There's really just one thing that we have in common:

Neither of us will be missed.

Kayla slams the cup on the chair next to me with enough force to make me jump. I reflectively scramble away from her before she can pull the pin on a grenade and throw it at me like a true psychopath.

My sister snorts and crosses her arms. "Damn. You could just drink it."

I glance around, confused. "I — what? Drink what?"

"Jesus Christ," she groans. "Just drink it. It'll wake you up."

I settle uneasily back into the chair, glancing over at the cracked and filthy styrofoam cup. It doesn't look drinkable, and it could very easily be poison — pulled out of the gutter at the very least — but Kayla seems to think it's okay, and I haven't slept in entirely too many days, so . . .

I wrap a hand around it — the cup is so hot it's uncomfortable to hold — lift it to my mouth, and immediately gulp down half of it without tasting it.

"Woah!" Kayla looks sideways at me, suddenly worried that she might be in the presence of a psychopath. "Uh — are you okay? That was — you aren't supposed to do that."

I sigh. "Was it poison? Because if it is, please get me more of it because damn, it's working." It was true — I could feel my muscles tensing and the invisible strings pulling down my eyelids disappear — for the time being, at least. A dark, bitter taste now coats my throat, but I don't really care. It's worth not falling asleep during surgery or something.

"It's not poison . . . most people just don't chug scalding black coffees." Kayla shrugs like whatcha gonna do?

I examine the filthy cup, feeling the burning itch spread through my fingers. I want to set it down, but I don't. Instead, I take another swallow.

It feels like I've swallowed a mouthful of bitter mud — bitter mud that burns my mouth and scorches down my throat. This can't possibly be good for me — I'll burn my taste buds and pain receptors off. But I don't really care, because it's keeping me awake. I'd drink a battery acid cocktail if it would keep me awake. I'd be willing to bet that someone in my cabin has done it.

So I gulp down the rest of it without a second thought, while Kayla watches me with a mixture of admiration and horror.

By the time I finish, I'm not even struggling to keep my eyes open.

I crush the styrofoam cup in my hand, wincing at the squealing sound of the pieces rubbing together. I don't know why I'm crushing it, but I am. Just because I can, I guess.

"Thanks," I say gratefully. "That really helped. Where'd you get it?"

She shrugged. "The camp store was giving some out. I just got the most concentrated one they had."

She doesn't meet my eyes as she says it. Well, she wouldn't. Apollo's kids are terrible liars.

I don't ask about it, though. Instead, I reach over and squeeze her hand. "Thanks, Kayla."

It wouldn't be so damn hard to keep my eyes open if I hadn't had to deal with Ryan last night.

Most of our patients are gone, Mollie among them. She'll be okay. Sierra is still with us, as well as a couple other kids who are still figuring out walking. That's okay. They'll live, all of them. If they find a reason.

I don't have to stay up at night for any of them anymore.

I might have actually gotten a full night's sleep last night, or part of one anyway. I was actually . . . I don't know if happy is the right word, but I felt a sense of peacefulness which I hadn't for years. Talking to Rowan and Ryan . . . it helped. Hearing stories of others who went through the same shit I did. It honestly wasn't the worst thing in the world. I guess that's why support groups were invented, but don't get your hopes up. I wouldn't go if someone was holding a gun to my head — and sooner or later, I know Ryan's going to.

He could be dead now if it wasn't for me.

I know he blames me for that now, too.

I guess he should. It is kind of my fault. That's twice now I've saved his life — although, granted, he wasn't in critical danger the first time. Okay, one time. But it's enough for him to blame me forever.

I guess he blames me for a lot more than that now. As he damn well should. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

Maybe I'm just too dramatic.

The war's been over for quite a long time. I haven't been counting — over a week, for sure. And I haven't looked in our cabin once in that time. I've been in it, sure, waking up Kayla and Austin. But I kept my eyes on the floor. I didn't want to see.

Now I don't have a choice. I don't have to stay in the infirmary tonight, and Austin and Kayla have made it extremely clear that I will be sleeping. And sleeping doesn't mean "in a corner of the back room like a goddamn homeless guy." They have no idea how right they are.

I haven't been to a meal in the dining pavilion, either. Or — or anything, really.

I guess everyone just kind of picked up their shit and moved on after the Titan War. Not me. I didn't have that option. I can blame my cabin for that. This is their fault, really.

The voices have gone silent.

I don't know who to blame for that.

Leaning against the outside wall of the infirmary, I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath, ignoring the scent of pine sap. My legs are trembling under me like that of a newborn horse. I'm gripping my necklace in one hand, the rawhide damp with freezing sweat.

I don't know why I'm this scared. I'm not even bad in social situations. Up until recently, that is.

My little siblings are forcing me to go to dinner. Kayla quite literally slapped me across the face, shouting that I was a part of this camp whether I liked it or not and I would NOT be hiding in No Man's Land for the rest of my life. Going to dinner wouldn't be such a bad thing, normally, but I was scared of who might be there — or not be there.

Kayla and Austin were useless in the matter of Jake Mason — neither of them had a fucking clue who he was. I'd asked if either of them knew what had happened to him, because I was worried about him after the war, and they'd both stared at me blankly.

