It was a club, Andy explained to me. The name of some underground dance club where ravers and other such sorts went to get high and dance and do whoever-knew-what-else. Before she explained that to me, though, she asked who'd written the note. She'd asked in a way that sounded teasing, but her face had revealed that concern she'd shown me since day one. Concern, and maybe something else—maybe resentment? It was hard to tell; I didn't trust myself with reading people. Clearly I'd misread Henry and Paolo . . .

Yours.

He was mine. Paolo. It must have been from him. Certainly no one else would've signed that way? My whole body had thrilled when I realized the note was probably from him. I'd missed Paolo, not just his immediate presence but the possibility of what might have been with him. A hundred times my thoughts had gone back to the time we'd spent together laughing, talking . . . kissing. The way his hands felt pulling me against him, the press of our bodies, the heated breath against my neck while he moved in liquid ways. I'd stopped him, then, because I'd had a reason to, but I didn't feel that reason now; I didn't feel an obligation to focus on Henry, to try to reserve my energy and care for him.

Henry had told me that Paolo knew, had been in on everything somehow . . . whether he was being truthful or not was something I'd agonized over but had no clear feeling about. There was no denying, though, that no matter how much I worried about Paolo's potential deception, I wanted to see him.

The only problem was the incredibly high possibility that this was a ruse. That it was Henry, not Paolo, who'd written the note. And the potential that Henry had found me was frightening. Frankly, the fact that anyone had found me was frightening. I had been in Peace Haven for days, weeks--I'd never left until Andy pulled me out literally the same day I'd received the note. Had Paolo or Henry or someone else known where I was the whole time and just been waiting for a chance to get at me? Why was hiding so impossible? I couldn't escape.

I pondered what to do for hours. At dinner, showering, lying in bed. There were the three possibilities: Paolo had written the note, Henry had written the note, someone else had written the note. I had no way of knowing which it was; all I could do was consider the outcomes of each situation. I was sure that I was willing to listen to Paolo if it had been he who'd contacted me. I was actually more excited than I wanted to admit at the idea of seeing him again, whatever the circumstances. But why would Paolo have hidden himself? Why set up this secretive meeting with me? Why not just come talk to me, even in the shelter? And how would he have found me? The last I'd seen him was standing on the side of the road, after the Hineses' deaths. So much would've had to happen for him to figure out where I'd gone, and it just didn't seem likely that he could've tracked me--at least, not without help . . . and if he'd had help, I didn't want to think who it might've been from.

Then there was the far more likely chance that Henry had pretended to be Paolo and written the note. It was certainly more his style--he'd contacted me more than once through cryptic middle-men. And it was far more likely that Henry had found me than that Paolo had found me. Henry had known my most recent location before I'd hopped on the bus that had brought me to Peace Haven, and it probably wouldn't have been too difficult for him to figure out what bus I'd been on and talk to the driver. He was, as he'd told me, a pretty good tracker himself. He also had more motivation than Paolo did. My heart wished to believe that Paolo had such strong feelings for me that he'd want to find me and confess his mistakes and promise to stay with me, but the likelihood of that all was slim--after what we'd been through, who'd want to stay with me? More strong was Henry's motivation. For whatever reason, he'd wanted me to be with him. I didn't really know his purpose for keeping me around, but he'd made it clear he wanted me. He would've been angry that I'd run off on him, too, and I could see Henry wanting to find me just to kill me for leaving. Unlike Paolo, he'd want to hide himself behind some mystery note and fake name. He wouldn't be able to just walk up to me and expect a rational conversation.

And then there was the third possibility: someone else had written the note. But this was so broad a prospect for me to comprehend--I didn't know how to feel about someone else going to such lengths for my attention.

So there was no real way of knowing who'd written the note, and there were even more complications when I thought about what to do about it. Option one: nothing at all. I didn't owe it to Paolo or Henry or anyone else to meet with them, to jump to attention when they contacted me. I could just not go to the club tomorrow night and forget the note ever came my way. In fact, part of me felt quite gratified imagining either Paolo or Henry waiting for me, alone, while I never arrived. But doing nothing had it's problems. First, I actually wanted to see Paolo, and I would always wonder what the note was about if I ignored it. Also, my time at Peace Haven was coming to an end, I could tell. They'd begun to ask me more questions, to follow up with me when they saw me, to check in with the names I'd written down. I knew that soon enough, they'd catch on, and then they'd be all into my business and I'd be forced to go. If I did go, though, what was my focus? Where to? Meeting back up with Paolo at least gave me a goal of some kind. Maybe he and I could return to San Judo. Maybe.

