Author: Sophie Jordan

“What are you doing here, Davy?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“Pollock didn’t come after you for what happened?”

“The Agency’s got its hands full right now trying to decide the fate of all carriers. Not just one. Me by myself . . . I’m not that important.”

“Do you think we’ll be back in school soon?”

“Doubtful.”

I moisten my lips, uncomfortable beneath his glittering gaze. Crossing my arms, I sink onto the edge of one of the beds. “Why do you sound angry?” My voice comes out a whisper.

“Because I am,” he bites back, dragging one hand through his hair and pacing the middle of the small room.

“I came here because I wanted to thank you for what happened at school when that boy hit me and you’re treating me—”

“You shouldn’t have come here at all. It’s not safe.”

At this, I give a little laugh and wave at my neck. “Where will I ever be safe now? Am I supposed to never step outside again?”

He stops and stares at me in a way that makes me feel like I’ve said something really wrong. “Carriers are being attacked just for walking outside their front door. It’s not safe for us. But you decided to get in your car and come here of all places? You’re just asking for it.” His lip curls up at this last bit and succeeds in making me feel officially stupid.

I rise in one motion, flustered, embarrassed . . . angry. “Sorry. I’ll leave you to hide in your house then.”

I start for the door, but he stops me, grabs me with both hands. His breath crashes with mine, lips so close I can almost taste them. “You’re just begging for trouble—”

I jerk free and look around at his sparse room. “What’s worse than this?”

“Oh, c’mon. You really don’t know? Where’s your imagination?”

He advances on me and I inch back until I bump into the mattress. Sinking down, I gasp when he follows and straddles me, his knees on each side of my hips.

“W-what are you doing?” I press a palm against his chest.

“Painting a picture of what’s worse than this. Wasn’t that your question?”

I nod, at a loss for words.

“You have no rights. You’re a sublevel human. That means anything can happen to you and no one will care.” His face dips closer. His cheek rests against mine as he hisses close to my ear, “Anyone can do anything to you. There is no protection. No place in this whole country where you should feel safe now.” His fingers flex on my shoulders. “Understand?”

After a moment, I nod again.

“And it’s only going to get worse for us. It’s been getting worse every year, but after this shooting, the Agency is only going to get more powerful. . . .”

The gust of those words so close to my lips does everything he intends—they frighten and intimidate me.

All of me shivers, quakes inside.

Something in his eyes shifts, darkens. His gaze sweeps over me and then, as though realizing just how close we are, he pulls back. “Sorry,” he mutters, the word a rough rasp. He drags a hand over his face. “You just need to be more careful. There won’t be someone around to protect you all the time.”

I nod again. I could push him off me. He wouldn’t stop me. I inhale, breathing in the smell of him, soap and spearmint, and realize I don’t want to shove him away. Butterflies start to flutter in my stomach. I don’t say a word. It’s impossible. I couldn’t get a word past the lump in my throat. My fingers move, burrow against his shirt, testing the texture, the firmness of his flesh beneath the thin barrier.

“Don’t look at me that way,” he says, his voice almost gruff.

“What way?”

His hand covers mine, stilling the movement of my hand against his chest, and I detect the fast thud of his heart through flesh and bone. Feeling his heart, it occurs to me that it beats just like everyone else’s. Like mine. A month ago, I would have crossed the street to avoid him. Now I seek him out, go to places I would never have dared.

“You’re going to end up dead.” His gaze scans my face with hot-eyed intensity. “You need to stay inside the walls of your house . . . with your family. Your chances are better there.”

“And what about you? Shouldn’t you follow your own advice? You attacked that boy in school. Not too smart.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I come from this.” He nods at his surroundings and I know he doesn’t just mean his room but the streets outside. “I’ve had to fight my entire life.” He shakes his head. “You can’t understand that. You’re different. You’re not violent, not a killer.”

“And you are? Is that what you’re saying?” Without thinking, I slide my hand against his throat, grazing my thumb over the H. “This is you then? You deserve this?”

For a moment, he says nothing. He holds himself still above me, but I get the sense he’s about to spring. Like something tightly coiled, ready to break loose. A muscle feathers the flesh of his jaw, and his eyes burn like charred-gray.

My thumb continues to caress his neck.

“Don’t,” he rasps. The sound is oddly satisfying. I’m getting to him. Penetrating his armor.

My fingers move, exploring, brushing his hammering pulse. Fascinated, my gaze slides over his face, stopping on his mouth. I want to kiss him with a fierceness I’ve never felt, heightened by my loneliness. The constant fear. The earth that won’t stay firm beneath me.

I lift my head off the bed and lean up for his lips. He jerks away with a gasp of dismay and scrambles off me. “Get out of here. Go home, Davy.”

I stand, feeling like the most repulsive girl alive. Rejected in action and words.

And why shouldn’t I feel that way? Suddenly, I see the girls he talked to in the hall at school. Maybe he preferred his girls normal. Normal and unmarked.

