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what I have to—whatever is needed at 5918 W. Broadway. I stare out into the hallway, hearing Harlin open the medicine cabinet.
    Turning away, I stumble toward his bedroom window, gripping the frame. Pushing it up takes nearly all of the strength I have left, but it’s the only way out. I can’t risk walking past the bathroom and having him stop me.
    I put one leg at a time over the sill and step out onto the steel grid of the fire escape. I snake my body through the window until I’m out in the dark night, standing above an alleyway. I quickly move down the stairs, buttoning my shirt as I go. I pause once to feel the odd patch of skin on my shoulder, but I’ll have to look it over later. When I’m done.
    My breathing improves now that I’m moving. My bones begin to warm a little. Just enough to tell me that I’m going the right way.

Chapter 4
    I t’s nearly twenty blocks later when I’m standing in front of a crumbling old warehouse, the number 5918 painted on the red bricks. The broken panes of glass are jagged like sets of sinister teeth. This is a really bad idea. There is no way in hell I’d be out here if it wasn’t for the Need. This side of Portland isn’t the safest place to be at night.
    A wave pushes through me and I stumble toward the oversized metal doors. A flyer—the same one from Plato’s—is taped in the window. Next week there will be a community event to restore the building, something truly inspiring, I’m sure. But tonight it’s still just an abandoned warehouse. And a creepy one at that.
    I step back. Need or not, there is no way I’m going inside. Chances are, there could be a junkie or dealer living inside. It wouldn’t be the first time the Need has put me in this position. Last month I walked into the dark back room of a restaurant. It was filled with drug dealers, their guns out on the tables. I told Anthony that his girlfriend was pregnant and needed him to straighten up. That if he didn’t, she’d leave and he’d never see his kid. I thought for sure I was going to get killed that night, but instead, he listened. And I walked out unscathed.
    But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared. No . . . whatever it is I’m here for now, I can do it from outside. At least there are streetlights.
    There’s an intense heat running under my skin, setting my shoulder on fire. I move the white fabric of my shirt to peek at it. The red blotch is darker now in the center. I feel my stomach turn at the sight. It wasn’t like this at Harlin’s.
    I touch it because warmth is pulsating down my arm, seemingly from that spot. But as I brush the skin . . . it rubs off. I hitch in a breath, my eyes wide. I wipe my finger softly over the raised area again and another layer comes off. It’s like goldleaf on a cheap antique—just flaking away.
    I’m starting to hyperventilate, but the pain seems to fade with each swipe I take. I press a little harder as I run my fingers over the spot and soon there’s no more skin there. I cry out at the sight of it and cover my eyes with my shaky hands. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. But the burning in my shoulder is gone and it’s pure relief.
    I swallow hard and lower my hands, turning to glance at the wound. Only when I do, it’s different. It’s . . . golden.
    “Oh my God,” I murmur, brushing at the skin, but nothing else comes off. It’s a layer of gold, under the surface, gleaming in the yellow light of the streetlamps.
    “No.” I shake my head, not sure what’s wrong with me. As if the Need isn’t enough. Now my skin? What the hell is wrong with my skin? I blink rapidly and back away from the warehouse, rubbing roughly at my shoulder, trying to get rid of the spot. The gold.
    I stumble off the curb and I’m immediately flooded in light from an oncoming car. I scream, holding my arms up in front of me, my white shirt still hanging off my shoulder. Tires squeal. Metal bangs against my thighs and I’m knocked back; the force of