Zane stood in the bitter cold, his breath fogging in the air as he watched Esme inspect the trenches they'd spent hours digging. Her eyebrows furrowed as she tilted her head, studying the uneven holes punched into the frozen walls.

"There are so many sizes," Esme remarked, squinting at the chaos. "You're telling me Ashley didn't make these?"

Ashley had once been able to carve out holes with just her feet, sinking into the ground like it was soft clay.

"No," Zane's replied. "We only dug to a certain length. We need your help finishing it."

"I'll get to it after I tie up Luke," Esme said, cracking her knuckles. "Psycho slashed my face. And now, thanks to Bella going full mom mode, Jason's not going on the rescue mission."

Zane didn't respond. He'd noticed Bella changing since Teagan's death. Grief was hard to shake—he understood that—but there was something about her behaviour that didn't sit right with him.

Esme pointed down the trench. "So, what's the plan? Am I dragging Conner with me, or are we making this thing wider or longer?"

"Wider at the ends," Zane said. "We need to fit more people. Shelter's everything right now."

Esme grabbed Connor by the wrist and zipped down the trench with a burst of speed. Dirt exploded in every direction as she worked, carving the trench deeper and wider at its far end.

The goal was simple: dig deep enough to survive the storm.

"You're like a human drill," Esme quipped, wiping soil from her face.

Conner panted heavily, his breath forming thick clouds in the frozen air. "I better get a raise for this."

Zane rotated the flashlight, its beam cutting through the swirling snow.

Roofs sagged under the weight, some collapsed entirely. Houses peeked from thick snowdrifts like half-buried skeletons.

"We could start fires down here," Esme suggested, wiping sweat from her brow despite the cold.

"It's not much better than getting burned by the snow," Zane sighed.

"I'm heading to the power plant with Cindy," Esme beamed, bouncing slightly on her toes.

Cindy had become a ghost lately—barely showing up, and when she did, she disappeared before the work actually started.

"Help with this dirt," Connor groaned.

"Then hand me the shovel," Esme shot back, snatching it mid-air and slamming it into the frozen ground. "I'll dig faster than you ever could."

Suddenly, Talia dropped into the trench, panic in her dark eyes. "Zane, I need help!"

Without hesitation, Zane climbed the ladder and took her hand. Together, they pushed through the thick snowdrifts, wind whipping flakes into their faces and biting at their skin.

"What's wrong?" he asked, avoiding patches of the snow.

"Daycare," Talia panted, leading them as they stumbled inside. "Come to the back."

The calm inside the daycare did nothing to ease the tension. In the back room, Zane spotted Angel and Layla huddled over Ilya, who lay unconscious on the floor, wrapped in a blanket.

"She started shaking," Layla said, her voice cracking, her hands balled in fists. "She wouldn't respond. Then she just passed out."

Zane knelt beside Ilya and pressed two fingers to her neck. Her pulsed fluttered weakly beneath his skin. Her breathing was shallow, but at least steady.

"She had a seizure," Zane said quietly. "Do either of you know if she's had them before?"

"Angel knew what to do because he has epilepsy," Layla said, kneeling beside her sister. "Do you think Hanna or Emma would know what's going no?"

Zane tried to recall if Ilya had shown any signs that might explain this, but nothing came to mind.

"Does she take medication?" Angel asked.

"Antidepressants," Layla said. "She ran out of her usual prescription a couple of months ago and switched to a new brand."

The infirmary was already beyond full—people with burns, people with the virus, all cracked into one small space. Hanna and Emma were drowning in it. Bringing Ilya there might do more harm than good.

"Maybe we wait until she wakes up," Talia said awkwardly, rocking back and forth on her heels.

Layla turned to Angel, her eyes searching his face. "Does starvation cause seizures?"

Angel nodded slowly. "Yeah. Not eating enough, dehydration, even exhaustion can all trigger it. Stress too. Especially if someone's under a lot of pressure."

"I should take her to the infirmary," Layla mumbled.

Angel shook his head. "Emma can't fix hunger. Or stress. If she could, she wouldn't be collapsing herself."

"Should we grab some medicine?" Zane asked as he glanced at Angel.

"Let's wait," Angel said. "It could be a drug reaction."

"Drug reaction?" Talia echoed, her knitting together.

"Yeah," Angel replied. "If this was triggered by alcohol or drugs, we could make it worse."

"Stay with her," Zane instructed Talia.

