Please, God, please lead us out of this, please don’t abandon us, give me the strength to be delivered from this fear—they’re fragments of prayers I can’t fully remember. My throat aches with the need to speak the words out loud.

“—shitty weather, make the drive out to New York rough, but it should be okay once we’re in Jersey—”

“—can’t believe we got stuck with this shit. Our luck, right?”

“Here, here, careful, last step up—”

The crate evens out again, and I have to twist around more fully to see through the crack again. Lucas is still there, still with his back to me. I recognize the first floor of the Infirmary, even without the beds and curtains hung up. There are more black-uniformed soldiers moving around us with boxes and crates of their own. It sends a trill of panic through me when Lucas disappears again and again, forced to weave through them to get to the door.

Please help us, please let this work, I’ll never ask for anything else again...please, God. I know He doesn’t grant wishes, I know that’s not His role, but just once, just this once, I want to believe that I was right, and not my father. I want to believe that He will be there like a guiding hand. I squeeze my eyes shut again, trying to clear the haze that’s crowding in on my line of sight. My head is feeling too light; I know this. I’m disconnecting again. There are hands at my back, trying to drag me back under, back...

When my eyes open again, it’s to faint pattering on the lid of the crate. The sudden cold is a shock to the system, like I’ve jumped into a freezing pond, and every muscle in my body contracts, pulling in to protect what little warmth is left. Water drips through the gaps in the wood, landing on my face, my chest, my feet.

Lucas’s rain poncho is plastered to him, his ink-black hair flat against his skull. He keeps his head down, looking at the mud. In front of him, no more than a hundred yards away, is the gate. It’s wide open, and a semitruck, the kind I used to see all the time when people moved in and out of our neighborhood, is parked there. Crates are being walked up the platform, but it seems like the PSFs are struggling with the thick black mud sucking at their feet. I see several in ponchos that look like little more than trash bags with holes cut for the arms. They’re like shadows moving against a dreamy gray mist.

The PSFs grunt as they lower me down onto something. The crate goes sailing back, bumps against something, and rocks forward again. Someone voices the cuss word that screams through my head as my leg is jarred. My breath comes out in small, uneven bursts. Then, the crate is tilted again and we’re moving—it’s rolling smoothly. I peer through the crack again, searching for Lucas’s form. He is walking away, around to the front of the truck.

Please, I think. Please let him get on without any problems...Let the driver think he’s someone from Thurmond. Let the Thurmond PSFs think he came with the driver.

There’s a horrible creak as the crate is lifted and dumped off the roller. My teeth catch the inside of my lip and I can’t keep the hiss of pain from slipping between them. The truck rumbles to life and the door clatters as it’s pulled down like a shade, cutting the soft steel-toned light to a sliver. It’s secured with a deafening bang that rattles around inside of my head. After a minute, the driving rain drowns it out.

It’s several terrified heartbeats later that I realize the truck is moving.

Slowly.

Rolling.

Working.

I close my eyes, drawing my hands up to my face. The engine revs as the truck picks up speed. We must be through the gate, or getting close. I wish I could see it. I want to know what the camp looks like as it disappears into the horizon like a fading memory. It’s like Greenwood in that way, I think. A secret place that exists outside of the world’s reality.

The progress is halting. The truck jerks now and then, and I hear the engine rev again as we rock forward, then back. There’s a horrible metallic roar as it lurches forward, rocks violently from side to side. I think, for a second, that something’s slammed into us from behind. The force of the movement sends me crashing forward. There’s banging, the sound of wood splintering—something smashes onto the lid of my crate and cracks it down the middle. I scream, bringing my hands up in front of my face. The spray of splinters. Sawdust in my lungs.

The truck doesn’t move.

I hear the engine rev again.

Voices—shouts of alarm. Slamming doors. The sound is almost lost to the storm.

The back door rolls open like it’s in a rage.

“—busted up everything!”

“Christ, what a mess—”

“—have to dig the tires out—”

We’re stuck, then. The truck is trapped in the same mud that’s constantly trying to suck us down. With the light, I can peer up through the crack in the lid of my crate. See the damage of everything that’s been knocked loose. Rain pours down the open door like a sheet. Like the waterfall Lucas dreamt up for Greenwood. It hides something valuable. Something waiting to be found.

It’s like I can feel him before I see him. A dark shape appears, passing through the rain as he hauls himself up. Lucas stumbles as he comes closer. He’s lost his hat. Dark hair is plastered to his pale, panic-stricken face. His eyes meet mine and he gulps down a shuddering breath. His whole body sags with relief as he pulls off the crate that’s crashed onto mine.