“—bring one of the crates over—”

“—be fast—”

Footsteps, doors opening, doors shutting, doors opening, problems—

“—too small, can’t do both of you—”

Lucas sounds the strongest, the calmest. “Then I need a PSF uniform. I’ll pose as one of the escorts. It might even be easier that way.”

“They don’t have those just laying around!”

“I can get one,” Lucas says. “Do you have any zip ties? I’ll need one of you to lock an office after I’m done...”

They go away long enough that I drift back down into the haze of pain and don’t surface again until I feel hands on me.

“No, this isn’t—stop...” I try to get my lips around the words but they come out sounding slurred, blending together. When I open my eyes again, I see a black uniform, red Psi stitched over the heart, and try to twist away.

“It’s me.” It’s Lucas above me, blocking out the lights overhead. I can’t see his face. I want to see his face. “You’re okay, Sammy.”

He eases his arms under my shoulders and legs. He’s so warm that I forget. I can’t think of what this means until he says, quietly, “We’re getting out.”

No.

NO.

He doesn’t know. He hasn’t been here long enough to have seen it—they kill kids who escape. They shoot them. I remember every single shot, the way the single crack of thunder would roll through an otherwise silent camp and we would all just know.

“No—Lucas—”

No matter how gently he lowers me into...the crate, I think, it still jars my leg and sends a stabbing pain racing up through it. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, Sammy,” he’s breathing the words out, carefully arranging me so I’m flat on my back, my entire right side throbbing. I don’t want to think it let alone say it, but it’s shaped long and shallow, like a coffin. They’ve put down some kind of padding, but the wood is cheap and I can feel it splintering as it rubs against my back. The sawdust smell makes me think of old, gone things. The town fair. The horse stables Lucas and I walked by every day to get to school.

Before he can pull away, I force myself to reach up and grab the front of his uniform coat. I want to shake him, but I can barely tighten my fingers enough to pull him in closer. Lucas’s horrible blank mask cracks enough for a small smile to come through. He leans over and takes my face between his big, warm hands. I barely feel the tremble in them as he presses his lips softly against mine.

“You can hit me later, okay?”

“Again,” I demand, turning my face up. I feel dizzy. A good dizzy. My headache evaporates.

“Later,” he promises. “Love you, Sammy. Don’t be scared. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

His words stay in my ears, even as the lid is lowered and snapped into place.

The male nurse is still nearby. I hear him say something to Lucas, and Lucas’s low, rumbling response. “Whatever happens, keep walking out. Look like you know what you’re doing. You might get separated, but don’t try to hover over the crate. Don’t turn back.”

“Thank you...”

“Just...be careful...okay? Wait inside the office until the PSFs are down to pick it up.”

And that’s it. That’s all there is left for us—waiting. I close my eyes, focusing on making the sound of my breathing as quiet as I can manage, but it still sounds like a wet windstorm in my ears. It’s dark, so dark and tight and cold. And without anything else to focus on, there’s only the raw, blistering pain left in my leg.

The boots the PSFs wear are heavy enough that you can always hear them coming. They’re the sound of strength; they trample over everything. I crane my neck back, peering through a crack in the wood joints.

A door creaks open as the black boots come closer, closer, closer.

“Is this one going out?” comes a gruff voice.

“Yeah. It needs to be on the truck with the MRI.” It’s Lucas’s voice, sounding as easygoing and natural as I’ve ever heard it. “The nurses said it’s delicate.”

“Yeah, yeah...You one of the drivers?”

“Yes.” That’s how he’ll try to get away with this insanity. He knew they wouldn’t recognize his face. All of the PSFs here have been working together for years.

I hold in a yelp of surprise as the crate is heaved up and off the floor with twin grunts. It rocks wildly—one of them is either stronger, or has a better grip. I feel myself sliding back, my head connecting with the side of the crate.

“Careful!” Lucas growls.

One of the PSFs mutters something filthy under his breath, and the whole crate sways again with their first few steps until they work out their rhythm. When I look through the split in the wood again, I see Lucas’s broad shoulders, the scrubs stretched out over them. He’s walking stiffly, keeping ahead of us as we start up the stairs. The moment the crate tips up, I slide again, this time toward the base of it. My right leg already feels raw and shattered; having it rub against the side of the crate makes white spots flash in my eyes. I shove my fist up against my mouth to keep from crying. I try to imagine that I’m a spark, rising up through the dark. Up, and up, and up, out of the cold, black stillness.