A good thing? Are there good things left? For carriers? I don’t allow myself that hope.

“Doc,” the girl says warningly. “You shouldn’t be handing out invitations. You don’t know that she can stay.”

“You young people,” he mutters. “All so serious.”

I snort. Now who’s the comedian? He’s one of the first adults I’ve met who doesn’t seem to be taking anything seriously. Even the bullet in my shoulder, and that’s a troubling thought, since I’m depending on him to get it out.

“Where’d you go to med school?”

He chuckles again at my question. Instead of answering, he says, “All right now, here we go. Hang on. And remember to breathe.”

Then I’m dying.

Or I wish I was, because he’s digging into my shoulder and searing pain flares through me. I open my mouth wide on a silent scream, my teeth scraping the mattress.

He mumbles something. Assurances or sympathetic words or advice to himself. I’m not sure. I just want him to shut up and finish already. But he’s not. He digs a little deeper and I bite down on the mattress, clenching the sheet between my teeth.

“There we are.” I hear the sharp ping of a bullet as he drops it in the tray.

I unclench my teeth and sag into the mattress, panting, all tension easing from me. A sharp ache takes the place of the searing pain. The warm sensation of blood trickles down my side, but there’s a cloth suddenly there to catch it, wiping at my flesh. Phelps and the girl clean me up. I wince as needle and thread puncture my serrated flesh.

“Now you’ll need to remain in the infirmary for a few days,” he explains as he sets to stitching me up. “You’re going to be in a great deal of pain, and it will be best for you to be in here where I can keep an eye on you. Something tells me you’re the type who might not want to stay in bed.”

“I need to find my friends.” My lips brush the mattress as I speak. “They crossed into Mexico. I mean I hope they did. If they weren’t captured—”

“Nah, we would have heard on the wire if any carriers were captured or killed last night in this area. Although they’re lucky they made it. Few carriers make it across without our help. There are other groups out there, but none as efficient and organized as us. But you can worry about them later. In your condition, you’re not going anywhere for a while.”

His words, even as I register their logic, fill me with bitter frustration. Every moment that passes makes the gap between me and the others stretch wider. It’s like I can almost touch them, my fingers stretching, reaching, but they keep getting farther and farther away from me.

“What is this place?” I ask.

Phelps pats the back of my head. “Hasn’t anyone told you? Welcome to the resistance.”

* * *

2016 Conversation between Colonel Anderson and General Dumont

COLONEL ANDERSON: You know where this is headed . . . this Wainwright fella. People are actually listening to him. Important people. People with power.

GENERAL DUMONT: I’m guessing you don’t see our forced retirement as an opportunity to finally write that memoir?

COLONEL ANDERSON: Let them think we’re perfectly satisfied to take an early retirement. I want them to have no suspicions.

GENERAL DUMONT: What do you intend to do?

COLONEL ANDERSON: The same thing we do every time we head into war. Start preparing.

GENERAL DUMONT: Well, you’re not doing it alone.

EIGHT

I SPEND THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS SLEEPING, waking only occasionally to sip some water. Despite the limits on their medical supplies, they slip me something and it makes me really drowsy. This new world I find myself in, complete with Dr. Phelps and his assistant—who always looks one breath from hurling whenever she checks my shoulder—blurs before my eyes whenever I emerge from unconsciousness.

On the second day, I sleep on and off, and take the broth that Phelps and his assistant—whose name I learn is Rhiannon—force on me. Every movement jars my body and reawakens the pain. If I lie very still and barely breathe, I can almost not hurt. I do this a lot. Holding myself close, like if I move I might splinter apart, and taking tiny sips of air.

“So this resistance . . . how many are there of you here?” I still have yet to get a clear answer on where here is, exactly. That seems to be confidential. Cue Marcus flipping out when he learned I wasn’t blindfolded before being brought in. Despite waking up to that less-than-cheerful welcome, I know I’m lucky to be here. Lucky that Caden found me.

Rhiannon turns swiftly from where she is organizing the contents of a cabinet. “You’re awake.”

“I think I’ve slept as much as I’m going to today.” Gritting my teeth, I start to roll on my side. I don’t normally sleep on my stomach, and despite the discomfort in the back of my shoulder, I can’t take it anymore.

Rhiannon hurries forward and helps me turn. “Easy,” she cautions. “You don’t want to tear your stitches.”

On my back, I stare up at the girl, panting and hurting. “Tell me where I am.”

“You’re in an underground facility—”

“Like literally . . . underground?”

She nods. “It’s how we’re able to remain undetected. We have about forty permanent residents. A dozen or so carriers pass through en route to Mexico any given week. Sometimes more. Depends how many carriers we’re tasked with transporting.”