of foot over foot, leg forward, leg back.
By now the government has run our images through their databases, and they know that Michael, Bea, and Samantha don’t exist. The mystery of who we are will just make them more anxious to find us. We haven’t heard or seen any sign of the Secret Service yet, but I know it won’t last long. We may have tricked them into thinking that we’re headed north, but as soon as the trail runs dry they will start looking for us all over the eastern coast. We need to make it to Montauk, or hope that the Project will use our tracking devices to rescue us. But it has been days, and there’s no sign of them.
When I close my eyes I see Sardosky twitching on the floor, the rows of books towering over us, his lips turning blue. The Secret Service agent said he was still breathing, but who knows for how long? If he’s dead, then my supposed destiny is fulfilled, and the Project has no reason to come looking for me. Or any of us.
What happens to my grandfather if they abandon us out here? If he’s no longer collateral, then what value does he have to them?
I push the fear away. Tim is probably right. The Project will come for us eventually; we just need to stay alive until they do.
The woods are filled with remnants of the past—a heap of scrap metal covered in vines, the rusted-out frame of a car, saplings sprouting from the broken windshield. And in front of me is a different reminder of my past—Wes. I try not to, but I can’t help staring at the muscles in his back, at the way his black hair reflects the sunlight. He is usually in the lead position, though if he is too slow, Twenty-two is quick to speed in front. He will wait a beat, half a mile maybe, before he moves ahead of her again. They dance this way, back and forth, a silent battle for control. And though Twenty-two keeps her expression vacant, I can feel the tension coming off her. She is still angry—at me and Tim for not suffering like she did, at Wes for not helping her kill us.
Tim is sometimes next to me, sometimes lumbering behind. He is the loudest of us, snapping branches under his feet and heavily panting. When I turn to make sure he is still standing, he will give me a strained smile, his broad face wet with sweat, his teeth clenched. I do not know how much longer he can keep this up.
Wes does not speak to me, he doesn’t turn around, but sometimes he will hold back a branch, pausing until I reach up with my own hand to keep it at bay. I feel him watching me on those short rests we take, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. There has already been so much unspoken between us, with his betrayal, with what I saw in the hallway, and now it seems like he and Twenty-two are pairing off against Tim and me.
I take a step, my boot falling on another jutting piece of concrete, when I hear a dull thud. I turn and Tim is on his knees, his right hand pressed into the dirt.
I crouch down beside him. “Tim,” I whisper, too soft for the others to hear. “Are you okay?”
He hangs his head and shakes it slowly back and forth. “I can’t keep going. I can’t. I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just hungry.”
“And tired, and about to pass out.” He takes in a gulping breath, his large shoulders rising and falling heavily. The short hair at his neck is dark brown with sweat and his shirt is stuck to his back. “At this point, I don’t even care if that girl wants to kill us. I need to stop.”
I hear footsteps. “What’s going on?” Twenty-two asks.
“We need to camp for the night,” I say. “It’s almost sunset. We haven’t truly rested in days. We need food and sleep if we’re going to keep this up.”
She scowls. Her lips are small but shaped like a perfect bow, and the sour expression sits oddly on her face. “You two have no stamina. If we stop now we might as well turn ourselves in.”
Wes moves to stand next to her, staring down at Tim’s bent
By now the government has run our images through their databases, and they know that Michael, Bea, and Samantha don’t exist. The mystery of who we are will just make them more anxious to find us. We haven’t heard or seen any sign of the Secret Service yet, but I know it won’t last long. We may have tricked them into thinking that we’re headed north, but as soon as the trail runs dry they will start looking for us all over the eastern coast. We need to make it to Montauk, or hope that the Project will use our tracking devices to rescue us. But it has been days, and there’s no sign of them.
When I close my eyes I see Sardosky twitching on the floor, the rows of books towering over us, his lips turning blue. The Secret Service agent said he was still breathing, but who knows for how long? If he’s dead, then my supposed destiny is fulfilled, and the Project has no reason to come looking for me. Or any of us.
What happens to my grandfather if they abandon us out here? If he’s no longer collateral, then what value does he have to them?
I push the fear away. Tim is probably right. The Project will come for us eventually; we just need to stay alive until they do.
The woods are filled with remnants of the past—a heap of scrap metal covered in vines, the rusted-out frame of a car, saplings sprouting from the broken windshield. And in front of me is a different reminder of my past—Wes. I try not to, but I can’t help staring at the muscles in his back, at the way his black hair reflects the sunlight. He is usually in the lead position, though if he is too slow, Twenty-two is quick to speed in front. He will wait a beat, half a mile maybe, before he moves ahead of her again. They dance this way, back and forth, a silent battle for control. And though Twenty-two keeps her expression vacant, I can feel the tension coming off her. She is still angry—at me and Tim for not suffering like she did, at Wes for not helping her kill us.
Tim is sometimes next to me, sometimes lumbering behind. He is the loudest of us, snapping branches under his feet and heavily panting. When I turn to make sure he is still standing, he will give me a strained smile, his broad face wet with sweat, his teeth clenched. I do not know how much longer he can keep this up.
Wes does not speak to me, he doesn’t turn around, but sometimes he will hold back a branch, pausing until I reach up with my own hand to keep it at bay. I feel him watching me on those short rests we take, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed. There has already been so much unspoken between us, with his betrayal, with what I saw in the hallway, and now it seems like he and Twenty-two are pairing off against Tim and me.
I take a step, my boot falling on another jutting piece of concrete, when I hear a dull thud. I turn and Tim is on his knees, his right hand pressed into the dirt.
I crouch down beside him. “Tim,” I whisper, too soft for the others to hear. “Are you okay?”
He hangs his head and shakes it slowly back and forth. “I can’t keep going. I can’t. I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just hungry.”
“And tired, and about to pass out.” He takes in a gulping breath, his large shoulders rising and falling heavily. The short hair at his neck is dark brown with sweat and his shirt is stuck to his back. “At this point, I don’t even care if that girl wants to kill us. I need to stop.”
I hear footsteps. “What’s going on?” Twenty-two asks.
“We need to camp for the night,” I say. “It’s almost sunset. We haven’t truly rested in days. We need food and sleep if we’re going to keep this up.”
She scowls. Her lips are small but shaped like a perfect bow, and the sour expression sits oddly on her face. “You two have no stamina. If we stop now we might as well turn ourselves in.”
Wes moves to stand next to her, staring down at Tim’s bent
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