Ophelia. "Look at me. Let me take you home, okay?"

"I can't—I can't go back there." She begs. "I can't."

"It'll be okay. We'll get you home now."

Silently, she nods and he pulls her from the ground. His arm stays slung around her as they trek to the Clarke house. I bite the inside of my cheek; I can't blame her, but it'll be less effective if there's only one person causing trouble.

"That means you, too, sweetheart." The soldier beside me says. "Head on home. You've blown enough steam."

I whip my head to look at him, fury in my eyes. "Excuse me, git?" He raises an eyebrow and gestures to the retreating forms of Ophelia and Andrew. "No, I'm staying right here. I'm planting my ass down and waiting until they come home."

In a huff I drop to the ground, ignoring the glass shards scratching the denim of my jeans.

The man above grinds his teeth together, setting his jaw. "We don't allow this kind of action. Hostile protestors can and will be detained for inciting the natives."

"You consider sitting hostile? I'll be right here, silent. I won't, 'incite the natives,' or blow a fuse. Peaceful crap. Sound good?"

"I'm not asking again."

"What, you're going to forcefully move a young adult from sitting? Sure, that'll do wonders for community morale."

He huffs—I'm sure fuming—before turning to the gate and banging on it with a fist. His friends let the gate open and he slides through.

Good. I'm not leaving until I know what happened to him.

By noon, the sun is high in the sky, the heat blistering. My skin is starting to burn (I really should've worn sun screen,) but I don't move. I'm not leaving until I know where Nick is.

I take one of the broken shards, spinning it between my fingers absentmindedly. The tip rests easy on my skin—not piercing, but jabbing lightly. What if I never see him again? What if he doesn't actually like me; what if it was the drugs talking? What if I do see him and he doesn't say what I want to hear? What if…

I drop my head at the thoughts swirling in my brain, sighing heavily.

"… Cristina? Is that you?" I twist my heard towards the voice; Travis. I shield my eyes with a hand to watch his form trek down the pavement.

"Yessir." I give a half-assed salute as he drops to his knees beside me.

"What's going on? What're you doing?"

I gesture to the soldiers on the outside of the gate. "Peacefully protesting the kidnapping of Nick, Griselda, and Scott. Liza, too, if you'd like to add her to the list. Come to protest, too?"

"I'm here to talk to Moyers, the lieutenant. Listen, kiddo, go home. Get something to eat. Some Aloe, too, while you're at it. You're burning up." I shake my head at the request. "I'm gonna talk to Moyers and get this all sorted out, okay? I'm gonna bring them home."

I look to him, a grim smile on my face. "You really think that's going to work?"

"They're reasonable people. They'll understand."

"They won't." I bring my knees up to my chest and hug them. "Self-preservation is all they care about. Not us."

Travis doesn't respond, but his frown makes me believe the thought sticks. He stands and treks to the fence. "Can I talk to Moyers please? I'd like to talk to him. Please."

The gate opens and he steps through. I rest my chin on my knees, watching as Travis converses with one of the men. Judging from the facial expressions, it's not a great conversation. They jump into a truck—a few other greenies hopping into the bed—and the vehicle drives to the dead zone.

Oh, no. Not you, too.

"Cristina Waters, your service has arrived!" A familiar, cheerful voice sings from behind me. The crinkle of a bag and the crunch of someone eating fills my ears.

"Huh?" Alycia plops down beside me, a full bottle of water and open family-sized bag of sour cream and onion chips in hand. "What're you doing?"

"Came to feed ya, babes. Ophelia said you were still here."

"Thanks." I grin. She points the opening of the bag to me, and I eagerly grab a couple. "I'm starving."

"Then maybe you should come home and get an actual meal."

I shake my head, and she sighs. "Seriously, Tina. Eggs. A bagel. Something more than Lay's."

"I'm staying right here until we know what happened to your brother and Griselda."

Alycia leans back into the pavement, her shoulder bumping against mine softly. "Do you really think this will help?"

I shrug. "Dunno. But I have to do something. Don't you want to know what they did to him?"

"Of course I do," her eyes look out to the dead zone, at the trucks and the men and the sunlight filtering through the holes of the fence. "I love him, but he's there because he made a choice. A stupid, stupid choice."

"I'm aware," I think to last night. Of how angry and dejected I was when I realized. "I don't know if I'm gonna punch him when I see him next."

"I wouldn't be surprised. You did it the first time."

The memory flashes through my mind. History just loves to repeat itself. My hand grabs at the water bottle—focusing on uncapping the top instead—and I eagerly take a few sips.

