I toss and turn most of the night and give up on sleep early in the morning. The whole block is quiet and dark. My heart's beating unevenly, gripped by unsettling reminders. I press a hand over it and let the hard pounding ground me to reality.

Those swimming lessons weren't the only things Sam ever did to me. There were other incidents, like that time in eighth grade when he found out I'd joined track without his permission.

You want to run so badly?

He threw away my one trophy and took me out onto a lonely stretch of road, telling me I had two choices: to outrun his Buick or get mowed down and left dead for the coyotes. I ran for an hour before my legs gave out. One of his back tires went over my right hand, breaking several small bones. I don't know to this day if Sam meant to do that or if he couldn't swerve out of the way in time. But he didn't waste sympathy on me when he pulled over. He held my wrists tightly and told me to quiet down unless I wanted to do it again. Then he took me home and wrapped the hand himself.

He found other ways to torture me under the guise that he was making me tougher. Right from the start, Sam effectively quelled any rebellion to come.

Control yourself.

Stay away from those kids.

Be quiet.

This is for your own good.

I never believed that last one.

The bathroom is empty when I walk into it. I don't allow myself to linger. I shower quickly, rub myself dry, and change into clean clothes. It takes me a few minutes to brush my teeth, but the whole time all I can think about is the bracelet, like a bomb attached to my wrist, capable of going off at any moment.

Gathering my stuff into a bundle, I leave the bathroom and run into a broad chest. I almost drop my stuff before I realize it's not one of the people who took Baxter. Fear dims into wariness. Marcus isn't exactly a better alternative.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Not much of a morning person, are you?"

I try to slip past him, but he sidesteps into my path. The bathroom light floods over his body, lighting up his face. His amused smile.

"What do you want?" I ask again, softer this time.

"What do I want? To get out of this place. Hell, I wouldn't mind a cheeseburger at this point, but we can't always have what we want."

I tighten my arms around my load. "Look, I want to be ready when the alarm goes off, so I'd like to return to my room. Please move out of my way."

"Sure, I'll move out of your way. Soon as I figure out who you are." My breath hitches when he steps closer. "Are you the girl who watched Knobby get dragged away without any fear on her face? Or the one who ran off when I said a few . . . harmless words this morning? Seems like someone's hiding something."

My heart is thudding somewhere in my throat. I swallow it back down. "I could say the same thing about you."

I immediately regret my words, but it's too late. Marcus's smile has disappeared.

"What does that mean?" he asks.

"Nothing. Forget it."

I brush past him, but he grabs my forearm. "You don't get to say something like that and walk away. Tell me what you meant."

If I were looking for a fight or trying to psych him out, I'd point out what I've observed about him so far. How he's loud and angry when others are around, but he's quieter, more cunning than crass, when it's just the two of us. It's like he puts on a show for other people.

He might not realize he's doing it. Or maybe it hasn't crossed his mind I might pick up on it. Either way, I keep this knowledge to myself. For once, it gives me an advantage.

I tug myself free. "You're being paranoid. I didn't mean anything by it."

I run off before he can stop me. Back in my room, I grab a pair of white sneakers on one side of the dresser—they fit perfectly—and crawl into bed. I'm ready. Tension dances under my skin and teases the air out of my lungs. It's impossible to go back to sleep when I don't know what the future holds. What that timer means.

I exhale through my mouth. What's going on, Sam?

"April?"

I turn my head toward Camille. In the darkness of early morning comes her faint breathing. "Yes?" I say when she doesn't continue.

"Do you think they'll hurt us?"

Camille strikes me as one of those perfect cheerleader types, the ones who walk around in little skirts, hair glossy and face done up with just the right amount of makeup. A few days ago, she was probably having a blast with her friends, eking out whatever was left of summer. If she hadn't ended up here, she'd be trying to make the best of junior or senior year. She's my opposite in everything except a shared fear of the unknown.

"They didn't bring us here to kill us," I say. If that was their goal, they wouldn't have put so much effort into locking us in here.

"That doesn't mean they won't hurt us," she replies. There's a snide tone in her voice, like I'm the biggest idiot around for putting any kind of faith in our kidnappers.

I see no reason to grace that with a response.

"Do you enjoy it?" she asks. "Being the center of attention. Janie says you do it because it gives you a power rush, but I think it's because you like the attention the boys give you."

I don't know who this Janie is or why she cares about my existence, but I'm annoyed by Camille's accusations. They make me sound too much like my mother, who flaunted her men in front of Sam. There's something satisfying about knowing he can't control Maggie Parker like he controls her daughter, but that doesn't mean I like hearing that I'm anything like her.

I stay quiet. Camille gets the message and doesn't talk to me again.



The door opens at exactly nine a.m. the next morning. First comes the beeping—fifteen of them—and then as the door slides up, our bracelets shock us. Like a reminder of what could happen if we don't cooperate. We should be used to the sting by now, but if anything, it feels worse. Baxter is long gone by the time we step outside. Word gets around that five other kids were taken: three upstairs and two downstairs.

"He was so close," one boy says about his block mate. "Man, he was crying because of how much it hurt. His leg was messed up." The kid's voice gets caught in his throat. "He tried his best, but those sick assholes took him anyway."

