None of us have touched our food, besides Noah. He happily shoves mashed potatoes in his mouth with his little spoon and tiny fingers. That's his whole world at the moment, and I wish I could be so oblivious.

My face feels hot.

There are a million things I should have said, a million responses to pick and choose from that I have said, in the past. Yes, I'm a nurse. That would have sufficed. There couldn't have been a more opportune moment to spit it right in Trip's face, to show him everything he's accused me of thus far is wrong. I could have watched him bite and tear through his tongue to keep from lashing out. Or maybe he would have snapped, proving me right. I should have said it.

But I couldn't.

Guilt works its way up my gut and sits now like a heavy stone in my throat. Regardless of how much wine I guzzle, I can't swallow it—"Eve's a nurse"—and I can't wash away the feeling I do fit into this, the feeling I am part of Emulation. Part of the system. Vehemently wanting to believe it, defend it—"I think you're a fucking liar"—like Hound.

I don't want to think about it."It's that kind of thinking that has caused all of this. It's that kind of thinking that has made me nothing but Government property." But it's getting so much harder not to.

I force myself look at Trip.

He stares at the table. His chest continues to barely rise and fall with each shallow breath. He defended me when he could have let me try to fend for myself. He could have watched me flail, sink, and drown, try to explain, try to lie, struggle to evade the thought that he's right. I have blood on my hands. I have blood on my hands. I have blood on my hands.

A shaky gasp fills the room, and I realize it's mine. A pre-cry breath. Battling tears, I knock back the rest of my second glass and swipe for the wine bottle in front of me. I pour another.

Glug-glug-glug-glug.

Leah goggles at me.

Malcolm watches, too. "Well, good thing we have another bottle." He turns back to Trip. "Are there any other subjects I should avoid?"

Trip lifts his eyes to measure Malcolm. The thought of bailing crosses his mind. I see the nerves flit over his face. Fight or flight.

He doesn't move. "How long have you been in hiding?"

I almost drop the bottle setting it back on the table. Chin jutting in surprise and confusion, Malcolm shuffles his brain for a response. How long wasn't really the question, and all Trip is after is a reaction. He doesn't wait for an answer.

"What news agency did you work for?"

"David?" Malcolm glances aside. "I thought you didn't want to tell him."

Blood drains from Dax's face. When Trip's eyes bolt to him, he looks like he's ready to slither down his chair and hide under the table. He gives a quick shake of his head. "I, um, didn't."

"You told me," Trip says, "he's a journalist."

"Yes, so, I did tell you that."

"I was a journalist," Malcolm says, nodding, "if you'd call it that, for Government's Oasis news agency." I choke on my wine, and Trip's face blanks. "I spun stories. Obviously, not anymore, other than writing fiction of my own. You could say I've had plenty of practice. We've been in hiding for four years." Malcolm shrugs, sweeping a hand through the air. There we go. It's on the table. He's not bothered to say it, so I don't understand why Dax didn't say anything about it in the first place.

"What happened?" Trip asks. An actual question this time.

"Okay, wait, Malcolm, please." Dax's voice is squeaky. He squirms in his seat, swings his head around to look at Trip. "Listen, before we get into this, let me explain."

Trip turns on him. "I gave you plenty of time to explain."

"Listen, I—"

"How many lies are you up to, Dax? I'm loosing count."

"I didn't lie, I swear, I didn't lie to you. Just let me—"

"You didn't tell me the truth."

Dax's whole body seizes, abruptly, quaking his head and his hands the hardest. Screechy and frantic, he practically screams in Trip's face. "Okay, okay! I lied, I lied!"

Trip backs off, pale eyes bright with shock.

Stress and anguish twists Dax's expression. He lets his head fall back against his chair, and as if to make up for raising his voice, he lowers it to a whisper. "Fine, I lied, by omission, okay? Because I was just trying to help you, that's the only reason, but you can trust me, you know you can, right? And this is like my family"—gesturing around the table—"this is my family. I know them. They understand my situation, so I knew they would understand if they caught on to who you are, and yes, I told them I wouldn't tell you. I told them it was better not to tell you everything. I thought it would be nice for you to just be here with family. You never..." He clamps his mouth shut before he says something very stupid.

Trip tenses anyway. He flicks a glance towards Aubrey, who is in his line of sight, and finds her staring at him with her lips bit together, her head tilted. She's digesting that, and Trip's chest rises and falls much quicker now. "Tell me what?"

Dax adjusts his glasses, prepares himself. "Listen," he says, cautiously, "I know your history with BlackWall—"

"BlackWall."

"—and if I had told you the truth, you wouldn't have listened to me, you would have never even considered coming here in the first place, even though it's the safest place you could ever hope for, and if I told you while we were here, I wasn't sure how you'd take it." He winces and peeks at Trip.

