Connor walks west, toward the staircase to the elevated park. A few days ago he figured out that there’s a hidden space behind the steps, just a few feet high and six feet across. He’ll have it to himself for the next two hours. A man named Milt sleeps there every night—he keeps some of his things in a plastic bag hidden under the first step.
Connor spent the day leaving codes for the others, spray-painting the messages in two locations so the targets couldn’t miss them. Telling them where to meet. Salto was the one who’d discovered the raves in the subway. People would be there this week, after dark. The spot was desolate enough that it would be easy to notice someone following you down there. And the tunnels made for a good escape route.
He ducks underneath the staircase and sets up camp. He spreads the newspapers out before him, scanning the headlines. The Post has an article about another troubled kid. It could be a lead.
He flips through the last paper, scans down each page looking for anything that seems suspicious. There’s no one else. At least not today. But maybe there will be another tomorrow. We’re getting somewhere. That’s what Salto would say.
He misses her, wishes she were with him now. That they didn’t have to wait another five hours to meet up. He knows it isn’t safe for them to stay together. They both have hunters after them; it would only draw more attention.
Connor folds up the papers and checks the time. The kid was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. He stands, peering out beyond the staircase, wondering if there’s a chance he could have missed him.
Or worse, if he’s not showing because he’s dead.
A group of teenagers runs down the stairs, laughing. They’re right above him, the metal steps clanging with their boots and heels. A few girls spill into the street. One holds a bottle covered in a paper bag, the other two walk with their arms threaded together. The boy behind them wears one of those stupid polo shirts with an alligator on it, and Connor has never wanted anything more in his life: to be like him—to be normal.
CHAPTER SIX
YOU LOOK DOWN at the basketball courts below. Men in sweat-soaked T-shirts pass the ball back and forth. He shoots, he misses. He shoots, he scores. A few people have paused by the fence to watch, their fingers threaded through the chain link. From the second floor of the McDonald’s you can see up the block, all the way to the corner.
You’re watching, waiting. You jot down a few details on the notepad you took from the train, Amtrak printed across the top. The corner (West Third Street, Avenue of the Americas), the names of the stores on the block (Papaya Dog, IFC Theater, Village Pop). There are two teenagers below, lingering at the edge of the fence. Neither fits the description of Connor that Rafe gave you, but you take notes anyway. There’s a fresh graffiti tag on the brick wall behind them, FK’LIN scrawled in glossy red spray paint.
Rafe comes up from behind you, setting a Coke on the table.
“No boy with a Mohawk,” you report. “I’ve looked at every person who passed.”
Rafe glances out the window, scanning the area. “He told me that he only meets them there for five minutes to check in, then they meet up later somewhere else. I feel like it’d be clear to us.”
Your train arrived in New York early this morning, and since then you’ve spent most of the day navigating Penn Station, traversing the subway, and finding the locations Connor had mentioned on the map. It’s almost evening now.
“They could catch us if we stay here too long,” you say. A thought suddenly occurs to you. “How did they catch us on the island? At the end, I mean. Before they brought us here, to the cities.”
“It was after about a month,” Rafe says. “It had been pretty straightforward before that—one target, one hunter. Then one day, they came for us. It was obvious something had changed, there were so many of them, but we tried to run anyway. They shot at you first. The dart hit you in the leg. But you just kept going until you couldn’t.”
You nod, grateful for once you don’t remember it. “How’d they catch you?”
“I stopped,” he says. “I wasn’t going to leave you there.”
That stops you, a sudden jolt of emotion. You look away. “You should have.”
“You wouldn’t have left me.”
Maybe he’s right. But what does that mean? If someone came after him now, would you stay?
You keep your eyes on the basketball court below. A man in a black baseball hat is by the courts now, across the street. He paces the length of the fence, looking up in your direction.
You wait, letting a few minutes pass, but he stays there. His face is half hidden by the cap but he hardly turns away. He’s watching you.
“There’s a man by the courts,” you say, staring down at the table. “He’s watching us. We should move.”
Rafe actually smiles when he talks, pretending to be casual, faking a laugh. “You’re sure it’s not Connor?”
“No chance. He’s in his forties. Black baseball cap. Gray hoodie.”
“Okay, you go first. I’ll follow.”
You grab your pack from the floor, keeping it in front of you as you wind down the stairs. The bottom of the McDonald’s is crowded. A few people head past with trays piled with fries. You weave through them, pushing out the front door as two boys in football jerseys walk in.
You don’t look at the man until you’re at the corner. Just a quick sideways glance. He’s still staring. Have they really found you already? How? Without the tracking device, they have no way of knowing you’re in New York.
A minute passes, and you wonder if Rafe is actually coming. He might have been cut off inside the McDonald’s, trapped by another hunter before he could get out. The man in the baseball cap moves to the edge of the sidewalk, turning to look at the oncoming traffic.
Rafe shoves through the door, racing toward you. You don’t stop walking as he approaches. The man fixes his gaze on Rafe and immediately starts to cross the street, toward you. He darts in front of a cab, quickening his steps.
