SEVENTY-FOUR

GRIFF KNOCKED AGAINST THE GULLY WALL. LANDED WITH A screaming, aching twist deep in the meat of his foot. But this had been the deal all along. It had to hurt. He had to know he’d done everything he could.

“Move,” he told his throbbing foot.

Malachi, shouting. On his transmitter, the green light remained faint. When Griff turned the transmitter left, it vanished. He ran to the right. Hard to focus, with the crowd roaring at him to get out, GET OUT but—

You’ve got to find them.

Who would leave themselves down here to die?

“Hello!” Griff screamed.

Empty booths, lofts, nooks. Griff turned down the right fork of a path, the beacon in his hand glowed green—the right way. He ran toward a dark enclosure in the Paths. Something flashed inside. The sky blocked with ragged tenting.

Griff ran. Not tenting. Clothing.

Gossamer lines strung with armless shirts, legless pants, faceless masks. Lidless barrels and tables jammed the space and he leapt, tripping over a heap of discarded pants, shirts—his injured foot screamed, pulsed in his ankle.

On the table to his left, a flat burlap face.

A crouching figure, straight ahead.

He raced toward it, and the figure sprang and came running.

The detector screamed green and Griff dropped his shoulder into a charge. He would fight. Drag them out. Force them to live. The crowd screamed at a new pitch—like the moment a band takes the stage.

Behind him, the Encore blazed white light.

WHOOMP

The figure he was chasing was Leo.

WHOOMP

The figure was faceless.

WHOOMP

Griff met a stranger in the glass. A boy who had outgrown his camouflage clothing. Pants, short. Shirt, tight. Skin tanned and budding stubble on his cheeks. Intensity in the eyes. Too skinny. And Leo was gone.

“Bro?” Griff asked.

And Leo was gone.

“Leo?” Griff said.

Bring him back. God, please bring him back.

Leo was gone and sound drummed in his ears. Snapping wood. Tearing canvas. Explosive, like a car being dropped from a bridge. Griff’s held breath burst into a wet, ragged sob as water reached the curtains. The glass-and-thatch overstory caved with a buckling roar. The expression in the mirror changed. Panicked. And a familiar voice said:

Run, brother. RUN.