"What if they don't come back?" She asks.

"'Lych…"

"I'm serious. What if they don't? Is it worth it to stay out here and cause a ruckus if he never comes through the gate?"

The thought gives me pause. Is it? My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I don't have a good enough response.

Her eyes gleam softly as she sets the chips beside me and stands up. "Please, come home soon."

The bright sky changes to oranges and pinks when truck that took Travis returns. There's less soldiers on it. Some covered in blood. Some lean on their friends as they limp to the gate. A few stay by the fence—ones that aren't as drenched in the undead's guts.

Travis's eyes are glassy as the gate opens and he monotonously strolls through. He passes by, barely sparing me a glance before heading back to the community. Some of the greenies trudge through as well, dispersing to their tents.

"You're still here?" A soldier by the fence barks. "C'mon, kid, go home."

I stand from my spot—good lord I'd been sitting far too long—and go to the metal. My hand curls around it, fingers poking to the other side. "Where are the rest of your men?"

"It's called the dead zone for a reason. The dead got to 'em."

"… I'm sorry for your loss." It seems to be a reasonable response.

The soldier shakes his head. "Not the first time we've lost troops in battle. It won't be the last."

"How many?"

"Six, including lieutenant Moyers. The infected are ruthless; they'll take whatever and whoever they can. Maybe you should start showin' us some respect for takin' care of them."

I quirk an eyebrow at the hidden threat. "I show respect when it's earned."

"Keeping you safe isn't enough?"

"Don't be daft. You know exactly what I want."

"We don't bring the sick back unless they're cleared from medical. So no, sweetheart, that's not happening."

They can't come home? Fine. "Take me to them then."

The man rips off his camouflage hat, beating it against his leg. His head turns upward to the sun, allowing the evening rays to beat on his pale skin. "We take you there, you ain't coming back."

"That so?"

He sets the cap back on his head and stalks over to me. "We take the sick to save the many. That's our job. You're a perfectly healthy woman, so it is in your best interest to stay in the safe-zone."

"I think I know what's my best interest." My eyes meet his, my gaze unwavering.

"You know what? Fine. Let's go for a damn drive, huh?"

I blink as his fist bangs against the gate, and the others open it. He beckons me over.

"Really?"

"Yes. You want to see them, let's go fuckin' see them, yeah?"

My eyes widen, and I pull through the gate. My stomach lurches when it shuts behind me. No going back now.

"That truck got enough gas to get to medical?" The soldier barks to another greenie.

"Yes sir," the other replies. "You takin' her, Jones?"

"She keeps causing trouble. Let her get what she wants."

Jones heads to the back of the truck, throwing a tarp off some equipment. I stand by silently, watching him rummage through the equipment.

My eyes flick to the seats of the truck and I ask, "How long will the ride be?"

"Don't matter." Jones answers. "Remember, this is a one-way trip. You ain't coming home."

The reminder makes my stomach flop. Do I really want to do this? "Will it be just us in the truck?"

"Doesn't matter."

"What's the procedure to get into medical? Is there a waver, or some test, or—"

"Doesn't matter either, kid."

"Don't I deserve to know what I signed up for?"

I look to the front of the truck, my eyes gazing over the side mirror. My face—which is most certainly sunburnt—is warped small, like some funhouse mirror. I can barely see Jones in the frame. He's still bent over the truck's edge, searching for something.

"Not how this works, kid. You don't get to know a damn thing."

The second his figure moves in the mirror the pain of something heavy hits the back of my skull. Almost in slow motion, my body lurches forward. My eyes barely catch the side mirror on the truck. Standing above me is Jones, a large gun in hand.

I can't do a thing to stop my body from slamming into the dirt and pebbles. They scratch at my burnt skin unpleasantly. My eyes flutter shut from the pain—I'm sure a lump is already forming from the trauma—and one thought fills my mind.

Git.

When I wake up, my head is pounding from the pain. Oh, god. Don't move. If I do, I might vomit. Better to stay crumpled on the floor with my shoulder digging uncomfortably into the solid ground.

I blink my eyes open, gently stretching in my position, and search my surroundings. This place is pitch black. Figures.

Then I hear the sound of someone gagging. The scent of vomit immediately assaults my nostrils.

"I was hoping we'd have something to mask the smell of urine," someone says. It's a deep baritone; soothing. He's close, but where? "You saved the day."

The sound of something metal rattling goes through me, a few feet away. A fence?

"Why'd you do that?" A familiar voice, groggy and pained, strikes a chord in me. "What you did with the guard. You saved me."

"No. I obligated you. There's a difference."

