Shit.

  She fired again, but so did he. Lopez collapsed.

  She darted off the porch as she squeezed the trigger again. The man took off, weaving so that her bullets sailed just past him. He raced for the truck and threw open the driver’s door.

  One of the men in the truck rolled out and onto the ground, desperately trying to extinguish the fire on his pants.

  “Hadley, take care of them!” she yelled, pointing at the truck as she ran for Lopez. She heard shots a moment later, and then tires squealing. She glanced over to see the truck flying around the corner and out of sight.

  She sprinted to Lopez, who was still on the ground. He’d rolled over onto his back. Blood pooled on the concrete beneath him. His eyes fluttered and then shut. His body went still.

  “Oh god,” she said, kneeling down beside him. She fumbled for her phone, and then shakily dialed and pressed it to her ear.

  “This is Maisie Rojas. I need you to send someone right now. Dr. Lopez has been shot.”

  LENNON

  TODAY, LENNON:

  had been pushed from an airplane,

  was captured by cannibals,

  had gotten injected with an experimental vaccine against his will,

  had participated in (okay, mostly watched) several gun fights, and

  had lit two men on fire.

  It had been quite a day, to say the least.

  An ambulance had appeared to take Dr. Lopez away, and Lennon had been ushered inside with Hadley and Maisie. They took him to a hospital, and Lennon was deposited in the hallway, where he’d been waiting for the past two hours.

  Apparently, they were no longer worried about him running away.

  He’d actually considered going outside. He still hadn’t had much of an opportunity to explore, but he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost track of Maisie and Hadley. He had no phone—the kidnappers had taken it in Georgia—and even if he had, he didn’t think it would connect to the network in the quarantine zone.

  People rushed by in the hallways, but rarely paid much attention to him, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall.

  It was remarkably like a regular hospital. He wasn’t sure what he expected—chaos, maybe—but it all looked the same. Nurses and doctors in scrubs and masks, everyone holding a tablet that probably had patient charts on it. He wondered how they were trained. Schooling in the quarantine zone was a mystery, though everyone he’d talked to so far clearly had some kind of education. He was ashamed to admit that he’d sort of imagined them all as those cannibals at the border—dirty idiots with no common sense.

  The door at the end of the hallway opened, and Maisie walked out. Her shirt had blood splattered across it—Lopez’s—and she’d haphazardly wrapped a piece of white bandage around her left hand.

  “Sorry,” Maisie said as he got to his feet. “We wanted to stay until he got out of surgery, but turns out it’s going to be a while.”

  “Is he doing okay?” Lennon asked.

  “They think he’s going to pull through.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Listen, I don’t really know what to do with you, so you’re just going to come home with me. Hadley’s going to meet us there later.”

  “Do you guys live together?”

  “No, one of the bombs destroyed her place.” She sighed, pushing a hand over her ponytail. “You okay to walk? It’s a couple miles, but buses aren’t running. We walk a lot here.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  She strode past him, leading him down the hallway, through the lobby, and outside. The sun had just gone down, streetlights clicking on as darkness fell.

  He glanced at her. She was peering at her phone, her eyebrows drawn together. She noticed his gaze as she slipped it back into her pocket.

  “A lot of people haven’t checked in yet,” she explained.

  “Do you know who did this?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing for sure.”

  He wanted to ask about the plan to get him out of here, but it seemed callous under the circumstances. Besides, there was still plenty of time. Last time he’d checked a clock it was just after eight p.m., meaning he still had sixty hours to meet the CDC deadline. He could spare a few hours for sleep.

  And thank god for that. His steps were heavy, exhaustion starting to creep into his body. He’d nodded off a couple times in the van with the Georgia kidnappers, but other than that, he’d barely slept the past two nights. He didn’t even care if he had to sleep on the floor—he just wanted somewhere to collapse for a few hours.

  He looked over at Maisie to see her watching him.

  “What do people think of us out there?” she asked.

  “In the US?”

  “And everywhere.”

  He hesitated. He’d told Dr. Lopez he wouldn’t tell anyone the truth of what a lot of Americans thought of them, but he still wasn’t sure that lying was the right choice. In his opinion, the people of the quarantine zone should have access to the same internet as every other free nation. They should be able to watch the news themselves.

  On the other hand, Dr. Lopez was right about the panic. And maybe his dad was about to win the election, and it didn’t matter what a bunch of very loud idiots thought. His dad would never bomb the quarantine zone. He’d made that promise publicly, and Lennon knew him well enough to be sure that it wasn’t just politician talk.

  Besides, now that he was actually faced with having to explain what people thought of the inhabitants of the quarantine zone, the prospect was uncomfortable.

  “We can’t just keep hoping this problem will go away,” a congressman had argued once, on cable news. “When a group of lawless thugs have taken over a part of our country, drastic action is necessary.”

  He was not going to repeat the term lawless thugs to her.

