Outside, the man and his daughter spoke in Muldavian; she could only make out the few words that she'd picked up, including zama, the word for fugitive.

Tasha sat down on the hood of the cannibalized car, leaned her head in her hands, fighting off lightheadedness. She felt faint, but she knew that panicking was the least helpful thing she could do right now.

She normally only felt this way when flying, but the danger combined with the confined space had probably triggered it. She mentally kicked herself; she'd had a premonition he might be lying, but she'd dismissed her intuition, which had turned out to be a serious error.

Maybe I can find a way out of here, she thought. There were no windows in the shed; it was made out of sheets of corrugated metal, cracks letting in sunlight. Maybe there was a weakness she could exploit….

She made her way around the shed. The floor was concrete; otherwise she would have tried to dig through it. One of the corners seemed promising—it bent outwards, and a crack appeared at the bottom where the two sides joined. If she could make it wider, she could crawl through….

She found some old leather gloves inside the car, and knelt on the ground and got to work, pushing on the metal. The metal was stronger than it looked; it would push outwards then spring back before the crack got much wider. She tried pulling it up from the bottom, but even with the gloves, the metal cut into her fingers. She sat back on the dusty floor, wondering if there was a better way to do this.

Of course. She still had the tools in her backpack. She pulled out the pliers, and gripped the bottom of the metal sheet, curving it inwards. It slipped off with a twang; she reattached the pliers, and pulled with all her strength.

A millimeter higher. At this rate, she'd be out by next week…

For the next few hours, she wrestled with the metal. The wall seemed to get stronger further from the edges, but she progressed, millimeter by millimeter. It looked almost wide enough to crawl under, if she didn't mind her back getting scraped…

A knock on the door.

She stood. "Come in," she said, wondering why someone would knock in the first place, but glad they had.

A woman stepped through the doorway, holding a tray. "I have brought you some lunch," she said, standing near the door.

Tasha walked toward her cautiously and took the tray. A thought flashed across her mind: she could throw the tray, leap out the door. But even if her escape route wasn't almost finished, she couldn't do something like that to someone who was being kind to her, even if she didn't trust her. It was simpler to just try to escape through the crack when night fell, and get the battery back to Jason and Elena.

On the tray, there was a steaming bowl of soup, a sandwich with a thick slice of ham, and a piece of pie. "Thank you," said Tasha.

"You're welcome," said the woman. She had brown hair, with hints of gray, and she was short with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes. "I am sorry for what we have done to you. My husband wanted to take the bounty for you, but I will try to convince him otherwise when he returns from town. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy your food."

"It looks very good," said Tasha.

"I'm Elsa, by the way," said the woman, giving her a smile.

"I'm Tasha."

"That's a beautiful name."

"Thank you."

"I want you to know that we are not bad people. My husband, Ezra, would not hurt a fly. The last time we kept pigs, he would not butcher them, and we had to sell them to the neighbors. That's who the ham comes from." She gestured to the sandwich. "But we need the money. Even I considered—but no, we can't keep you here. It is just that our son is sick, and—" A tear glistened in her eye; she shook her head, as if to ward off the sorrow. "I will come out later and check on you."

And she walked out the door, and shut it with a click of the lock.

Tasha sat down on the dusty seat of the car, and sipped some of the soup. It was hot and creamy, with chunks of potatoes. The sandwich was made of crisp crust and soft bread, with salty, tender ham. She devoured the food in a few minutes, before realizing they might have poisoned it. But even though Ezra had locked her in the shed, she didn't think they were bad people. And Elsa—she seemed like a genuinely kind woman. They were just desperate.

Tasha wasn't going to wait for them to make up their minds, however. She ate the pie—apple topped with buttery crumbles—then she resumed her task of bending the metal wall.

It was getting dark, and the space looked just wide enough to crawl under. She picked up the pack, and set it down near the opening. She knelt on the concrete.

The door swung open. A man wearing a military uniform stepped through. She dove for the opening; it scraped her back, cutting into it. He grabbed her ankle, dragging her back inside. She kicked him in the face. He let out a yell, and slammed a pistol across her jaw.

Sparks burst across her vision. Pain stabbed through her jaw; she tasted blood. He aimed his pistol at her.

"Who are you?" he said.

She tried to speak, but she couldn't.

He grabbed her wrist and half-dragged her to the door, the pistol pressed against her neck. By the time he pulled her up the steps to the house, her vision was back to normal, but her jaw throbbed with pain. She wiped her mouth; blood streaked the back of her hand.

Through the dark hallway, Elsa was working over the stove in the kitchen. She gasped when she saw them. "Jensen, what is this?"

"I found this woman trying to steal something from the shed."

"No, you've got it all wrong. She's one of the fugitives."

"You knew about it?" He loosened his grip on her arm, ever so slightly.

"Your father found her. He was going to…sell her to the security forces."

"What's going on in—" Ezra appeared in the doorway. Lara peeked out behind him, her dark eyes wide with curiosity.

"Pa," said Jensen. "Were you going to sell her to them?"

"I—it was for you."

