A/N: Happy holidays, everyone! I hope you're enjoying them as much as I am. Here's a chapter for you :)

"Where did my scalpel go?"

I search the black tabletop for the glint of metal and find none other than the lightly rusted lab tray.

"You lost your scalpel. Really?" Deryn is less than amused by this, and I can't blame her. Already knuckle deep in a partially dissected sheep heart, she looks even more terrifying.

"Uh..." I continue, and then I spot the blade resting by the edge of the sink. "No. Here it is!"

She rolls her eyes. "And are you actually going to use it now, or just stare at it as if it will bite you like you did yesterday? Hand me the probe."

"The what?" I raise my eyebrows and let my eyes wander over to the carefully arranged line of tools by the lab tray. To avoid misplacing it again, I lay my scalpel carefully at one end of the row, next to a pair of scissors.

"The probe. The metal stick with the ball on the end. Second from the right; yes, that one." Both of her hands are preoccupied holding apart something thick and pallid that makes my stomach turn. I look away and grasp the tool between two rubber-gloved fingers. "Now put the tip through the opening right... there." She detaches one of her pinkies from holding the heart and points at a small dark spot.

I swallow and try to force my gaze on the sheep heart for more than three seconds. When I'm no longer able to stand it without gagging, I look away and say, ashamed: "I can't."

"Yes you can." Her words are so matter-of-fact that I almost believe her, but when I dare a glance back at the organ, my lunch growls in my stomach, warning me not to.

I grimace. "No, I really can't."

"Blisters," she groans, any trace of friendliness her voice held obliterated by a sudden coldness. "Just–pretend it's an engine or something and put the probe in the barking hole! It's not difficult, I promise."

My grip closes around the metal stick until I'm sure my knuckles are white beneath the rubber gloves, and I try to imagine what the heart would look like if it were made out of metal instead of muscle. As I inch my hand closer, my revulsion falls away under the thoughts of pistons and gears, and before I realize I've done it, I've pushed the probe into the valve. It comes out another part of the heart in less than ten centimeters.

No matter how hard I try not to be, I am hyper-aware of the exact places where my hand touches hers. Even through our gloves, my skin burns with the mere suggestion that it may be so close to Deryn's. "Is this the bicuspid valve?" I ask, but my voice comes out choked.

"Close. Tricuspid. It separates the right ventricle and atrium, which are smaller than the left side because they only pump blood to the lungs instead of the whole body."

I nod and withdraw the probe quickly, dropping it on the table like it's poison. With a shudder, I take deep breaths through my mouth–the air is filled with the scent of nauseating formaldehyde–to try to calm my stomach.

Deryn picks up her own scalpel and takes a quick look at our lab paper to see where the next cut needs to be made. "Good job," she says, but the words are quiet enough that I don't think they're meant for me.

I haven't seen the cozy interior of Rigby's coffee shop in two weeks. Before, I mostly went to see Deryn, but she's made it quite apparent that she doesn't want to spend any more time with me than she has to. The knowledge cuts like a blunt knife, and because I have nothing to do and nowhere else to go, I've been staring at the blank walls of the apartment every night. It drives me mad, just sitting there.

So when Newkirk invited me to his apartment to "hang out and study" after school one Thursday, I told him yes without a second thought.

What I didn't consider was if the wildcount would allow me to go.

And now here I stand at the door to my apartment, with a key in a hand that shakes ever so slightly as I unlock the door. Newkirk stands off to one side, examining the prints our wet shoes left on the concrete stairwell. It's been raining all day.

"Your uncle locks the door even when he's here?"

I swallow. "He's paranoid." Newkirk gives me a sympathetic look and frees a cell phone I've never seen before from one of his coat pockets. As he takes a glance at the screen I tell him: "You should probably wait out here. Like I said, my uncle is paranoid."

His fingers pause momentarily in their rush across the touch-screen keyboard. "Sure. I'll yell if I get mugged."

I nod in response as I turn the knob and step through the doorway into the apartment. The main room is painfully familiar because I've spent so much time in it. Before all this happened and I found myself here, in London, I never stayed in one room for long. But back then I had an entire castle to wander through.

A pang shoots through my chest at the thought, and I have to take a moment to lean against the wall and slow my breathing. I've spent enough of my nights sleepless to know that if I don't control the grief, I'll end up on the floor with my head between my knees and my eyes and jaw clenched so tight my head might explode.

"Aleksandar, is something wrong?" Bauer asks, and when I open my eyes I see genuine worry coloring his face. He must have been sitting on the couch, because I can see the imprint he left on the seat and the hastily discarded newspaper, flipped open to the "Help Wanted" advertisements.

Pushing off the wall, I try to wipe my expression of pain. "I–no, nothing is wrong. Is Volger here?" I keep my voice low, not sure how much Newkirk might hear through the door.

"Yes, in the other room." His dark brown eyes linger on me, narrowed and poised over a mouth that wants to say something else.