  Also, he thought that most people in the quarantine zone would take issue with the phrase “taken over a part of our country,” considering that every single one of them was trapped in the zone against their will.

  “It’s a mix of emotions,” he said carefully. “Some people are sympathetic. Some are scared. Mostly, people are fascinated and want to know how you guys are doing in here.”

  Her lips twitched, and she looked away from him. “You’re a good liar, Lennon.”

  He wasn’t that good, if she was calling him out on it.

  “It’s not a lie,” he said. It was a half-truth. Close enough. “I do think that people would be more understanding if you communicated with the outside world occasionally, though. People are scared of what they don’t understand.”

  She tilted her head and said nothing.

  “I think it will be helpful for me to tell the story when I get out of here,” he said. “People will be interested to know what it was like in here.”

  “They’ll probably be more scared of us than ever.”

  “I can always find the good parts of a story.”

  She gave him an amused look. “I have no doubt.”

  He heard the murmured sound of voices and music up ahead. The glow of lights was brighter.

  They turned a corner. He stopped.

  Maisie, a few steps ahead of him, turned to see him frozen. “What?” He kept gaping. She followed his gaze.

  The street was crowded with people. They milled around, some of them carrying cups in their hands. Two women played guitar on the corner, and a few people were helping to sweep up glass and debris from a bombed building.

  Giant bright billboards flashed over the buildings. An old music video played on one. An advertisement for a local brewery was on the other.

  A man whizzed by on a scooter, wearing a pair of goggles and a bright pink mask.

  “What?” Maisie asked again.

  “I just…” He was trying to remember what he’d read about the quarantine zone. Unreliable electricity, mostly powered by solar and wind. Crumbling infrastructure, left over from pre-virus era. Strict curfew. Gangs rule with an iron fist. Executions in the street.

  “Is there a curfew?” he finally managed.

  She looked at him strangely. “No. Does the US have a curfew?”

  “No, I’d just read that you did.”

  “Spencer territory has done that in the past. Not sure if they still do.”

  “Oh.”

  A group of men were helping put together a broken picnic table outside a bar, and Lennon watched them, still trying to process this version of the quarantine zone.

  “You thought it was a real shithole in here, didn’t you?”

  His gaze snapped back to Maisie. “I, uh…”

  She rolled her eyes, a spark of amusement on her face. “Come on. My apartment’s not far.”

  Lennon followed Maisie to a five-story apartment building. It appeared the entire street had gone untouched from the bombings. It was quiet and dark, most of the streetlights out.

  Her apartment was on the top floor, a one-bedroom with huge windows that showed off part of the city. He eyed the plush brown couch in the living room, hoping that would be his for the night.

  Maisie walked into the kitchen, flipping on the light. She had a small table that was covered in clutter—papers, a few empty bottles, books, and a laptop.

  Something fell to the floor with a plop, and his eyes followed the sound. It was a piece of bloody bandage from her arm. It had fallen off and landed on the kitchen floor.

  He almost laughed. He was getting punchy.

  “Well, that’s gross,” she said. She unwrapped the rest of the bandage with a wince. Her hand looked bruised and dirty, like she hadn’t had it cleaned at the hospital. Too busy dealing with Lopez, maybe.

  She stretched her fingers and sucked in a breath.

  “That does not look great,” he offered unhelpfully.

  “Just a little…broken.” She made a sound that was both a moan and a laugh.

  “You’ve broken it before? More than once?”

  “Who’s counting?” She made a face as she walked into the kitchen. She turned on the water and stuck her hand under it. “Shit, that hurts.”

  “Was it always from punching people?”

  “What?”

  “Breaking your hand. Always from punching someone?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I tend to get a little too…enthusiastic in the moment.”

  He let out a short, completely inappropriate laugh. She cocked an eyebrow.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s fine, I’m just in a ton of pain here.”

  He blanched, shifting uncomfortably. “I, uh, I didn’t mean—”

  Maisie threw her head back with a laugh. “I’m just messing with you.”

  He let out a relieved sigh and laughed weakly.

  “This entire situation is too fucked-up not to be funny,” she said.

  His thoughts exactly.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked as she carefully dried her arm with a cloth. “I don’t have a lot, but there’s some bread and…” She walked to the refrigerator. “Some dry sausage. Oh, and I should eat these apples before they go bad. We had a good batch this year.”

  “Sure,” he said, his hunger overtaking his exhaustion at the mention of food. That sandwich from earlier hadn’t stayed with him for long.

  She pulled the food out as he sat down at one of the barstools. She put a plate in front of him with a hunk of bread, some sausage, cheese, and half an apple.

  He tore off a piece of the bread, glancing at the half loaf left on the counter, wrapped in a kitchen towel. “Did you make this bread?”

  “Yes.”

  He wondered if he was asking too many questions, if she could tell he was equal parts fascinated and horrified by it all. He was trying very hard not to imagine himself sitting across from every major journalist in the country, telling them everything he’d learned during his time here, but it was hard. He was already rehearsing.

