First, I felt something soft, and in my muddled mind I thought it was a bed. My bed. Back at the Hineses. And I was sleeping in, and I was warm and happy . . . and then I felt something poking me in the back, and someone I'd grown to hate spoke above me, and I was brought back to everything. I didn't know what he was saying, and I didn't care. I convinced myself to try to open my eyes only in the hope that I could get up and run, but I quickly realized that I couldn't move anything without monumental effort.

"Just wait. The sleeper takes time."

What was he talking about? My brain slipped in and out of shadows. I thought he said my name a few more times, but I didn't comprehend much else. Little but the sound of him. But at some point--and I truly couldn't tell what sort of time had passed--I did manage to open my eyes to a dark-but-lightening back alley, brick walls, trash, and I felt the old mattress I was on creaking under Henry's weight as he turned to look at me.

There he was, in my vision . . . how I hated him, now. But my immediate reaction to his appearance was to envy how much better he'd been at hiding than I'd been. His hair and eyebrows were black--dark as ink. It was disconcerting against his fair skin, spooky almost. His clothing was different, too, in a boring sort of way, but at a quick glance, he wouldn't have looked like himself in that nightclub. I wondered if my own eyes had crossed him and not known.

I realized I was staring and had to look away. My eyes were about the only thing I could control, anyway.

"Nadia," he said again, and anger rose in me to hear him say my name. "Don't do too much. It takes longer to wear off if you fight it."

I tried to say something about how much I hated him, but the words burned in my throat.

He was staring at me, probably trying to figure out what I'd tried to tell him. "You're a terrible judge of character," he said at last, still studying me.

I wished I could move, or at least turn around so I wouldn't be facing him.

"Your friend's a scab."

Friend? Scab? What was he talk--? Andy. He meant Andy. A scab? I'd heard that term before . . . in another lifetime, it seemed. Slim, Henry's friend--he'd been a scab. Scabs worked for the Circuit. They recruited new members . . . but . . .

"The Circuit is everywhere. I don't think she knows who you are, seemed low-level. But she's been following you for weeks, looking for the right moment. It was stupid of you to unlock that door in front of her."

The door? His words jumbled in my mind. She'd said I was perfect, hadn't she? Or was that just part of a hallucination or dream? Had I actually heard her say that? It would make sense, if she were a scab. I'd be perfect for the Circuit. Perfect to steal for them. I wanted to hurt Henry, fight him, get him away from me; it was infuriating that in the current circumstances, I could barely talk back, let alone get physical.

"The n-note—y-ou—"I managed to grind out between my teeth, though it took a lot of effort.

"No," he adamantly stated. "Stop trying to talk. It'll take longer, and we need to move. We can't stay here."

Frustrated and angry (at him, at Andy, at myself—who knew?), I really had no choice but to listen to him. I shut my eyes and stopped stressing to move any muscles. I was grateful that he stopped talking, too. For a while, I sank under a veil of sorts, half awake and half asleep, but I felt myself slowly being pulled toward the surface, and all of a sudden there I was again, fully opening my eyes to a lighter atmosphere, actually able to pull myself up onto my elbows.

When Henry saw, he practically jumped over to me from across the alley, where he'd been standing against the wall. I must've been out longer than it had felt. He was so different with that hair . . . More jagged, more of an edge to his appearance, but also somehow weaker looking. He was so pale, and his eyes were even more transparent, like windows into his skull. His face drew close enough to mine that I thought I saw a spark somewhere beyond his glass irises, in the darkness of his head.

"Good. Can you stand?"

I gave him a withering look.

He pursed his lips and stepped back. "Fine. I'll help you. We have to go."

"I don't want to go with you," I said in a terribly raspy voice but at least a voice that didn't hurt.

Typical of himself, he said nothing but flipped out his hover device and another next to it and then came over to me. I literally had no fight in me, so when he put his hands up under my arms and lifted me into a shaky standing position, I could only fume internally. He knew I couldn't do anything. He was entirely taking advantage of me, and I was too weak to resist. He forced me up onto the hoverboard with much effort and then got up onto his, and, holding me against himself, Henry guided us unsteadily at first and then with waxing grace out of whatever alley we'd been hiding in. He didn't move as quickly as he had when we'd been in the woods because he seemed to be working to keep us hidden. The watery light told me it was early, early morning, so people were probably pretty scarce, but even so, he didn't want us to be seen. There were also more impediments—trash bins, stairwells, protruding doorways, and other such things. I didn't know what he was looking for or where we were going, but when he stopped at a poorly-lit car lot, I knew what he was after.

And I was right. He hotwired a minivan with absolutely no trouble, pushed me into the front seat, and drove us off the lot in a matter of minutes.

There I was, once again driving to who-knew-where with him, unable to do anything about it. But this time, I knew who he was (or who he wasn't), and the minute I got my strength back, I'd do whatever it took to get away from him.

