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“Mom!” as her mother resumes her attempt to strip her in public.
    “Do you need any help?” Tobin asks Mr. Pace once they’re gone.
    “I think you’ve done enough.”
    “I didn’t mean—”
    “You never mean it, Tobin. But that doesn’t make the damage any less, and it doesn’t deal with what you refuse to. Deal with it! I’m tired of cleaning up what happens because you won’t.”
    “Jove attacked her, and no one made a move to stop it, so I did.” Tobin meets our teacher’s accusation without flinching. This time he wins over the rage; his hands never quite make the transition into fists. He stomps up the ramp and out of sight.
    “You, too,” Mr. Pace says to me. “Get out of here.” He twitches his head toward the exit.
    “He wasn’t lying,” I say. “Jove snapped. He was about to choke me.”
    Mr. Pace takes a quick look at my throat, drawing in a hiss when he touches the cord marks left from my inhaler. He inspects my arm where the burn’s spread from under my alarm band.
    “Get yourself checked out before you turn in for the day.”
    “It’s not bad,” I protest. “Doctor Wolff has his hands full without me taking up space.”
    Mr. Pace straightens into his “lecture” posture. Then he sighs, and lets it go. He’s not in the mood for another argument, and he knows there’ll be one if he tries to force me into the hospital. I’d hate that place even if Jove wasn’t there to remind me of what happened last night.
    “Go straight to your room, and don’t tell Honoria I did this.” He overrides the code on my wristband, unlocking it, before pulling a small tube out of one of the pockets on his vest and squeezing cold, blue gel onto my skin.
    “It tingles.”
    “Good. That means the burn didn’t damage your nerves.” He caps the tube and hands it to me. “Keep the alarm in reach, on the other wrist or in your pocket, but not over the burn. If it bleeds or goes numb, promise me you’ll get it looked at.”
    “I promise.”
    “Good. Now get out of here. I don’t want to see you again until twenty-one hundred, got it?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    When we entered the bunker, all I wanted was a way out and fresh air. But now my leg’s heavy and uncoordinated; it drags with an ache I thought I’d healed past having to feel again. One side of me wants to run, the other can hardly walk.
    By the time I’m back to the domicile halls, following the green line on the floor toward my room, I’m pulling myself along the rails. I pass people at intervals, but most pretend they can’t see me. They certainly don’t offer to help.
    I pause to rest against the sign listing the procedure for finding a broken light, and spare a quick glance to the station at the middle of the hall to make sure the emergency call’s still in one piece. It’s weird not to have my alarm on my wrist. The band isn’t heavy, but it’s always there. The steady bump of the bracelet in my pocket with each step becomes a talisman to keep me focused until I reach my door and lock myself inside.
    I dispose of my blood-soaked clothes and wash off before digging out the blue pajama shirt and pants assigned to kids in my year. I fall into bed and close my eyes, but the individual generators are louder than the main power supply, causing slight vibrations through the wall.
    My brain refuses to calm, jumping from one frantic thought to another. If the Fade can make it through the Arc at high power, what’s to stop them from coming in during the day while we’re all asleep? In the place I came from, did we live our lives at night the way we do here? Was I odd there, too? Did I have friends?
    I lie awake counting holes in ceiling tiles, and wonder how old I am. Fifteen to seventeen is Dr. Wolff’s best guess. Two years isn’t a wide spread, but it seems wrong to not know.
    Everything seems wrong.
    I pull my blankets over my head and try to shut the world out, but it blocks the thrum of machinery within the walls, and I