You put your pack on your shoulders and double your pace, moving as fast as you can without drawing too much attention. “He’s following us,” you say when Rafe catches up. You go half a block but the man’s still right behind you. “When we get to the corner, we sprint.”
Neither of you look back. You’re focused on the street sign ahead, preparing to run.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER TEN BLOCKS, the man is still keeping pace. Broadway is busy with people carrying shopping bags, others lingering in front of store windows, staring up at mannequins in designer clothes. But there’s not enough of a crowd for you to stay hidden.
Racing around the next corner leads you to a residential street with narrow brownstones. You notice an elderly man half a block up, with white hair and stooped shoulders. He has his key in the front door of his building. “He’s our chance.”
Rafe sees him, too, and slows to a walk. You’re suddenly aware of what you must look like, out of breath, Rafe in a baggy sweatshirt and ripped, dirty jeans. You grab his hand and smile. You hope you seem like any other teenagers would, walking hand in hand, oblivious to everyone else.
The man disappears inside and you lunge, catching the door just before it clicks shut. You hold the knob just a few inches from the frame as the man takes the last few steps to the first landing.
When he’s gone you slip inside, Rafe right behind you. You lean back against the wall, relaxing when the lock clicks in place. “Did you see him?” you ask. “How close was he?”
“He hadn’t turned the corner yet.”
You scan the lobby. There’s a narrow marble staircase, the edges of the steps worn. Two apartment doors open onto the ground floor. There’s no back exit. You peer out the glass door, looking down at the street below, waiting for the man to walk past.
“He shouldn’t be able to find us here,” you say. “Let’s go to the roof.”
When you get to the top of the stairs you push outside. Staring down at the quiet street bel
ow, you take a deep breath. Streetlights flicker on. You drop your knapsack on the ground.
“Did he recognize you?” Rafe asks.
“He must have; he was definitely following us. But I didn’t see a gun.”
“It might’ve been behind his back. He was just waiting for an opportunity.”
“How could they find us already?”
“I don’t know.” Rafe sits down beside the door, puts his head in his hands. When he speaks, his voice is broken. “I hate this. It brings it all back.”
He doesn’t need to say what. You can tell by the way his face has changed, the way he yanks off his cap, fingers kneading his scalp. He’s remembering what happened on the island.
You sit down beside him, pulling one of his hands to you. “We’re okay, though. We’re safe.”
“We’re not. We’ll never be. And that’s the most messed-up thing about it.” He keeps his head down. His knee shakes, sending tremors through his entire body.
You turn his hand over, studying his palm. A scar cuts across it. You want to say something to make it better, but all you can manage is, “Why don’t you rest. I’ll keep watch.”
It’s colder here, with the autumn wind cutting through the gaps in the buildings, ripping right through your thin sweatshirt. The night is coming on fast. You pull the thin metallic blanket from your pack and pass it to him. You step out toward the ledge of the roof. There’s no sign of the man on the street below.
“This is what you used to do,” he says eventually. When you turn back he’s looking at you. His features seem softer, the deep lines around his forehead gone.
“What do you mean?”
“You could never rest. It didn’t matter how tired we got. You were always the one who stayed up. Even when I was keeping watch . . . you were really keeping watch.” His lips twist into a smile. He looks down, smoothing his hair with his hand. “Like, I’d pass out for an hour and you’d have made some bamboo thing that we could collect rain with. Or you decided we needed to take some path along the beach to avoid the hunters. I would sleep and you would make plans.”
It’s surprising how good it feels to hear someone tell you something intimate about yourself. “What else?” you say.
Rafe smiles. “I didn’t go anywhere without you. You really were the one who kept me alive.”
You go to him, sit down by his feet, trying to remember what he remembers. Trying to understand why he smiles now, why this is the only thing that has pulled him away from that darker place. “You didn’t have to do what you did, on the island.”
“Do what?”
“Stay with me, after I’d been shot. You could’ve run, tried to save yourself.”
Rafe leans forward, resting his hands on your knees. “I didn’t leave you then, and I wouldn’t leave you now. Like I said, you would do the same for me.”
“You don’t know. Maybe I’m different now, Rafe.”
“I don’t think people change, really. Not like that. You are who you are.”
“That’s kind of deep,” you say with a smile.
“Shut up.” Rafe laughs. Then he pushes your knees away from him, grinning. “I’m serious.”
“Maybe, I don’t know. I hope you’re right.” You cross your arms over your chest, hugging your shirt to you as the wind rushes over the roof.
Rafe holds up the blanket. “This is stupid,” he says. “You take it. I’m not going to let you freeze.”
“I’m fine.”
Then he smiles a wicked smile. “We could share . . . like we did on the island. Maybe it’ll help you remember. . . .”
You laugh. “Just looking out for my memory, huh?”
“Yeah, you know,” he says. “I’ll help however I can.”