"BlackWall." Trip repeats himself, without seeming to mean to. His mind is stuck on the word. He stares at Dax, unfocused. Frost melting, giving way to—

He closes his eyes, turns away. He pants for air now, can't seem to get any into his lungs. Too shallow, too quick.

"I'm sorry," Dax mumbles, horrified, concerned. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to find out this way. I didn't want to tell you. I should have told you. I didn't know what to do."

Trip braces his elbows on the tabletop. Head down. Hands shielding his face. And there's a long silence as we all just listen to Trip try to breathe, and fail.

I don't understand. Wide-eyed, I look at Malcolm, who glances at me.

He clears his throat. "For lack of a better word..." He keeps his tone light, but it sounds like he doesn't know how to proceed with this topic anymore. "I became a mole. I gave BlackWall a detailed look of what was happening behind the scenes at Oasis, the directions, the plots, and the lies. Then Government began..." A twitch of his shoulders. "... hunting some of us down."

Oh. Oh no.

My attention snaps back to Trip.

He hasn't moved. He gives a shake of his head, a small motion I barely catch.

"So, my family and I left the City and came here, property of BlackWall." Malcolm's cognac gaze takes in the tall windows, the storm, the high ceiling. "It's more than we could have hoped for. It's hidden. It can't be traced. Nothing, from our phones to the internet, can be traced. We keep a low profile in town, live under different names, and no one pries. BlackWall took care of us, like family, good friends, and we were lucky to get out in time. Some weren't, but..."

Another silence.

And Malcolm lowers his gaze. "I've seen both sides," he says, quietly. "The system had you, and you had orders. I've been there. I get it, Trip. All that happened between Government and BlackWall wasn't your fault."

Trip slams a fist down on the table. Plates and silverware rattle. An earthquake, somewhere inside him. It shakes me, briefly, causes Malcolm to lean away. Even Noah jolts out of his happy world, swiveling his head around to find the source of the noise.

"Oh, Trip, honey, please." Aubrey leans in, sparkling with compassion, empathy, sadness. She wants him to hear her, strains for him to listen. "Don't be upset. We understand, we understand."

And my stomach starts to sink. Plummeting, plummeting. No, being pulled. On a tide, receding fast. I can almost hear him whir, charge, amplify, like a turbine. He builds with each labored breath. He drags all the air out of the room, yet still he's suffocating.

He's going to crack. He's going to flood the room.

I jerk forward, towed in, sloshing and spilling my wine. I snap my arm across the table and clasp my hand over his fist. Startle him. I feel the jolt. And viper quick, he seizes my wrist in an iron grip.

I close my eyes.

A surge rips through me. A blistering wave. Crackling, hissing, amps and amps of electricity split and spread through every vein, every capillary, up my arm, through my body, tensing my muscles. My heart bursts, crashes against my sternum. My breath catches. Then I hear him release a blast of air. It sounds stunned, terrified. His grip loosens up, and another wave buzzes through my bloodstream, much weaker then the last. Softened, only vibrating. A different kind of heat blooms under my skin.

I open my eyes.

He stares at me in shock, eyes cloudy. He hardly sees me through the fog. His chest isn't moving at all.

I wrap my fingers around his wrist. His pulse under my thumb is through the roof.

"Breathe, Trip, before you pass out."

Bracing his other forearm on the table, abruptly, rattling silverware again, he rakes in air, caves forward. Breathing takes every bit of effort he has. I feel his lungs struggle to expand like his gasp is my own. Or is it? Am I breathing? And his lungs compress. He exhales, forces the air out, not as slowly as he needs to, but it's a start. Head down, he looks at my hand, my wrist he's still holding, and the bout of tension that washes over him simmers through me.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. He sounds distant, detached.

"It's okay."

"You surprised me."

"I know." I give his arm a shake. "Stop tensing. Keep breathing."

He closes his eyes. "Don't shake me, don't shake me."

"Okay."

He inhales again, rolls his shoulder with a frustrated jerk.

"It's an anxiety attack," I say. "You always work yourself up instead of down. Relax. Focus on something else."

His grasp on me tightens, and every cells in my body jitters.

It takes him a while, but each breath he takes gets a little easier than the last. He starts to release the tension in his muscles by small degrees, at first. Finally, he gives in to the turbulence. His shoulders fall. His head tips forward. He sways, dizzy. Trembling. Breathing heavy, he mutters a curse. His eyes open, search the table blindly as he tries to remember where he is.

He freezes and his arm becomes steel again under my fingertips when he remembers it's not just us at this table.

I forgot, too.

Everyone is looking on. Aubrey is covering her mouth. So is Dax, who looks close to bawling. Malcolm's jaw is slack. So is Leah's. Noah, of all times, makes some sort of jabbering sound.

