I hold my breath, my heart hammering away. How did Marcus dream about Sam? What does this mean? I've seen some crazy things since we ended up in here, but this has to be the strangest, the most shocking. It hits too close to home.

Marcus tilts his head down and presses his thumb and middle finger against his closed eyelids. "The images are right there in my head, but they're fuzzy. I saw him wearing a fancy suit and sitting behind a shiny desk. I don't remember what he was saying to me. All I know is that I felt . . . younger. A lot younger."

"Are you sure it was a dream?"

He shrugs. "Hell if I know. I thought we already established I'm going crazy."

"I don't think you are." Crazy would mean seeing and hearing things that are not there, but that's not the problem here. Marcus saw Sam somewhere. In a magical dream or in a vision. Maybe even in reality. He did live in Philadelphia, after all. It wouldn't be too wild to imagine that Sam visited him when he was a kid.

That doesn't explain the fancy suit. Sam has never had one of those. He wouldn't spend his hard-earned money so frivolously. He was—is— frugal, through and through.

"Hmm."

I focus back on Marcus's features. "What?"

A lazy smile appears. "Crazy dreams aside, I'm trying to figure out how you could be standing in this bathroom with a half-naked guy and be so cool about it."

Now that he's called attention to it, it's starting to sink in how unwise this is. But I can't let him know how frazzled I feel. "I'm not doing anything wrong."

"Your tone is giving you away. You think hanging around me is wrong?"

"It's not like you've given me a reason to think otherwise."

"What can I say?" He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, which brings him closer to me. "It's fun getting under people's skin." The smile curves upward into a sexy, lopsided grin. "Especially yours. With you, I never know what I'll get. Sometimes you put up those walls of yours, and your eyes become the color of a frozen lake. But other times, like now, you look at me with your guard lowered and your cheeks flushed and . . ."

His voice trails away. He leans a fraction closer. I swallow when his gaze drifts down to my mouth. "And teasing you is the last thing on my mind," he finishes.

The bathroom feels too small. I want to slip out of the door so I don't have to listen to his low, husky voice, but I don't make a move. I can't move at all.

The decision is taken out of my hands when the lounge room light snaps on.

"What's going on here?" Janie asks.

I remember the silver case and the way she got in my head last night. I can't even look at her, which makes me angry at myself. You're such a coward.

"Rose was just making sure my arm wasn't infected," he says. "Might as well change the bandage now. You want to help me out, Janie?"

I exit the bathroom. Janie. It shouldn't bother me to hear him use her name when he still calls me a prickly flower, but I can't stop the anger—the hurt—from spreading through me.

Marcus can be as charming as Alec when he wants to be, but he seems to have a much more potent effect on me. I have to watch myself with him. Nothing good will come out of opening myself up to someone who, by his own admission, is an asshole.

It's only when I return to my bedroom that I realize he avoided all talk of Frankie.



The stress of being stuck in this place has been wearing us out, depleting our hope of ever being found, but the seizure kids are an exception. Even the ones who haven't developed a power have a telltale spring to their steps. By now they've heard about Marcus, Weasel, and Janie. The chance of becoming like them excites them. None of them consider they might end up like Harper, too.

"We need to make a list of the seizure kids," I tell Willow as we reach the cafeteria. "To avoid another Harper situation."

Willow stifles a yawn and nods. "It's too bad we don't have pen and paper."

My silver case. Is that what's in it? A pen and paper seem inconsequential, all things considered. Thinking of the case reminds me of Janie. She's next to Marcus, her arm hooked through his and half her chest pressing into him. As blatant a display of possessiveness as I've ever seen. And I thought Camille was bad.

Someone brushes against my arm. "Hey," Alec says, his smile tense around the corners.

"Hi," I reply, trying to mask my nervousness. We haven't talked since he kissed me. I've avoided him all morning, and I think he's been trying to respect my space. Unless he's upset about the way I ran out on him and doesn't want to talk to me.

One thing is clear to me. I can't get involved with Alec. Not because I'm suddenly crushing on Marcus—I'm definitely not—but because Alec moves way too fast for me. He's used to normal girls who can talk openly and flirt easily. Even if he pretends it doesn't matter, eventually he'll find my faults too frustrating to put up with.

Keep your distance. Don't get involved.

It's better this way.

He opens his mouth to say more, but one of his new buddies yells out his name and calls him over. His features tighten. "Talk to you later."

Crisis averted.

"You and Alec seem to be getting along," Willow says.

Something in her voice makes it clear her comment is anything but casual. Either she's perceptive or it's obvious to everyone that something happened between us last night. "He's a good guy," I say, "considering the crowd he runs with."

"Speaking of his crowd, I hear Janie spent the night in your block."

I glanced at her, surprised. "You heard about that already?"

"News travels fast in here." She pauses. "What did she want?"

"She had a sleepover with Camille—in my bed. I took Baxter's old bed. He's the guy who was taken from our block that first day."

"You were sleeping in my room?" Carson asks, reaching our side.

It dawns on me that I didn't check with him first. "I hope that's okay."