I could have described him, I guess, but I was scared of what I'd find out.

Most of me hoped he was still here. He, like me, had younger siblings to take care of — much more than me, actually. He couldn't abandon them. That would make him just as bad as my cabinmates. It was better for him to stay. I couldn't even imagine what his disappearance would do to his siblings.

But I couldn't help the part of me that was screaming, Go! Get the hell out of here!

It was selfish and shortsighted. If I'd ever left permanently, Kayla and Austin would be destroyed. And they'd have to keep an entire camp alive, despite being two of the youngest campers there. Somehow.

But we can't be penalized for our thoughts.

We can and are penalized for our actions, however, so I reach up with one arm and drop the necklace over my head. The beads, slick with sweat, roll and slide against one another. An abacus for measuring fear and horror. I don't want the fucking thing; I would've chucked it down a sewer grate long ago if not for the fact that people would ask why I never wore it anymore.

Oh, man. Deal with it.

I do, thank you very much.

And I have to get to dinner. Kayla and Austin might or might not be there, but if I don't show up, I don't trust Kayla not to beat me up and burn the whole infirmary to the ground.

Fuck it. Let it burn.

But thinking like that doesn't do any good.

So I sigh, pull away from the cracked and filthy infirmary wall (just like the coffee cup), run my fingers through my sweat-soaked curls, pushing them back out of my face (Fall's coming, but it's still hot as hell here), and get moving.

The Iris-message formed last night only half an hour after I got back to camp. I wasn't doing anything of particular importance, just a routine check on the campers' heart rates (it may sound important, but I already knew they were already okay.) I was lucky everyone was still asleep at four-thirty in the morning, because I would have a lot of explaining to do about why a girl who had never been at camp was calling me from a sewer, panicking like hell.

Please, we need help. It — it's Ryan.

It was Ryan, Ryan sprawled haphazardly against a wall, both arms wrapped in grimy cloths that had been torn off the clothes of Rowan and another girl called Allie. Ryan had been sprawled on the cracked concrete like that because Rowan had dropped him there after dragging him all the way back from the main tunnel. Rowan had had to drag him because he had been passed out. Forty percent blood loss — I'd thought he had slipped into a coma, and while, to the best of my knowledge, he was still asleep, I wasn't sure if coma was the word for it. He just didn't want to wake up.

What a bastard move.

The water — it's dark, like always, but it's dark red, Will. We bandaged his wrists as best we could. Just — just get the hell over here.

My baby did not have a gun, but he did have a knife. A knife he had stolen from Rowan. From his sister.

I had ripped viciously in two. I had nearly broken down sobbing from confusion and terror. I fully believed that if Ryan wanted to die, then he goddamn well could. Good riddance. His choice. His fucking selfish choice, but his choice nevertheless. But Rowan . . . I couldn't leave Rowan to live with that. I couldn't leave myself to live with that.

We're in the drier tunnel, the one right before the camp. Move! I don't know how much blood a person can lose.

It was forty percent to pass out, which was where Ryan was. More than that would answer Rowan's question.

And I was determined she and Allie would never find out the answer.

So I got moving as if I was back on the collapsing bridge. I didn't bother to grab a harpy pass — if one of them had noticed me and tried to stop me from leaving, they had better get the fuck out of my way. People veered away from me on the street, as usual. I didn't care about that. The alley was even darker than usual. I didn't care about that either. That was just my twisted mind. Or not, but I didn't bother to figure that out.

I practically threw myself down the ladder, hands slipping while flakes of rust and algae lodged themselves under my fingernails along with the ever-present crescent of blood. When I'd thrown myself down into the water, I'd slipped on the bottom of the tunnel in my haste and gone down hard enough to give myself a serious concussion if I'd cracked my head off the tunnel floor, not to mention thoroughly soaking myself and taking my breath away except for rattling gasps. I'd never been so cold in my life.

But instead, I lunged to my feet and practically sprinted down the tunnel. I say practically because I couldn't go too fast without getting knocked over or slipping and falling again, but if I'd been on dry land, I could have set an Olympic record.

But I wasn't, and it was at least five minutes before I made it to the second tunnel I hauled myself into.

I didn't have to go far.

The water trickling down the broken concrete was pale pink at first, then a darker magenta. Within a few more seconds, the trickle became a dark, dripping red. I bit down on my fist to stifle a scream of pain and anger.

He took my knife and disappeared, Allie and I ran to find him, and —

And now I could see two twisted shapes farther up the tunnel. One was cured half on its side, the other hunched over it, perfectly still. A powerful wave of deja vu slammed into me, and I had to lean against the wall of the tunnel, breaths hitching, shivering violently. They looked like us. Exactly like us.

Rowan saw me then, and scrambled to her feet, sprinting awkwardly over to join me before yelping and reeling back. "Will — what the —"

I blinked, confused. "What? What's going —" Then I looked down.

