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can’t stop looking at them. They grow in size. If he opens his mouth, he might swallow me.
    But things are changing. I can hear my heart beating in my chest, pounding against my temple, with each beat; I’m worried that it might explode. At eleven years old, I’m not entirely convinced this can’t happen.
    Pound. Pound. Pound.
    I look over and I see that they’ve got Christian down on the ground. He’s struggling with them but he’s too weak and they’ve got his arms pinned behind his back. Another man, the one with a long scar along his forehead, has Christian and he’s pried open his mouth with his fingers. Someone else pours some of the strawberry candy onto his tongue and it splashes against his teeth. He’s no longer pleading. He’s staring straight ahead, and our eyes meet. I can’t look away. I want to but I can’t. His green eyes are full of hatred. Sorrow. Confusion. Too many emotions. It hurts my head.
    The strawberry taste is now rancid on my tongue. I swallow, trying to get it out, but it’s like syrup coating my throat, and it won’t go away. And everything is growing hazy. My eyelids have grown heavy, weighted down by the buckets of tears I’ve cried. Suddenly my legs are no longer supporting my weight, I tilt to the side, and in slow motion I see the ground reach up to meet me.
    And I’m lying on the concrete, staring up at the stars.
    Pound. Pound. Pound.
    The man with the scary smile leans over me. “Have a nice trip,” he says.
    A billion colors light up the sky, like fireworks Mom once took me to. I watch them, trying to decipher the colors I don’t recognize but there are simply too many. I think I’ve stopped breathing; my chest is no longer rising and I’m slightly aware of the burning sensation inside my lungs. But I see blue and pink and red and silver. Lots of silver.
    Pound. Pound. Pound.
    I want to reach up and touch the colors as they float down toward me, taunting me to pick them up and put them in my pocket. But I can’t move my arms; they’re no longer under my control. It’s okay. I don’t need them anyway. The sky is dipping down to meet me.
    Everything is beautiful.
    Pound.
    And suddenly it stops.
    No more heartbeat. No more sky. Nothing but blackness.
    And then … fire.

    A pounding at my door.
    “Faye?”
    Another knock.
    I sit up, the dream falling away, tangling myself in my bedsheets. I look at the clock. Almost seven. It’s dark outside.
    Shit.
    Gazer is at my door, knocking again.
    “I’m fine,” I say. “Just fell asleep.”
    A soft silence.
    “Dinner is on the table. Come down when you’re ready.”
    “Okay,” I say.
    I wait till I hear his feet recede back down the stairs. Climbing out of bed, I head straight for the bathroom, cursing myself in the mirror. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. That was stupid. Now I’ve gone and missed practice and I’ve still got a ton of homework to do before I can go out tonight.
    These late-night hours are starting to wear me down. I’m a teenager; I’m supposed to be in my prime. So why are there heavy circles under my eyes? I splash water on my face and wet down my hair.
    I head downstairs to try to eat something. I’ll need my strength for what I have planned tonight.

Four
    “You’re not ready.”
    I’m sick of those words. I hear them constantly.
    And I totally disagree.
    But Gazer always says it. No matter how much I train, no matter how many times I manage to land a killing blow, he ends each session with those three words.
    You’re. Not. Ready.
    “Why not?” My current standard reply.
    “Because you’re not ready.”
    I walk over to the wooden mannequin and remove the knives sticking out of its chest. One blade in particular is embedded so deeply I have to use my foot as leverage to try to pull it out. Now, that is what I’d call a decent death blow.
    “I can throw a knife better than you,” I say. “You even admitted it yourself. And my hand-to-hand combat is off the wall. I can fight.