He scanned the room, weighing the risks—taking her to the infirmary might expose her to the virus, leaving her here let the seizure return.

Decision made, he grabbed a thin blanket from the corner, tucking it carefully around Ilya. "We're keeping her warm. I also need to check on Esme and Conner."

Talia gave a reassuring smile and nodded.

Zane slipped out of the room, pulling the door gently shut behind him. A small cluster of kids stood outside, wide-eyes and fidgeting.

"Is Mother Ilya okay?" one boy asked.

"She's just sleeping right now," Zane said. "She needs rest, that's all."

"But she wasn't sleeping before," another child pointed out.

Zane wove through the cluster of kids, nodding as he passed. He didn't slow down long enough for real questions.

Emma wasn't an option this time for helping Ilya. It wasn't because she lacked the knowledge, but she was already drowning in too much.

He stumbled toward the trenches, carefully climbing down, then slipped, landing hard in his back. He groaned, knowing there was no time to rest—he had to get ahead of this before the next wave of dumping vomit buckets.

"I think we're done!" Esme called, barreling over, Conner panting behind. "What was the emergency? Some kid fall?"

"Ilya had a seizure," Zane replied, dusting snow off his coat.

"Is she sick?" Esme asked.

"Not exactly. It's neurological," Zane explained.

"Alright," Esme groaned, hauling herself out of the trench. "I'm going to attempt to find Cindy."

As Esme disappeared into the storm, Xander slid down into the trench, breathing hard. He'd been digging too, but it wasn't easy, especially since he'd been helping Mark with burying the bodies.

"Any luck?" Zane called.

"Found a few ice bags," Xander said, dropping to the ground. "But no sand. Yara and Colby went searching."

They needed sandbags to hold the tarp overhead. Rocks wouldn't work—too easy to blow away in the wind—and ice would only pile up, trapping them beneath a frozen tomb.

Zane nodded, through his head felt heavy and slow. The lantern flickered, and for a second he wondered how much longer he could keep pretending he knew what he was doing.

"How are the sick?" he asked.

Xander let out a ragged sigh, fingers running through his hair. "Awful. Still vomiting, still dying. I swear, someone coughed up their lungs, and Emma vomited too."

How do you even fight something that brutal? No one's cured yet—except maybe the burn victims.

"It's still bad," Xander said. "You know how to get the hydro back on?"

"No clue," Zane admitted. "Probably something at the power plant. But half the hydro poles are down."

"Don't you just flip a switch?" Conner grumbled.

"Greyson is trying to get it back on," Zane said.

"Well, I'm going to see Hanna," Conner said, climbing out.

Conner was slowly warming up to them, but mostly stuck close to Hanna, helping out in the infirmary when he could.

"We have another problem," Yara called, ducking her head down to look at them. "Colby got the virus."

"How?" Xander asked. "Did he wear that stupid mask again?"

Colby was one of the guys who'd help Zane out at the fire department. He was a good guy but had this habit of trying to MacGyver his way through problems. He decided to make a mask of duct tape and cardboard since he was allergic to wool.

"Yeah," Yara said, crossing her arms. "He thought it would hold up better than a scarf."

Zane nodded as he climbed his way out into the blowing snow. "I'll come help you. Has he started coughing up blood yet?" he shouted through the storm.

Yara stood a few feet away, hood drawn tight, snow crusting her sleeves. "He vomited and had that violent cough," she said, her tone grim. "We should just name the virus something."

Xander emerged from the trench, his face drained of colour. He glanced at Zane, who was double-checking the tarp to make sure it was sealed tight. If it wasn't, their entire plan would fall apart.

"It's just the flu," Xander yelled over the wind.

"The flu doesn't make you cough up your intestines," Yara shot back. "We call it Inflammatory death. You know, since inflammation's supposed to be helpful? ID, for short."

"It's like we're expecting them to die," Xander remarked.

"Better than calling it a virus," Zane sighed.

They stumbled into the church, only to be met with a scene far grimmer than they'd anticipated. At the top of the stairs, people were slumped against the walls, some coughing violently and others bearing severe burns. Near the entrance to the chapel, two lifeless bodies sprawled on the ground.

"There are more dead bodies upstairs," Emma murmured, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

The trio ascended the stairs, each step revealing more of the horrifying scene. Four bodies had been propped against a pew, likely carried there by someone desperate to clear the way.

In the aisle, two burned victims lay on the ground, their hands exposed and charred with gruesome burns.

"How's Colby?" Zane asked, turning to Emma.