I did scream then, forcing my hand into my mouth and biting down so hard that I could taste metallic salty blood oozing between my teeth. Because my hand —

I look bitterly down at the mossy ground, kicking a rock. I'm almost there now, and judging by the emptiness of the camp, so is everyone else. I'm walking slowly, putting it off as long as I can, but what am I supposed to do? I can't sneak off without being noticed until later.

"Turn it off!" Rowan shouted. "Put that thing away!" She was nearly crying with fear and anger.

"I don't know how!" I shouted back. "I'm trying!" I was trying, but to no avail. I honestly believe that I might have tried to rip my hand off, but before I could, Rowan grabbed my other arm, wrenching me over to Ryan's body. "Deal with that later!"

I immediately dropped to my knees, placing a hand on Ryan's heart. Slow. He could very well be in a coma, or on his way to death. This wasn't good. At all.

My fingers scrabbled for the grimy rags tied around both forearms, using the ones I could, but most often ripping them off and throwing them aside. The better I could get the disease-ridden cloths off the bleeding wounds, the better.

I had to focus as hard as I could to stop thinking about my hand.

I should've wondered how I'd gotten here without using a flashlight, seeing as I'd given Rowan's back last night. I should've wondered how my work was so perfectly illuminated.

They were with me, even silent. I just couldn't get rid of them.

At least I can see, I thought grimly.

I finally succeeded in ripping away the last bloodstained rags, exposing Ryan's arms.

Behind me, Rowan sucked in a sharp gasp. Despite the fact that she'd already seen them, and in fact had been the one to bandage them enough to slow the bleeding if not enough to prevent infection, it was hard seeing someone you cared about like that. Hard didn't come close to covering it, but I've had a long couple of weeks. You'll excuse me if I'm not the most articulate.

Ryan hadn't stuck with tradition, that was easy to see. If he had, I would have found him with a carved furrow from the crook of each arm down to his wrist, and another slash across said wrist, blood dripping from a pair of dark red capital Ts.

Ryan, on the other hand, had decided to get creative.

Slashed angrily on the inside of one forearm was a dripping red FUCK YOU.

Carved slightly more neatly, but no less deeply, was a bleeding I'M SORRY.

It was very, very Ryan.

And it was very, very Cabin 7.

Despite all my training, my brain short-circuited for a moment, and I was frozen, staring like an idiot at my brother's unconscious body, blaming and apologetic words slashed into both forearms.

He was like my cabin.

He was exactly fucking like my cabin.

And I could never help them.

My head snapped around to where Rowan waited, stone-faced. "I need bandages. These are deep. Do you have any?" I don't know how my voice is so calm and matter-of-fact, even though it's what I was taught. I never expected to see something like this. Most people don't, I guess, but it's my job. And I should be proud of myself, but I haven't been that in a long, long time. It was only disgust.

Rowan seemed to be feeling the exact same thing as she glared back at me. "If I had fucking bandages, I would've tied those around his wrist instead of those filthy rags."

She's got a goddamn good point, and it pretty much confirms what I already thought. I tried . . . but whatever. I'm supposed to be healing him no matter what. That just means I'll have to heal better than I've ever healed before.

I placed my hands on one arm, and my stomach rolled as I began muttering under my breath. His arms looked like cheap cuts of butcher meat, crudely sliced open, tangles of chopped nerves and veins exposed. Jesus Christ, how can I . . .

But I have to, I reminded myself.

So I did.

It wouldn't hold up for long, and I didn't have time to go back to camp and return with bandages before the sun came up and work started, but it would hold together.

Unless he ripped it apart again.

"Is he gonna be okay?" a nervous voice asked. A girl edged in around the corner, eyes flashing with fear like a deer in headlights. Her blonde hair was cut in a layered chin-length cut. Fairly clean and brushed well. Maybe she was new, or maybe she took good care of her hair because it was the one aspect of her life that she still had some control over, I was in no position to psychoanalyze. She cringed at the sight of my hand, as we all had.

I sighed as I stood up, wiping my bloody hands off on my pants. "He'll live, but I have to come back tomorrow night with bandages."

Both Allie and Rowan winced, and I was right there with them. Keeping Ryan alive until tomorrow night would be an accomplishment in and of itself. Or so we thought then.

I haven't called Rowan for — what is it, five minutes now? She said he's still asleep. She thinks he might be in a coma, or rather, she says she does. I know what she really believes, because it's the same thing I believe. And we both know what she says she thinks is bullshit. But I let her have it — I know what's left to cling to when everything else has slipped away. And I know that nobody wants to hear that their closest friend doesn't care about them enough to stick around after their sister bites the dust. Sorry, Row, but I don't really give a shit what happens to you as long as I get to escape. Really just a giant Fuck You.

And Ryan knew that. You only have to look at his arms to see that.

But what he may or may not have known doesn't mean dick to the people that are left behind. My cabin knew what they were doing, and that never stopped them. Ryan knew what he was doing, they knew what they were doing, and I knew what I was doing . . . I was no exception. I was not a saint. I would do well to stop pretending I was some kind of godsend to my cabin. I had tried to do exactly the same thing to Kayla and Austin that Lee had done to me and Ryan had tried to do to Rowan.

