Her kin all have a death wish. And I really don’t intend to be around when that wish comes true.

“Where am I?” Rayla demands a second time. Her shirt is plastered with dried blood, but she doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. She lifts a steady finger toward Blaise standing like a dark angel at the foot of her bed. “Who is that?”

“That is Blaise,” I say, shuffling him closer so Rayla can get a better look at him. “Meet the guy responsible for your miraculous return to life.”

While Rayla sizes up this masked newcomer, I slowly back away, hoping she’s already forgotten me.

Naturally, I expect Rayla to mistrust Blaise’s intentions and ply him with questions like she did on our first meeting, or at least jab him with an undercut like “What kind of a name is Blaise?” But all she does is hold out her hand, the yellow scales of her snake tattoo glinting with sweat.

“Thank you,” she says, simple and earnest.

I scoff so loud it echoes off the four bare walls that make up this dump of a house. Rayla twists her head in my direction, the last place I want her attention aimed.

I should have sneaked out when the sneaking out was good.

“Give me my gun, and tell me where the car is.”

“Really? I don’t get a thank-you too?” I ask. “Thank you for not turning me in, thank you for your exceptional driving skills that got me here, thank you for risking your safety and watching over me for two days alone—”

“It’s been two days?” Rayla cuts my speech short, her voice weak, almost scared. She looks to Blaise, who confirms this with a nod.

The mattress dips as Rayla attempts to swing her legs to the floor and escape the bed. She makes it halfway through the undertaking before she realizes this was a bad idea. With a hiss of pain, Rayla falls back and leans against the wall that serves as her headboard, her right hand gripping her sewn-up bullet hole.

“The twins,” she moans. A quiver shoots down her body, and I have to look away from her vulnerability.

“You must heal before you can return to the fight,” Blaise tells her.

From the corner of my eye, I see him pull the covers over Rayla and see that Rayla lets him. A bizarre pang of jealousy hits me, which I immediately shake off like a virus. Why are you still here! Leave!

The front door is right behind me. A few steps and I’m out, free, done with this dangerous, no-good-can-come-of-it, ill-starred saga of a mistake.

I continue inching backward, wondering if I should make a formal announcement of my imminent departure, or if I should just hightail it and run. Leeland’s gun is in my back pocket, a backup in case they get any ideas to try and stop me.

“Does he have them?” Rayla demands, her old intensity stealing back into her words. I halt my retreat, startled to find Rayla looking to me. “Does Roth have Ava and Mira?”

“No,” Blaise answers for me, like an annoying teacher’s pet.

“Not yet,” I add. “But he will.” She doesn’t like this blunt fact, but it is a fact. The governor of Texas killed Ava and Mira’s father, and any day now he will get his hands on the twins and kill them too. The cause will die with them. The sooner Rayla learns this and accepts it, the more people will be saved.

Rayla the Slayer, they call her for good reason.

“Thousands are dying all over our country because they believe in an unrealistic dream you and the Common are peddling,” I press on.

I register that I’m regurgitating words and thoughts I’ve heard my parents scream at news screens, and I question if I really agree with them, but I keep going.

“It’s over, Rayla,” I shout, so she will really hear me. “Tell the Common to stand down before more lives are wasted on a dead rebellion.”

Rayla barely shakes her head, like I’m not worth the energy.

“Shouldn’t you be running home now, Kismet puppet?” Blaise spits.

“I told you I’m no squealer,” I remind Rayla with as much pride as I can muster. “If the Guard questions me, I’ll tell them nothing.” I can’t look her in the eyes.

I do feel sorry for the woman; she has no other option. For her, it’s either die fighting or die hiding. But I still have options; I can go back. She’s the matriarch of this mess, and she’ll go down for it. Those around her will go down too.

Suddenly panicked that I’ll wind up collateral damage, I make a clean exit. No goodbyes or last looks.

With a bang I shut the door, anticipating footsteps to follow as I move down the abandoned street.

None do.

Why am I not in my car right now?

It’s fine. Rayla won’t be searching for where I hid the car anytime soon. She couldn’t even stand up before I left.

After bolting from the hideout, I just kept walking. When I hit Lake Michigan, a stupid part of me thought I would be able to dip my toes in the water or something, but nope. There’s a security gate. Valid, since the lake’s the most important body of water in the country—it’s the only Great Lake that’s pure American from shore to shining shore, and it’s the main source of drinking water for Midwesterners, keeping even low rankers like me alive.

New game plan: I’ll stare at the rolling waves for a bit to clear my head, then go back for my car and drive the hell back to Kismet where I belong.

Shit. That’s something one of the programmed would think, isn’t it? Best not to dwell on it.

I check out a fleet of boats on the choppy water instead. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but it could be Guards patrolling, or a moonlit booze cruise full of tourists, or possibly vessels shipping products from state to state. Take your pick—whatever it is, they’re government. The Water Guard regulates the lake; no one gets near the priceless resource unless it’s through them.

All right, enough dawdling. I turn my back on the lake and consider what might be the most interesting route to take back to the house.

I think this might be the first stroll I’ve ever taken in my life. I’m a net junkie; I don’t go outdoors much. It’s actually kind of nice. Nope. Sightseeing is over. Go back the way you came, and get the hell out of here.

Right. I direct my sneakers north and hustle down the crushed gravel path lining the gate, doing my best not to stroll. This is a stroll-free zone. Absolutely no eyeballing anything but the route that leads to the car.

About ten minutes into my disciplined look-at-nothing walk, I hear a loud commotion break out behind me. I look up, because hey, this distraction found me, and rubberneck toward the beachy-looking downtown.

I can’t make out what’s being said, but whoever’s doing the yelling is angry, and there’s a lot of them. Unable to stop myself, I backtrack my way toward the hullabaloo.

It’s immediately apparent something big is happening. The main street is packed with people, most wearing their government-issued work uniforms, which makes sense given the demographics of this blue-collar town. Everyone’s probably connected to the Water Guard in some way, and that means everyone’s government—or knows someone who is. Best keep my head down.

Sides appear to have been taken, because two hot-tempered groups shout back and forth to each other. No one’s listening, but everyone has something to say.

Devices are in every hand. The people around me have one eye glued to their screens, the other on their opponents. I force my way into the personal space of an off-duty Water Guard, trying hard to see what’s going on. The first image I glimpse is of Leeland, my coworker, giving an interview on the now-empty Kismet factory floor. He’s wearing a back brace and looking all victimized. “Owen Hart was a Programmer at Kismet, and I thought he was my friend, but he was in on the rebellion raid. He beat me with my own baton. He’s armed and very dangerous.”