"It's okay, it's alright," I say, to everyone, to Trip. I don't shake him. Quickly, I rub my thumb over the inside of his wrist. He's energizing himself right back up. "Don't worry about them. Don't key yourself up again. Relax."

He releases me.

"Trip, don't."

He bolts. His chair screeches against hardwood, flies back, claps against the floor, and as he stalks around the table, I let my face fall in my hands.

Of course. Why did I think—

His hot fingers close around my upper arm. A shock. I jump and look up, bewildered. He towers over me, and when I see the urgency, the desperation in his eyes, flashing down at me, impatiently, asking me to get up, I stand. No hesitation.

He pulls me. I stumble behind him, towards the office? No, towards the kitchen, through the kitchen, through the archway, into the hallway. "Trip, slow down." He must be going for the living room. No. He passes the living room. He throws open the front door and busts through the glass storm door.

Biting, cold air smashes into me, overwhelms me. I recoil from it, shrink. The sound of the door falling closed behind me scarcely makes it over the torrent of rain pounding in my eardrums. White noise. The wind quakes and strangles the trees. Freezing specks of water spray in my face. He still tugs me ahead.

"What are you doing?" I can't hear my own voice. "Wait, wait." I twist my arm free, stopping short of the porch stairs. But he plunges forward without me, down the steps, into the night, into the storm. The porch light lingers on him, touches his back for a moment, and slides off him until he's only a ghost moving in the dark and pouring rain. I call after him, shrieking over all the noise. "Where the hell are you going?!"

He's going for the car.

A split second of indecision.

Go or don't. Make up your mind.

I dash. Into ice. Gasp. So blindingly cold. Skip down the stairs, drenched before I even hit gravel. And run. By the time I reach the passenger's side door and yank it open, he's already inside, slamming his door. I clamor into the seat.

Shut myself in.

Metallic clacks beat down against the roof. My breathing. His breathing. A flicker of lightning. Shuddering, teeth chattering, heart knocking in my chest, I search for him in the shadows. He's hunched over, fumbling with wires.

"What are you doing?" I gulp, trying to catch my breath. Droplets trickle down my face. Feels like crying. I wipe my nose. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere."

The dashboard lights illuminate. The engine purrs to life. He sits up—eyes iridescent—revs the engine, once, twice, flips on the windshield wipers. They swipe crazily back and forth, slinging rain. And with one deft movement, he snaps the gear shift in drive. The tires kick up and shower gravel under the belly of the car, and I'm thrown back against my seat with a yelp. He wrenches the steering wheel, swings the car around, circling the bare poplar tree, takes the slight curve, and guns it down the driveway.

The turn onto the dirt road approaches quickly, too quickly.

I grab my seat belt, struggle to buck it. "Slow down!" Get it latched.

He jerks the wheel. The back tires slide, grate over rocks. I'm pulled to the left. My shoulder smacks into his. The BMW jostles, shakes me. He lets the wheel spin, takes hold, straightens it out, and punches the gas. Everything comes at me rapidly through the windshield, road and rain, surrounded by trees, a million, shuttering past us in the headlights. The engine roars. The tires judder, hit a hole. The whole car pitches and jumps. My eyes flutter towards the speedometer. The needle is climbing.

Forty, fifty, sixty. He lets off.

I look up. There's a curve not far ahead, the road disappears around trees. We're still flying. "Don't kill us, Trip, don't kill us." My eyes squeeze shut, and an invisible force drags me to the right, against the door. I grip the handle and the center armrest. Scream. Even when the car straightens out again and I'm tossed back into place, I don't open my eyes.

Accelerating. Faster, faster. Engine heaving. And my stomach dips-up a small hill-lifts on the way down. We dive. A puddle. Water splashes up the front bumper, and I squall. My eyes fly open. "Stop, stop, stop, stop! Enough! Stop the car, right now!" I hitch forward. The BMW slides, skids to a stop—seat belt tightening on my chest—and rocks me back.

I fall, slouched in my seat.

My clothes are soaked. I shiver uncontrollably, freezing and traumatized from the roller coaster ride. I run a hand through my tangled, wet hair. Try to breathe. Try to piece together the last, what? Two seconds? "Oh my God. You're a lunatic. You could have killed us."

"Relax."

Is that a joke?

A laugh bubbles up from my lungs, out of nowhere, winded and dazed. I shake my head. "What did you just say?" I look at him.

Trip is breathing hard, but easily. Shivering as well. Head back against his seat, he turns his eyes on me. They glint in the blue dashboard lights, search mine. One corner of his lips twitches. And he turns away, closing his eyes. He shakes his head and gives a short, light huff. His shoulders bounce with it.

It's unmistakably, definitely a laugh.