Leaving someone else to clean up the mess you left behind is the most selfish thing you can do, in my opinion. I spent entirely too much time scrubbing up Kiera and Jace's blood. Wasted time. Wasted spaces. Wastes of spaces — Kiera, at least. Jace would've been one, but not intentionally. Kiera, she should've sucked it up and dealed. Like me. Like the rest of us.

Rowan needed a friend. She didn't need Ryan in particular, but she needed a friend. Or if not a friend, someone that she could talk to and trust, someone who wouldn't abandon her when shit got rough . . . I'm just describing a friend, aren't I? Rowan needs that. We all do, but especially Rowan. Living in a situation like she does, sleeping in a ragged sleeping bag in a filthy sewer, her mom drugged out and lost to the world, begging for spare change, keeping warm by shit burning in garbage cans, wading through a freezing river of rinsewater every day, dealing with creepy pedos and creepy drunks and young girl who slept with said creepy guys for more spare change, knowing full well that she might end up as one of them. . . . I didn't think Rowan had sunk quite that low yet, but life had come along and fucked her just the same.

I could be her friend. She could be my friend. We could be there for each other, someone for the other to trust. . . .

But no, it did no good to think like that. I couldn't be a friend. I wasn't trustworthy. I'd proved that time and time again. I was better off as an acquaintance, and she was better off having me as one. Realistically, she would've been better without me in her life at all, but it was a bit too late for that. And where would I be?

Here, I remind myself as I slip surreptitiously around the corner of the dining pavilion, the dull roar of continuous conversation. Trapped in this hellhole, hungover and fucked up. Rise and let's have a round of applause, everyone.

Nobody even glances up from their food and conversations as I do the Walk Of Shame to our cabin's table, hands in my pockets and head down. The please-don't-notice-me walk. Praying to remain invisible. Introverts and everybody's who's ever had to leave their room with family friends over, I'm sure you can relate.

I don't even know why I'm so desperate not to be seen. I guess there's a guilty kind of shame in hiding in the infirmary for several days, running away from camp, talking shit about said camp, then rejoining and acting as though you're still a part of everyone. I felt like an imposter, a spy wearing the most obvious spy clothing ever and waiting to be noticed.

I slip onto the end of the rough stone bench I've been eating at since I was ten. It never had gotten comfortable, but I have learned to ignore it, and it's a testament to how uncomfortable I am right now that I'm noticing it again.

Kayla and Austin aren't talking and laughing like all the other cabins. Their heads are down, and they're both silently eating their food, not picking morosely at it but not exactly wolfing it down. Eating with a careful, measured precision that says, See? We are eating like normal, sane people. We're doing fine. Nothing's wrong. My chest aches when I see their lonely, resigned expressions.

I have a hand in this, I know. This is partly my fault.

I should have been there for them. I should have taken care of them, reassured them, helped them through this bullshit. I should have been, in short, a head counselor. A big brother. Instead, I locked myself in the infirmary, only speaking to them when I was waking them up and telling them to go back to the cabin, cutting and drinking my problems away like a true alcoholic.

God, I'd really fucked it up.

I don't think either of them have even noticed I'm here — which I guess means my lame spy mission succeeded. Damn, I'm a terrible person.

I have no idea how to start this conversation, though. What the hell am I supposed to say? I don't know, so we're all just sitting here in extremely uncomfortable silence. We stick out in the camaraderie like a trio of dying pigeons in a flock of flamingos. I, for one, feel like a dying pigeon regularly.

Thank God, I don't have to. When I grab a plate (I don't bother offering anything to the gods; if anyone notices, they don't care) Austin glances up, yelps with shock (clearly they didn't actually think I'd show up), and lunges over, wrapping his arms around my ribs. "Where were you?" he demands. "Dinner started ten minutes ago!"

I lower my head slightly. "I'm sorry." I could offer some lame excuse, spread the usual ones out sheepishly like a losing hand in Five Crowns, but I'm not going to. They deserve to know the truth, and the truth is that I'm sorry.

"Fine, just don't do it again." Kayla glares at me from across the table before switching sides and sliding close to me. "Idiot."

"Then go back to the other side."

She smirks. "Is that an order?"

I sigh as I rest my head on the table. "How did the others put up with you?"

"Not very well," Austin says cheerfully. "That's why you're here."

"I hate this job," I mutter, although I'm trying hard to suppress a smile.

Whether Jake is at his cabin's table or not, I don't care to notice.

After dinner comes after-dinner activities — Capture The Flag, sometimes, or just regular activities. It is, thank God the second one. If it was the first, we'd all have to work. As it is, we all glance silently at each other, and, by unspoken agreement, break off from the group and start on our way back to the cabin.

None of the other campers even glance at us, and why would they? We're just three kids. We have, sometime in the last couple of weeks, all become ghosts.

Except for one person.

A little girl breaks away from her cabin and sprints over to me, shaking curly blonde hair out her face. She can't be older than eight.

Cheyenne immediately throws her arms around me, hugging me so tightly I can almost feel my ribs crack. "Will!"

A grin splits my face. I wrap my arms around her tightly. "Hey, Chey," I say softly. "You good?"

