Panic crawls up my throat and threatens to take control as I push the door closed behind me. I need to think.

But as the door thuds against the jamb and the latch catches, I hear a loud exhale come from the closet. I turn my head and see Marcy crouching, grasping a loafer in one hand.

Before I can say anything, she is on her feet.

"Oh, thank God," she sighs, dropping the shoe and stepping into me, grabbing me in an embrace. "I'm so glad it's you and not them again."

"Them?" I ask, alarmed. My arms wrap around her waist reflexively, inhaling her scent.

Still holding onto me, she whispers into my ear, "They're looking for you. We need to get out of here. I've packed our bags."

"Is that why you were holding a shoe?" I can't help but ask. "You were packing it? It looked like you were about to throw it at me."

"Well, I would have thrown it if I needed to." She leans her head back to look at me, but keeps her fingers interlaced behind my neck. She cocks her head. "You're still you," she says as her eyes meet mine.

"I am," I agree, feeling an odd mixture of regret and relief.

Instead of responding, she rests her head on my shoulder and hugs me tighter. "I thought I lost you."

"Never." I hold her tighter. "Never," I repeat, knowing the truth of it. But then, after a moment, I have to ask, "Would you really have thrown a shoe at a guard? Because that sounds like a pretty stupid idea."

I laugh, and she pushes me back and whacks my shoulder. "This isn't the time for jokes."

"No, I know. You're right."

"I usually am." She smiles, and I can't help but feel lighter than I have all day. But then her smile fades as she turns and stuffs a flashlight into one of the open bags on the floor just outside the closet.

"What are you packing?" I ask, my eyes skimming over the disarray, and in doing so, catching the time displayed on the wall clock. It's a quarter to four.

"Honestly, I don't–I don't know." Her voice breaks, and while she doesn't look up, I can sense the tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. "I have so many questions," she whispers.

"Me too," I respond. The question I really want to ask, though, I don't dare say out loud. Why is she willing to run away with me? Does she know how I feel about her?

Instead, I say the stupidest thing, "You don't have to come with me. I'm the freak. Not you."

"Charlie." She glances up, blinking away tears as she meets my eyes. "Shut up."

I bite down on my lip. "We need to get back to the Choosing Center now. I was supposed to wait for someone to guide me to some secret hideout, but I left to find you instead. We've only got an hour to get back before his shift ends."

I walk over to the window, slip a finger between two of the metal blinds, and peek out. In the fading evening light, and despite the incoming fog, I can make out the edge of the quad, one of the walking paths, and the nearest street. The cruiser is still parked on the corner and several guards are stationed around the periphery.

"There's just one problem," I say. "They've got the place surrounded."

Marcy sits down on her bed, rests her chin in her hands, and juts out her bottom lip. I go sit on my twin and face her.

"How'd you get in here?" she asks.

"I walked in with Renee. Just kept my hood up and walked casual."

Marcy nods. "So, Renee saw you. Did she know you were using her for cover?"

"No," I answer. "She had no idea that today was my Choosing Day."

"I wonder, though..." Marcy stands as her voice trails off. She paces. "Isn't her room on the west side of the building?"

"Yeah..." I don't know where Marcy is going with this.

"The conference room is on the west side."

I still don't understand, so I just nod along, scrunching my eyebrows.

"Charlie," she says patiently, "there aren't any dorm rooms on top of the conference room. So that means Renee's window might lead to the roof."

"How does that help?" I ask, confused.

Marcy stops pacing and turns to me. "There'll be a roof access door we can use to get into the conference room. Then we'll exit the building from there. They're still waiting for you to return home, right? So they probably won't be guarding doors that are exit-only."

I don't enjoy correcting Marcy, but there is such an obvious flaw in her plan that I can't help it. "Then why don't we just take the elevator down and walk into the conference room?"

She takes a deep breath. "Too much of a risk with the cameras. Don't you think it'll be suspicious to see two people with hoods and large backpacks?"

"Okay," I agree. "Point taken. But it still seems like a risk."

"Of course it's a risk. Do you have any better ideas?"

Her tone is terse, and I have to pause and remind myself how lucky I am that she is coming with me at all. Not long ago, I was completely alone with this burden, not sure if I could even convince her to come with me. Now here she is, taking charge of the escape plan.