The atmosphere the next couple of days is tense. Those with hope begin a frantic search for escape out of our prison. The rest walk around in a daze, like they're witnessing the aftermath of a bomb explosion. Willow and Carson spend most of that time gathering information. I linger on the edge, partly because I don't want trouble from Marcus, who is consumed with building his empire, but also because I've never been competent when it comes to talking to groups of strangers and I wouldn't know where to begin now.

Willow is great at it. She has just the right combination of openness and concern that draws out answers. I'm more than happy to let her take center stage and focus instead on soaking up specifics, hoping to glean something new.

I don't learn much. We live on the eastern side of the country, we're an unusually healthy bunch, and we share a birth year, but we have nothing else in common. We're from various cities throughout the five states—some kids are even from neighboring high schools—our parents are employed in all types of fields from the janitorial level all the way up to CEO—Alec's father—and our interests, hobbies, and pet peeves are too varied to mean anything.

We return to our usual table at noon. As Willow rehashes details we've already gone over, I notice she looks more tired than she did yesterday and the day before. She keeps her troubles bottled up, unlike Carson, who's jiggling his leg so hard it jostles his whole body.

"You okay?" I ask when his knee knocks into the table for the tenth time.

Carson glances around. We're sharing a table with three others; two dark-haired girls who look similar enough to pass for sisters and a boy from the block next to ours. They're whispering to one another, oblivious to us.

"Uh huh." He rubs at his cheek, drawing my attention to it. It's red and puffy.

"Carson, did someone hit you?" Willow asks.

He left our group an hour ago to use the bathroom. Rudolph must have intercepted him.

"It's nothing, alright?" Carson says, sounding annoyed.

I haven't known him for long, but something tells me anger doesn't belong in those soft eyes of his. "I'm starving," I say to distract him. "Want to grab some food?"

We file toward the kitchen, caught in a white-and-gray-clothed stream of hungry teenagers. When we round the bend in the hallway, we find ourselves at the back of a long line of kids facing toward the kitchen. Nothing unusual here. Standing in line to get food is one of Marcus's many rules. A rule he constantly breaks for himself and his cronies.

"Single line, folks!" someone calls.

I poke my head off to one side and try to see past those ahead of us. Two big guys are standing behind the long table. One of them is Rudolph. He waves a plastic spatula smeared with what looks like oatmeal and glares at the kids. "You try any funny business and you're going straight to the back of the line."

"What's he doing here?" I ask. "I thought Marcus put him in charge of maintaining order or something."

The guy in front of Willow says over his shoulder, "He got demoted by Captain for giving him lip this morning."

"Not sure if that makes me happier or more worried," Willow mutters.

Carson has tensed up in front of us. He doesn't move when the line inches forward.

"Carson?" I say.

"You guys go ahead. I'm not hungry anymore."

Willow grabs his hand when he tries to slip away. "You don't have to give in to those jerks. I don't care who they think they are, but they don't get to push us around. Right, April?"

"Err—right."

Carson allows Willow's grip to keep him in place. We shuffle closer to the serving table. There's an aluminum baking pan filled with scrambled eggs, a pot of what I think is oatmeal, and a tray stacked with slices of bread.

Willow gets there first. Rudolph looks her over. "Hello there, sweetheart. Need something from Big Steve?"

"Just food, please," she says.

"I think she wants a lot more than that, Steve," his friend says, laughing.

Rudolph grabs a paper plate, dumps scrambled eggs and oatmeal on it, and sticks a bread slice into the oatmeal like a limp flag. "Enjoy."

Willow says nothing, but she makes a face when she whirls around. It's Carson's turn. Rudolph prepares a plate and holds it out to him. The moment Carson reaches for it, he snatches it back. His smirk turns vicious.

"Gotta be faster than that, Hillbilly."

Carson tries again. Rudolph and the guy laugh harder. Behind me, voices call out in protest. "Shut up!" Rudolph's not smiling anymore. "You want to join him?"

No one speaks up.

He glares at Carson. "I'm going to break your teeth if you don't get out of my face, you dumb hick. Back of the line!"

"What? Why?"

"Because I can. You've got nowhere to run and no one to help you. This is my turf, kid. Welcome to hell." He looks past him at me. "If you come a little closer, I'll give you a slice of heaven, babe. Right here."

He grabs his crotch, sending his friend into roars of laughter. I hide my outrage. He's not worth any kind of outward reaction. Besides, what can I do? Stand up to him and give him another reason to torment us? Rally up the forces and take this facility back from people like him? Stab him in the eye with his spatula?

I lay my hand on Carson's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Forget him. We don't need to put up with this."

As we head back to the cafeteria, Willow holds up her plate. "We can split it three ways. I'm not much of a breakfast person anyway."

"What about lunch?" Carson asks. "And dinner? And breakfast tomorrow? How are we ever going to get anything to eat with that punk in charge?"

"We can always talk to Marcus." Willow's hazel eyes are on me as she says this. Like she expects me to volunteer for that honor. Like she thinks I can do anything to change what's going on in this messed-up place.

I look away and keep my mouth shut.