She pulls away from me, her face falling slightly. "Our cabin's smaller," she said quietly. "It's kind of lonely."

I rub her shoulder. "Because of all the ones that died in the war?"

She nods . . . frowns, then shakes her head. "Some of them . . . some of them moved into the new cabins."

I blink. I've never heard about the new cabins, but maybe it has something to do with the promise Percy made the gods make. "You mean, there are new cabins for all the unclaimed demigods?"

She nods. "Yeah . . . now they're gone."

I exchange glances with Kayla and Austin. "Well that's . . . something. Listen, we have to go now, okay? I'll see you soon."

She looks sad. "Are you gonna disappear again? I didn't see you after the battle."

I wince, guilt crushing me. "I know. I'm sorry. I had to work."

She considers that, then shrugs. "I guess . . ."

I smile gently and ruffle her hair. "Go with your cabin, okay? They'll be missing you."

"No they won't," she says confidently. "They don't really notice when one of us disappears . . . I'll go, though." She runs off, sprinting to catch up with her cabin.

I sigh as I back up to join Kayla and Austin. "New cabins, huh?"

They both nod. "Part of Zeus's promise," Austin says. "They've all got one — well, all the ones that have kids. Even the creepy kid with the bomber jacket."

I blink. "Nico? He's here?"

Kayla shrugs. "If that's his name, yeah. His cabin honestly looks a lot cooler than ours."

I grimace. "Please, let's just go deal with ours." I've been in there every morning to get my siblings, and I know it's still filled with dead people's shit. I also know that none of us want to or even know how to deal with it. And we sure as hell won't be tonight.

The past several days, I've been cycling through crushing exhaustion and energetic alertness. I was either ready to break down crying and pass out or run a marathon at top speed, but never anywhere in between. Now, I'm tired, but it's not the crushing exhaustion . . . it's more like I've been up until one in the morning on a phone scrolling through Youtube Shorts. I'm tired, and I'd quite like to go to bed, but it definitely doesn't feel like I've been running on pure adrenaline for almost two weeks. That's a bad sign — it means I'm so overtired that I don't know it, and I'm probably going to drop down any second now. Or drop dead.

How long can a half-blood go without sleep?

How long until you start to hallucinate?

How long until you don't know what's real and what's not?

Besides, the sooner this camp is asleep, the sooner I can get out of here and go help Ryan. If Ryan's still alive, that is . . . if not, I'm wasting half an hour of walking through the city's alleyways, climbing down rickety sewer ladders slick with algae, and making my way through a labyrinth of tunnels, all by the light of my fucking glowing hand.

Which didn't go back to normal until I was out of the sewer and no longer in need of a flashlight.

I'm not sure, but I don't think I could have turned it off on purpose.

Great.

I really don't want to step into the memorial that is our cabin at the moment, I don't want to see all my dead siblings' shit casually laying around, and judging by the way Kayla and Austin are hanging behind me, they don't want to either. But we can't exactly take refuge in another cabin like runaways from a corrupt country, so I shove the door open before I can psyche myself out.

The cabin is exactly as it was the day before the war. Everyone's things are still lying on their beds, or around their beds, or in the alcoves in the walls. Trunks are still shoved under aforementioned beds or at the foot of them. Chests of drawers are still stacked on top of each other. Dirty clothes are still strewn around. My cabin never could pass inspection.

And it must be passing it even less so now, because with all the infirmary work, there hasn't been time to make beds or straighten up anything or scrub dirt off the walls where it always manages to cling. The floor crunches under my boots as I step in. not passing inspection? That's an understatement.

"We should've been on dishwashing duty for the past week," Austin admits, coming up beside me. "But everyone knew where we were working, so they didn't say anything. . . . Now they know there's not as much work as there was before, so . . ." He didn't bother finishing the statement.

I sigh, running a hand over my face. "We won't have time tomorrow, I don't think. Maybe the next day if we're lucky. But inspection's still happening tomorrow whether we like it or not."

"Fuck that." Kayla flopped dramatically on her bed before shuddering and jumping back up. "Wow, that's a lot of dirt."

"Yeah, that's what happens when you don't have time to clean." I walk over to my bunk, climbing onto the lower bunk to look at mine. It's covered with sand and pine needles, drips of sap darkening spots of the blanket. It looks as though I found it buried in the forest, then dragged it around camp for a little while before putting it on my bed. How did that even happen? My bed is near a window, but the shutters are shut.

In fact, the shudders on all the windows are shut, and with the white plaster walls, metal rafters, and bright industrial lighting, the cabin looks like a cross between an abandoned warehouse and an interrogation room.

I jump down off the bottom bunk. "Yeah, I'm not sleeping up there."

Kayla grimaces. "Agreed . . . my bed isn't even that dirty, but I don't . . ."

"Same here," Austin says quietly.

Neither of them need to finish the sentences — I know how it feels to sleep where dead people once did. It's like expecting someone to climb into an open grave and fall asleep. Even if there was no corpse in it, you could still feel it there, breathing over your shoulder, wrapping ice-cold fingers around your throat. . . .

