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weird that
the people who played my parents so readily accepted Jo and me as
their kids? Wouldn’t you remember your own kids?”
    “ Well, the stitch did make
us forget each other, mostly. And I didn’t remember that Janie was
my sister.”
    “ I guess so. I just really
want to understand how it works. And why they’re going to such
lengths to trick the prisoners into leading false lives and filming
them as entertainment for the rest of Paragon. Wouldn’t it be a
hell of a lot easier to just get rid of us?”
    Alessa sighed. “Well, I
guess they needed someone to try the stitch out on, and the dramas do seem
to do a good job of keeping people distracted…” She shrugged.
“Plus, with so few people left, maybe they just didn’t want to take
chances losing anyone else. Though they did make Joe – and Nikhil –
disappear easily enough.”
    The mention of Nikhil brought on a
pang of jealousy which Isaac did his best to swallow – after all,
he trusted Alessa’s account that nothing had happened between her
and Nikhil. But that didn’t mean that it didn’t still sting. “You
said no one heard from Nikhil after the night of the party,
right?”
    “ Right. Hopefully the
rebels will know more – about Nikhil, Josephine, all of this – by
the time we get back there.” She gave him a stern look. “Speaking
of, why don’t you take that nap now so we can get moving in a
bit?”
    Isaac smiled. Alessa was always so
focused – she couldn’t relax until she’d achieved whatever it was
she set out to do, even if it was something as simple as making him
rest. He knew there was no sense in fighting her.
    “ All right, all right.
Your wish is my command, m’lady.” And with a wink, he laid his head
down, inhaling the earthy scent of wood and moss, and drifted off
contentedly.

5. CONFEDERATES
    The scraping was driving Nikhil
insane. Or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe he was already
insane.
    He shook his head vigorously, willing
the sound – imaginary or not – from his ears. Scratch, scratch,
scratch, scratch. For what had to have been the thousandth time in
weeks, he searched the room for its source, but once again came up
empty – it was everywhere and nowhere at once, on and off and then
on again for hours at a time. Scratch, scratch, scratch,
scratch.
    Nikhil stood and paced back and forth
in his cell, hunched slightly so his head wouldn’t brush the cold,
hard ceiling. Perhaps his footsteps would drown out the noise,
bring him some relief from this torment. But it persisted –
scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch – the tiniest little scraping,
reverberating off the walls until it formed the blaring soundtrack
to his every thought.
    He tried to distract himself with
thoughts of better times, transport himself somewhere – anywhere –
outside this dark, cramped prison cell. The rush of victory at a
water polo match. The scent of blown birthday candles and a warm
embrace from a smiling mother. A stolen kiss behind the bleachers.
The relief of finding help after a long and harrowing journey. The
gratitude of a patient’s family. Rescuing a fallen brother from
enemy fire. A noble lady’s favor tucked into his pocket…
    The problem was that he
couldn’t remember which memories were real and which were fake.
There were so many different lives jumbled in his head, it was hard
to tell now which was the real Nikhil. Though in the end, did it even really
matter? Anywhere was better than here.
    Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.
The train of pleasant images halted, Nikhil sighed deeply and
stretched his broad shoulders and long arms as best he could in the
miniscule space. He resumed his usual place on the floor beside the
rigid metal cot.
    It was cool on the cement, but at
least he could stretch his legs in front of him without his feet
dangling. He leaned his head back against the wall, cursing the day
he’d begged the gods for a reprieve from the silence of his lonely
cell. Even silence was better