For a long time in the lulls they could still hear men shouting and the roar and crackle of the fire blazing on the island. Voices hung in the ashy haze, were carried by it like a bad smell. After a while, however, Lyra thought the fire must have stopped, because she could no longer hear people yelling. At the same time she realized that she could hardly see. The sky, which for hours had been the textured gray of pencil lead, was now dark. The sun was setting, and the wind when it hissed into life carried a heavy chill. The rain swept in next, the thunderstorms that always came in the early evening, quick and ferocious, punching down on them. By the time it had passed, the sun was gone.

Cassiopeia was completely still. Lyra was afraid to touch her and find she was dead, but when she did she felt a pulse. Periodically the sky was lit up with helicopters passing back and forth, and every so often, a shout carried over the water. Lyra thought of her small clean bed under the third window in the dorm and had to swallow back the urge to cry again. She wouldn’t have thought she could be so cold, and so afraid, and also have to fight so hard against sleep. At some point she must have drifted off because she woke from a nightmare of monsters with long metal snouts, and felt 72 put a hand against her mouth again, and lean his weight against her to speak into her ear.

“They’re searching the marshes,” 72 whispered. “Stay quiet. Don’t move. Don’t even breathe.”

Her heart was still racing from the nightmare. It was so dark, she could hardly make out Cassiopeia lying even a few feet away. But after a second she saw light flashing through the tall grass, tiny suns blazing and being drowned. She heard voices, too—not the panicked and indistinct shouting of earlier but individual voices and words.

“Over here. That’s blood, boys.”

“Christ. Like a slug trail.”

“You bring any salt . . . ?”

She was afraid. Why was she afraid? She didn’t know. She wasn’t thinking clearly. The guards were on her side. They had kept the others out—they kept the replicas safe. But still fear had its hand down her throat. This was her chance to change her mind, to call out, to be rescued. 72 shifted next to her, and she stayed silent.

“Here’s one.” One of the men raised the cry and lights flashed again, dazzling over the dark water, as several other soldiers joined him where he stood. She wanted so badly to look—but even as she started to raise herself onto her elbow, 72 jerked her back to the ground.

“Stay put,” he whispered. She heard laughter from the soldiers, more words half blown by wind.

“Bring a—?”

“No point . . . dead . . .”

“No bodies . . . left . . .”

“It looks real, doesn’t it?”

Lyra was filled with a cold so deep it felt like a pit. It looks real, doesn’t it? She knew they’d found another replica—a dead one—and wondered what she would look like to them if they came across her with their flashlights: like something mechanical, a machine, or like a doll with moving parts. She imagined herself like a jigsaw puzzle—she had seen one, once, in the nurses’ break room—well-crafted, neatly jointed, but full of seams and cracks visible to everyone else. She wondered whether humans had some invisible quality, the truly critical one, she’d never be able to replicate.

They were coming closer, slowing through the water. Now she couldn’t have cried out even if she wanted to. Her lungs had seized in her chest. She had to grind her teeth to keep them from chattering.

“More blood over here, see?”

Lyra’s heart stopped. The men were just on the other side of the embankment. Their flashlights slanted through the grass—were they well enough concealed? Would they be seen?

“Keep an eye out for gators. These marshes are crawling.”

“Maybe we should give Johnson up for bait.”

More laughter. Lyra squeezed her eyes shut. Move on, she thought, still uncertain whether this was the right thing. All she knew was that she didn’t want them to see her. They couldn’t see her. Move on.

Then there was a horrible sucking, gasping noise, like water fighting through a stuck drain. For one confused second, Lyra couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Then she realized Cassiopeia was trying to speak.

“Help.” The word was mangled, distorted by the sound of liquid in her lungs.

“No, Cassiopeia,” Lyra whispered, dizzy now with panic. But already she knew it was too late. The soldiers had gone silent.

Cassiopeia spoke a little louder. “Help.”

“In here.” One of the men was already crashing through the trees toward them, and the marshes were once again alive with lights and shouting. “There’s someone in here.”

“Leave her. Leave her.” 72’s voice, when he whispered, was raw with panic. This time Lyra didn’t resist, didn’t even argue. 72 was going elbow over elbow into the tangle of growth. She crawled after him as fast as she could on her stomach. The ground trembled under the weight of the soldiers’ boots as she fought deeper into the growth. Pine needles grabbed her face and arms and scored tiny cuts in her skin. She was too scared to look back. She was certain they would be heard, crashing through the grass, but the soldiers were loud, calling to one another in a rapid patter she didn’t understand.

Then the trees released them into a heavy slick of puddled mud and water: they’d reached another sudden opening in the land, a place where the marsh became liquid. 72 slid into the water first and Lyra pulled herself in next to him just as a beam of light swept over the bank where she’d been. She slipped down to her chin, gasping a little, certain they must have heard her, and then submerged herself to her eyes. The beam of the light continued sniffing along the mud like something alive. Twelve inches from her, then ten . . .