"So did you write that note?" I asked him out of the blue after we'd been driving for ten or fifteen minutes. On the one hand, I didn't want to talk to him, but on the other hand, some ridiculous part of me still hoped Paolo had written it and I'd somehow missed him at Midnyte. Even if he'd been disingenuous, couldn't he still have feelings for me?

"I already told you I didn't. Obviously, it was the scab. She wanted you somewhere she could take you out without anyone noticing."

Disappointed, I knew that made sense. Enough people passed out in clubs and bars that it wouldn't look weird to be dragged out by a friend. My heart hurt to think Henry was right. I'd so wanted it to be from Paolo. Of course I knew the chances of him being the note's author were slim, but I'd hoped anyway. And Andy knew I had some stuff in my past; she'd probably just made some educated guesses and a note vague enough to convince me it was real. Something else occurred to me. Almost to myself, I said, "And I did feel a sharp pinch when she was with me, in my side . . . She probably injected it then." I'd been given sleepers more than once, but they'd always been from obvious enemies. Henry was right—I was a terrible judge of character. I hadn't suspected Andy in the least. I was ashamed of myself for wondering if Henry thought less of me for letting myself be duped yet again. I hated that I did still care what he thought of me, even if I thought the worst of him. "What did you do to Andy?"

A pause, then, "Nothing."

I didn't believe him for a minute and said as much.

"I convinced her to leave. I do what I have to do. I don't do more than that."

Anger burned in my chest. "Tell that to the Hineses. Tell it to coach Allen."

"He would've killed me and done worse to you."

"He had opportunity to hurt me back in San Judo but never did anything."

"Except ruin a child to threaten you."

I knew again that he was right and internally cursed him for it. I'd thought a lot about what had happened with Mac. It hurt to envision him, what he'd become, even if he had turned on me. He was still a kid.

"For being so sure of yourself, you aren't very intelligent. They wanted Allen to scare you. He himself talked of attaching the wires, holding the boy down while he screamed--they want you to be afraid of what they can do to you. It's how they operate: on fear."

"It's why they cut up Old Lisa," I said softly, feeling somewhat ill.

"I don't about that. But Allen watched you the whole time, until they sent him to watch me instead."

I chewed my lower lip, thought of how friendly coach Allen had been, how much all the students had liked him. Almost afraid to hear the response, I added, "But he was still a person."

Henry laughed, or sneered, more like. Then he asked me something I wasn't expecting: "You were using that friend of yours, weren't you?"

My thoughts recalibrated from Allen to Andy. "Using? What are you talking about?"

"You didn't care about her. You used her to get you into that club, to be a body if you needed one nearby. You'd have kept on using her, too, if she hadn't been a scab. You aren't as different from me as you think you are. It's just that I don't lie to myself about what I am."

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he was right, and I knew it. It was as if Henry were in my mind. I hadn't cared about Andy at all except in the capacity that she could be of help. I would've left her in a heartbeat if Paolo had shown up. I would've done everything to avoid her, as a matter of fact, and I'm not sure I would've cared a whole lot what happened to her. Admitting it disgusted me. Was I really that sort of person? Was I as selfish as Henry? Maybe I wasn't a murderer, but I wasn't sure I'd really seen Andy as any more of a person than Henry had seen coach Allen. Maybe if I had, I'd have realized she was a scab. I frowned. "I think I liked you better when you didn't talk."

The atmosphere in the van seemed to lighten somewhat with my sarcasm, but then it settled back into one of tension. Henry watched the road, and I stared at nothing in particular.

"I thought you wanted me to explain more. Isn't that why you ran off? I wasn't telling you enough?"

I turned to him, something like hope fluttering inside. "Sort of. That and the fact that you were killing people left and right."

He ignored my exaggeration. "I can't afford to have to chase you again. If it will get you to stay, I'll try to be more communicative."

"Are you serious?"

"It took me a while to find you. A few days until I found your bus driver, the one who'd taken you to the shelter. And then I had to wait; you'd have run again if I went in, and I can't waste that kind of time."

"So you just crept around, stalking me?"

"I wouldn't call it that. I just watched."

"Stalked."

He sighed and gripped the steering wheel tighter, no doubt trying to rein in whatever he really wanted to say. We were speeding down the highway, no cars in sight. I briefly wondered where we were headed, then realized I didn't care, anyway.

"You'll give me answers if I ask?"

"I'll try."

"Ok." I thought. Where to begin? I hesitated . . . then asked, "Did you kill that guy? In the apartment?"

"Nnnno . . . not exactly."

"There was blood--"

"Yes," he snapped, "there was blood. That doesn't mean I killed him. I just had to . . . extract something."

"But he was on the floor--"

"He wasn't cooperating. I had to use force." Henry's body seemed to grow tense. Possibly, he was regretting the whole communication compromise. "He'll be all right. I didn't kill him."

"And what about Paolo?"

