Clothes hang above me and brush against my cheeks. Shoes scatter the floor. One single slither of light beams through the crack of the closet door. And I hear them. They're searching for me. The pounding of their footsteps beats like drums in my ears. Or is that my heart thrashing so loud?

I don't move.

I don't breathe.

The footsteps grow louder. Louder. Louder.

And something moves in the darkness. An arm or a leg, shifting, repositioning. In front of me. Someone is here with me. I move now, shuffling away from the figure, my eyes straining to catch just a glimpse of a face, but the darkness swallows its features.

"Eve," a voice says. And I know that voice.

"Daddy?" I breathe.

"Ashford."

A hand stretches out and touches my knee. I flinch. This isn't my father.

"Ashford."

With a jolt, I open my eyes.

The car is stopped, and the first thing my eyes land on is a bright neon sign hanging in the window of the diner directly in front of me.

O—P—E—N—OPEN. OPEN.

I blink at it then up at Trip who is standing beside my open door, his arm propped up on the top of the car. We are parked in a tiny parking lot dotted with only a few more cars. The highway we have been traveling lies behind us with a backdrop of fields and hills and a gray, overcast sky.

I don't recognize any of this. We are in the middle of nowhere.

"I fell asleep," I mutter, a little disoriented as my dream still withers and fades away.

With a roll of his eyes, Trip steps aside. "Very good. Now get out of the car."

Instantly, my eyes flicker towards the diner, and as I stumble out of the car, I stare up at Trip with hope burning in my eyes—as well as my stomach. "Are we eating here?"

"Yes," he says, and then adds, "if you behave."

I am too hungry to frown at him. A few more moments of my stomach threatening to eat itself with fierce growls and I may be willing to drop to my knees and grovel at Trip's feet for food.

Seemingly satisfied with my reaction, Trip nods slightly and leads the way towards the diner door.

This is a tired, old diner.

Upon walking in, I notice the pudgy trucker man at the bar staring blankly into his coffee and the old, soft-spoken couple sitting across the room at one of the tables. Only the noises of the bell ringing on the door as we enter and the clanging of pots and pans and plates and glasses from the kitchen bounce around the room. The aroma of food makes my stomach scream as I follow Trip to a booth set against the windows. The moment I am sliding onto the cushion of the booth, I am trying to grab the menu from the metal rack of condiments and trying to peel off my coat all at once.

Trip watches me. In my periphery, I can see his icy eyes trailing each movement I make, and I can only imagine the scowl he must be giving me. I probably look like a crazed monkey. But I am too busy searching the menu for the first thing that appears even remotely appetizing to care.

"Hi. I'm Martie," a female voice sounds beside me. "Can I get something started for you?"

I still have my nose stuck in the menu as I answer, "Yes, please... I would like—"

"Maybe a drink?"

My eyes shift from the menu up to our young waitress. And I realize she isn't speaking to me. She is speaking directly to Trip, her whole body turned, full attention, to him. When Trip, who realizes this at the same time I do, lifts his eyes to look at her, I watch our waitress shiver, much like I had when I'd first met those pale eyes. Only Martie seems much too pleased to have his attention now.

A smile pulls her lips. "Maybe a cola? Coffee? Or—"

"Coffee. Black." And before she can open her mouth again, "Something grilled with a salad. No dressing."

"Will grilled chicken do?"

"Sure."

Martie nods, quickly jotting everything down on the small notebook in her hand. Finally, grudgingly, she turns to look down at me. The smile falls a few degrees. "And you?"

I straighten and prepare myself. "Yes, I'd like two waffles with blueberries and chocolate chips, and instead of maple syrup, I want strawberry syrup and chocolate drizzle. And extra butter. I also want a side of bacon. And a side of toast as well."

"Uh-huh..." With eyebrows raised, Martie scribbles that down. "And to drink?"

"Orange juice and coffee."

"Okay then." She gives me a once-over—the kind of spiteful once-over only women are capable of—scanning for even the most minuscule of flaws. That shouldn't be too hard for her at the moment. I'm sure I look like I just dragged myself out from under a rock. Sure enough, she seems contented enough to turn back to Trip, and the full-wattage smile returns. "I'll get everything started for you."

