My left arm twitches so hard, it’s actually painful. I grab Sam under the armpits like she’s one of Mia’s dolls and try to prop her onto her feet, turning her around to face me when Olsen gives a little twirl of a finger. Her knees won’t lock, and with her hands tied behind her, I can’t hold her up as gently as I would have liked. I can’t turn my back on the black uniforms and shield her from this, take the hits meant for her. There’s a voice at the back of my head telling me to take her and run, to set the building on fire and just go, but I can’t—I can’t—my need to live, to find Mia, is a rope around my neck. I’m hanging us both with it.

Her lashes flutter and I know she’s coming back to herself, which makes it that much more horrifying. She’s going to think I want this. She’s going to hate me. The thoughts are there, even as the more rational part of me thinks, She doesn’t even recognize you. I feel sick enough supporting her full weight, watching her head loll to the side. I don’t know how it’s possible to feel worse when Olsen shakes her head and motions for me to clear the bins and lay her over her work table.

The girl with dark curling hair is openly crying beside my right foot. She gets a kick from one of the PSFs, who, apparently, is offended by the small whimpering sounds. I give up Sam’s soft weight to the table, arranging her carefully so the hard wood supports her chest. I’ve barely stepped back when Olsen pushes forward, her baton in the air. In the space of one heartbeat to the next, she’s already hit Sam twice, once across her shoulder blades, the other across her bottom, she alternates with each strike, and I know they’re getting harder because Sam starts grunting at the impact of each one. Her eyes are open, devoid of light. I think she’s looking at my empty, shaking hand, but then I realize she’s not looking at anything at all. The pain and anger and hatred play out over her features, and I think, She’s got a fire in her, I think, I can’t let it go out, I think, Please, God, please make this stop, I’ll do anything—

And then it does. Olsen is finished and looks back at Tildon, who is faintly smiling as he tries to smear the rest of the blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “The cages,” he reminds her.

I don’t know what they are, or where they are, but when Olsen says, “Follow me and bring her,” I know that I’ll at least be able to follow her into their hell. There’s that, at least.

There’s that.

I have to carry her over my shoulder, pinning her legs against me with one arm. Several times, I completely lose track of Olsen as she stomps through the rain and mud, arms swinging under her poncho. There’s no way to shield us from the downpour, and I remind myself that I am supposed to be an unfeeling drone. I can’t be cold or furious or even snap back at the PSF when she turns back to shout over the wind, “Keep up!”

Instead, I focus on Sammy’s breathing. Feeling it go in and out in its light, but steady rhythm, calms the pounding pain in my head and the dizzying wave of nausea. I try to think of us in our tree fort, using slingshots and pebbles to defend our turf from those jackasses down the street, the Strider boys, but I send the memory sailing back to the farthest corner of my mind. Those thoughts are like grains of sugar in the salt of my life, and I don’t want any part of them to be polluted by this moment.

I can’t even give myself the pleasure of what I’d like to do to Tildon—I’d give my anger away in a heartbeat. So I focus on Sam’s soft weight the whole walk over to a small wooden shack attached to the back of the Mess. It wasn’t included in our debriefing. When they walked us through the camp this morning, I’d assumed it was storage for the Mess’s kitchen.

Olsen stops outside of the metal door and taps her ID card against it, shielding the black pad from the rain. Sam is silent, but her teeth chatter as she shivers. My grip on her tightens as the door swings open, and I realize the shaking might be a mixture of terror and cold.

The room is small, the walls lined with stacked individual metal crates. The air in here is damp and frigid. There’s a dark, wet crack in the ceiling. The moisture collected there is dripping down, catching the rust coating the cages’ thin bars and falling to the ground like drops of blood. I know they must have kept dogs here at one point; the smell doesn’t reach my nose so much as assault it. There are still sacks of unused dog food stacked beside the door. Collars and leashes hang useless and forgotten on hooks.

There are windows lining the top of the back wall, but only a faint gray-blue light manages to escape in. Olsen fusses with the light switch. Almost as if they’d been watching the struggle from the monitors in the Control Tower, a voice filters through our comm units: “All units—we’ve lost the primary generator, back up is at 50 percent. Visuals are down. Return all Psi to their cabins and engage the locks manually. Status update in five.”

“Shit,” I hear her grumble, swiping at her face in irritation. “Falling apart—”

Falling apart is one way to describe what’s happening to this place. Falling to f**king shambles is probably more accurate. The last inspection deemed it unlivable, which also feels like a massive understatement. “You will participate in the relocation of the Psi at Thurmond to nearby rehabilitation facilities,” the Trainers had told us on the flight over. “You will assist them in monitoring the Psi as the Psi Special Forces officers and camp controllers make the arrangements, remove the materials held there, and dissemble the structures.”