Cabin 7 was dead, but they still weren't willing to leave us alone.

I thought of the way my hand had glowed, lighting up the darkness of the sewers, and I shivered.

I hadn't asked for that. I hadn't wanted that. But it was there nonetheless.

And I, for one, am not putting up with this shit.

I drop down on the floor, lacing my fingers behind my bead as though I'm in some movie meadow naming the shapes of clouds instead of lying on a gritty pine-board floor full of knots and splinters, surrounded by the possessions of my dead siblings. "You guys can sleep wherever you want. I'm sleeping here."

My younger siblings exchange looks, and then Austin grins crookedly, laying down next to me on his side, racing one finger along cracks in the twisted floorboards. "Fair enough. This works."

Kayla considers it, then sighs and drops down on my other side. "What the hell. It can't be worse than trying to teach the newbies archery."

I glance over at her. "You know most of them are older than you."

"I know!" she grumbles. "That's why they never take me seriously . . . sometimes I shoot arrows really close to them just to shut them up."

Austin and I give her identical apprehensive looks. Somehow I can very easily imagine my fiery little sister intentionally nearly impaling people in order to be taken seriously, but that doesn't mean I have to encourage it. . . .

Still, though, I know how it feels to have people refuse to take me seriously, as I'm sure you do, and I'm positive both of us have wanted to frighten them with the threat of impalement once or twice. Not being treated like a strong, intelligent human, being infantilized and dehumanized . . . that's one of the worst things one human can do to another.

I raise my eyebrows at Kayla with a mixture of disapproval and pride. "Now, you're saying you threaten to kill people by firing arrows at them. As your head counselor, I can't really condone that . . . don't let me see you doing it."

"I won't," she says. "Let you see."

I wink at her and press a finger to my lips. "I'm counting on it."

Both her and Austin laugh, and I have to smile. I forgot how much I missed talking to these two . . . that's not exactly good, especially for a head counselor, but more than that, for a brother.

I fucked it up, but it's not over. There's still hope for us.

I can learn to get better, quit cutting (just the thought of that sends shivers up my spine, but for Kayla and Austin, I can do it), never drink again (not that I have plans to), try to balance out the time I have to spend in the infirmary, actually talk to them, make sure they're okay, that they aren't ending up anywhere remotely near where the rest of our cabinmates were.

But whatever I do, I won't teach them what happened to our cabin and why they were the way they were. I won't teach them that they were living with traitors. I will carry that information by myself.

I have no intention of ever passing on the legacy of Cabin 7.

When my brother and sister have both passed out and I've lain awake for long enough that I've started plotting several epic fantasy trilogies in my head, I finally push myself up to a sitting position, wincing as my joints, stiff from lying on a wooden floor for so long, pop and crack like bubble wrap.

The windows are still shuttered, but I don't hear any noise coming from outside, and I'm willing to bet the camp is asleep and the sky is dark. Somewhere below the city, a girl waits apprehensively by her sleeping friend, while another girl paces nervously, chewing on her nails. I have to help them. I have to get bandages — he doesn't need stitches; I took care of that on my own.

FUCK YOU.

I'M SORRY.

I pull myself to my feet, careful to move quietly so as not to wake my sleeping cabinmates. I'll have to move quickly and quietly; I don't have a harpy pass and I could very well be eaten.

I carefully cross the cabin to the door, wincing at every creak of the floorboards. Kayla rolls over, and I freeze, but relax when she doesn't wake up. My hand is glowing again, and I curse silently, realizing it's spread a couple inches up my wrist this time. By the rate it's spreading, I'm going to have a glowing — you know what, it's best not to think about that.

Just go. Just get the bandages and go.

I'm about to, but before I can, I spot something out of the corner of my eye. Something on my bunk, something that wasn't there before. Something pale in the darkness of the cabin. It almost looks like . . . paper? I can't tell.

I walk back across the floor to my bunk not bothering to hide the sound of my footsteps. They didn't wake up before; I doubt they're going to wake up now. And if they do, I'll just say I was getting my water bottle or something. It hasn't been cleaned in weeks, but that's beside the point. People never remember conversations they have in the middle of the night anyway.

I climb up onto the rail of the bottom bunk again, wrapping my hands around the cold metal rail. My eyes travel over the dirt, the sand, the pine needles, the dark, sticky spots of sap, up to the filthy caseless pillow.

I have to force my glowing hand into my mouth to keep from screaming, brilliantly illuminating the tracings of veins in my cheeks. I bite down so hard that a few drops of blood leak out, dark enough to almost be black against the shining gold glow.

Tossed carelessly on my pillow is my scythe necklace, its edge still razor sharp and ruby red.

Thrown angrily on the bed below the pillow is a sweat-dampened, blood-soaked piece. Or rather, several pieces, furiously shredded and looking as though they were hurled at the bed in a fit of rage.

Even shredded, I'd recognize the note I left Jake anywhere.

I nearly sob with horror as my eyes travel up, over the shredded note and scythe charm, up to the spotless plaster wall, a massive contrast to the dirty wooden mass that is the floor.

Scrawled haphazardly on the wall, not in blood, but what appears to be permanent marker, black as night, are four words.