"I think he threw up blood," she mumbled, bewildered.

Zane knew that wasn't a good sign. Vomiting blood meant something inside you was torn or bleeding. In the virus, it meant death.

"We'll try and remove the bodies," Zane suggested.

They went back downstairs into the infirmary, which was now packed with people. The volunteers wore medical masks already soaked through with blood and mucus.

The infected were hunched over plastic containers, coughing so violently their bodies shook. Some missed the buckets entirely. The smell hit before the sound did.

"Holy shit," Xander gasped.

Children as young as five cried out for their parents, their voice piercing the air. Some writhed in pain, clutching themselves as if the sickness was a living thing.

Zane stepped carefully between two buckets, gagging slightly at the smell. If the sickness continued at its current rate, it could potentially cut their population in half.

As they approached Colby, he coughed up blood and struggled to catch his breath. His face was pale, and his eyes were filled with fear.

Yara sighed, "This is what happens when you don't wear proper protective gear."

As Zane turned around, he saw Bryce holding two buckets of vomit. "Come to collect some samples?" he asked sarcastically. "Unfortunately, we don't have any good food."

Xander's voice was filled with desperation. "Do you have a clue how to help them?" he asked.

"Nah, being a doctor isn't really my thing," Bryce said as he walked over people to get around.

Inflammatory death could end up killing them all.

Greyson stared at the ice spreading across the floor, chewing on his pinky nail. Beside him, Scarlett stepped up without a word and handed him a chunk of pineapple from the dented can she had.

"You know, we don't have to do this," she said.

Greyson shook his head, the words firm. "We're getting the hydro back on. No matter what."

Scarlett arched an eyebrows and shot a look at James across the room. He didn't respond—just stared down, unmoving, his breath fogging the cold air.

"Where the hell did Luke go?" Greyson snapped. "Did he just wander off and get himself lost?"

"Maybe he went running back to his psycho," Scarlett mocked.

Since arriving at the power plant, Luke had been more liability than help. Last they'd heard, he had gone off to fight with Jason, and hadn't returned.

"How much longer do we have?" Greyson asked impatiently.

"An hour. Maybe less," James replied, not looking up.

Greyson scanned the room, trying to find anything to speed things up—then flinched as a freezing drip landed on his cheek.

"Is there a leak?" Scarlett asked.

"We have to move," James said, eyes widening as he looked toward the ceiling.

Greyson followed James' gaze and spotted the fracture—a hairline crack illuminated by the flashlight. "Get to the higher grounds!" he shouted.

They scrambled into the control room just as water exploded from the ceiling pipes, cascading in freezing sheets.

"Did you pull the fire alarm or start a sprinkler party?" Scarlett mocked. "Because what the hell is this?"

Four of the narrow pipes overhead had split open, spraying violent jets of water like ruptured arteries. The bitter air froze the flood almost instantly. Ice raced across the floor in spiderweb patterns, sealing it in a glassy, lethal sheen.

"Great," Scarlett stated dully.

Greyson yanked open the control panel and climbed onto a rusted step, squinting through the spreading frost. A jagged hole in the ceiling was barely visible now, partially sealed by ice.

"This is going to kill us," James gasped. "The pipes are going to burst, and the whole plant will flood."

"I'm going to try to plug it," Greyson said.

"They not to kill us!" Scarlett shouted after him.

Greyson hurried down the icy steps and focused, extending his hand. A storage box rattled, lifted by an invisible force, and shot upward. It crashed into the frozen gap, but the hole stayed intact.

"You're going to break the whole roof down!" James panicked.

"Let's just leave while we still have ankles," Scarlett called out.

"Not yet," Greyson muttered, eyes narrowing.

He spotted a rested culvert leaning against a toppled crate, half-frozen into the wall.

He extended his hand, sweat beading at his temples despite the freezing air. Pressure built behind his eyes. The culvert groaned as it lifted, metal shrieking against ice. He wedged it into place over the top pipe. The spray sputtered, weakened, and finally stopped.

"I got it," Greyson said with a grin.

"We'll have to restart the sequence from scratch," James reminded him.

Scarlett sighed. "And the pipe is frozen," she pointed out.

"We can break it with the culvert," Greyson remarked.

He lifted it again—this time slamming it down with a metallic crack. The pipe fractured slightly. He quickly began stacking culvert pieces over the hole, but the ice cracked, and the pieces collapsed with a clatter.

"Well, wasn't that a masterpiece?" Scarlett mocked.

