I can't see through the wall of tears gliding across my slick skin. I can't hear much over Max's grunts and yelps of pain from the wound ravaging his back and soaking his shirt. The rain is starting its slow and cold drizzle, but I can't be bothered. I am numb.

Because there's no other option, Mitchie takes the lead. She holds onto my hand and practically drags my useless body along the side of the road while I pull Maxie behind me. My baby brother... all of a sudden, so empty and so pained. I see agony etched on every corner of his tiny face and shivering through every bone in his body. He is so young- only his four-year-old face stares back at me now, returning me to his feverish days. I couldn't protect him then, but somehow he got through it. Maybe now he has a better chance- I don't know. I hope so.

The road is silent and the drizzle continues to pick up speed and soak through our clothing, the chill making me feel as though the dress is solid rock that I have to make an effort to keep above the ground. All of my focus is on Max right now, but Mitchie's worrying eyes tell me that she doesn't think we're ever going to find the police that we need. We could be going in the complete opposite direction for all either of us knows.

But then, from the other direction, lights cut through the deep darkness and curtain of heavy rain. Another noise pops up, dwarfing that of the heavy rain. Having only seen the picture in some schoolbooks and then being subsequently told the devil's magic runs them, I can only guess as to the identity of this. I'm pretty sure it's a car.

Mitchie must either be going crazy or not really understand what a car is, because all of a sudden, she jumps out into the wet road, directly in front of the car's path. "Mitchie, no!" My voice is high-pitched, squeaky, hysterical. I already have my brother's blood on my hands; I don't need to add my best friend's.

Her plan, amazingly, works. The car screeches to a halt with the sound squealing brakes and a wall of water flying up from the bottom, displaced by its massive being. The cars in the books were never this big.

Whoever's in there turns off the rumbling noise and leaves the blinding lights on as I stumble into the road with Max. I can feel his last reserves of strength slipping with each step I take, his body slowly giving up while it starts to slide along the road. I feel an intense need to collapse, to give up right here, but a voice inside me reminds me that I didn't go through all of this just to give up. Max didn't go through all of this just to have me give up.

A tall woman, maybe in her mid-30's, jumps out of the car with the spryness of a toddler. Her body looks haggard and her face slightly sunken and I can't believe she's even standing up right now. But once again, her eyes give it away, and I can see she's concerned about us. "Are you kids alright?" Her voice has a sort of twang to it, something I've never heard before. Both Mitchie and I are taken aback by it for a second until Mitchie gains the composure to answer. I don't have any composure left; I'm pretty much a useless lump right now.

"N-no. We need... help." Because of the rain, it is only now, as I hear her shaking voice, that I realize Mitchie has been crying the entire time.

The woman steps closer to us, her frame illuminated in the almost surreal glow of the car's lights. "Are you- Oh my goodness!" She spots Max, covered in red, barely able to hold on to me anymore. "What happened to you kids? Get in, get in." She ushers us into the car: me and Max in the back seat, Mitchie up front next to the woman. I don't know how to react as the car starts to move, nor what it means when the woman says, "Buckle up." I don't react, just hold Max in my lap and try not to look at his horribly pained expression. I run my fingers through his hair, grasp his hand, clutch at him like I can someone siphon my healthiness, my life, into him.

"We- oh God!" Mitchie tries to explain, but Max gives a particularly loud groan as we ride over a very large bump in the road. He's sobbing uncontrollably now, not being able to keep up the facade any longer. "Max..."

"What happened to him, huh? I'm taking y'all to a hospital now, so don' worry. We'll be there soon." The woman manages to remain ridiculously calm in this situation, even going so far as to put a hand on Mitchie's shoulder in a comforting way. Mitchie winces but does not pull away, probably out of respect to the woman. There's no way she could possibly know the depth of everything that Mitchie's been through, what we've all been through.

"He was shot..." Mitchie lets out a tiny sob.

"Shot! Where?" I feel the car accelerate, watch the outside world speed by in blurs of shapes and I know that we're not going at safe speeds anymore. But that's OK. Because it's fast. And fast is what's going to save Max.

"B-b-back, somewhere. I don't know! Don't ask me these fucking questions! You don't know a goddamned thing!" I explode at the woman, wanting to blame her for all events that are beyond her control. And then, just after I say that, I break into more tears, apologizing profusely for what I've just said. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." I can say no more as it takes my entire being to keep myself breathing through the profuse, hacking, wracking sobs coursing through my body.

