Delilah rouses me and shoos me off to the showers.

"You'll feel better," she says, "and I'll feel better because I won't have to smell you anymore."

The shower room is empty when I arrive. It's an echo-y space, rough yellow tile covers the floor and the lower half of the walls. A row of large mirrors lines the wall that separates the toilet stalls from the shower stalls, and a counter with sinks sits under the mirrors.

I don't recognize my reflection. My first reaction is to search the shower room for signs of someone else, the person the reflection really belongs to, but aside from me, the place is deserted. I push back all the doors to all the stalls, every last one creaks open to show an empty cubicle. No one is hiding in a corner, just out of sight, and when I poke my head out the main door, nobody who looks like the person in the mirror is there.

I return to the mirror, stand in front of it, stare. This isn't me. I raise my hand, the person in the mirror raises his hand. This isn't my face. I don't recognize this person. His black hair is greasy and lays flat, dried blood flakes off his chin and a black bruise dominates the bridge of his nose and his right cheekbone, square glasses settle below the bruise. I correct my glasses, wincing when they rub the bruise, the reflection mimics me.

"My name is Trick." My scratchy voice rings against the quietness of the bathroom. When I lower my hand I catch a glimpse of the reflection's shoulder. Puffy pink scar tissue shows, the burn from the grenade, mirroring where mine is. I touch the burn, and with my other hand reach out and touch the mirror. Little circles of condensation form around my fingertips.

How is this me? Why can't I recognize myself? What happened, what's wrong with me? What's wrong, what's wrong, what's—

I rip my hand from the mirror and turn away. My heart stutters and there's sweat on my forehead.

Reeling, I limp to the nearest shower stall. There's a hook on the stall door to hang the towel on, and a small metal bench for the clothes, I set my glasses on it too. A black contraption is anchored to the wall inside the shower itself. There's a small opaque window on the front, a word I can't make out without my glasses, and a lever near the bottom. When I press the lever, pink goo drizzles out and lands on the floor with a loud plop.

What the hell.

I press the lever again, this time sticking my hand out to catch the goo in my palm. It's slippery, and I swear I know what it is. I bring it to my nose to sniff it, it smells like Delilah did when she hugged me.

Liquid soap. That's what it is. I smear it on the wall and turn to the tap. I have been away from the real world for far too long. Water spurts from the tarnished showerhead, striking me like icy bullets. I don't bother to step out of the way, only turn around so it hits my back and lean my head against the cold tile wall.

What else don't I remember? Are there things that I won't ever remember because they don't exist anymore? The island doesn't exist anymore, not if what Yana says is true. My home is gone, bombed for no reason. My fist clenches, I press my knuckles to the wall.

My parents are gone too. I've spent so much of my life hating them for what they did, hell I've wished more than once that they died sad and alone. But now, after everything, the idea of them dead makes me feel even more like I'm adrift in a stormy sea. I don't want to want them back, but I do anyways.

I groan, the sound rising from somewhere deep in my gut and working its way loose. It's been growing there for a while. I resort to hooking my hands behind my neck to keep from punching something. This is all too much, too fast. There are too many things happening, too many things that need answers.

Where will Elle and I go after the hospital? We have no more home to turn to. How will we survive without money, without food, without shelter? How will we escape the reach of the Whitecoats and the military before they catch up to us? I can't find the answers, outside of the walls of this hospital, there are only blank spaces. "I'm nineteen."

Maverick would know what to do, he would have a plan.

"I have a sister."

I jab the soap lever. The water is scalding now, steam rises in thick clouds.

"I will find a way out of here."

***

I return to the room cleaner than I've been in two weeks. No dirt, no sweat, and no blood. It's an amazing feeling, and I'm glad Delilah convinced me to take a shower sooner rather than later. Everything still aches, but at least nothing itches or sticks. I pause to wipe the drops of water off my glasses, then enter.

Sky sleeps on the bed next to Elle's. Nothing else has changed, except the blinds are up and Delilah is standing in front of the window. Her good hand waves absently, gusts of wind swirl around the room as calm breezes. The sunlight streams in, and outside the window is the picture of a massive, sprawling city. Somehow, it doesn't make the space seem any bigger. Delilah looks lost in thought, so I leave her be, and drag a chair over to Elle's bed. The heart monitor beeps steadily, the best reassurance that Elle is alive. I take her cold hand in mine, trying to warm it up.

She's so still, even her skin doesn't shift.

The chair calls to me as a cramp hits my left thigh. It's been too long. I stop holding myself upright. One hand clutches my aching chest, the other presses into my forehead and I double over. I'm hot all over and my stomach roils. If not for the complete lack of food in me, I'd have vomited already. It feels like my intestines are made of white-hot metal rods. I hiss out a groan, my fingers curl tighter in my hair. My head throbs and I'm shaking now—this time it's not from a panic attack.

Breathe, in out, in out, slow breaths. In out, in out. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Try not to gag.