He turns his back on me. I stare at him, the stretch of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the dark gold strands falling against his neck. “You think I’m safer there than here?” I demand hoarsely.

The nerves in my neck tingle. It’s almost as though I feel the imprint there, a living thing awake and crawling. My hand goes there, presses against the too-warm skin.

He turns sideways, looks back at me like he wishes I was gone already. A stupid ache fills my chest.

“I’ll go, but it’s no longer my home. Home is safety and I don’t have that any more than you do.”

Before he can answer—if he even intends to—I leave the room. Simon looks up from the kitchen table, hunkered over a bowl of cereal. Milk dribbles from his chin.

He calls out a good-bye, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. Everyone I had is gone. Everyone has turned from me and I can’t even find solace with another carrier.

CNN Interview with Harlan McAlister, former classmate of alleged Texas gunman, Kevin Hoyt:

REPORTER: Mr. McAlister, you attended high school with Kevin Hoyt, did you not?

HARLAN MCALISTER: Yes . . . we played football together. He was captain of the JV team before we all found out he was a carrier. It’s all just such a shock. A real shame . . . he was a good football player. Could have gone pro.

REPORTER: Can you tell us a little bit about Kevin Hoyt? What was he like?

HARLAN MCALISTER: Everyone liked him. He was a real leader. I mean, before, you know . . . not after.

REPORTER: Are you surprised that he did something so brutal and horrendous?

HARLAN MCALISTER: Yes . . . well, no. I mean . . . he was a carrier. Once that came to light, we all knew there was nothing he wasn’t capable of . . . right?

NINETEEN

MOM ORDERS PIZZA THAT NIGHT EVEN THOUGH it’s Mitchell’s twenty-first birthday and we always go out for sushi at his favorite restaurant. Mom and Dad usually wink at the waiter and order mai tais for me and Mitchell. This year, Mitchell could have ordered his drink himself.

“Pizza?” I look at Mitchell from the kitchen table where I browse through a magazine. It’s strange having so much time on my hands. I’ve taken to reading Mom’s décor magazines. “You don’t want your favorite spider roll?”

“Pizza is good. Let’s get pineapple and ham.” Mitchell shoots a quick look to Mom and smiles in a way that tells me they discussed this in advance.

“You just don’t want to take me out,” I say. “In public. Afraid Mrs. Doyle is going to be standing in her yard? Giving us the evil eye?”

“Davina, that’s not true,” Mama chides, but her eyes dart to my brother, clearly looking for help.

He sighs and props his hip against the counter. “After last week . . .” He motions to the small television on the kitchen counter that’s still replaying the tragedy. There hasn’t been much new information, but they keep flashing the faces of the four carriers. They look about my age. One or two of them might be in their twenties. Three of the four are imprinted, and the ink collars look so large on their necks . . . bigger and darker in their mug shots. “The Agency hasn’t even let you go back to school yet. It just seems like a good idea to stay inside.”

I nod and cross my arms. “I understand. You’re right. It makes sense. I should just stay a hermit in my home.”

“Davy.” My brother doesn’t look at me in the careful way Mom does. He’s too sincere for that. Too honest. Like the time he told Señora Ramirez the only Spanish he needed to know was cerveza, el baño, and quiero sexo. Yeah. He was that high school boy. “Don’t be a drama queen about it.”

I start to leave the kitchen. “Call me when the pizza is here.”

“Davy, wait.”

I turn, watching as Mom grabs a remote and increases the volume on the television set. The president stands there in the House chamber before members of the House and Senate, waiting for applause to settle. A reporter drones on in whispered tones about this being the second time the president has addressed the nation since last week. I watch numbly, half listening, certain he will wax on about loss and tragedy and prayers for the victims and families. Which is why I don’t fully comprehend his words at first. Not until he mentions “HTS” and “carrier” several times do I begin to process.

“. . . for the protection of this great nation, the time has arrived to give full attention to the HTS threat so that we do not have a repeat of last week’s tragedy.” There is a pregnant pause as the president stares out at the room. “Detention of all carriers has become an utmost necessity. . . .”

“Mom,” I whisper, still staring at the screen, hearing nothing else. “What does he mean?” I understand his words, but none of it seems real. She waves a hand for me to quiet, her gaze riveted to the TV.

“The Wainwright Agency in conjunction with the Department of Justice, Homeland Security, and FEMA are mobilizing as I speak to amass all registered carriers throughout the country and transfer them into suitable locations. No small undertaking, but one that shall help us achieve the ideals upon which this great nation was founded . . . life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. . . .”

Mitchell grabs the television and wrestles it from the wall. Mom screams his name, but he ignores her, howling with rage. I watch, stunned as my brother wrenches it free and sends it crashing to the floor.

I look up from the sparking TV to my brother, his face flushed with rage, chest heaving with exertion.

“I’ll help you,” he pants. “We can run away, Dav.”

“And go where?” I ask, a strange calm coming over me. I’m listed in the national database and I’m wearing an imprint on my neck. There’s nowhere to go. No border I could cross. No plane I could board. Nowhere to hide.