Doing nothing didn't seem like the best option, then. If I didn't go, I'd always wonder. On the other hand, getting into a club like Midnyte, which Andy had described in detail to me based on what she'd heard (as she was underage and had never been) sounded highly improbable. We were both sixteen or seventeen with nothing close to a fake ID; we had very little money between us; we knew nobody enough to get us in; and neither of us looked remotely club-ready apparel-wise. And even if we did somehow manage to get in, what would we do? I knew that the best thing would be to get there way ahead of whoever had written the note, disguise myself as best as I could, and lay in wait in order to try to spot them before they spotted me. If it were Paolo, I'd talk to him. If it were Henry, I'd leave as fast as I could. If it were someone else . . . well, I wouldn't recognize them, most likely, but they might know me, and that would put me at a clear disadvantage.

The outcome of the night could end up being so many things: disappointment, fear, danger, absolutely nothing--only time (and actually showing up) would tell.

By the time daylight returned, I'd managed only a couple hours of sleep, and the only thing I wanted for breakfast was a cup of coffee. However, when Andy approached me, I'd made up my mind. I'd go to Midnyte as early as was reasonable, disguise myself as best I could, and try to figure out who had sent the note before they saw me. This was the best plan I could think of, and my reasoning was plain and simple--I had nothing to lose. I didn't particularly want to see Henry or anyone from the Circuit, but if they had been the ones to contact me, who cared? I had no hope to protect, anymore, and while Peace Haven had been the closest thing to security that I'd had in ages, I'd known it was only a temporary solution. Perhaps Paolo was the only good thing that had come of all my misadventures, and even if the chance of him writing the note was slim, I had to know.

I explained the note to Andy by telling her part of the truth: that it was from a guy I really liked who'd hurt me but wanted a chance to apologize. She was wary of me meeting with him, going into protective mode, and while I had at first felt that this was the time to part ways with her, I realized her presence at this club could be a sort of help. Andy wanted to keep me safe, so why not let her try? I probably wouldn't need safety from Paolo (wouldn't want it), but Andy might put him a bit off, a bit at my mercy. And if it were Henry or someone else . . . well, another person might come in handy.

"And how the hell do you think we're getting in there?" she'd asked me.

"I've got it figured out," I'd said, because by that point, I did. Sort of.

So that morning, the two of us left Peace Haven for good (which I knew but she did not at the time). Our first order of business was appearance: I knew I wanted to dress differently, to hide myself if I could. I couldn't do much with the time and money I had, but even Andy agreed that we couldn't be in Midnyte looking like the homeless teens we were. So we found a Good Will and scrounged up some outfits I could afford. I managed to get some black tights (though they were kind of ripped), a babydoll dress with a stain or two, and a fake-leather jacket with a broken zipper. I figured my sneakers sort of fit already. Most important to my attire, though, was the hat I found. It was kind of like a beret and a beanie combined, and it fit over a lot of my hair, so once I got it properly onto my head, it was big enough that I knew it would shadow my features in a dark club. As we were getting ready to pay (with what little remaining cash I had), Andy found something in a jewelry display on the counter. She reached up to my face and clipped a small, shiny hoop on my nostril.

"Finishing touch, all right?" She stepped back and grinned at me. "You look good! He's gonna wish he hadn't hurt you!"

I felt my face warm. The compliment was nice but felt awkward coming from Andy. I didn't know her well enough to warrant it. In any case, I felt uncomfortable even without her comment—I couldn't remember wearing anything but casual attire (besides the uniform I wore during my stay in Oliphant); I wondered if I was trying too hard, but then I considered the precarious situation I was about to walk into and figured the more camouflage I had, the better.

Andy, who found clothes that were basically the same as what she already wore but nicer, seemed pretty thrilled to be getting some new stuff. As I paid, I reflected on how little money I had left. What I'd taken from the Hineses had almost run out; I was left with about seventy-five dollars, which would at least get us some fast food for lunch and maybe a few more meals for myself on my own. Internally, I sighed. My lack of cash would be another factor I'd have to contend with soon enough.