Greyson exhaled sharply, fogging the air as he stared down at the broken metal. His breath came faster now, frustration crawling up his spine. Outside, the wind howled, and snowflakes drifted lazily through the shattered ceiling, settling on his tuque.

"Are we sure the pipe won't break again?" Scarlett pressed.

"Stop worrying, Scarlett. It will work," Greyson snapped.

He descended the slick metal stairs, boots skidding slightly. His mind raced—tools. They needed something sharp, something strong. He scanned the floor for machines, valves, anything not encased in ice. Most if it looked ancient or broken.

Suddenly, a faint voice reached his ear. "Help!"

"Don't tell me they ditch Andrew?" Greyson growled, sweeping the flashlight around.

The beam caught something—a figure slumped near a large, grey cylinder, half-encased in thick ice. Greyson walked over, Scarlett and James following. He eyed the setup. If he yanked Henry out too fast, it could destabilize the ice around the pressure tank, and possibly trigger a blow.

"Where's Stick?" Greyson demanded.

"Went back to Uden Academy," Henry mumbled, teeth clattering. "Get me out of this!"

Greyson eyed the ice encasing Henry's lower half. It wrapped around him like concrete, and pulling him out too fast might rupture the frozen ground—or worse, the tank beside him. Still, Henry was useful when he wasn't mouthing off.

He extended his hand, focusing his telekinesis on Henry's upper body. The invisible force pushed, tugged—but nothing happened.

"It's not working," he muttered.

"Why not have James try it?" Scarlett suggested, her hand gently caressing his neck.

"Fine," Greyson spat, his eyes narrowing at James.

James stepped forward, kneeling beside Henry. He braced his hands around Henry's shoulders and pulled. The ice cracked loudly as Henry's body came loose, his legs still encased in a massive chunk.

Henry's hit the ground with a grunt. "I can't feel my legs."

Greyson looked past him, chewing his pinky nail again. They still didn't have anything to break through the frozen pipe—just useless hunks of machinery and ice-covered scraping.

"We need a tool," he said aloud. "Something sharp that can cut or chip away at the ice."

Scarlett leaned against the wall. "Like what? Everything down here's either frozen or prehistoric."

Greyson eyes landed on the pineapple can in Scarlett's hand. He snatched without warning. He flattened his palm, and slammed the can against the ice. It made a pathetic metallic thud, barely scratching the surface.

"Well, that did absolutely nothing," Scarlett mocked.

"We need something sharp," Greyson said. "Henry, go find something metal."

Henry tried to stand, nearly slipping on the ice. "I can barely feel my body," he said.

"Hurry up," Greyson snapped.

He spun on his heel, eyes darting across the plant. Every surface was crusted in frost or frozen shut. Most of the equipment was mechanical—buttons, switches, gears—and none of it looked portable or functional.

Luke's noodle arm might've been good for smashing something small, but he couldn't even break a keycard sensor. Useless right now.

Scarlett raised an eyebrow."So what's the plan?" she asked. "Die down here while you invent a steampunk icebreaker?"

"Preston is bringing tools," Greyson said.

Scarlett laughed sardonically. "Preston? You mean the same pervert who spied on me while I was changing? Please. He'll probably show up carrying a chair like that's supposed to help."

Greyson groaned and ran a hand through his hair, the strands stiff with cold. If Preston showed up carrying furniture instead of tools, he swore he'd fling him across the plant.

"He won't," he growled. "He'll get the tools."

Preston had his own problems to deal with. He rummaged through the east-end building, collecting a set of Luke's "weapons." Greyson had made it clear to find something without telling anyone.

He picked out a hammer, a rubber mallet, and a few other tools that looked weird.

When he tried to hoist the overstuffed bag onto his shoulder, it slipped from his grip and slammed onto the floor. The thud boomed down the empty hallway, far louder than it should have.

"Shit," he grunted.

He grabbed the strap with both hands and dragged the bag down the corridor, boots squeaking against the floor as the weighed pulled his shoulders.

By the time he reached the stairwell, he stumbled forward, barely avoiding a face plant down the stairs.

"Why does it always have to be me?" he muttered, his shoulders already burning.

He remembered Greyson's rules: check in with Maverick before heading out. Unfortunately, Maverick being in charge was basically a curse. He just terrorizes with his power and doesn't want to joke around.

Preston stepped into the dining hall and immediately met Maverick's cold stare.

"Got to bring these to Greyson," he said, panting.

