His hand squeezes mine back while he places his other broad palm to my forehead again. It’s how a mother would comfort a child. How mine once comforted me. “You can let go.” His voice feathers against my cheek.

I can let go.

I believe this. I believe him, for whatever reason. Maybe because it’s just been so long and I need to believe in something. In someone. Or maybe just because I don’t have any other choice. My hand unfurls from his.

“There you are,” he murmurs approvingly like I’ve done a great thing—as though he understands the leap of faith I just made.

He bestows a final smile on me and turns away, disappearing from my line of vision. I listen to his steps fade away. My ears strain long after the sound of his tread dies.

With a pained whimper, I drop my head back to the bed—or gurney, rather. I can see now that I’m laid out in the middle of an exam room.

Another person walks around me and squats eye level to me. He’s a little older, early twenties, with a serious buzz cut. Only the slightest shadow of hair hugs his scalp. My gaze immediately goes to the imprint on his neck. “I’ve got some questions for you. For starters, your name.” Even if I didn’t recognize his nasal voice, I’d know this is the guy who was talking to Boots earlier—the one unhappy with my arrival. The one I don’t like. I wish Boots had stayed.

“Davy.” I doubt last names matter here.

“Caden said she came from some special camp,” Dr. Phelps volunteers. “That’s what she told him.”

His name is Caden. I turn my head as though I can still see him somewhere in the room even though I know he left.

“There, now.” A hand on my good shoulder eases me back down. “Take it easy on her,” Dr. Phelps—if I’m to believe he’s an actual doctor—says as he bustles around me, wheeling a cart closer that nudges Buzz Cut out of the way. “You can ask her questions later.”

“This is important for the security of the compound—”

“And if I don’t get this bullet out of her, she’ll likely die, Marcus.”

Marcus makes a sound in his throat that tells me he doesn’t care overly much about that. He wants what he wants from me.

“We need that information now—”

“You can get information out of her later. Caden didn’t feel it critical to interrogate her at this very moment, so why should—”

“Anderson is not in charge,” Marcus snaps, angry color flooding his face. Apparently his name is Caden Anderson.

“Neither are you,” Phelps returns in a decidedly calm voice that Marcus doesn’t seem to register. He just keeps talking.

“Just because his old man started this cell doesn’t mean he’s in charge here. Dumont runs this cell now.”

“And he’s not here,” Phelps reminds him, sounding bored. Like a parent talking a child down from a tantrum. “Now I need to be alone with my patient.”

Marcus makes another sound, part grunt, part sputtered protest. Phelps’s body steps in front of him, blocking him completely, as if that is the end of the subject. After a moment I hear Marcus’s steps fade from the room. A door slams after him.

“You shouldn’t make him angry,” a soft female voice speaks up. I didn’t even realize anyone else was in the room, although there had been a lot of hands touching me earlier.

“He’s a bully. I’m here to administer medical care. That’s what I’ll do.”

A tool glints and swings past my vision. I suck in a sharp breath, knowing it’s going to be used on me. He doesn’t miss the sound of my gasp. Or maybe he simply notices how tense I’ve become.

“Sorry. This will hurt a bit. I’m afraid we have to ration the use of our sedatives. I’m going to have to dig that bullet out of you. If you ever need surgery here, you’ll thank me for my temperance when you really need those meds.”

I don’t even allow myself to consider that I’m going to stay here—wherever here even is. Instead, I just say through my cracked lips, “You mean I’m going to hurt more? That doesn’t seem possible.”

He chuckles. “She’s got a sense of humor, this one.”

A girl lowers her face to observe the doctor work on my shoulder. She watches with rapt fascination. Her nose wrinkles at whatever she sees. A nose covered with brown freckles. She’s sporting a short boy-cut that complements her round features.

“That bad?” I mumble.

Her moss-green eyes lock on mine. “Oh. Sorry. I’m just squeamish. Trying to overcome that. Working in the infirmary, I really need to.”

“Hopefully it won’t hurt too much more, Davy,” Phelps continues in his easy manner. “Cross your fingers the bullet is easy to dislodge and hasn’t shredded too much of the muscle. I don’t think it struck bone. You’re very lucky.”

I’m a carrier. I’ve lost my family and the only friends I have left. Sean probably thinks I’m dead, and he’s gone, headed to a refuge without me. Unless they were captured.

I don’t feel lucky.

I brace myself. “Go for it, Doc. I’ve had worse.”

“Tough, huh? That’s good. We need more strong ones in here.”

Again with the implication I’m going to be here for a while. “Sorry. I’m not staying.”

“No? That’s a shame. Well, maybe you’ll reconsider once you’re up on your feet and see our setup. We have a good thing going here. Some resistance cells are little more than campsites. They’ve got to move every day. Always running. Looking over their shoulders. Never enough food.”