Jensen let go of Tasha's arm. She rubbed it where he'd twisted it. He tucked his pistol in his belt. "I'm sorry," he said, glancing at her, "I thought you were a thief."

"You—don't care I am a fugitive?" she managed.

"I should turn you in—but I am not on their side, despite—this." He touched his uniform. "Pa, I know you mean well, but even if I was dying, I would not take blood money. You know what they would do to her. I see enough of it every day—" He coughed. The cough was deep and harsh. He kept coughing, and Elsa and Ezra helped him to the dining room table. Tasha followed them, not sure what to do.

Lara held his hand, kneeling beside him. "It'll be okay, Jen. I love you. It'll be okay." A tear streaked down her cheek. He coughed into a handkerchief; blood spotted it. Elsa went into the kitchen and brought some golden liquid in a cup; he drank it, and the coughing subsided. "Thank you, Mama," he breathed.

"Get better, my child," she said. She looked at Tasha. "It's the prison camp, I know it."

"He works there?" ventured Tasha.

She nodded. "At Zohr. They do top secret projects—mining and processing uranium. The dust gets in their lungs. The prisoners die—the soldiers die slower, since they are able to leave part of the day. My little boy is in there—and they won't station him somewhere else. They won't even give him treatment, because they deny what's going on."

Jensen cleared his throat. "That's not the worst of it, Mama. What I see in there—Today, there was a prisoner who was sick, like me. He was coughing—he couldn't work. But the guard—what did he do? He beat him—kicked him to the ground. I tried to help him, but I got pulled away, and reprimanded for it. The only reason he was probably in there was for speaking what most of us are thinking." He took a deep breath, as if speaking took a lot out of him. He looked pale, dark shadows under his eyes; though he was handsome and strong, the disease looked like it was taking its toll. "I am glad of what you are doing," he said, looking at Tasha. "I only wish I had the courage to do the same."

"They would kill you," said Ezra.

"It might be worth it. If enough of us had the courage to rise up—maybe we could sweep them away…."

"I pray for that day," said Elsa. "But—this is selfish—I don't want you to help start it. You're my son. I can't lose you—and I can't lose Lara. But at the same time, I hate myself for doing nothing."

Tasha wondered how many felt like Elsa—wanting to do something but too afraid to, not wanting to risk their families. "You are doing something," she said. "You did not turn me in. Thank you."

Elsa gave a small smile. "Would you like to stay for dinner? It is almost ready—" She darted into the kitchen. Tasha followed her.

"I'm afraid I can't stay. I have to get going."

Elsa opened the oven. A pie was baking on its rack. She took it out, steaming and bubbling gravy through its slits. She set it on top of the stove. "It is probably for the best. I will give you some provisions before you leave."

She opened the cupboard. "What do you need?"

Tasha thought for a moment. They had some food, but more couldn't hurt. "I think—" she began.

Headlights streaked the window pane. Two trucks pulled into the driveway. Uniformed men jumped out.

"It's the army!" said Elsa. "Go—there's a cellar door out the back. I'll try to stall them!"

Tasha dashed to the dining room. "Where's the cellar?"

Jensen stood. "I'll take you." He grasped her hand. They ran down the stairs into the musty-smelling cellar, crates of potatoes stacked against the wall. He coughed into his arm, gasping. She followed him up the cellar steps, and he unlocked the door that led to the outside. He grasped her hand, his grip still strong despite his illness. "I wish you good luck," he said. "Sorry about—you know. Hitting you."

"That's okay," she said. "Thank you for this."

He shrugged. "It is something I could actually do."

She lifted the door, crept out into the grass.

"Wait!" said Lara, running up to Jensen. "Here. Papa said to give her this key. It's to the gray car. He said Jan owes him anyway." Jensen handed the key to Tasha. She took it, and lowered the cellar door, shutting out Lara with her long auburn hair and thin Jensen in his tan uniform.

But how was she going to get the car? She snuck around the side of the house. The two army trucks looked unoccupied; perhaps all of the soldiers had gone into the house.

She couldn't stick around. If they found her here, she'd implicate this family. At least they could claim she stole a car if she took one—

She dashed toward the shed. It was too dark to tell which one was gray. But one was lighter than the others. Risking it, she twisted the key in the ignition. It rumbled to life.

She backed the car out of the driveway, hoping they wouldn't hear from the house. Then, she spun it in the gravel and headed down the road.

A shout from the house. In the rear view mirror, a man ran down the steps, followed by others who ran toward their trucks.

She floored the accelerator.

Dust flew as she raced down the road. In the dim light she could make out the trucks following her at full speed.

She dared the accelerator to reach 100 mph, even though she knew that on a gravel road, it could easily spin out of control and crash into the ditch in a mangled wreck.

She followed the road till she reached the place where she'd left Jason and Elena, and pulled the car to a stop. She honked the horn, rolling down the window. "Jason! Get in!"

For a moment, no one appeared. Maybe they had left, which would be really foolish. But then a figure emerged—Jason—and another—Elena, Jason holding her hand. They jumped into the back seat, and the car roared down the road, heading toward the border. The army trucks raced closer, automatic gunshots ripping the air.