"Don't worry about it, sweetie," the woman says in the most soothing voice possible. "Where you kids from?"

"Havenwood." Mitchie spits the name out like a poison.

"Is that the religious place?" she asks, livid. "I ain't from around here, but my sister told me about it. In the woods somewhere?"

"That's the one."

The woman mutters something under her breath that sounds like a curse word, but I can't hear it properly. It's hard for me to hear anything over my sobs. "Don't worry. We'll get there in time."

We speed through the night, finally arriving at a hospital. It's so large. For a moment, I forget about everything and just stare at the sheer enormity of this building. Never have I seen anything so gigantic before; so many white blocks, all connected and jumbled together to form this one giant clump. It almost hurts my neck to stare at these rain-soaked buildings with my teary eyes.

"Alex. It's time to go." I feel Mitchie's hand close over my wrist, tugging me, urging me to go with her. I'm vaguely aware of the weight of Max's body being lifted off me, the fullness of his blood soaking into my dress. It's red. I don't remember what color it used to be, I have no idea. That thought makes me start heaving dry sobs, for I have no tears left.

With Mitchie's help I make it out of the car in time to watch a couple of men wheel Max into two doors that open by themselves. "Where are they taking him! Where are they taking my brother!"

Mitchie brings her in to me, arm around my shoulders, but has no response. The woman knows, though. "They're taking him into surgery."

"Oh my God!" I visibly back up, cup my hand over my mouth, ready to murder whoever was going to put him into surgery. "They're going to cut him up! Into pieces! Those motherfuckers!" I break free from Mitchie's hold, ready to bust into that place and save my brother.

But the woman grabs me tightly, yelling for someone to help her against my thrashing. "Honey, they aren't going to hurt him. Surgery fixes people. They're going to fix him." Slowly, I understand that these people are trying to help Max. I find it so much easier to trust what they say, to take it on blind faith, than I ever found with the people at the compound. This trust is possibly from the sheer fact that these people are not from the compound.

I am calmer now, ready to be released and go back into Mitchie. "C'mon," the woman says. "We should go in."

Mitchie and I both cower in fear as the woman crosses through the doors that open by themselves, not sure what to make of that. It's so weird. "It's OK; they won't hurt you." After watching another hospital worker pass through unharmed, Mitchie and I cautiously step into an environment that I can only describe as sterile. There's no personality to the place, but what strikes me as very odd is the lack of religious paraphernalia. I realize that the outside world is mostly secular, but I've never been in a room that doesn't have at least a cross hanging from the wall. It's weirdly comforting.

"Hello? Can you tell us where they just took a young boy- maybe twelve or thirteen?" the woman asks the receptionist.

"Of course. They took him down the hall to the left there. Operating room 52, I believe." I am vividly reminded of the receptionist back at Havenwood, and of how different their demeanors are.

"Thank you. And..." She hesitates, looking at me and Mitchie. "If I could get a doctor, to check these two girls out?"

The receptionist stares at us quizzically, as if she's just noticed us- and our sorry state: the blood over my clothes, the rain all over us, the rips in both our dresses. "Are you their mother?"

"Not exactly... I found them on the side of the road. They're from that compound- Havenwood, right?" Mitchie and I both nod vigorously. We're standing close to each other, shoulders bumping shoulders, hands holding hands.

The receptionist seems kind of conflicted about this. "Well... how old are you girls?"

"Sixteen," I reply, looking at the floor.

"Me, too," comes from Mitchie's mouth.

"Are either of you related to the boy?" the receptionist asks.

"He's my younger brother." I'm not sure what's going on here. Why can't she just treat us?

"And how old is he?"

"Thirteen... in three days." It shocks me that Max's birthday is so soon. Thirteen... he's getting so big.

"Well, I can allow you girls to see a doctor, though I can't promise he'll be allowed to treat you," the receptionist tells us.

"And why the fuck not?" I'm tired of being in the dark. "Listen... not to be rude, but I don't give a shit about seeing a doctor right now! I want to see my brother!" Thankfully, I start cry again so that they don't think I'm an evil, heartless bitch.

"Your brother's surgery will take a while. If takes long, that's good; it means they've found something they can fix. For now, you should be concerned about helping yourself. We have a doctor who can help you."

