I leave the other Resistance members to loot the Breathe headquarters and head for the infirmary on the Zone One–Zone Two border. The oxygen in the streets is dwindling, but it’s more than I had in the cell. I walk quickly, passing brawling groups of men and women, until I turn a corner into a quiet street where two boys are grappling over a mini-airtank lying next to them. I snatch it, cover my mouth and nose with the facemask, and speed off. They holler things after me, but I’m faster than them. Stronger. Running hurts my legs and my breathing gets short, but it feels like a small triumph against the Ministry.
When I get to the infirmary, a broad white building taking up an entire block, the security hut is empty, and the gate is open. I scamper along the lane and into the deserted lobby where the switchboard is madly ringing and blinking and cots and wheelchairs are strewn in every direction.
A doctor with a stethoscope around her neck and blood spots on her white coat stumbles from a room. “We don’t have any spare oxygen for visitors,” she says, and tries to jam me back through the revolving doors.
“I’m looking for a child,” I say.
She lets me go and rushes to the switchboard, where she mutes the ringing. “Auxiliaries have been moved to Premium wards upstairs. We’ll lose our jobs over it, but looks like we won’t have jobs anyway.” The building shudders and the doctor takes a long look me. “I have my own kids. I have to go,” she says, and scrambles through the infirmary doors and away.
I take the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The hallway is alive with brittle chatter and crammed with people coughing or hooked up to IVs. I weave my way through the throng and make out Jazz at the end of the hallway, her leg in a heavy cast, her curly red hair heaped like spaghetti on top of her head.
Thank goodness.
“Jazz!” I shout. She hops down the hallway holding her crutches.
“You took your time,” she says, and hits me hard in the stomach.
I’m unable to resist kissing her fist. “You ready to get out of here?”
“I was ready yesterday,” she says, and continues to hop all the way to the staircase. She clings to the handrail and takes the steps two at a time. “Hurry,” she says as a door at the bottom slurps opens.
I grab Jazz, ready to defend her if I have to, when Keane and Lennon appear, followed by Quinn, who’s supporting his mother. “We need a doctor,” he shouts. His mother’s bump has dropped. I don’t believe it. Today of all days.
“Stay there,” I tell Jazz, and help haul Mrs. Caffrey to the third floor. She screeches and writhes when we lay her on the floor. “Someone help us!” Quinn calls out.
“The doctors have all left,” an auxiliary with a bandage taped to his eye says.
Cynthia Caffrey howls and grips her stomach. “I have to push,” she says.
Quinn turns to me. The blood has drained from his face. “She has to push,” he repeats.