Maverick didn't even blink. His eyes stayed cold and steady.

"Fine," he said flatly, rolling his eyes.

Preston resumed his slow trudge down the corridor, dragging the bag behind him like a corpse. He didn't even want to know why Luke had all this stuff in a classroom. It definitely wasn't for fixing a loose door.

"Let me come," a voice chirped behind him.

He turned to see Mia standing there with a dazed smile.

"You're going to knock yourself out with a hammer," Preston said.

"I'm bored," she whined.

Greyson had told him to be quick—but of course, he also wanted hydro, which meant a detour through a snowstorm. Nothing about this was going to be quick.

"I'll flash you," Mia offered.

Preston blinked. "Really?" he asked.

"Yup."

"Okay."

She cheered and threw a fist in the air.

Still, Preston has doubts. Bringing someone high into a snowstorm felt like asking for a disaster. The last thing he needed was Mia mixing up the gas pedal with the brake and sending them into a ditch.

With his hood pulled tight against the wind, Preston trudged through the waist-high snow toward one of the few cars that had gas. He tossed the bag in the backseat with a grunt, then stared at the steering wheel. Someone was always the designated driver.

"Be right back," he said, heading back inside to see if he could find anyone sober to drive.

When he came back, the worst-case scenario had already unfolded—Mia sat in the driver's seat, hands confidently gripping the wheel.

"You're going to get us killed," Preston said flatly.

"I've driven high before," she said smugly. "I was even on time. I've had tons of practice."

Preston buckled up his seatbelt with shaking hands, bracing for whatever disaster came next. Mia turned toward him with a grin, unzipped her blue coat, and lifted her shirt just enough to show her bra. This was something she had done more than once to him.

"See? Eye candy," Mia purred, zipping back up and jamming the key in the ignition. "Let's pick up people. Everyone else gets to go on these fun little death missions."

Preston leaned back, satisfied—being flashed wasn't rare, but it was still better than dealing with Maverick. Then again, Mia would probably flash a squirrel if it asked nicely.

"I barely know people," Mia complained.

Preston put his boots on the dashboard as they bumped down the icy road. "You're stoned half the time."

"Exactly why we need more people! It'd be like a party!" she chirped, sticking her tongue out.

"Well, there's always at the infirmary."

Ever since the illness swept through, the infirmary had turned into a revolving door of bodies, blood, and coughing fits. With no power at Party Culture, the church seemed like next hangout.

Mia skidded toward the old church, wheels fishtailing as snow spiralled around them. Outside, people moved in and out of the infirmary—some hunched, others carrying limp bodies.

"Let's go!" Mia cheered, nearly face-planting as she stepped out.

"You walk like a drunk," Preston mumbled.

The moment Mia pushed the door open, a wave of coughing hit Preston like a wall. The room smelled sickly and damp. People shuffled around, some hunched over, and others barely moving at all.

"We need a doctor!" Mia called out, laughing as she tripped down the stairs.

"I knew this would be bad," Preston mumbled.

"Preston?" Emma mustered out with tired eyes. "Is someone sick?"

He pointed to Mia, who was now sprawled on the ground with a bloody nose, grinning.

"Sup, Emma," Mia said, sticking her tongue out.

"I'm not healing you," Emma replied, already moving away.

"Mia's not smoking? Is this a revolution?" Bryce asked, sauntering over with a smirk. "You actually come to help out?"

"Nah, I'm bored," she said, glancing around the room.

Mia and Bryce were known as Uden Academy's top delinquents due to all their misbehaviour outside of school. They weren't just known as delinquents; they were part of a group that has done criminal activity.

"Bryce, come party with me," Mia pleaded, pulling his sleeve.

"Where's Will?" Bryce snarked.

Mia groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. "Can we get the crackheads back together already?"

"You know who'll be the hardest to convince," Bryce said, waving a dismissive hand. "Now, go off on your adventure."

As they headed back upstairs, Mia tripped over a motionless body slumped in the hallway. She let out a surprised yelp, then burst into laughter.

"I'm turning into Tumbles," she giggled, climbing back into the car. "Let's go to that party place!"

Mia fired up the engine before Preston had even closed the door. The car lurched forward, and the icy wind rushed in as he scrambled to pull it shut.

The ride to Party Culture blurred into a flurry whiteout, slippery turns, and Mia humming tunelessly to herself.

When they finally arrived, Mia rolled out of the car, her movements unsteady.