  “Does everyone make their own bread?” he asked, unable to help himself.

  “No, you can get some at a bakery, if you want. Kind of a waste of money, though.”

  “It’s really good.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her phone beeped, and she pulled it out of her pocket, a smile crossing her face. “Lopez is out of surgery. He’s not awake yet, but the surgery went well.”

  “That’s great,” he said, with genuine relief. He’d been very worried that whoever made decisions after Lopez wouldn’t be so interested in getting him out of here.

  “We’ll go see him tomorrow, find out what the plan is for you.” She said the words while typing on her phone. She frowned at whatever reply she got, but didn’t share it with Lennon.

  After they’d finished eating, she fished a blanket and pillow out of the closet for him and pointed him to the couch.

  “Hadley will come in later, but she can sleep with me. Tell her that if she tries to cuddle with you.”

  He tossed the pillow onto the couch. “Honestly, I’m so tired I’m not sure I’ll wake up if she comes in and starts jumping up and down on top of me.”

  “I’m not going to tell her you said that, because she will definitely test it out.” Maisie headed toward her bedroom.

  “Maisie?”

  She turned.

  “Thank you. Really. For everything.”

  She stared at him for a moment, her expression guarded. She opened her mouth, and then seemed to think better of whatever she was going to say.

  “Good night, Lennon.”

  MAISIE

  “GOOOOOD MORNING TO all of you out there in the Q who didn’t get blown up yesterday. That was some shit, wasn’t it?”

  Hadley’s voice floated out of the speakers in the living room, too perky. She was always overly perky when she was scared.

  On the couch, Lennon stirred. Maisie poured coffee into her cup, watching as he rolled over and blinked several times.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He sat up slowly, a confused look on his face as he glanced around the room.

  “The hospital has asked that only one person per family waits in the waiting room, as they’re getting a little crowded down there,” Hadley was saying.

  “Oh.” Lennon ran a hand through his hair with a laugh. “I thought I heard Hadley.”

  “She slept at the studio.” If she slept at all. Maisie doubted it. She hadn’t wanted to fill Lennon in on everything that had happened, but it was obvious that yesterday was a coordinated attack on the Lopez family, and there were a lot of people injured, and even a few dead.

  The entire Q was on edge, and Maisie had wanted to stay at the hospital, but she knew Lopez would be disappointed if she let anything happen to Lennon. She didn’t care whether or not he made it out of the Q, and she doubted that Lopez still planned to try, considering yesterday’s chaos. But she was going to keep him safe until someone broke the bad news to him.

  Lennon pushed off the blanket and stood. He’d slept in the clothes Lopez had given him. She should probably find him something else.

  “What time is it?” He searched for a clock.

  “About seven.”

  She could see him doing the math in his head. Forty-nine hours left for him to get out.

  “Do you want coffee?” she asked quickly, before he could inquire about a plan.

  “Yes, please.”

  She reached for a mug with her left hand, sighing when pain seared through her fingers. Part of her had hoped that her hand would magically reveal itself to just be bruised the next day. No such luck, apparently.

  She grabbed the mug with her other hand, poured Lennon a cup, and then disappeared into her bedroom to rummage around in the drawers. She walked out with pants, a slightly threadbare black T-shirt, and a lightweight gray jacket.

  “You can wear these,” she said, tossing them on the couch. “Declan might get pissed, but I told him three times to come get his stuff, so it’s his own fault.”

  He walked across the living room, touching the shirt. “Declan?”

  “Ex.”

  “Ah.”

  “Shower’s through my room. Be quick.”

  * * *

  —

  The hospital was buzzing with an angry energy when they arrived. Maisie searched the crowd for Declan, but she didn’t see him. She hadn’t heard from him since before the bombings yesterday, and no one had seen him. She was starting to think he was dead.

  She walked down the hallway, Lennon following. There was a crowd around Lopez’s room. Beto stepped forward when he saw her.

  “Hey, can I go in and talk to Lopez?” she asked.

  He shook his head, his expression grim. “Not right now. Only my mom, my sister, and I are allowed for now.”

  “Can you ask him about Lennon, then? I need to know what the plan is.”

  “I, uh…” Beto shifted from foot to foot.

  She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you heard from Declan?”

  “No. Why does everyone keep asking me that? I don’t take orders from Declan.”

  Julio turned, clearly annoyed. “If we’re not taking orders from Declan, who the hell are we taking orders from?”

  “Would you be quiet?” Beto snapped at Julio.

  “No!” Julio’s face went red. “You cannot keep this fucking quiet! Declan is MIA, and Uncle Franco is unconscious! We need to figure out what to do!”

  Maisie gaped at Julio. “What do you mean, he’s not conscious?”

  “He never woke up from surgery,” Julio said. “Beto and Jasmine were trying to keep it a secret.”

  Maisie glanced around for Lopez’s daughter, but Jasmine was nowhere to be seen. She was a doctor in this hospital—maybe she was in the room with her dad.