I groan in my spot, heaving myself upwards. The shifting of fabric on my face makes me realize; it's not dark. There's something on my head. "Get it off! Get it off!"

My hands grab at it in a frenzy, yanking the beanie covering my face off and throwing it lights assault my eyes and I squint to peer through the area. They're dim, really, but strong enough to illuminate the wide expanse of land. There's multiple people milling around, but we're separated by a perimeter of fence. Each in our own cages, at least five or six to an area. Like animals. Cruel.

In mine, there's a sad excuse for a wooden bench in the middle, occupied by a black man in a dark suit. He gives a sly grin to me. "Ah, sleeping beauty finally awakens."

The other person in my cage, pressed against the opposite fence from me, is Nick. I call out his name giddily. He's alive. Thank god.

"Tina?"

He doesn't look good. His eyes are sunken, skin ashen, and his old coat is wrapped tightly around himself. "Is that you?"

"In the flesh." I go to stand and a wave of vertigo flies through me. "Ah, bollocks."

"Stay still."

On wobbly legs, Nick stands and hobbles over. When he drops to his knees, his hand searches the side of my cheek. "Jesus, T, you're completely red."

I shiver under his touch, but play it off as a shrug. "I forgot to wear sunscreen. Sue me."

"I just might." He says wearily. His fingers trail to the other cheek, then down to my shoulders. "Seriously, bathe in Aloe for the next three years. You might just heal."

"I'll keep it in mind, Nick." Not, "yank." Now you know I'm pissed.

My gaze at him softens; yes, I'm angry, but more upset than anything. My voice is quiet when I say, "You lied to me."

His hand stills on my shoulder.

I should care that we're not alone. This is a very private conversation, and there's dozens around who I'm sure can hear—including the man in our cage—and I can't give a damn. I'm hurt and I want a bloody response.

"You lied to me."

Nick drops his hand from my shoulder, eyes focusing at the fence. "I did."

"Was—was everything you said a lie?"

"No, Tina." Nick looks to me again—his ashen skin and sunken eyes more prominent close to my face—and he shakes his head. "Not everything."

The man behind us chuckles. "Young love at its finest."

Nick and I both glare at him, but I have nothing to say. I'm too tired and the pounding in my head still hasn't gone down. "He a friend of yours?"

"I don't think he has friends." Nick slumps against the fence beside me, shoulders touching as he looks to the man. "Just obligations."

"You learn fast." He answers slyly. "You see, the game has changed. We return to the old rules." He stands from the bench, readjusting the cuff of his jacket and meanders our way. "You see, the people who won the last round with their grande lattes and frequent flyer miles are about to become, the buffet."

He leans against the fence beside Nick, arms crossed as he looks down at us.

No, not us. Specifically at Nick. "I look at you, and I see someone who knows the meaning of necessity."

"I'm an addict."

"No, you are a heroin addict. That's the golden standard. Don't sell yourself short."

"Why does that matter?" I raise an eyebrow. What game are you playing, mister?

He slinks down against the fence, lowering himself until he's close. He leans over, whispering, "The soldiers are leaving."

He pulls away, continuing. "I'm gonna require a man with your talents when I make my move."

Nick looks to him curiously. "What move?"

Slowly, the man reaches into his pocket, pulling out something small and resting it in the middle of his palm. Then he stretches his arm out to us, unfurling his fingers to present a dirty old key.

Oh, you sly dog, you!

Nick leans back into the fence, calculating. "She comes with us." He jerks his head to me. "That goes without saying."

"The deal's for you." The man replies smoothly. "Just you."

"Package deal. If I go, she goes. You can trust her."

"Oh, please." I eye the man warily. "He's never trusted anyone in his life. Can't you see that?" I look to the stranger as he shrugs in agreement. "That's fine. Don't trust me. Trust that I want to get out of here just as much as you. I won't put our lives in jeopardy. Not yours, not mine, not Nick's."

He brings a hand to his chin, absentmindedly stroking it as he thinks. When he looks down, I note the curious gleam in his eyes. "No, you wouldn't, would you? Not after being so sweetly reunited with your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Please. Who do you think you're fooling?" I roll my eyes. Don't you dare blush Cristina. "You wouldn't put his life at risk. Or mine, either. If I die, that means he does, too."

"Exactly. I can help, be a third set of hands, maybe even a distraction. If you let me."

"If I obligate you."

I roll my eyes. Nit-picky. "If you obligate me. Do we have a deal?"

He nods, holding out a hand for me to shake. And I do, firmly.

Good. Now let's get the hell out of here.