Resist

whispers.

“I wasn’t a Premium.” He looks confused and then he touches his earlobe. Still keeping hold of my hand, he leads me down an alleyway.

“Breathe slowly,” he says. I stop and take in deep lungsful of air. While he clambers back into his trousers, shirt, and coat, I focus on keeping my heart from bursting through my ribs.

“Here!” a voice nearby calls out. Ronan takes my hand again and we hide behind a stinking old wheelie bin. He opens his coat and wraps me up in it. I feel his chest next to my back and sink in deeper for warmth. He rests the hand holding his gun on my stomach.

“Okay?” he whispers. My teeth are chattering. I am too cold to nod.

Ronan squeezes me tighter as someone prowls the alleyway. Garbage crunches and squelches under the weight of a boot. The barrel of a gun comes into view. And a face.

Quinn.

“Bea?” He stares at me, wrapped up with Ronan.

There are more footsteps and a voice in the alleyway. “See anything?”

Quinn looks away. “Nothing. I’ll keep looking. They can’t be far.” The footsteps recede.

I struggle out of Ronan’s embrace and throw my arms around Quinn. He stays still and stiff. “Quinn,” I whisper, bending down, picking up Ronan’s sweater and pulling it over my head. My legs are bare. Quinn looks away and so does Ronan. I feel tears at the corners of my eyes, which I wipe away with the back of my hand.

“Ronan Knavery?” Quinn says. “And where’s Jazz?”

“Your father picked her up,” Ronan says. “She’s safe.”

“My father?”

“He wants you back. He’s going to protect you,” Ronan says.

Quinn squints. He’s as suspicious of Ronan as I was. “Let’s go, Bea,” he says, taking my hand.

“Where are you going?” Ronan asks.

“None of your business.” Quinn begins to pull me away, but I stay rooted.

“I think your dad is really looking for you, Quinn.” I press my hand against his cheek, so he’ll look at me.

And it works. “You believe him?” he asks. But it isn’t about whether or not I believe Ronan, it’s about Quinn having a chance to reconcile with his father. If someone told me I could see my dad again, I’d listen to what he had to say.

“We have a plan to get rid of the Ministry, if we can convince your dad to help.”

“He’ll listen to you, I’m sure,” Ronan says.

“Me? He hates me. Just go home, Ronan.” Quinn’s tone is belittling. But Ronan doesn’t deserve it. He’s only been kind, and Jazz and I would be dead if he hadn’t shown up.

“Come back to the pod, and we’ll change things together,” Ronan says, pounding his palm with his fist. “Why struggle out here?”

Quinn laughs. “The only thing that’ll change the pod is if every one of those ministers croaks,” he says.

“So let’s see to it that they do,” Ronan says.

This gets Quinn’s attention. He prods Ronan in the chest. “Like you’d give up your fancy house and art studio for the likes of Bea.”

“He isn’t lying,” I say, though how can I be one hundred percent sure? I only know what he’s told me.

“Where are they?” someone shouts from the road. Quinn blinks and looks at me.

“Auxiliaries wouldn’t trust Jude Caffrey or Cain Knavery’s son. I need you both,” Ronan says.

“Vanya’s going to tear out your liver and have it for dinner,” the voice shouts.

Quinn holds my face in his hands. Oh, I missed him. “Is there any chance of this working?” he asks.

I nod. “Your dad took Jazz. I think he’s changing, Quinn. If there’s any chance at all, shouldn’t we take it?”

“Vanya’s nuts. We’re dead if we go back there without Jazz. She’s Vanya’s daughter,” Quinn says, more to himself than to Ronan and me. Suddenly he takes Ronan by the coat collar. Ronan doesn’t flinch. “This better not be a trap,” he says, and steps behind the wheelie bin so he’s out of view of the street. “Now we have to get out of here,” he says.

“This way,” Ronan says without another second’s discussion, and runs to the end of the alleyway. We follow, but as we reach him, he turns around, his eyes wide.

“It’s blocked,” he says, reloading his gun. “Only way out is past whoever you came with.”

“Quinn, let’s get moving. Where are you?” the disembodied voice calls.

Ronan puts a finger to his lips and holds his gun ready.

“QUINN!”

Quinn looks at Ronan’s gun. “Unless his shot is spot on, this could go very badly,” he whispers to me. I open my mouth, about to tell him that Ronan is a perfect shot, when Quinn releases my hand. “Go to the pod with Ronan and I’ll follow. If this is going to work, we should gather everyone to help. I’ll get the others and join you.”

I feel lightheaded. “I need you,” I tell Quinn, hoping he knows how true this is. It was true even when we were only friends.

“Alina and Silas have to be part of this. It’s their fight,” he says. “Besides, they’re the ones with the connections and skills.”

“But . . .”

“Hide.” He pushes me toward the wall, where I hunker down behind a pile of garbage. “You, too,” he tells Ronan, who shakes his head and keeps his gun pointed. “Protect Bea,” he says. Ronan hesitates for a couple of moments, then dives next to me. I must be breathing loudly because he puts his hand over the blowoff valve in my mask.

Quinn fastens the top button of his coat and readjusts the strap of his rifle. “Stay hidden,” he says.

“Anything?” the voice booms.

“Nope,” Quinn says.

“Then let’s get out of here. The drifters must have taken them. Vanya isn’t going to like this. I wouldn’t want to be you when we get back.” The man behind the voice snorts.

Quinn stands motionless, and once the man has retreated, looks at me. My hands are still covered in Jazz’s blood. My frame is thinner than it ever was. I haven’t washed in a long time. I look exactly like someone who needs to be protected. “I love you, Bea,” he says, and before I can protest or tell him I love him, too, he takes off down the alleyway and is gone.

27 ALINA

Vanya wouldn’t hear of me going along with Quinn in the zip, so we have to sit tight. Maude and Bruce have been put to work in the greenhouse. The rest of us are in a cardio room doing interval training with a girl and guy we don’t know.

Terry, who sat with us in the dining hall last night, comes into the room carrying a handful of papers. “Just the newbies,” he says. We stop the treadmills, and he hands us each a list printed on heavy gray paper. I rub it between my fingers.

“Is this stone?” Song asks, turning the schedule over in his hands.

Terry nods. “Yep. We finally managed to make up a batch.”

“Limestone and resin,” Song says. “At The Grove we never tried. Too busy with the trees.”

“What is this, anyway?” Dorian asks, reading.

“Schedules for tomorrow. You’ll get your permanent ones soon.”

I eye the schedule. Morning activities are pretty standard: cardio, meditation, breaks for food. But the entire