Inside, the building was dim and silent, the only light coming from flickering candles stuck in empty beer bottles.

"See, party people," Mia slurred, sliding her white mittens along the counter to meet Nevaeh's gaze.

Mia looked like just another girl who wanted to party or smoke, but Preston knew better. He knew what she did in secret. People at Uden Academy were aware, for obvious reasons, but he knew the delinquent acts she committed.

"Do you party?" Mia asked bluntly.

Nevaeh smirked and gave a small nod. "Depends who's asking."

"Perfect. You're in."

Preston stayed silent, his eyes scanning the dark place. You couldn't tell who was who unless you got right up in their face—and no one here looked like they wanted that.

"Right, I'm Mia Ortiz," she declared, throwing her arms open.

"Also known as Uden's biggest stoner," Nevaeh said. "I'll see if there is someone who wants to come. I just came from a mission."

Preston slumped in a cold metal chair as he stared intently at Mia as she gazed at him. "I'm not flashing you my whole body; it's too cold," she dismissed, waving a hand.

Nevaeh came out with a tall boy with long black hair that covered part of his face. "Meet Vince."

"Do you party?" Mia asked dumbly.

Vince gave a small nod.

"Great. You pass," she grinned, pumping her fist again before stumbling out the door.

"She walks like a drunk," Vince muttered, watching Mia zigzag.

The four of them piled into the car, their breath fogging the windows. Preston was supposed to be making a delivery, not some road trip.

Mia's voice cut through the quiet. "Hey, dude, you want to get flashed?"

"Flashed?" Vince echoed, his brows furrowing.

Mia kept one hand firmly on the steering wheel; her other reached under her shirt, lifting it enough to show her bra. "Flashed, duh," she said dumbly.

"You always flash people?" Nevaeh asked.

"I flash the pervert often," Mia said, patting Preston on the head. "There is nothing wrong with it. Can we go to Wasaga Beach instead?"

He didn't want to get punished for failing to do a task. Greyson needed him, and he would do the tasks, despite not exactly going according to plan. He thought he would have ended up just driving back with the bag, but having people with him might be smarter.

"How'd you get into Uden?" Nevaeh asked.

"I think it was the weed stash and being bisexual," Mia said casually, sticking out her tongue.

"Bisexual?" Preston asked. "What's that?"

"Means I like girls and boys," Mia explained, wiggling her eyebrows.

"You get labelled for it?" Nevaeh asked.

Mia let out a small sigh, "Unless they find you weird or whatnot. Few people have been admitted because of their sexuality. You know those parents who are scolding and believe girls should only date boys?"

Preston watched the swirling snow, mesmerized. The fields that barely had snow a couple days ago were now loaded with snow that you could probably sled down.

"Imagine if the whole bubble was filled with snow," he mumbled.

Mia's eyes lit up, a mischievous glint returning. "The fun part about Uden is that you can get away with literally anything!" she declared. "I drugged the headmistress by putting sleeping pills in her coffee, and I suggested that Luke play Jesus for Stations of the Cross. You can get away with drugs, sex, and stealing if you distract a teacher. Even at the reform camp, where they barely guarded us."

"Reform camp?" Nevaeh asked as Mia nodded, attempting to zigzag through the snowdrifts.

"It's for the worst-behaving students. Supposed to 'fix' our religious beliefs or whatever issues they think we have," Mia explained. "Most do naughty behaviour there. We crackheads were sent there every summer."

Preston glanced in the backseat. Vince stared at Mia with wide, horrified eyes, like she'd just recited the ten commandments backward.

He hadn't been to reform camp, but he'd done time at the secondary camp—the one for lighter offences. Like stealing swimsuit magazines from his sister and getting caught.

"What's your preference?" Nevaeh asked.

"I prefer boys," Mia admitted. "But girls are better kissers."

Suddenly, something appeared in the road. A figure—short, slender, unmoving—materialized from the snowstorm like a ghost.

"I'm gonna hit it," Mia said calmly.

"What if it's someone we know?" Vince shouted, his eyes wide.

"They'd move," Mia said dumbly as she hit Ashley and went flying. "Weeoo!" Mia made siren sounds.

Finally they pulled up to the power plant, where the SUV was still parked but covered in snow. He scrambled out and rushed to open the trunk and grab the bag. He wasn't sure how Greyson would react to this.

Mia's character is someone I literally laugh at writing any scene with her.

What do you think is happening with Ilya?

Don't forget to comment and vote!
-Lexi