"No," I admit.

"Then it's worth a shot." Marcy slips on her jacket, pulls a dark burgundy beanie over her long dark hair, and picks up her backpack. "We don't have any time to waste."

I stand and pick up the bag that she has packed for me. It's lighter than I expect, maybe because it's full of clothes when usually my pack is crammed with books.

We open the door and shut it quietly behind us, walking down the hall and around the corner to Renee's room.

Just as we knock on her door, I hear the elevator ding. And although I can't see who has arrived, I hear heavy boots on the carpeted floors. I know in my gut that the guards have returned.

Someone–hopefully Renee–stands up on the other side of the door, and it takes all my self-control not to yell at her to hurry. Because I know we are running out of time.

Right when I feel like my heart may break a rib from hammering against them so hard, Renee opens the door.

She smiles, but her brows knit in confusion as she takes in our outfits and bags. "Hey guys. What's up?"

"Sorry to barge in," Marcy says, walking through the entryway and forcing Renee to take a step back, "but we have a bit of an urgent question."

"Um, okay," she answers.

"Are you alone?" I ask, following Marcy.

Renee shuts the door. "Yeah... why?"

Marcy marches straight over to the window and looks through a gap in the blinds. "Yup, just as I expected."

"What's going on?" Renee asks, sounding more curious than annoyed.

"We need a favor," I say, looking around the room and noting the book sprawling face down on the bed. It looks like an old paperback, the kind my grandparents might have read. The spine is well-creased and a corner of the cover is torn. I'm not familiar with the author–someone named Woolf.

"I mean, sure. If you tell me what's going on," Renee says. Then she sees where I am looking, walks over, and pushes the book under her covers. "It's not what it looks like," she whispers.

I'm about to say that I don't know what she's talking about, but Marcy, oblivious, cuts to the chase. "We need to climb out your window."

"And we would appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about it, either." I smile sheepishly.

Renee squints her eyes. "Seriously, guys? What's up?"

Marcy and I look at each other. There's a bang down the hall. "There really isn't time to explain," I say, rushed. "But we'll owe you big time. Promise."

Another bang. Still in the distance, but louder this time.

Renee eyes the door, then nods. "Okay, yeah, of course."

She steps over to the window and pulls back the blinds, sliding it open.

"Thanks, Renee," Marcy says as she throws her bag out in the air and steps over the ledge, hopping down gracefully.

I follow immediately after, swinging one leg over the ledge and easing myself down until my toe brushes against the tarred roof surface.

"Good luck, guys. And be safe," Renee calls as she watches us land.

"We'll try. And you too," I whisper-shout back as she disappears and shuts the blinds. I pray the guards don't knock on her door. If they do, I hope whatever contraband she is reading doesn't land her in hot water.

I shrug my backpack on and step over to Marcy, who is scanning the area. We're near the center of the building, so the guards on the ground won't be able to see us. And because our dorm room is on the other side, we won't be spotted from our window, either.

Marcy points to what looks like a metal shed standing in one corner of the roof. "That must be the access stairs. It's close to the edge, so crouch down when we get over there."

"Okay." I nod along.

Even though there is a bit of a ledge around the roof, we crawl the last few yards to the rusty metal door. Marcy lifts her head up, kneels forwards, and reaches for the knob.

Nothing happens.

She jerks the knob another time. Even through the fog, I can see the frustration etched on her forehead.

"I think it's locked," she whispers, nostrils flared.

"Did you try pushing?" I ask.

She inhales through her mouth before answering. "The knob is locked. Won't turn at all."

"If it's not a deadbolt, can we use a card to slip the latch?"

Marcy shakes her head and then points to a metal plate that extends from the handle to across the jamb. "It's welded on."

I sit back and think, staring up at the blank canvas of the overcast sky. As I glance around, I notice two metal arches–the tops of ladder handles. It must be a fire escape. I nudge Marcy with my elbow and jut my chin in the direction that I'm looking.

"Let's check it out," I mouth.

She nods, swings her backpack onto her stomach, and crawls. I do the same and follow. When we get to the edge, I sit with my back against the cement barrier, slumping down so the crown of my head is even with the top of the short wall.