I ignore his look and cross to the open door that leads into one of the bedrooms. Though it's really only sized to fit one bed and maybe a small desk, we've shoved mattresses into two of the corners, which leaves a narrow walkway in the center of the room. Volger is seated on one of the mattresses, socked feet crumpling the blankets he so carefully replaces every morning. He has propped himself with his back at the intersection between the two white walls. In such a casual position, wearing khaki pants and a sweater instead of the suits I used to see him in exclusively, it's easy to forget how terrifying he can be.

Volger looks up over his reading glasses at me when I walk in. Like Bauer, there are newspapers spread out before him, but his collection is in a variety of languages and all opened to articles concerning the war. His eyes flash apologetically before his usual mask of amused irritation smashes down over it.

"Yes, Aleksandar?"

Well, there's no use delaying the inevitable. I am careful to phrase it as a statement instead of a question, so maybe I can gain solid footing in the argument I know will ensue. "I'll be spending the evening at a friend's apartment."

For a moment, he doesn't respond. Then, calm as ever, comes an: "Is that so?"

I take a breath. "Yes, it is. I haven't been out of this apartment except for school in a fortnight. And Newkirk isn't dangerous, I swear."

Slowly, the wildcount nods. "Very well. Take Bauer with you, and he will return to escort you back to the apartment at nine. Don't go anywhere else."

"But I–" I launch into my carefully prepared counterargument, but then stop and blink. Twice. "What?"

"You know what I said, so please do not ask such a ridiculous question." The barest hint of a grin tugs at one of the corners of his mouth as he returns to his newspapers, but I'm too shocked to register it at the moment.

"But–you're just letting me go? Without a single insult or argument?"

The wildcount sighs without looking up. "I'm beginning to think you don't really want to leave for the evening, Aleksandar."

"I do! But why aren't you fighting me on this? You do on everything else, so I am just a little surprised."

He sets the paper aside and meets my eyes with his own. "Aleksandar, I am not your prison guard and you are not an inmate. If you say this boy is harmless, I believe you. So you may spend several hours away from the apartment if you wish."

I'm still blinking in disbelief, but I manage a "thank you" as I back out of the room.

"But I warn you, Aleksandar, that if for any reason your safety is jeopardized, we will relocate immediately." His voice is now in its most serious tone, a step beyond stone cold. He holds my gaze unflinchingly. "I still recommend that you do not get too attached to this place."

"All right." I look away and shuffle out to main room again.

Bauer is back to being sprawled across the couch. "You're supposed to walk me to Newkirk's," I say, and he shows no expression as he stands.

By far the best fighter of the five of us, Bauer is often charged with escorting me places I need to go, including to and from school each day. "Do you know where he lives?"

I shake my head. "But he's outside waiting for me. Or–for us, I suppose." Now he frowns, raising both eyebrows, but doesn't comment. "Where are the other two?"

"Hoffman started his job at the supermarket tonight, and Klopp is collecting gossip at the Starbucks on Fifth," he says gruffly, almost showing jealousy. He must be feeling even more trapped than I am, spending every day here without anything to escape to.

Now that we've settled in for an extended amount of time, it's become apparent that we all need something to do. And, as Klopp has pointed out over the last week, we are more likely to hear important things if we're outside of the apartment. So Hoffman got a job, and Klopp has been visiting well-trafficked businesses.

Bauer pulls open the door, and we step out into the hallway. When he sees the pair of us, Newkirk lowers his eyebrows and slips his phone into one of his jacket pockets.

I explain quickly before he can say anything. "He needs to come with us now so he can know where you live to come get me later. Isn't that right, Hans?"

The man grumbles his assent. "Can't have a boy walking the streets alone at night, you see."

I nod, deciding to charge headlong into another subject. "Newkirk, is Rigby's still looking for someone to work the day shift through the week?" I ask, and Bauer sends me a questioning glance.

"Last I heard," he says, and shrugs like he doesn't care any longer that I'm being escorted to his house. "Why?"

"I'm looking for a job," supplies Bauer, the edges of a grin showing on his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. "I think I'll pick up an application later tonight."

"Oo-oh, man! I can't believe you just did that!" Fitzroy laughs, and bends over to scoop up the ping-pong ball from where it's rolled to a stop on the floor. "You've never even played this before!"

I attempt to lift myself off the floor, but end up doubled over in a fit of laughter, leaning against the wall. The paddle slips from my hand and gives a soft smack as it hits the floor, but no one can hear it over our cackling.

Through slitted, streaming eyes, I see Rachel fling her head back, laughing silently. She tries to say something, but it comes out as more of a gasp instead. I think she would be on the floor, too, if Newkirk wasn't supporting most of her weight through her arm on his shoulder.

He, too, is nearly in tears. "That was–that was just too good, Alek. I've never seen anything–" his words are lost in a torrent of childish giggles, but then he takes a few deep breaths. "That was awesome."

Rachel's brother, Nathan, nods, the calmest of us by a considerable amount. But even he's grinning like a hyena, and he snorts occasionally from his perch on the back of the couch. His feet sit on the arm, and his back rests against the wall. "I can see why the Hawks qualified for the quarter finals meet," he calls over to me. "We may even see you guys at State, with that speed."

I gasp a few times and wipe off my eyes. "But that's fencing, not table tennis," I manage before succumbing to another fit of laughter.

