A hunger strike—the only weapon I have left.

I haven’t taken a single sip of water, and I feel the agonizing consequences. The body can withstand only three days without the vital liquid. I’ve withheld mine from it at least a night and a day—I’m unsure exactly how long I’ve been locked inside this cell. It’s torture, and I’m inflicting it upon myself. But Roth has taken everything from me. First my family, one by one, and now my freedom. But not my free will, the very thing that makes me human. And I’ll resist him at all costs. Even if the cost ends up being my life.

The walls must be screens because suddenly they all turn on, immersing me within a 360-degree view of a peaceful river winding its way through a forest. Hidden speakers reproduce a convincing natural soundscape, completely at odds with the silence I’ve been trapped with. The whole long wall in front of me displays a waterfall straight out of a fairy tale—its free-flowing water like a tranquil lullaby. A clear blue sky projects onto the ceiling above.

A manipulation tactic to coerce me into drinking. From my schooling at Strake, I know that the levels of feel-good brain chemicals like dopamine increase just by being around water. Stress hormones reduce, lulling a person into a sense of calm. It’s called being in a “blue state of mind.” I close my eyes, refusing to be sucked in. All I see is red. My rage at being in captivity and separated from my sister can never be soothed.

Your waterfall will not make me drink.

I cast my mind out, poking around with a twin’s sixth sense, seeing if I can find Mira. I know she must be looking for me too. Sensing nothing except bleak emptiness, I open my eyes, and my heart breaks into jagged, aching pieces. I’m back in a digital version of Trinity Heights.

Home.

Dizzy and weak, I stumble up to the painfully detailed neighborhood greenhouse Mira and I used to tend so carefully, and I peek through its glass windows. Hundreds of black-eyed Susans grow strong and resilient inside, row after row after row of the bright-yellow flower. I’m hit with a force of longing for my home—my old life—so powerful that I can scarcely breathe.

I turn to the opposite wall of my prison cell to face the house I grew up in—the place where Mira and I were born, and where our mother died. A sustainable, modern two-story home with a rock garden out front, the vast and impressive Dallas skyline looming behind. A house of secrets and duty and strict schedules. But it was also a house filled with love.

Tears fall down my cheeks. I drop to my knees and rest my head against our silver front door and let the flood of memories wash over me.

I’m jolted back to the present when the slot in the wall suddenly opens, and in pops a giant slice of chocolate cake. How did they know?

Endless data has been collected on my every preference and desire since the day I was born. While we managed to keep Mira’s existence hidden from surveillance, I couldn’t keep my food choices private. On more than a few ration splurges, I used my microchip—breaking my father’s strict rule of sticking to our packed lunches—to order a slice of the dessert from the 3D-printing machine at school. It instantly made me feel better if I was having a particularly hard day.

Father would always request that Gwen, our housekeeper, bake a chocolate cake on any special occasion, big or small. It was our mother’s favorite, he said. We had six different housekeepers over the course of my life; Father had to hire them to be consistent with his high-ranking status. It would’ve been suspicious for him not to take on at least one house employee. As a precaution he replaced them every three years—but all of them handmade the sugary dessert. Gwen not only baked the best; she was also the only one who felt more like a friend than just an employee. Gwen never knew our truth—none of them did. Father would never have implicated anyone. But I know that even if Gwen had found out, our secret would have been safe with her.

She must be in a Texas prison now, in a cell probably much worse than mine. Charged with aiding a family of traitors. A traitor herself in their eyes. She’ll be ruthlessly interrogated before being shipped off to spend the rest of her life in a work camp. Every house employee ever employed by my father will.

Who else has Roth taken that Mira and I have touched? Our fingerprints are all over so many since fleeing Dallas. Rayla, Emery, Pawel, Ellie—and any other loyal Common member. Lucía, our brief road companion who saved us in the deserts of west Texas with her gun; Kipling, the cowboy who supplied us a custom-made motorbike and kangaroo sticks; Xavier and his son, our grandmother’s friends who offered us their car. So many people helped Mira and me on our journey north to Canada. And what did we give them in return?

I pick up the tray of chocolate cake and launch it across the room.

I lie in the fetal position, turned away from the meal trays and jugs of water. I must conserve my quickly fading energy. I stay very still and wait for someone to talk to me. Eventually someone will. Why else am I still alive?

There’s nothing I can do to alleviate the pain that comes with severe thirst.

The cause is sustaining me, keeping me alive.

I must hold out.

“Hello again, Ms. Goodwin.”

I remain still, wondering if I am hallucinating.

“I’m very sorry to hear you have not been eating or drinking. That does not help anyone, especially yourself.”

It’s the same thin voice I heard in the forest at Paramount Point Lodge just before the bag went over my head: President Moore. I’m still in Canada.

I flick my eyes to the speakers.

“Where’s my sister?” I push out in spurts through my bone-dry throat. I don’t even have saliva left to swallow.

An apathetic click of the tongue. “You need to worry about yourself right now, my dear. Will you please eat something? I can’t be seen as responsible for your death. Twins come in a set, and I need you both.”

President Moore is a compassionate man, Ciro promised. He will save you. But he’s no different from Roth—he only cares about saving himself. Politicians are all the same, no matter the country.

I narrow my eyes before lying, “I’ll eat something if you take me to Mira.”

Silence. Then out of nowhere a gap appears in the blank white wall, and in walks the president of Canada himself. For a split second my heart lifts—an escape, a way to find Mira. I can bulldoze my way out of the opening. But just as I surge to my feet, I fall faint onto the thin mattress again. Too weak to stand, I sit at the edge of the bed and scrutinize my captor.

President Moore is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen—it’s not just editing tricks like I had assumed whenever I saw him on-screen back home. He’s dressed in a well-cut navy suit with a maple-leafed flag pinned onto his lapel. I take in his flawlessly styled chestnut hair, smooth face, and amber eyes, as striking as a lion’s.

The world’s most influential leader stands five feet in front of me and smiles, switching on his famous charm. The whole room suddenly feels warmer.

“You must at the very least take a few small sips, Ms. Goodwin. No one would fault you for that.”

He holds out a cold glass of water, but I keep my hands clenched on my lap. The president purses his lips—it’s clear he’s used to people doing exactly what he says—before placing the glass on the floor next to my bed.

“For later, then,” he says, confident he will change my mind.