FUCK YOU.

I'M SORRY.

The ladder is slick with sewer slime and algae, but at the same time flaky and gritty with rust. All of it crumbles off and coats the lines of my palms, joining the blood under my nails. I do my best to force down the natural disgust, concentrating only on the hollow clangs that ring through the pipe every time my boot makes contact with a corroded rung.

I have to concentrate on something so I don't think about . . . everything.

Jake.

Ryan.

Scythe charms.

Blood and sweat stained paper, shredded in a fit of rage.

Words angrily scrawled on the walls. The same words carved into a drug dealer's arms.

Secrets.

Silence.

Hurt.

Harm.

There's nothing wrong with the clangs and the algae and the rust. They're innocent. Unlike . . . everything else. Uncorrupted. Unblighted, more than anything. Better to focus on that.

For a solid twenty seconds I stood silently and stared at the desecration of my bunk, mouth closed, expression blank, mind racing but at the same time dragging itself through molasses.

Jake had been here.

Jake knew what Ryan had carved on his arms.

It could have been a coincidence, sure, but what were the fucking chances of that? That Jake had access to every word in every language ever, and had chosen the same four words as Ryan, that my cabin would have chosen, that managed to lay blame and apologize for one's own misdemeanors in the same breath? Why would Jake even be apologizing? He had nothing to be sorry for. I was the drinker. I was the coercer. I was the murderer. The attempted murderer, but really, what difference did it make? It was a hefty amount of jail time in any court — less so if you were white, male, rich, and good looking, but that's beside the point, and anyway, I was only two of those things. Whatever the case, I would gladly accept my plea bargain and spend the rest of my life hating myself. Jake knew that. He didn't know my cabin or why they did the things they did, but he knew that.

It must have been a coincidence.

It had to be.

You know that's a lie, I told myself. You know what you're doing. Get your fucking head out of the sand.

I don't know if I did or not, but when my allotted twenty seconds of panicked indecision were up, I immediately climbed up the ladder, vaulted onto the disgusting bed, shoved the charm and the shredded paper under the yellowed pillow, and tried to scrub the words off the wall. Needless to say, it did not have the desired effect.

Kayla and Austin probably wouldn't notice it — people rarely look above their eye level, not when they're not looking for something. And Kayla and Austin wouldn't be. So it would be fine.

Hopefully. I could only hope and lie to myself.

And I couldn't stay in the cabin forever, not when Rowan was waiting for me to bring medical supplies, so I'd jumped down off the bed, quickly crossed to the door

Pulled it open, and ducked out.

Crossing the camp in the dark without being noticed would have been a lot more difficult if my hand had continued glowing.

Instead, as soon as I stepped outside, the glow vanished. It didn't slowly fade away, but rather was snuffed out like a torch I had shoved into a snowbank.

I gave it an appraising look. Okay, maybe you can be a little useful.

Then I'd run.

I managed to make it to the infirmary without suspicion, staying behind cabins and in the shadows of trees like some lame espionage agent.

The infirmary was silent when I pulled the door open and stepped inside — all the campers were asleep. I realized with a jolt that there were only five of them. A normal number — well, a little high, but not bad. It definitely wouldn't be out of the ordinary on a normal day, especially if a lot of people were using the climbing wall.

We did it.

But there was no time to appreciate my success. I grabbed a roll of bandages, a pair of scissors, and, after some consideration, several tubes of salve and disinfectant. If Ryan didn't need them, the rest of them certainly would. I slipped the roll onto my belt, the tubes into my pockets, grabbed a harpy pass, wrapped it around my arm, and made like an amoeba and split.

And now I'm here.

I ignore the last three rungs of the ladder and drop down into the rush of freezing water, staggering slightly to keep my balance. I don't hang around, though, and I take off down the tunnel.

I really don't have to hurry as much as I do, but I want to get to Ryan before he wakes up and claws his wrists back open or something. Rowan would try to pull him off, but Ryan was still almost a full head taller than her, and he would easily be able to overpower her.

And then Rowan would have no choice but to watch.

Bile burning the back of my throat, I speed up, glancing down at my hand. I swear as I realize the glow has crept almost to my elbow.

I can't stop it, and I can't control it . . . right now, it only shows up when I need it, but how long does that last? How long until I'm struggling to hide my arm from everyone else, to hide the glow that emanates from it? What about when it's not just my arm? Then what happens.

What a fucking freak.

I haul myself into the second tunnel, hardly breathing despite the running, and set off at a slower pace, warmer water trickling over my boots. I see three silhouettes farther down the tunnel, and speed up once again to meet them, drops of gray water splattering the cuffs of my pants.

I skid to a stop next to the trio, taking in Ryan's condition. He's still fast asleep, wrist just barely held together by my weak healing skills, breathing shallow and skin pale.

Rowan meets my eyes, completely expressionless. "He still hasn't woken up. I'm worried about him."

"He'll wake up when he decides he wants to," I say grimly, pulling the roll of bandages off my belt. "I got enough bandages for maybe a week, and some extras in case anyone else needs one. I also brought some salve and disinfectant you can all use."