"Extreme table tennis!" Rachel cries, but then sets herself to the task of attempting to stop laughing, something at which the majority of us are failing. She buries her face into the side of Newkirk's hooded sweatshirt, shaking with the effort.

I topple to one side and lay on the floor for a few moments, trying to regain my head. The carpet scratches against my cheek, a reminder of the carpet burn that should be throbbing painfully in my elbow. But my whole body is pounding with blood and excitement, so I hardly notice it, for now.

But the carpet reminds me of the leap I took to hit the ping-pong ball, pushing off the wall with one foot, twisting midair for a better angle, and then landing in an ungraceful heap on the ground, elbow first. It had been silent initially, but when I looked up and asked if I'd hit it, meeting Fitzroy's stunned gaze... this happened.

I still don't know why it was so funny. "You haven't won yet," Robert reminds me, tossing the little white ball up in the air and catching it. "Or should I say, you haven't lost yet?"

Newkirk rolls his eyes. "Can it, Fitzroy. We all know no one can beat you at extreme table tennis; there's no use rubbing it in. Besides, I think we've had enough for one night. Who wants popcorn?"

After a chorus of yeses, he and Rachel disappear into the kitchen. Fitzroy holds up the ping-pong ball, silently asking if I want to play just one more round. I shake my head, and he shrugs, taking a seat on the couch directly below Nathan. He shoves one of the other boy's feet aside to make room for himself, and in rebellion Nathan puts a foot on his shoulder and refuses to move it.

"Dude! There's, like, ten different seats! Why invade my personal space?" he demands, stubbornly shoving one of his socked toes into Robert's face. After a few seconds of struggling with each other, they settle into a position of Fitzroy holding Nathan's feet captive in his lap and Nathan grasping the strings on his captor's hood, threatening to tighten them.

I watch with a bemused smile, having made the floor my seat of choice. When their wrestling is done, I ask: "What time is it?"

They both jump a little bit, as if they'd forgotten I was sitting here. Guiltily, Nathan looks at his watch. "About eight-thirty. Why do you ask?"

"One of my uncles is coming to get me at nine," I reply. The sound of popping comes from the kitchen, followed by a buttery smell that makes my mouth water.

Fitzroy grins. "That late already? So Deryn only has to suffer through another half hour with Wilson tonight, then," he muses. "I don't know why Rigby even gives that boy the hours he does; he's a right awful employee. Last time I worked with him, someone spilled while I was working the counter and he couldn't be bothered to mop it up for fifteen minutes because he was fiddling with the new coffee machine. By the time he got to it, only because I was practically yelling at him, so many people had stepped in it and tracked coffee-footprints around the shop that we had to mop the whole floor."

Nathan flicks his ear. "Great story. I almost wanted to get out a mop and clean the floor myself."

With a dramatic eye roll, Robert yanks on one of Nathan's feet hard enough to send him tumbling off the top of the couch and onto the cushion next to him, face first. He emits a muffled "umph" before pushing himself up onto his elbows. He makes no attempt to sit up, but rather stays with his legs draped over Fitzroy's, ready for an easy kick.

"Are your uncles married?" Nathan asks suddenly.

I blink a few times, processing the question. Even the popping from the kitchen has subsided. "N–no. They're not–uh–together," I splutter, sounding like an idiot because it caught me so off guard. It has never occurred to me that someone might assume such a thing. "And there's four of them. It's complicated," is I all I can offer by way of explanation.

"Even if they were," Fitzroy offers, "only a handful of countries in Europe recognize anything more than a civil union. Parliament here only passed the same-sex marriage law last July."

Nathan twists his head enough that Robert can see his raised eyebrow. "You're oddly educated on the subject."

"Hey, you brought it up," accuses Robert, just as Rachel and Newkirk return from the kitchen, each toting a bowl of steaming popcorn.

Rachel motions for Nathan to make some room on the couch, and her brother resumes his original position above Fitzroy's head. Newkirk and Rachel appropriate the vacated space, squishing in and leaving just enough room for me to wedge myself onto the edge. I'm sitting mostly on the arm of the couch, but it doesn't bother me.

"So," Newkirk begins from next to me. "We should probably do some homework."

"Or not," counters Robert, absently playing with one of Nathan's feet. "I'm done with all mine, anyway."

Newkirk puts on his most innocent face. "It was just a suggestion."

"A stupid suggestion," I amend with a grin. Without turning back toward me, he shrugs, a motion I feel more than see in our close quarters.

"Fair enough." Newkirk tosses a few kernels of corn in the air and attempts to catch them in his mouth, but they all fall either into his lap or behind the couch. With a frown, he picks up the ones he can reach and eats them. Then he leans forward and rolls onto the floor with another handful of popcorn and flicks the individual pieces at us. "Take that!"

Nathan catches one and lobs it back at Newkirk, who swats it away. "Why are you throwing popcorn in my flat, hmm?" Newkirk scowls unconvincingly. "I have to clean this up, you know."

Fitzroy throws a whole handful at his friend. "See, now thatjust makes it so much more fun."