"Who?"

"Paolo! He was with us until you threatened to shoot him or me--you left him standing on the side of the road!"

"What about him?"

I grumbled in annoyance. "You said he knew everything . . . that he was in on it. Was that true?"

"I . . . I don't know everything about it. I wasn't his contact. That was Allen."

"Who's dead now, so I can't ask him, can I?"

"Doesn't matter. All I know is that Allen was angry he came up to Animas Forks. He knew he wasn't supposed to come, and he came anyway. And then I was stuck with him. That wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to leave you at Silverton."

"If you didn't want to be stuck with him, why didn't you just leave him in Lake City? In the hospital?"

"Because . . . I didn't want to leave him."

That was pretty much a non-answer, but I tucked it away and focused on more pressing questions. "Is he with the Circuit?"

Henry thought over his answer, and I wondered what deception he was trying to work up. For as many answers as he was supposedly willing to give, I sensed there were many he'd still hide. "I don't think so. Allen paid him off for his help, as far as I know."

That would suffice, for the moment. There was so much more I wanted to know about Paolo, but I'd probably get it only from speaking with Paolo himself, and that looked pretty unlikely. But my questions so far had been mild. I took a deep breath and swallowed, preparing for the most painful question I had. Did I dare ask and risk alienating Henry again? But I had to know. I wanted to understand, maybe even to be able to forgive him for what he'd done. "What about the Hineses? Why did you have to kill them?" My voice cracked toward the end as I felt my throat constrict, and I worried about tears.

A shadow crossed Henry's face--I could see it even though I looked only at the side of his head--and then he responded deliberately and with the coldness of the day he'd killed them, "I told you; I had to. They knew too much."

I slumped back into my seat, frustrated.

But to my surprise, Henry continued without any more prompting from me. "The woman--her husband worked for them. He became a liability at a certain point, so they had to get rid of him. His wife was in on his murder and everything, didn't even care if her son took the fall for it. After the man died, she started to feel scared, so she took her kids and left. They couldn't have the kind of information she had out in the world like that."

It was a lot to take in. "Ok . . . but why would you follow through on the Circuit's orders? You didn't have to kill innocent people. Mel and Jason and Ella . . . they didn't know--!"

"Not everything is Circuit."

My train of thought had to be re-routed. "Wait--what did you just say?"

Nothing from Henry.

"Did you just say it wasn't Circuit?"

Still nothing.

"Henry! You can't just say something like that and leave it--"

"No. I didn't exactly say that. Look--I don't regret killing them. They were an entitled, amoral family, every one of them. None of them cared that their brother had beaten someone within an inch of his life--they were glad to see Jason let off and freed of all charges. But what about what he did? None of it mattered to them. He only almost murdered an innocent person, for no reason. Not one of them cared about that, not one. He was left to die alone in an alley, and they couldn't give a damn about him." Henry inhaled and exhaled to calm down, having become aware of his tirade. I didn't know he was capable of feeling emotion, at that point, and was taken aback as much as he was. "People like that--their deaths are no loss to the world."

I felt something like understanding well up in me. All of that night rushed back into my thoughts--Henry alone and bleeding, Jason gone off the deep end . . . It was true. Mel, Ella, Mrs. Hines, Jason himself: none of them had ever expressed real, lasting remorse for what had happened to Henry, never shown interest in finding him again, helping someone Jason had nearly beaten to death.

"Do you remember it, then?" I said suddenly, quietly.

Henry let out a tired breath. "What?"

"Do you remember, what he did to you?"

Quiet, then. "No. I don't."

I did. It'd been horrible. "It's probably best you don't."

He let out a sort of bitter laugh.

"Do you remember anything at all--anything from before Oliphant?"

I could tell he was thinking about how to respond, choosing his words carefully, and I didn't know why. "I don't have any memories about anything that could be of use to you or me."

There was a strangeness in his response, his tone. But before I could further question him, he cut me off.

"I told you I'd try to tell you more, but I can't talk about everything. Just trust that I have a goal, and that I won't hurt you."

I'd asked too much. He was changing his mind about telling me what I wanted to know. But I felt grateful--less hateful toward him--that he'd told me something. That he seemed to have a shrivel of conscience. And even more so that Paolo wasn't likely with the Circuit.

Quietly, Henry interrupted my thoughts. "Nadia, I'm not who you want me to be, and I'm . . . I'm sorry for that. But you aren't who I want you to be, either."

I wasn't sure whether to accept his apology or take offense. "I'm who I've always been," I replied, "or, at least, who I've always been since meeting you. It's you who's changed."

"We'll just have to settle for each other for now, then. Just--don't run again."

I rolled my eyes and leaned against my passenger window.

"Can you promise that?"

I didn't want to promise him anything.

"Nadia?"

I couldn't help myself. After all I'd seen him do, and after being so sure of my hatred, I couldn't stop myself. He was still Henry. "I promise."