Marcy shrugs off her bag, sits on her knees, and creeps up to the ladder. She slowly raises her head high enough to look over.

After a second, she sits back. "Looks clear."

I turn, place my hands on the wall, and ease myself up. "I'll go first," I say.

But Marcy is already standing on the top step. "Be on look-out." She takes one step down, then another.

The fog is getting heavier. Denser. It obscures anything more than a few yards away. From my vantage point on the roof, I can see that the ladder leads to a small mulch-covered clearing that's just beyond the back path around the building. There are a few trees on the other side of the path, but I don't see anyone walking or milling about.

After a few short minutes, I hear a dull thud. When I look down, Marcy is staring up at me, beckoning.

It's my turn.

I grasp the handles as I step onto the ledge. Then I turn around and, my grip tight, I step down to the top rung of the ladder.

It's eerily quiet as I make my way down, the fog kissing at my cheeks. With each step I take, I can't help but imagine a rubber bullet striking my back, causing me to fall. My palms become sweaty, and I can feel them slip.

Soon, too soon, I step down, and my foot dangles in thin air. A rush of panic catches in my throat.

"You have to jump the last bit," Marcy says from below.

I look down, hesitate, and then leap.

As I land, a bolt of lightning-like pain shoots up my right ankle. I open my mouth to curse, but Marcy's hand is quicker. Her palm presses against my lips, forcing me to swallow my scream.

"You're okay," she says, although I'm not sure if it's reassuring me or to convince herself.

I take a few quick breaths, and then I nod. I pick up my foot and try to rotate it, which only causes another shot of pain to jolt through me. Gingerly, I place my foot back on the ground and put half my weight on it. A dull ache radiates from my ankle, and I can feel it swelling against my sneakers.

Should've worn my boots.

"I can walk," I say, even though I don't think I can. But what choice do I have? I can't go to a hospital to get it fixed.

Footsteps approach us, but I'm in no shape to run. Bile rises in my throat. Not only am I going to get myself killed, but Marcy, too.

Then the source of the footsteps comes into view. A student, headphones on, eyes focused on the ground. They don't notice us.

I exhale.

Marcy grabs my sleeve, and we walk. Slowly. Too slowly for how little time we have left. But every minute the pain dulls and I grit on. I will not let a twisted ankle prevent me from escaping.

The fog cloaks us as we make our way off campus, me hobbling and Marcy holding me steady.

No one stops us as we cross the main road and enter the surrounding neighborhood. We stick to the side streets as we head towards the underground tunnel where the orderly left me. After a few blocks, I find a rhythm that works for my ankle, a skipping-limp that allows me to keep up with Marcy while also not putting too much weight on it.

Silence envelopes us as the fog swirls around our feet, and I want to ask her who knocked on our door looking for me, and how she knew I was in grave danger, but I don't dare speak.

By the time we reach the alley I'd exited from earlier, it's a minute before five. We've just barely made it. My ankle is numb. My whole body is numb. Even my brain feels numb.

I limp to the door, clasp my fingers on the handle, and pull.

Nothing.

The door doesn't budge.

I yank harder, leveraging all my weight. It doesn't give.

My eyes scan the door frame for a way to unlock it. A way to slip the lock. Or maybe another card reader. But no luck.

I step back. "It's locked," I whisper, barely able to believe it myself. "There's no way in."

Marcy drops her backpack beside me and goes to the door, trying it herself. It's fruitless.

I want to bang on the door, scream so loud the orderly might be able to hear me down in the underground station, but I can't. We'd give up our location in a heartbeat.

My gaze travels to the Choosing Center two blocks away where, just hours ago, I thought my day would turn out very differently.

"There's only one way back in," I say.

"We can't." Marcy clutches onto the side of my arm. "There has to be another way."

"There isn't." I swallow down the pressure building in my chest. "If we don't get down there in the next few minutes, the guy who helped me will think I ran away. And then we'll never find them."

I rest my head in my hands, defeat finally overtaking me. I'm smart enough to know we'll never survive out here alone. Not once they double the guards looking for us.

They're coming for me and Marcy.

And now our ticket out might be gone.