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starting to fall apart; that much was clear. He could tell from the high pitch in his captors’ voices. He could tell from the running. The quick clip-clip of their compulsively shined shoes.
    He pressed his fingertips and palms up against the glass that closed him off from the sparkling white hall beyond. From the gleaming tile. From the one tiny crack in the plaster on the far wall of the hallway that he’d studied so hard and for so long that it had started to appear in his dreams. It was the only thing of discord in this regimented, sterile place. Or at least until now.
    Footsteps came. Rapidly. His heart hit his throat,and he pressed his cheek against the glass, waiting. Suddenly a guard ran by, left to right down the hall, zipping past his eyes in a blur of color. So close, yet so untouchable.
    More voices.
    â€œWhat are you going to do with them? You can’t move them! We have strict orders to—”
    â€œThe orders don’t matter anymore! We have to contain this!”
    A third voice. A scared voice. Possibly the voice of 501, the guard with the twitchy eye. “I don’t even care now! Just let them go! If the cops come here and find this place—”
    Let them go! the prisoner thought, pressing his face so hard into the glass, it hurt. Yes! Let them go!
    â€œNO! We have our orders!”
    â€œAren’t you listening to me? Loki’s not coming back! He’s as good as dead! I say we save ourselves!”
    There was a loud clatter. A punch landed. A jaw cracked. A body hit the floor. The prisoner had a sinking feeling that the silenced one was the one who would have helped him. He swallowed hard. If Loki were as good as dead, wasn’t he as well? Would the morons out there even bother to continue to feed him? Would he rot away in this white room for the rest of his numbered days?
    The moment he stepped back from the glass, 457 appeared at the side of his cell. This was the round-jawed,pudgy yet strong Hispanic guard who brought the prisoner his shots. Who held him down while 492 and 501 administered the serums. The numbers were embroidered in gold thread along their black collars. They were the only names he’d ever known his captors by.
    He narrowed his eyes as 457 hit whatever it was at the side of his cell that made the glass slide up silently and out of sight. Guard 457 drew his gun from his holster and leveled it at the prisoner’s heart.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” the prisoner asked calmly.
    â€œI’m moving you,” 457 said. “One false move and I have no problem taking you out.”
    The prisoner looked at 457 and waited. “What, no handcuffs?” he asked, arching his eyebrows.
    â€œDon’t get funny with me. I don’t need ’em. I got this.” The guard lifted the gun half an inch. “Now move out into the hall and make a right. I’ll be right behind you, and there’s nowhere to go but straight, so don’t try running.”
    His pulse was racing like a Thoroughbred’s. Was this actually happening? Was he going to move outside these four walls? He tentatively stepped past 457, never taking his eyes off the gun until he was in the hall. It was colder out here. The air was crisper. Sweeter. It was a whole new smell, and his nostrils actually prickled. He almost closed his eyes to savor it but stopped himself. Better to stay alert. Take it all in. Find some way to escape.
    â€œMove it,” 457 ordered.
    He walked down the hall, past the other cells. Some were empty. One held a girl, a redhead, who cowered in a corner, rocking back and forth. One held an older man, stooped and tired. He looked up as they passed, his blue eyes hopeful.
    Why were these people here? What was their offense? Was it merely loving someone, too? Was that all they had done?
    The hallway opened onto a larger room where 501 was just struggling to his feet. A bruise was already forming on his left cheek.
    â€œI thought I