In the morning, I’m ripped from sleep by the clatter of hail on the roof, and I lurch up with a rush of adrenaline. Shabby prefab walls surround me, and for a wild moment I’m completely disoriented. Then it comes to me: I’m at Sofia’s, sleeping in her father’s old room.

And that sound isn’t hail. It’s distant gunfire.

I clamber from under the thin blanket, dazed, stumbling to my feet and hauling open the back door. The muddy, makeshift streets of the town are full of people rushing this way and that as civilians try to find cover. The gunfire’s echoing from beyond, out in the swamp. The military’s increased patrols must have found McBride and his men—or else McBride has drawn them into a trap. Tactics my sister invented. Tactics I helped hand down.

Whole platoons of soldiers run double-time toward the sounds of fighting. There’s no sign of Jubilee, but I’m not sure I’d be able to tell if she was among them. When they’re all wearing their helmets and their body armor and power packs for ammo, it’s impossible to even tell the men from the women. They all look alike.

A hand wraps around my arm and jerks me back. “They’ll see you,” hisses Sofia, face flushed with sleep and fear. She throws her father’s shirt at me, making me realize I’m still half naked, sleep dazed, then shoves me away from the back exit.

The door slams, but I can still hear the smattering of shots fired, far away.

The fighting continues throughout the day, echoing from different spots; the shifts mean McBride’s still out there, if not winning, then at least holding his own. The military have advanced weapons, greater numbers—but McBride and the Fianna know this land far better than soldiers who can’t last more than a month or two before being reassigned.

Sofia ventures out a couple of times, bringing back bits and fragments of information with her. Through her I learn that open hostilities have broken out despite the base’s added security, that the rebels in the swamps are attacking guerrilla-style—drawing out the soldiers with hit-and-run tactics, getting them out where they’re vulnerable. It forces the military to play their game, to fight them on the ground, taking away the technological edge the organized troops have over us.

It’s agony not running out there to stop it, or to help. Is Sean out there? Would he shoot if he saw me? I’d give anything for a chance to talk to him, to make him hear me and understand why I stood between him and Jubilee. His anguish is with me every moment—the instant he lifted his gun, all our years together not enough to bridge the gap between us. The crack of his gun still echoes in my ears. Did his shot miss me because he jerked his hand aside at the last second? Or was he simply shaking too hard to aim true?

Sofia tries to put me to work to distract me, pointing out furniture that needs fixing and leaks in the ceiling her father always meant to get to. My hands do the work, but my mind is frantic, leaping back into panic every time I hear a shot from a new direction.

“Do you think she’s out there?” Sofia asks finally, watching me drop the screwdriver for the third time as I try to fix a wobbly chair. “The trodaire you saved?”

“I don’t know,” I reply tightly. “Probably.”

“I can’t believe she just left you, after that, with nowhere to go.” Despite what she’s said, I can hear the disgust and fear in Sofia’s voice every time she speaks of the soldiers, of Jubilee.

“I left her,” I whisper. The screwdriver feels like lead, and I let my hand fall to rest on my thigh. “I saved her because I need her alive. I can’t find out what’s happening alone, but I can’t—” My voice cuts out as abruptly as if I’d been punched in the gut.

Sofia doesn’t respond right away. “I’m sorry,” she says after a drawn-out silence, her voice much softer now. “I know the pain of sitting, and waiting, and knowing answers may never come.” I lift my head to find her watching me, her gray eyes thoughtful, concerned. “What can I do?” she asks finally.

“You’ve done too much already,” I reply. “I’ll be gone soon. I can’t let you take this risk.” I just wish I knew where I was going to go next.

“You’re not the only one who’s lost someone,” she replies, voice sharpening. “I’ll choose my own risks, Flynn.”

When I look back she’s staring at me, hard, her hands tightening into fists. I remember her as a child always being so careful not to reveal anything through her body language, through her voice; a natural at reading others, she never wanted to be read. Now, I wonder if she’s choosing to let me see this. Choosing to show me this need.

“There’s a place,” I say slowly, “where she’ll leave a message if she learns something. But I can’t risk going there.”

“Where is it?” she asks immediately.

“Molly Malone’s, on the base.”

“Keep the doors locked and the lights off until I get back.”

The girl is waiting, listening to the heavily synthesized tech-rock ballad playing on the jukebox. The green-eyed boy was supposed to meet her at Molly’s, but every time the door opens, it’s someone else. A tall woman with blond hair takes the stool on the opposite end of the bar; a soldier with warm eyes and a laughing redhead on his arm occupy the corner in the back; a guy with pink hair tries to buy the girl a drink, but she doesn’t want a drink, and he eventually gives up.

Her mother sits down on the stool next to hers, trying to get the girl’s attention.