Allie looks like she's going to collapse from gratitude. "That — that's amazing. Thank you."

I examine her suspiciously. Something cold and steely is flashing in her eyes, and while she sure looks nervous and paranoid, I don't know how much of it is real. Plenty of people make up someone that they think will make it in the world better than they can, and they usually do . . . considering where she lives, it's no wonder Allie has a defensive shell.

But that's not the issue right now.

I kneel down next to Ryan, wincing as warm sewer water soaks into the knees of my pants. He's really sleeping, not faking, but that doesn't mean it's not intentional. "It's Will," I mutter. "Can you hear me?" He stirs slightly, but doesn't wake up. I didn't really expect him to — if he wouldn't wake up enough for his best friend for the past several years, there's no way in hell he's waking up for the guy who allowed his sister to get killed. Still, though, I had to try.

I sigh, uncapping the salve, squeezing a small amount onto one of Ryan's wrists (I would put it on my fingers and spread it around, but they're covered with rust and sewer slime). Wiping one hand on my pants, although I doubt that's helping in any way, shape, or form, I begin spreading it over the carved words, taking pains to reach the tip of every line — to the top of the F, down the curve of the U, and you know the rest.

When I'm partially satisfied with the amount of salve I've applied, I cut a long section of bandages off of the roll with the scissors, and, starting at the elbow, wrap them all the way down to the Bracelet of Fortune closest to Ryan's hand — the Bracelet of Health, ironically.

When I finish, I repeat the process on the other arm — first spreading salve, then wrapping it in bandages.

When I finish, I sigh with relief and step away. "That should be good for now," I tell Rowan. I hand her the remainder of the roll, the scissors, and the three tubes. "Keep these. Change his bandages again tomorrow. Earlier if they get dirty or wet." Rowan grimaces, and I sigh. "On second thought, change them tomorrow."

She looked hopeful for a moment. "Are you going to come back tomorrow night?"

I pause, torn. I want to. More than anything, I want to. But I'm already going to start hallucinating in a day or two, and I have to sleep. If I don't, I won't last more than a week, no matter how much ambro I force down or medicinal gum I chew. No, I have to sleep.

"Fuck no," I say. "I haven't slept in almost two weeks. I can't keep going like this."

She smiles ruefully. "Thought so. Worth a shot."

I start back down the tunnel. "I'll come back in a few days," I call over my shoulder.

Rowan nods. "See you then."

I should go back to the cabin right away, but I don't.

Instead, I find myself back at the infirmary. Whether out of sheer habit or conscious thought, I don't know. But I do know that I'm here now, and, without thinking about it, I'm here because I'm about to renege on that promise I made in a stronger moment.

For a moment, I'm frozen, cold sweat trailing down my spine.

They're not listening, you know. They can't make you do anything.

They weren't here, but they were shades and ghosts and memories. They weren't real. They couldn't cut themselves or slit their wrists or hang themselves. They couldn't allow innocent people to die by the dozens. They couldn't allow people to kill themselves and their loved ones out of sheer laziness. But I can do all those things and I am real.

I shove the door open, cross the room to the dusty door in the corner, elbow that one open too, and slide inside. I forget how much I miss this room when I'm not in it, despite what it brings . . . this room never did a damn good thing for me, but I love it anyway. I don't have a choice, and besides, it's not like it's alive. It's not the fucking Overlook. It's just our back room that has become more of a S&M chamber for me. That one's on me. I can't pin that on a room.

Breathless now despite the lack of running, I almost slam the door closed, fingers scrabbling around on the nearest cobwebby table, grabbing a rusty scalpel.

I'll probably give myself a horrible case of tetanus and be unable to speak or swallow again for the rest of my life, but I don't care. I can feel my face splitting into a grin as I grip the scalpel tighter. Not an insane, mad-scientist grin, but a relieved one, the smile of a drowning man pulled out of the water.

I'm sorry. I'm a bad liar.

I push up one of the baggy sleeves of my goddamn scrub shirt, exposing my heavily scarred shoulder. I press the scalpel to it, feeling its rough edge, tiny flakes of rust crumbling off.

"Fucking pathetic."

I leap, spinning around, mind racing with fear and panic. I'm a deer in headlights now, because I did not just say that.

Jake Mason is standing in the now-open doorway, leaning against the jamb, arms crossed. He's scowling, but as he takes in my hopeless, panicked expression, his face softens slightly.

He takes a step toward me. "Give it to me."

I grip it tighter, anger and fear and despair and guilt all tumbling around inside me like coins in a shaken-up can. I shrink away from the person who was once my friend like a wild animal.

He shakes his head. "Christ, what happened to you?"

I look down at the rusty knife. Up at Jake's face. Down at the knife. Back to his face. "I don't know," I say softly.

He strides forward, ripping the knife out of my hand before I have a chance to react. "Yeah, do I get that. Come on. I'm taking you to see Rowan."

Saint Bernard sits at the top of the driveway

You always said how you loved dogs

I don't know if I count, but I'm trying my best

While I'm howling and barking these songs

— "Saint Bernard," Lincoln