that day, because she wanted to make sure youwere okay. When he came after you she was caught in the cross fire.
After she was shot, you vowed you’d stay on your own, that you wouldn’t be responsible for anyone else. But now you’re not so sure. You thought you’d find your way to some nondescript town outside Chicago, try to blend in, try to hide. But that plan seems naïve now. Staying with Rafe is a risk . . . but being on your own is, too.
The compartment door is still open a crack and you stand, sliding it shut. “So let’s find the other targets, then. If they’ve remembered anything that we haven’t, it could lead us to who’s at the top of AAE. We could stop all of this.”
Rafe looks at you. “We can start with Connor.”
“We have to be careful.” You don’t know which one of you you’re reminding.
Rafe stares down at the floor, smiles like he’s just remembered something.
“On the island,” he says, “careful wasn’t what kept us alive.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE ROOM SMELLS of moldy bread and bleach. You have your arm under the table in front of you so they can’t see. You drag the tip of the pen across your wrist, drawing long, thin spirals. You move to the spot just below your elbow, making a few black stars. It feels good to be doing something you’re not supposed to.
“Marcus.” You keep going, making a heart, another star. “Marcus, I’m talking to you.” You hear her, but you don’t care. Let her say it again, let her try to get you to look up. Joy is sitting beside you. She nudges you, whispers, “Williams sees you. Don’t be stupid.”
“Marcus, I’m talking to you.” Williams is at your side now. She takes the pen from your hand. “Where did you get this?”
You got it from Catholic Services. Borrowed it to write a prayer card and never gave it back. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything.
“Stand up, Marcus. You’re in your room for the night.” You just sit there, in the stupid plastic chair, in the baggy pants that don’t fit you, the laces stolen from your shoes. You roll your sweatshirt down so it covers your arm as a staff member appears on the other side of you. He yanks you to your feet.
When you open your eyes you see the ceiling of the train compartment. The top bunk is narrow and the mattress is too soft to be comfortable. Sunlight fills the tiny room. You laid down at one in the morning, maybe later, and you’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep.
“You up?” Rafe is just a voice below.
“How’d you know?”
“You must’ve turned over twenty times in the last hour. It’s your back, right? From sleeping outside?”
“It’s everything. I was having a dream.”
“A memory?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it about me?” You can hear the smile in his voice.
“Very funny.”
You lean over the side of the bunk. He’s just below you. He’s already folded his bed up, turned it back into two chairs. He’s eating a sandwich out of a plastic container. “I used to dream about you,” he says. “Before my memory came back.”
The statement just hangs there. He waits, and you know he wants to find out if your dreams are like his.
“It was about my life before,” you say. You maneuveroff the bunk, stepping onto the seat below. Your dress is wrinkled, your hair matted in the back. “What time is it?”
“Almost two. They already came through with lunch.”
He plucks half the sandwich from the container and offers it to you. You only now realize how hungry you are. You haven’t eaten in almost a day.
When you look up, Rafe’s watching you. He’s taken off his hoodie, and a cotton T-shirt hugs his broad chest. He’s tall enough so that he’s almost at eye level with you on the bunk. Light flickers across his face, catching in his dark lashes, throwing quick, passing patterns on his olive skin.
“I was serious before,” he says. “I’d have these really vivid dreams of us on the island.”
“I know,” you
Ann Voss Peterson, J.A. Konrath