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more than a match for Mr. Wilson. “I could just go in there, break his kneecaps, and then we’d be done with it.”
     
    “Yeah,” I replied. “I do want to talk to him. Like I’ve said, we’ve got unfinished business.”
     
    After he was inside, we followed him. It was one of those buildings with a courtyard and a wraparound balcony allowing easy access from outside. It was easy enough to follow Mr. Wilson’s trail up to the balcony and then find his unit. Blade picked the lock in a manner of seconds and then we were inside.
     
    It was a small, completely unremarkable apartment. Tidy and uninteresting—for all his eminence in the world of college admissions, which he lorded over us girls, Mr. Wilson didn’t seem particularly impressive in his personal life.
     
    From the kitchen, we could hear the sounds of someone preparing dinner. Blade glanced at me and I nodded. Following him, we burst into the next room, Blade drawing a knife.
     
    There was Mr. Wilson, pouring a glass of wine. Sitting at the kitchen table was Cassie, her eyes wide when she saw me.
     
    “Sarah!” she shrieked. Mr. Wilson dropped the glass of wine, shattering it into ten-thousand tiny shards.
     
    “A friend of yours?” asked Blade. I nodded.
     
    “Cassie. Get the hell out of here.”
     
    I saw bruises on her neck. I realized that her hair was a mess. Did her parents know she was here? I had so many questions for her but I knew they couldn’t be answered now. She nodded, tears glistening in her eyes, and darted past Mr. Wilson, carefully picking her way through the field of broken glass. She stopped to give me a hug before disappearing through the back door of the tiny apartment.
     
    “What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Wilson demanded, doing his best to seem intimidating. Of course, it didn’t impress Blade.
     
    “This is a friend of mine,” I declared, wrapping my hand around Blade’s free one—the one that wasn’t gripping a knife.
     
    “You’ve been absent from school, you’ve—“
     
    I let a haymaker fly, knocking Mr. Wilson hard in the jaw. He crumpled to the ground like a pile of rags.
     
    “You’re not going to hurt anyone anymore,” I told him as Blade hauled him to his feet. From his leather jacket, Blade pulled the piece de resistance of our entire trip: a small, home made tattoo machine. Blade had acquired it in prison, he told me. He wasn’t much of an artist but that didn’t matter right now.
     
    With one hand holding Mr. Wilson down and the other hand guiding the machine, I watched as the words “RAPIST” and “PERVERT” appeared in thick, crude black lettering on Mr. Wilson’s forehead. He shrieked like a baby, screaming at first and then pleading with us as Blade tattooed him. Fifteen minutes later, it was done and Blade allowed him to collapse to the floor again, the broken glass slicing his hands and knees.
     
    ~
     
    We got out of there fast and drove in the opposite direction of the Jokers’ camp. This was Blade’s idea: in case Mr. Wilson decided to call the cops, we didn’t want to be anywhere near the Jokers’ last known location.
     
    We stopped in a forest preserve about forty miles out of Windgale for the night. We picked out way through the woods and found a small clearing where Blade pitched a tent and made a fire. As we sat around it, warming ourselves, he fixed dinner: a package of dried soup. It was something I would have almost certainly turned up my nose at in my previous life but now, after everything that had happened in the last few days, it tasted damned good. I couldn’t tell you now what flavor it had been or what had been in it or even if we finished it. All I know, and all I knew then, was that it tasted like freedom—more than anything else I had ever tasted.
     
    “You’re sure you’re ready for this?” Blade asked, after being silent for nearly half an hour. I looked up in surprise.
     
    “Ready for what?”
     
    “For… This life. It’s not an