As Martie practically skips away, I watch another young waitress peer out from around the corner of the kitchen, her eyes wide as she awaits the juicy details of gossip sure to ensue.

Ridiculous. I am the victim here—the one dragged into a heap of trouble I haven't anything to do with—and yet my kidnapper is treated with more dignity than me. Sighing, I turn to find Trip staring at me.

"What?" I ask, not even attempting to hide the sourness in my voice.

"I was under the impression you were a nurse."

I blink at him. "I am a nurse."

He just continues to stare at me.

"What?"

"Do you always order like a pig on a binge?"

My eyes immediately narrow into a scowl. "Under the current circumstances," I say, leaning in on the table, "I think I am entitled to order whatever I want."

He shrugs. "Fine."

"Thank you."

Trip's eyes turn to the window beside us to watch the tiny drops of rain that have started to fall. They wet the pavement of the parking lot and pepper over the windshields of the cars outside. I watch too, only for a moment, before my gaze slowly turns back to Trip.

He looks drained. Purple circles darken his eyes. I haven't noticed them until now, and for a second I wonder how long it has been since he has slept or eaten.

I sit back and cross my arms. "Are you going to tell me what is going on?"

Trip glances at me but says nothing.

"I think I have a right to know, being that Government is supposedly after me too—because of you."

There is a moment's pause as Trip considers this. He glances at me again. "What do you want to know?"

Too many questions pop up in my mind. Too many whys and whats and hows. But there is one fundamental question that stands out from the rest, one that has been swimming around in my mind the moment he showed me that tattoo.

"If you're—" I lower my voice and throw a quick look around the diner to make sure no one is listening "—a duplicate, how are you... alive?"

Instantly, Trip's jaw clenches.

This is a touchy subject for him, I know. He's avoided this question once already, just hours ago, but this time he seems to be thinking through a way to respond.

"I don't know the details," he says finally. "All I know is I wasn't kept under like the rest. I don't even know if I was put under in the first place."

Just as my mouth falls agape, Martie steps beside our table, busying herself with setting our coffee cups. But even her sappy, honey-sweet smile doesn't draw me away from my buzzing thoughts. She pours Trip's coffee first, with pleasantries I don't hear. Nor does Trip hear them, for that matter. He is back to staring out the window, and after pouring my coffee, Martie disappears with a weakened smile.

"How is that possible?" I ask as soon as our waitress is out of ear's shot. "All duplicates are put under."

Trip shakes his head. "Apparently not. There are others too."

There are others? Other duplicates walking around in the outside world?

"What?" I gasp. "How? Why?"

Now he hesitates. His icy eyes flash around the diner.

When his gaze settles on me again, I am staring wide-eyed at him. "Government," I breathe. "Is it Government?"

He nods once.

"Why are they after you?"

"I left."

"Your orange juice." Martie places a glass in front of me—virtually in my face now that Trip and I are leaning over the table like scheming businessmen. Both of us sit back, and Martie smiles at Trip, speaking only to him once again. "Your food will be out soon."

"Thanks." He bites the word. And even Martie understands what he is really saying: Go. Away.

Martie's brow puckers. And I watch with amusement as she spins on her heels and walks away, back to her friend who is still eagerly looking on.

Not so charming after all, is he?

Sipping my coffee, my gaze turns to Trip again. "So, you left what? Emulation?"

"No." He gives me an aggravated look as if the answer is right in front of me as if it is written all over his face—all over him.

And then it hits me.

I choke on my coffee, loud enough to draw the attention of the pudgy trucker at the bar as well as the old couple across the room. With warming cheeks, I wave at them apologetically. As soon as the trucker goes back to staring at his coffee and the old couple starts chatting it up again, I turn on Trip, leaning forward on the table.

"Government?!" I whisper harshly. "You left... Government?! How... I don't..."

Trip offers no clarification. He only sits back and watches me, waiting. Waiting for it all to sink in.

Slowly, it starts to. Little bits and pieces of this puzzle start to trickle down in my mind, falling into place—much too fast, making my head spin like a top. I fall back against the cushion of the booth, my hands flat on the table, my eyes glued to Trip.

Oh God.

How did I not see this before? The answer had been written all over him—all over those icy eyes, all over that hard-set face—this whole time.

I am staring at a Government weapon.