He holds the blanket up, motioning for you to get underneath it. You move beside him. He shifts, spreading out behind you, letting the front of the blanket fall over your shoulder. “I’d put my arm underneath you,” he says, his voice softer now. “Like this . . .”
He rests one hand on the inside of your hip, in the tiny space between your waist and the ground. His fingers are outside of your clothes, but you feel the warmth of his skin.
You close your eyes.
You listen to his breaths. “On the island, I used to say ‘If we get out of here—’”
“When,” you say. “When we get out of here.”
You hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what you’d say back. You’d say when.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
YOU WAKE UP alone under the blanket. The sky is the color of bruises. When you sit up, Rafe is kneeling by the ledge, a plastic bottle in his hands. He pours some water into his palms, rinsing his face. He has stripped off his sweatshirt and you stare at his bare back, at the tattooed wings that spread across his shoulder blades.
He swipes his hand over the side of his face, then rises, looking down at the street below. It’s such a simple movement but with it you feel the familiar, dizzying pull of a memory coming on. In an instant you are back on the island.
He’s kneeling out on a cliff with his toes gripping the edge, and looking at something down below. Beyond him is the ocean.
When he stands he swipes his hand over the side of his face. You notice the muscles in his chest, the subtle V just above the belt of his shorts. The gash beneath his shoulder looks better. The salt water has helped it heal.
“We might be able to swim part of it. If we can climb down . . . That way we don’t have to go back through the woods.”
You go to him, standing at the ledge. The drop is fifty feet, maybe more. You reach down, feeling the cliff face, the uneven grooves where you’d put your hands. Rocks jut up from the shallows. A fall would kill you.
“We have to jump,” you say. “They’re going to be waiting for us on that path.”
Rafe turns back to the supplies, all tucked inside the cloth bag you share. He ties it to one of his belt loops and you’re reminded of how little you have—two papayas and avocados, a few bamboo tools.
There’s a snap, a crack. You both hear it at the same time and turn, looking into the trees above. The hunter is crouched in the leaves. The top of his head just visible.
You don’t look at Rafe. “Now,” you say.
You jump from the ledge, hurtling yourself forward with all your force. Rafe leaps a moment later. You’re falling . . . falling.
“You remembered something,” he says, studying your face. “What was it?”
He comes toward you, pulling his shirt back on. He offers you the last of the water.
“How’d you know?”
“You looked scared,” he says.
“It was a flash of the island,” you say. “We were on a cliff and we were about to climb down.”
“But then we saw him. He was hiding in the trees above us,” he finishes for you.
You want to say yes, yes, that’s exactly what happened in the memory, but you can’t even manage that. There’s a hard knot in the back of your throat.
“That was the day you messed up your foot,” Rafe tells you. He reaches down, pulling your left sneaker between his knees, and eases off your shoe. When your bare foot is exposed you see the mark you’ve seen so many times before. It’s just below your last two toes. The skin is raised and pink, in a teardrop shape.
“We were okay when we hit the water,” he says. “We both went in feetfirst and we were far enough out that we made it past the rocks. But when we got to the shore he shot at us. You were running and your foot must’ve caught something. There was so much blood.”
His fingers graze the scar, tracing the edges of it. Then they move to your ankle, circling the bone. He lets his hand linger there.
“What happened . . . ?” you ask, but you already know.
“I carried you up the beach.”
“What else?” you ask.
“I don’t want to keep telling you stuff just so things can go back to normal.” He sets your leg down.
“That’s not what you’d be doing. I just want to know about us.”
“Us.” He repeats it, smiles.
You stare down at your hands, working at a piece of skin around your thumb. “The other memories I had. We were together. We were somewhere in the forest and we were . . .”
Rafe doesn’t look at you. This is the closest thing you’ve seen to him being embarrassed, the subtle flush in his cheeks. “What do you want me to say?”
“I just . . . I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel guilty about things, if I, like, did something wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
You think of Ben, of everything that happened between you: the night on the beach, his lips cold when he pressed them against yours. Lying beside him on the couch in his living room. The feel of his hands slipping beneath your shirt, moving across the bare skin of your stomach.
It’s hard to think of it now, knowing what you know about him. He was working for AAE. He betrayed you.
How much does Rafe need to hear?
“My Watcher in LA,” you begin, “Ben. He was our age, a little older. I thought we’d met by chance. He was . . . helping me. But he was reporting back to AAE.”
Rafe keeps his eyes on the ground. “And so what . . . you were in love with him or something?”
“No,” you say. “I just . . . I didn’t even know if you were real. I didn’t know what was going on; my head was all messed up.”
“You don’t need to explain it,” he says, cutting you off. He digs through his pack and hands you a granola bar. He takes one for himself and starts unwrapping it.
Rafe lets out a breath, settling back on the roof beside you. “It’s fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
Then this smirk comes across his face. “It’s just . . . the guy I’d bet was my Watcher? He was, like, this sixty-year-old meth head who slept by the LA River. He’d talk to me about stealing shit. Wasn’t exactly the sexiest situation.”