I fight every urge in my body to retaliate, to hit her, to do something. I feel so fucking useless right now and it's tearing me apart. Mitchie squeezes my hand a little tighter, a little harder, a little better. "Fine," I grumble.

The receptionist turns to look at something I can only guess is a computer and inputs a couple of words. "What is your brother's name?"

"Maximilian James Russo," I say without much hope. I think that only the adopted kids are registered anywhere.

She scans through the things on the screen and then looks at me. "There appears to be no record of him."

"He's never been outside the compound," I tell her with a shrug. "I doubt we're in there, either."

"Name?"

"Alexandra Margarita Russo." Again, the receptionist's search turns up empty.

She looks at Mitchie next. "And you?"

"Mitchie Marie Torres." Nothing.

The receptionist sighs. "Well, I suppose I'll have to let you see him and he'll get... whatever information you can. Ah, Dr. Marx."

Dr. Marx is tall and muscular and very kind-looking, but abashedly, the first thing I notice is that he's black. Strange and horrible as that may sound, everyone in the compound is white as snow, save for the few Hispanics we have mixed in. I've never seen a black man in person, just in the history books. Once again, this unfamiliar sight brings a certain comfort to me. "Hello, Thelma. And who might you girls be?"

"Mitchie and Alexandra, escaped from Havenwood compound," Thelma replies.

Dr. Marx's eyes bulge wide. "Escaped? Thank God for you girls; maybe now we finally have the kind of evidence we need to shut that place down."

"Not now, doctor," Thelma cautions. "These girls need some help."

"And who are you?" Dr. Marx notices the woman who saved us for the first time.

The woman sticks her hand out to shake. "I'm Margaret. I found them on the side of the road and picked them up. Her little brother is in surgery right now."

Dr. Marx stares down at me, the warmth in his eyes backing up his words. "I am truly sorry to hear that. Why don't you come answer some questions, help me out?"

Numbly, we follow Dr. Marx down the hall, Mitchie's hand never leaving mine. We enter a small room with only a couple of very comfortable looking chairs in it. Dr. Marx moves them around so that two of them sit facing one, the others pushed against the wall. He sits in the one, clearly silently asking Mitchie and I sit. We do so, but I'm not focused on the conversation. Flashes of Max keep coming into my head: cutting on him, hurting him, blood pouring out of his back-

I'm crying again. I can't speak, there's no point in telling this man anything. I should be with my brother, I should know.

"I'll start with you- Mitchie, is it?" I hear Dr. Marx's voice, but it's almost like it's being played far away in a tinny sort of way.

She nods. I can only tell that by the slight movements to her upper body considering how I'm staring at a blank spot on the wall behind Dr. Marx.

"We're trying to get some background medical knowledge on you, just to make sure that there's nothing really wrong- no infections, no viruses, anything like that. So. What's your history, Mitchie? Is there anything really important we should know medically?"

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, and I gather enough strength to look up into her eyes. "Tell him. He just wants to help." I put my other hand gently on her leg, hoping to give whatever little comfort I can to her.

A deep breath comes from deep in her chest; I can feel her entire body move as this happens. "A little over a year ago, I was raped. By a man named Rodney. In Washington."

"Washington state?" Dr. Marx asks, his features remaining completely calm.

She nods. "What were you doing in Washington?" he questions.

"There's a sister compound in Washington, called Cascadia. It's where I grew up," she tells him. Dr. Marx writes this all down on his clipboard,

"And you?" He's now focused on me, but I'm not sure I can answer this. I'm not- not now.

"Do you mind if I answer for her?" I hear Mitchie say. Thank God for her. I love her to fucking pieces.

Dr. Marx nods, trying to keep his eyes off my sobbing face. I kind of want to throttle him right now. I don't know why; it just seems like the thing to do. "Please."

Mitchie breathes deeply once again. It strikes me as kind of important that this is the first time an outsider is going to gain any insight into the workings of this horrendous community. "We seven rules that cannot be broken under any circumstances. If they are broken, the person who broke them gets seven lashes plus one lash for each year old they are. Alex has been receiving this at least bimonthly she was a small child."

"Dear God..." I cannot look at him; he's being too sympathetic and it bothers me. I can't stand this room, I need to be out, I need to be-

"Dr. Marx?" Someone knocks and opens the door, just peeking his head in. He's dressed in some strange blue plastic-looking outfit which is covered with blood.

