Blood everywhere. All over this unfamiliar room, on the rough sheets, on me. Pouring like rain from Carl's wrists.

He's going pale, like he's already dead, but he's standing over this bed and his eyes are focused on me, his pretty blue eyes, so sad. I try to get to him, I do. I try to scream for help. But I can't move. Can't make a sound. I'm trapped in his eyes, trapped under the blood.

"You made me do it," he says, voice breaking, a tear slipping down his cheek. "You made me."

And just when I think I finally have the word No in my throat, mouth, tongue, ready to fly and make him stop, ready to save him, save my Carl –he's gone.

Owen is on the other side of the bed then and he leans down and his breath is as hot as the cigarette it smells like when he whispers, "He's wrong. It wasn't your fault," and then he leaves somehow even though I asked him to stay and I really am alone. And awake, truly.

There is no blood. There's nothing and no one, except for this bed and me. Here in a room with bland walls and a single window letting in some sunlight – afternoon sunlight. Today's afternoon or tomorrow's? That doesn't make sense, Sydney, that – oh – oh, God –

I lift my left hand. Where two fingers should be there are only bandages. I grit my teeth and let my head fall back. I flex it, my ruined hand. It hurts like hell but it feels whole.

But it's not. Get your shit together.

I sit up. It makes me dizzy. I'm in a hospital gown, it's papery and impractical, and it leaves my arms bare. Shows the scars. Screw them, not important. There's a needle hidden under bandages on my arm, a needle attached to a tube winding up to a bag full of something, and I rip the needle out and climb from the bed, over short little bars.

My mind is foggy and buzzing and talkative, but through it all I realize where I am. There's only one place I can possibly be.

I start for the window, for outside. I fall against the glass when I get there, press my hand against the pane, see the ruins, the same ruins I saw with Dad, saw with him how long ago? Hours? Days?

I could be turning, I remember. I could be turning, dying, right now.

I'm dying.

No, you're not.

I'm dying, Owen.

Jesus Christ, Sydney, stop saying that or I'll kill you myself.

But I haven't turned or died yet, I can still walk, which means I can still get to Carol, oh God, please let her be alive, and if I can get to Carol, I can get to Beth. Because this is Grady Memorial Hospital. Has to be. And if Dad and Carol were right, Beth is somewhere in here. I can get them both, help them both, even if I am dying . . . Like T-Dog getting Carol to safety, getting her to safety after he got bit, they ran through the tombs and he saved her . . .

I wish I had T-Dog. I wish I had Owen. Owen and me, we could get out of here, we could get out of here and live, get us all out of here and we could all live . . .

I turn from the ruins. As fast as I can, I go to the door, the door that leads out of this room and maybe to someplace good. But no, I know better than that.

Where's my stuff? My bow – my bow –

I still have my necklace. I feel it bouncing against my chest, I reach up and hold it. The rose. Carl's rose, my rose. He got it when he thought he would never see me again, it was supposed to be his, so he could remember me . . .

When I get to the door, I grab its weird knob-thing with both hands and yank. Nothing. I yank some more, I push, and finally I shout and kick – not smart but it feels good – and I fall back, stumble for a few feet, but catch myself on the bed, the bars. That's when the door opens, and a woman and a man I don't know walk in, and the two worst words, the two worst words in the world are don't know.

He's tall and in a white coat – a doctor's coat. She's short and in a cop's uniform. Like Rick's, maybe, I don't know, it's been so long since I saw that uniform. She isn't wearing a hat, though.

"Hey, hey," says the man as I grip the bars on my bed, hold myself up. He lifts his hand in an easy, take it easy way. I stare at it, the bare palm, wondering where his weapon is. The woman's is at her belt, a nice shiny gun, yeah, she knows what's going on. "It's alright," says the man. "You're safe."

"Let me go." My voice sounds the way it did when I smoked ten cigarettes straight with Joe's group one night because Harley bet me I couldn't, the dick . . .

"Sweetheart, we're not here to hurt you. We're helping you. This is a hospital. That's what hospitals are for."

"I don't need –" help. But I do need Carol, and Beth, God willing she's here and alive – God willing Carol is here and alive – so I shut my mouth because me leaving wouldn't help them even if I could, and I know from the way the woman is looking at me that I can't, and I wonder if I'll end up killing her, because sometimes nowadays you have to do that to people who look at you like that.

"I'm Dr. Edwards – you can call me Steven." He keeps his distance, smart. "This is Officer Dawn Lerner."

I keep one hand – the bad hand – on the bar of the bed but turn my body so I'm facing them head-on. "The woman I came in with," I rasp. "Is she alive?"

"Yes," says the doctor, I hate doctors . . . "We're making her better. Like we're trying to do for you."

"You need that IV in," the woman, the cop, finally speaks up. "It's feeding you. You're malnourished."

"I need to see her."

The cop shakes her head. "Not right now."

The doctor steps forward, reaches out. "You need to get back in bed and let me check over you –"

"You are not going to touch me!" I snarl. "I want to see her!" My heart's pounding now, I'm an animal in a corner, I know that, and I don't have any claws, any teeth, I'm helpless, but I'm an animal in my soul and I'll kill these people, I'll kill them all somehow, kill my way to Carol and Beth and kill our way out of here –

The cop mutters something to the doctor, the doctor nods and darts to the door, shouts something. The cop comes up to me and grabs me by the forearms, and I go crazy, because I'm an animal, just an animal, and she hits me like an animal, and what did she think that would do? Calm me down? I just get my good hand free and grab her hair and pull as hard as I can. She hits me again. The doctor's back with us now. He grabs me, too, and together they haul me back into bed. Then the doctor yells again, and this time I hear the words, perfectly clear:

"Beth! Hurry!"

I go rigid. I stare at him, I could have imagined it, and even if I didn't, he shouldn't be saying Beth's name, because he's a bad guy and she's not.

She comes in and it's like a dream. It might be me seeing things. I see things sometimes. Her hair is back in a ponytail and her pretty face is bruised, but her blue eyes are wide and she's my Beth. Like an angel.

Her name is on my lips but a tiny shake of her head, her panicked expression, tells me to let it die.

She hands the doctor a syringe.

"I want to see . . ." I mutter, giving another thrash of my body for good measure, even though I can't look away from Beth, I wish I could touch her, I need to know she's real. "I need to know she's alive!" I scream. I feel tears on my face, burning. "I need to know!"

And Beth, she nods once, and since both the cop and the doctor are holding my shoulders and arms down, they don't see her reach out and squeeze my leg, and as the doctor pierces my skin with the needle and the black comes for me, I focus on the pressure of Beth's hand, because I'm afraid if I don't remember it I might not want to come back from the black again.