"You sure it was okay for you?" He laughs. "I know I snore. It drove Davey, my older brother, nuts for years. He told me the best part about going off to college was he didn't have to put up with it anymore. It worked out great for me, too, because he wasn't punching me in the ribs in the middle of the night just to shut me up anymore."

I grin at him. "It's not so bad."

"Yeah, you say that now."

"What about Janie?" Willow asks. "Did she give you any trouble?"

I debate for a moment before shaking my head. Janie is my problem. There's no point in dumping her on them when they already have so much to worry about. Besides, I don't want to admit she stole the case right from under my nose. I practically left it out in the open for her to find. Not one of my better judgment calls.

As we reach our table, I catch a heated argument between a pack of kids. One of the boys looks upset: his eyes are wild and he's gesticulating wildly as he makes his case. I slow down, surprised when I identify the look on his face. Despair.

"I'm sick of it!" he exclaims. "Waking up in this place every day, wondering when they're going to off us. We're a science experiment. Don't you get it? No one is safe. That dead girl in the bathroom is proof of it. All these people with powers—they're going to lose their minds, too. They'll turn on us."

He's almost hyperventilating by the time he's finished.

"Don't lose your shit over nothing," his buddy says in a tone that makes it clear he's heard enough. "No one is turning on anyone."

The scared boy scratches his neck. "That's what you think. It's just a matter of time. They didn't lock us down here to kill us. They're going to sit back and watch us do it to each other. It's hopeless. We're all going to die no matter what."

His friends respond with a mixture of annoyance and attempts at comforting him. He sinks into his chair and bows his head, his shoulders moving with his labored breathing.

The poor guy has cracked.

"It was bound to happen to someone," I say softly, turning to Willow.

She's staring at the boy, her eyebrows furrowed. There's a troubled look on her face. Willow isn't the type to give in to hysteria easily, so seeing her like this gets to me. She realizes I'm watching her and blinks away the worry in her eyes.

"The news is on," she announces. "Let's see if there's been anything about us."

We reach the group huddled around the closest TV. A haggard-looking middle-aged man stands in front of a podium, surrounded by a dozen people. The camera is focused on him.

"I want her to know that we miss her very much." His chin quivers beneath his scruffy brown beard as he fights back tears. "Kimmy, if you can hear us out there, wherever you are, just hang tight. The police will find you real soon and bring you back to us. We love you, baby, and we want you back home. Please come home."

He folds the wrinkled paper in his hands and steps out of the way, guided by a uniformed police officer. I look around our cafeteria. I don't see anyone reacting to what the man just said. I hope it's not because his daughter is dead.

"What is this, a press conference?" Carson asks.

"It looks like it," Willow answers.

I see several people in the background. They have the same look of devastation on their faces, husbands and wives and children clinging to one another. Some wear dark expressions, like they're angry at our captors or at the ineptness of the authorities, or simply at the injustice of what's being done to their families.

I don't see Sam or my mother anywhere.

My impatience builds as more parents speak. I want more details of the investigation, not to be reminded over and over again of how tragic this is. What have they managed to dig up about the case so far? Did the Takers leave evidence that'll lead the police to us? Or are they experts at keeping their existence under wraps?

Will anyone ever find us?

Another couple steps up in front of the podium, and their names appear across the bottom of the screen. Wade and Ellen Matthews. Parents of Missing Teenager.

Carson makes a strangled sound in his throat. The shocked look on his face says everything. His mom and dad.

She's a plump woman in a patterned yellow dress. A scarf holds back her chestnut hair. Her lips are painted red, an unnatural color I have no doubt she wouldn't have chosen if she weren't at a press conference, on display for millions of people.

The man is tall and wears a gray suit that barely fits him. Everything about him is awkward: it's clear he's uncomfortable with the flashing cameras and the microphones squeezed together on the podium. But I get the sense he'd do anything for Carson.

Three young men stand behind them, dressed in buttoned shirts and trousers. They're dark-haired like their father, and just as tall and rugged-looking. "Your brothers?"

"Yeah." Carson clears his throat. "Davey, Jamison, and Elliott."

"We want to thank everyone who has been working so hard to find our children," his mom begins in a southern accent much like Carson's. "And we want to thank the president for inviting us here today. There isn't a single day that goes by that I don't pray for my son. I want him home. I want him home where it's safe and no one can ever hurt him."

She pauses to compose herself. Her husband tightens his arm around her, his head bowed. Next to me, Carson's eyes are brimming with tears. A few teardrops trail down his face, and he hastily wipes them away with the back of his forearm.

"It's okay, Carson," Willow tells him, rubbing his back. "You'll see them again."

"I just wish there was some way to let her know I'm okay. I hate seeing her hurting."

As Willow murmurs soothing words to him, I listen to his mother talk about her son. How wonderful and caring he is, how he has always helped their old neighbor, Mr. Sanders, chop firewood in winter, how nothing will be the same in their world if he's never found. And then she says something that stuns me.

"As you all know by now, Carson isn't our biological son, but we are his parents in every way that counts." Her voice wavers. "He is our son and we love him with all of our hearts."

I swing around and take in Carson's pale face. He looks like he's seconds away from passing out. "You didn't know, did you? That you're adopted?"

"No," he chokes out. "I—I had no idea."