We whiled away the rest of the day by lying pretty low. We took a long lunch; Andy stopped at a variety of places to chat about her new clothes--oversize shirt and jeans, some chains, a really beat-up pair of combat boots that were a size too big--with people she knew while I stayed back in some alcove or stairwell or park bench. I couldn't say she was my friend, but I was appreciative of her friendliness, because it kept her busy most of the day while I pored over what might happen that night.

We arrived at about ten o' clock. Fortunately, the club had been only an hour's walk, and Andy knew how to get there. It was actually kind of nice to see more of where I'd been staying, even at night, although for most of our walk, my mind was on trying to be inconspicuous. We kept to lit roads, but frankly, I had no idea if we were in safe areas or not, so it did definitely feel better to have Andy there.

Once we were near enough to Midnyte and I could see the dimly lit club entrance with its one bodyguard and a short line of about six people, I pulled Andy aside and explained that we were going to go around the back. She didn't really like that idea, but I told her it was most likely the only way we were getting in, so she followed me into a shadowed alley behind the row of buildings.

Condensation dripped from dark pipes, dumpsters overflowed with trash--it was not a particularly nice alley (if there were such a thing). We managed to locate the back door to the club, though; we could tell it was right because of the obnoxiously loud music beyond. The door was big and solid and imposing, and it had one of those keypad locks, where you punched in a code and it popped open, and this one has a keyhole as well. Luck was on my side.

"Amirah, this sucks. No way we're getting in this way. Let's go back around the front. I bet I can talk him into it."

I knew she was referring to the guard letting us in, but I ignored her. She stood and watched while I crouched, put my ear to the door, pressed a few buttons to test it out. I knew that I could get this door open if I just had a few minutes to listen to it. I tried to concentrate, but the blasting music inside messed up my focus, as did Andy. She was nervous, and she broke my concentration more than once, snapping out comments about being seen and this being a bad idea, but I waved her off and continued what I was doing. I had to work to block out all the sound around me, and even though it took slightly longer than it had in the past, within about two minutes, I knew the code and was able to pop open the door.

I turned and gave Andy a smug expression. Her doubt had annoyed me. Being protective of me was one thing, but badgering me while I was trying to work was another.

She was staring at me, agape. "How the hell did you know to do that?"

"Lucky guess," I lied. I myself didn't know I had the knowledge until I was placed in a situation where it became necessary. Who knew why electronic keypads were so easy for me to crack?

I pulled the door ajar and was about to step inside when Andy stopped me.

"Amirah, wait a minute."

I turned to look at her and wondered at the situation--until now, Andy had, in a sense, been in charge, been confident that she knew where she was going and who to talk to and how to talk to them. I'd been passive in all of it. But now, I'd shown that I wasn't necessarily in need of her. If she thought that, though, she was wrong--I did sort of need her; I didn't want to be alone in there. Having someone with me--especially someone who, for some reason, felt protective of me--gave me some sort of buffer if things started to go south.

"What's the plan for when we go in?"

Shrugging, I replied, "I don't know. I look for Paolo. That's what. And if I see him, I talk to him; if I don't see him, we leave."

Andy nodded. She couldn't complain about that. But as I started again toward the booming rectangle of sound and dark that I'd opened before us, I thought I caught a glint of something inexplicable, something meaningful in her expression.

The sheer noise of the club was enough to make me dizzy. The electronic music pounded inside my head like it wanted to get back out, and it was only moments in a dark corridor before strobe lights created disorientation around us. We slipped right into the dancing crowds; nobody seemed to even notice us because it was so crammed with people. I was astonished. From the outside, the place hadn't seemed too populated, but I supposed that was the point. From what I could tell as I attempted to move through people with the hope of finding space to stand for a moment, there were raised platforms around a very crowded dance floor, and there seemed to be tables--tall ones, where people could just place drinks--and then there was some sort of upper balcony level. A back-lit bar was very visible for obvious reasons, but other than that, I couldn't make out much. It was just a sea of throbbing people and sound and strobing light. My dizziness intensified, and I feared for a moment that I would fall into another memory, but thankfully, I didn't, and after a few claustrophobic moments of prodding people out of the way, I found a small space near the bathrooms where I could at least breathe.

