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letters, THE POPULATION POLICE DID THIS .
He propped the sign up against the pile of dead bodies and slipped into the shadowy woods.

    Chapter Eleven
    Once, back at Niedler School, Matthias's history f teacher had told a story about a soldier who ran twenty-five miles to tell his king about a victorious battle. The soldier covered all that distance at top speed, delivered his news, and immediately dropped over dead.
    If this run is going to kill me, Matthias thought as he raced through the woods, let me be like that soldier. Let me deliver my news first.
Within a few minutes of leaving the cabin, Matthias got a stitch in his side. His feet got wet when he failed to see a stream until he was already in it. He could get his breath only in ragged gasps. But none of that worried him as much as the danger of being caught. He forced himself to slow down, look around, strive for silence.
Under different circumstances—if Percy and Alia were healthy and by his side, if he weren't worried about the Population Police chasing him—Matthias knew he could have appreciated his constantly changing view of the snowy woods. Samuel had taught the three kids to soak up beauty wherever they found it. But on this day, even the most beautiful trees were only obstacles and potential hiding places for enemies. The snow was only a threat: It melted into a wet, slippery mess as the day wore on, then turned to dangerous ice as evening approached. Matthias lost track of the number of times he slipped and fell. But he always forced himself back up onto his numb feet, forced himself to keep plodding onward.
By the time Matthias finally came in sight of Mr. Hendricks's cottage, it was night again and he was navigating by moonlight, straining his eyes just to see the road before him. Mr. Hendricks's windows let out a dim glow through drawn curtains, and Matthias stumbled toward that glow. He misjudged the size of the doorstep and careened directly into the side of the house.
"Who's there?" a voice called from inside, sharp and cautious. The glow in the windows immediately went dark. "Identify yourself."
"Ma—hias," Matthias mumbled. His tongue felt so swollen, he could barely say his own name. Odd—he couldn't remember stopping to take a drink of water even once the entire day. Maybe that was why he was having such trouble talking. Had he forgotten to eat, too? Maybe that was why he found himself sprawled on the ground, as if his spine and legs had given out at the same time.
A porch light clicked on.
"Matthias? Matthias, is that you?"
    Someone opened the door and drew Matthias into the warmth. Someone shone a flashlight out into the darkness, searching.
"Matthias, what happened? Are you alone? Where are Percy and Alia?"
"Sick . . . hurt... go help them," Matthias managed to say. It was so tempting to give way to his exhaustion, even though he wasn't sure whether he'd fall asleep or die if he did. Maybe he would be like the marathon runner after all. But he hadn't delivered enough of his message yet. He hadn't told where Percy and Alia were.
"Cabin, big road," he mumbled.
"Matthias, for God's sake, just rest for a minute. You, John, go get him something to eat and drink—some broth, maybe?"
And probably Matthias did pass out then, because the next thing he knew he was lying in a huge bed. Mr. Hendricks was right beside his bed, spooning broth into his mouth. Mr. Hendricks's friend Mr. Talbot was there too, along with a red-haired woman and two young boys.
"He's not as bad as he looks. Most of the blood on his face and sweater isn't his. He's mostly just got scratches," the woman was saying. "Maybe a touch of frostbite on his feet too, but it's not bad."
"I'm fine. It's Percy and Alia—," Matthias struggled to Say. The broth must have been helping because his tongue seemed to have returned to its usual size now. He found he could put words together in complete sentences again. "They're the ones to worry about."
"Hush," Mr. Hendricks said soothingly.