"Okay," I say to myself, "I'm good, I'm just gonna..." I straighten up slowly, bones pop all the way down my back. Ah, yeah, that hurts. Sighing, I lean over and rest my head on Elle's bed. Reaching up, I take her small hand in mine, her skin ripples faintly.

"Kiddo, it's time for you to wake up. There's a lot we need to talk about," I say, running my thumb over the bony back of her hand. "We're in a hospital now, they're working to get you better."

Pain lances through my breastbone, leaving me breathless. I rub my chest, grimacing. Hopefully they'll get me better too. This sucks. Bit by bit the edges are worn off the pain and my lungs start to work with only a dull ache. Able to breathe again, I talk to Elle. My gaze trains on her hand as I watch for signs that she's waking up. The patch of sunlight on the floor grows longer, then begins to dim, until there's nothing left but shadow. Delilah curls up on the chair in the corner and dozes off. Every now and then a nurse in lilac scrubs strides past, I whisper more quietly. There's something about talking to her that makes it easier to believe she'll come to.

Steadily, the dizziness and the aches grow worse, until my eyes burn and blur constantly and I can hardly see Elle's hand. There better be a bedpan nearby because I might end up puking regardless of how empty my stomach is. I'm certainly gagging enough. In the moments when my eyesight clears, I can see the beads of sweat forming on my outstretched arm. Still, I keep talking. I tell her about the city outside her window, and the flashing lights and shiny glass buildings that rise out of the ground like nothing she's ever seen before.

I tell her about Anushka and what the Sergeant did to help us rescue her, and about the little girl we met last night who is getting taken far away from danger right now.

And I tell her about the nurse who I hope isn't a Whitecoat.

"I think you'd—like her, as long as she doesn't end up—you know, evil." A sliver of moonlight has inched up over Elle's hand

"Zradsti." Speak of the devil. Yana knocks on the doorframe once, twice before entering. "I come to check on you all, and I bring something for Elle she might like." She holds up a small glass bottle of indigo liquid. I don't see her initial reaction when she catches sight of my face but judging by what follows I don't think she expected to find me looking like death.

"What is wrong?" she asks, rushing into my field of vision. Her hand is on my forehead and her fingers are pressed into my neck before I can answer. Her touch is bruising but flinching away would hurt worse.

"Please don't touch me," I say, my voice hoarse from all the talking and the clenching in my chest. Immediately her hands retract, and she asks another question.

"Are you having panic attack?"

"No." I blink to clear away the now constant blur and manage to get a rough idea of her facial expression. It's not a happy one.

"What in hell's going on?" enter Sky, with an exclamation that makes my ears ring and my headache revolt. Oh well, good to know he's awake. He gets himself between Yana and me suspiciously fast. "What d'you think you're doing?"

"You are his friends? You tell me why he is ill so I can fix."

"Will you?" There's Delilah, sounding not at all convinced that Yana won't poison me.

"Guys," I croak from my seat. I understand where they're coming from better than anyone in this hospital, in this entire city. But right now, I need either painkillers or for everyone to shut up and leave. Sky, nearest to me, catches on.

"It's a pain thing, fibro-something, he needs painkillers," he says.

"Savella," I wheeze through gritted teeth. "I'm supposed to be on Savella for fibromyalgia. Is there somewhere I can get that here?"

"I will go see the pharmacy," Yana promises. She leaves, and I almost melt from relief at the idea of getting back on my meds, until an idiot pats me on the back.

"Ow, Sky," I mutter, scrunching my eyes shut.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes, "don't mean to make your dying worse."

"M'not dying."

"Sure, sure, you just look like a grim reaper used you as a punching bag." There's mirth in his tone, but there's also a waver that gets to me. The teasing on its own is fine, but I wish he wouldn't worry. I've been living with this for years, he's the one who cracked his head open yesterday trying to save my sister. I should be worrying about him.

Thankfully, Yana returns not long after. She hands me a tiny paper cup with two pills in it, and I swallow them both dry. One of them I suspect is Tylenol, and the other tastes like chalk. Now it's just a matter of waiting it out. Through bleary eyes I watch Yana lean over to check on Elle.

"What was that thing you brought?" I ask.

"Ah." She pulls the small glass bottle from her pocket and holds it out to show us. Viscous liquid, a deep shade of indigo shimmers in the lowlight. "Nail polish."

She lets me take it, turn it over, shake it. It's enchanting to watch swirl, it tugs my mind away from the all-consuming pain vortex just a little. Elle would love the color. "What does it do?"

"I show you."

She takes the bottle back and unscrews the top. First, she explains the polish, showing us all how it works. Then, as the night stretches on and she paints Elle's nails, the topics drift to other things. Delilah asks questions, and Yana seems more than happy to answer. Sometimes they slip into Russian but they both always bring it back to English for Sky and me. For the most part, though, we fill the space with idle chit chat. I don't know why she's bothering, I don't know why she brought the nail polish. I don't know if I trust whatever this is, but I can't convince myself to hate the way it smooths the sharp edges of tension filling up the room. Not completely.