"Yes, Raul?" Dr. Marx sets his clipboard down on his lap, fear in his eyes.

Raul steps in. He's having a difficult time meeting myself and Mitchie in the eyes. "I'm afraid that we couldn't save your brother-"

I hear nothing more. His mouth moves, going in and out of focus, but I hear no sounds. The room swirls around me, colors blending, swirling hurting my eyes to look at them. Shut. My eyes. Shut. Can't look at anything anymore. Mitchie's hand on my shoulder; it does nothing. Because this is all my fault.

It's all my fault.

Well fuck this! I race out of there, knocking my chair down in the process. This useless fucking place! Where the fuck is my brother, what the hell is their problem! Forget them- they tried all the shit they could to save his life, but I sure as hell didn't. Not even close.

I weave a maze through the corridors, screaming and crying inside the empty hospital. Moonlight shines through the giant windows and onto my face, illuminating only half of it as it casts a giant shadow on the wall. The shadow is so big, it feels like it might over take me, so I keep running like hell. I shouldn't be able to run like this, shouldn't be able to have this kind of speed, this pain in my chest, this pain everywhere! Max should have it, have everything I have because he deserves it because I killed him! I don't deserve to keep living, I don't deserve all these opportunities I know have, I don't deserve Mitchie!

Somehow I stumble into a bathroom and see all that tile as the perfect opportunity to punish myself for all the torture I've put my best friend through, and the death of my brother that I caused. Furious, I smash my head against the wall, reveling in the pain it brings me. I do it again and again and again until I get the familiar woozy feeling and stop. I can't punish myself if I'm passed out cold on the bathroom floor.

I turn my attention to the mirrors above the sink and begin to pummel them, aiming at my face. I feel the blow of every punch vibrate through my arms, flowing to every part of my disgusting, worthless body. My knuckles start to bruise, but I keep going. There should be no stopping me now- not until the mirror itself cracks into a thousand tiny fragments that become lodged in my hands, my arms, a couple of shards flying out to slash my legs and torso.

But this is not enough.

Frantically, I fall to the floor, cutting myself on all the pieces too small for my eyes to pick up as I search for a big one. A big, sharp one. A triangular piece catches my eye and I snatch it up in terrific motion. Slowly, cautiously, I stand back up, staring at its glory. A perfect instrument to tarnish this body I don't deserve, to hurt the soul that is so horrible.

I lower it to my wrist, tapping the skin there, slowly piercing it, slowly feeling the blood pour out. It hurts like fuck, but it is what I deserve; it is-

"Alex Russo! Put that down now or so help me, I will rip it from your hands!" Mitchie stands at the door to the bathroom, hand on her hips, angrier than I have ever seen her. Chocolate brown eyes bore into my own, a mixture of a livid glare and the concern fright that can only be mustered by someone who loves me very much.

Suddenly, the colors come back into the world, sounds return to their normal clarity, and everything snaps into focus. I almost forget what I have done in the past few minutes, but the small trickle of blood running my face, my destroyed knuckles, my butchered wrist; all are clues to my disgusting activities.

I try to talk to her, try to make her understand, try to do anything, but all I can do is make vowel sounds. Not caring what I step on, I race across the bathroom and launch myself into her arms. She bumps against the door, inhales deeply, all from the sheer surprise of my actions. But she allows my head to nestle into her neck, to let my blood cover her dress as we both slide into an awkwardly comforting, crumpled heap on the ground.

"I love you."

A/N: OK, so this is going to be a longer than normal author's note. I have no idea how many of you are too pissed at me to read this, but I'm sure there's a few. Fun fact: "Maximilian" is the name of a 3rd century saint and martyr. I like to think that this where our Max gets his namesake. I had three reasons for killing him: Alex's character development, to show the utter depths these people could sink to, and because it serves someone else's character very far in the future. I feel like he became rounded out as a character and completed his journey. As to the rest of the story, it is far from over. The first half is coming to a close, but I have more planned. I feel as though most people when dealing with refugee/escapee stories end with a joyous entry into society, but I want to portray the confusing adjustment Alex and Mitchie will go through as they assimilate into normal American culture. Plus, there's the whole business of getting these people's asses in jail where they belong.

So basically, I've got the roller coaster ready and waiting if you want to come along for the ride.