I checked that Andy was with me, because I hadn't been able to see her as we pushed through the people, and she was there, saying something to me with a grin on her face, though I couldn't hear her at all.

She moved super close and practically screamed in my ear, "Awesome, right?"

I had other thoughts, but there was no way I was wasting my voice trying to shout through the crowd . . . not to mention I didn't particularly want to get that close to Andy.

She leaned in again. "Now what?" she yelled in my ear.

I flinched, her shout somehow paining my eardrum more than the noise. I only shrugged in reply. Truly, I didn't know what next. I figured I'd just kind of stand around and keep my eyes open for Paolo (who I hoped would be there) or Henry (who I prayed wouldn't). At least with my back against the wall, neither of them could sneak up on me. I had a decent location for scanning the crowd, although the flashing lights and colors made it difficult to make out the face of anyone more than a few feet away, but I also realized that there, against the wall where others weren't, I myself stood out some. So I pulled my hat down more over my head and just hoped I would be well enough camouflaged.

The longer we stood there, the more anxious I grew. I tried to study the crowd, to catch a glimpse of Paolo's dark wavy hair or Henry's white-blond hair, because frankly, hair was easier to make out than the finer facial features. Every few minutes, I'd think I saw something only to realize my eyes were fooling me. Nothing really happened for probably twenty minutes. Andy began to grow as impatient as I was. Although I wasn't really paying attention to her and how frustrated she probably was, after some time she grabbed my arm and screamed something about going to the bar. I didn't want to move, but then I figured that even if moving made me more visible (and therefore more vulnerable) I'd probably never see either Paolo or Henry or anybody else I could recognize from my present location.

I followed her, this time, wading through the path she cut through the crowd. I tried to look at faces as I drew close to them, but everyone I could make out was intent on what they were doing, not looking around for someone. Once or twice I made eye contact with someone and it was awkward, like we shared some weird reality check amidst the sea of sound and light, and I quickly turned away in each case.

Andy was much more in her element leading than she was following. I realized she'd probably felt incompetent when I'd opened the back door so confidently--it had put her off. But after seeing that I was getting nowhere just waiting against the wall, she'd taken charge, and that put her back into her normal vibe. She was full-on mother hen pulling me through the crowd. More than once we were squeezed more than I felt comfortable being squeezed, and I was pretty sure people's hands were on me where I didn't want them and someone even pinched my side at one point but the lighting was so poor and erratic and the people just melted in and out of one another and it all was a total blur. Andy shoved several shapes away from me, and I was actually grateful for her bravado at that point. Though I could be an aggressor if I had to be, I was a lot smaller in stature than Andy was. She had more presence than I did.

Somehow, we made it to the bar. I let Andy order us drinks, though I had no intention of drinking one. As we waited in line, I could survey the faces around us. But even there, when I was closer to people (so close I could feel breath on me whenever someone yelled across me), I saw no face I recognized. Whether I felt frustration or disappointment growing more, I couldn't tell. Both intertwined inside me, and something like panic began to surface, too, which I was surprised about. I didn't know where it was coming from--probably a mix of the chaos around me and the anticipation of seeing someone I did want to see and the anxiety of someone I didn't want to see . . . it was all swimming around in me to the point where nausea threatened, moving up from my abdomen into my stomach, a chill taking me from the top . . .

I had to get to the restroom, fast.

Entirely forgetting about Andy, I pushed forward through the people, not caring if I appeared rude or if they shouted things after me, just focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Everything was spinning--colors, sounds, bodies--all caught up in a redness that seemed to be dripping down my vision, staining everything. I couldn't get through the crowd. Everything was pressing up on me, closing me in, suffocating me . . .

But then there was Andy, again, holding me up, somehow carrying a drink as she shouldered people aside, and then we were in a space where there weren't people, at least, not so many. It was cooler, and lighter, and the pounding had its edge taken off, but I couldn't breathe well, and the red had turned to shadows. Everything was fading away; I was going to pass out, lose control of myself, and terror deepened inside me but there was nothing I could do.

"It's all right," I heard Andy say, somewhere far and distant, though her tone wasn't consoling. "Don't fight it. You're perfect."

Confusion . . . dizziness . . . something hard and cold against my face, the floor.

And then, as the world turned black, I thought I heard another familiar voice, angry and threatening . . . and then, sounds of a fight.