The night takes a turn towards morning, the paint is dried and the conversation is drifting more and more into Russian. I pick up Elle's hand. The paint looks different dry, shinier. As I'm watching, the indigo on her pointer finger pools on the nail bed and drips down the side. I swipe at it, and Yana tuts.

"How I miss that," she frowns at the smear of color. I cover it, heart thrumming. My thumb came away bone dry, there is no paint dripping off Elle's fingernail. "No worry, I bring something to clean it tomorrow."

"Don't worry about it," I say, too fast. Delilah cuts me a sharp look. Her gaze drops to Elle, realization snapping into place.

"Is there a computer I could use in this place?" she asks, snagging Yana attention.

"Oh, da," Yana answers.

"Will you show me where it is?" Delilah slips off the bed. Moving towards the door, she invites Yana farther away from the danger of finding us out. "I know it's late, I'm sorry, if it's too late—"

But Yana is cutting her off with a dismissive flick of her hands, "No worry, we will sneak." She adds a conspiratorial wink, and hurries Delilah out the door. Out of sight. Away from Elle.

The moment their voices fade into the distance I tear my hand away from Elle's to check for the colors. Hope fluxes through me, a living thing. I saw it, I swear I saw it. A full minute passes with nothing but the muted beeps of the heart monitor and the wheezing of the oxygen machine. Her skin is as still as it was before and I begin to wonder if that smear really is dried paint. It's too easy to see how I could have imagined it. Didn't I hallucinate quicksand only a few days ago? I'm barely in better shape now. I feel myself deflate, so much worse because I believed for a moment that she was actually waking up.

There's a conciliatory hand on my back. I stand there, staring, for a moment longer. Searching for a sign. My fingers curl in the sheets, scrunching the course fabric like it's a lifeline.

Then, a ripple spreads up her skin. It starts in her fingers, a washed-out purple, and spreads up and out, one thin line of color crawling all over her. When it hits her head, her eyelids flutter.

"Elle?" I stoop, ignoring the ache in my shoulders that comes from bending like that. Her eyelids stop fluttering, and for a second I'm perched precariously on the edge of a blade, with no room to inhale for fear of pushing the steel through my skin.

Her eyes open.

The blade vanishes as relief washes over me. "Buenas dias, sleepyhead," I breathe, reaching out to squeeze her hand. She regards me from behind half-closed eyelids, a weak smile lifts the corners of her chapped lips, only to be pressed down by the oxygen mask. Confusion wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. She lifts her free hand to touch the mask and her gaze darts over the parts of the room she can see. As she begins to recognize her environment, her heart rate on the monitor spikes.

"It's okay. We're not at the Compound," I say hurriedly, "we got out, remember? Look, Sky's here too, and Delilah, we're all okay." That seems to calm her. More so when Sky pokes his head over my shoulder.

"Had a good nap?" he asks. Elle tries to answer, but her voice is muffled by the mask. She paws at it, her fingers forming weak half-claws as she makes every effort to get the plastic over the end of her nose. I tug it off for her, leaving it dangling around her neck.

"Yes," she whispers, her voice is hoarse and airy. She looks around some more, regaining more strength by the second. "¿Dondé esta?"

"A hospital, in a city," I answer. I shift my weight so I'm not leaning on my arm and start asking questions. "How do you feel? How's your head?" I press the back of my hand to her forehead. Her eyes are clear of the fever-haze. In fact, they're clearer than they've been in a long time.

"Trick," she rasps, clutching my hand with her cold one. "I'm going to die."

"No, you're not." I withdraw my hand from her head. "You'll be fine. You're already doing better."

"My wings," she mumbles, her bright eyes, sunken in shadows, drift closed for a long minute. As if it's taking all the energy she has to focus.

"Do your horns hurt?" I ask. They've never bothered her before, but she's been laying on them for a day now. She shakes her head once to either side, webs of heavy purple veins stretch across her eyelids from the ridge of her brow to the ledge of her cheekbones, holding them shut.

"I had wings once," she murmurs, a furrow appearing over her eyes. "Recuerdo, they hurt."

My heart drops down to my toes. I thought she couldn't remember that, Mav told me that all her memories from back then were too fuzzy to read. She licks her lips with a dry tongue. "I think my bones are too heavy to fly. If I got my wings back I would just fall and die."

I straighten up abruptly, pulling away from her. Why is she talking like this? She's not going to die. She's not. She's fine now, she's awake and she's going to get better with the right medicine. I run my fingers over the edge of the burn scar. This new version of Elle scares me.

"Elle..."

"No ahora," she whispers, the webbed veins weighing her eyelids down again. "Estoy cansado."

"Okay," I replace the oxygen mask on her thin face. She's out by the time I finish adjusting the straps. Asleep so soon after waking up. But at least she woke up, I tell myself, and she'll do it again.

Towards the end of the night, the pain has uncoiled enough to let exhaustion squeeze in. The noises of the hospital become distant and blurry, fading away into a thin nothing-buzz as I get dragged down into sleep, too.