I open my mouth to say something, but then I hear a sharp, sudden noise that cuts into the night. Wes is solid beside me. “Gunshots,” I gasp.
“The clearing.”
We both jump to our feet and run through the woods, back toward Tim and Twenty-two. I wipe the tears from my eyes, chasing after Wes’s black form as he ducks below branches, leaps over rocks. When he gets near our makeshift campsite he slows a bit, and I see what he does—Tim and Twenty-two tucked behind separate trees.
Tim raises the shotgun and points it into the opposite woods. He fires and the noise is as shocking as thunder, ringing in my ears long after the bullet has disappeared. I duck behind a tree as the other side opens fire—quick, relentless blasts. Small pieces of bark explode around me in a shower of dust and wood.
This is the FBI. Surrender, a booming voice calls out through a megaphone. It is closer than I thought, maybe only twenty feet away. In the near dark it is impossible to tell how many agents there are, and I picture body after body hidden in the trees, armed and ready.
“Move back!” Wes shouts as soon as the shooting stops. Twenty-two sprints away, darting from tree to tree to maintain cover as she makes her way toward us. Tim does the same but he is slower, clumsier. When they reach us we fall into one of the formations I learned in training—a rough square with Twenty-two and Tim on point, Wes and I behind.
I can hear them out there, twigs snapping under their feet, guns jostling as they move forward, coming for us. The sulfur from Tim’s shotgun burns at my nose, and I struggle to take a breath.
Wes taps his head twice with his index finger, the code for retreat. Our only choice now is to run.
Suddenly a yellow light erupts through the forest, so bright I blink and cover my eyes with my hands. They have a spotlight on us, and our cover behind the trees is now almost worthless.
“Now!” I shout. “Go now!”
Twenty-two is already moving, but Tim winces, doubling over to clutch his side. I grab his arm, ready to pull him after me, when I feel it, wet and hot and red.
Blood. He’s covered in blood.
“Oh God, Tim.” I wrap my arm around his waist and he falls into me. “Wes, he’s been shot.”
Wes grabs the shotgun from Tim’s hand, pumping the barrel once. As he winds one arm around Tim’s body, he turns and fires the weapon into the woods. The bright light disappears, shattered by his bullet.
We run as fast as we can, Wes on Tim’s left side, me on his right. Twenty-two is up ahead, darting from tree to tree, her small body almost invisible in the darkened forest.
Tim is moaning, his head lolling back and forth, and even with Wes’s help I struggle under his weight. He was shot on the right side, under his ribs. The bullet pierced his lung; I can hear it in every gargled, jagged breath he takes. Blood pours out of the hole, staining my T-shirt as well as his.
“He has to lie down,” I yell at Wes. “I need to stop the bleeding or he’ll die.”
Wes’s face is grim as he steers us around a large fallen tree. He lifts the shotgun, pumps the chamber again, and points it into the woods. “Lydia . . . we won’t have long.”
“Just let me stop the bleeding.” I help Tim lie back against the old, rotting wood. He closes his eyes and tries to lift his arm, but his hand just spasms in the air before it falls limply back to his side. It reminds me of him in the stream at dusk, slowly moving his fingers through the dark water and waiting, waiting for the moment the fish would swim close enough to touch.
I grab the edge of my shirt and rip a long strip off, then press it down onto the wound. The cloth is almost instantly soaked through with blood. I press down harder and he moans again, low and raspy. “Open your eyes, Tim.”
He does, but they are glassy and unfocused. “Me,” I say, “look at me.”
He swings his gaze wildly, but finally his eyes settle on my face. “Lydia. Is it bad?” The words sound like they are spoken through liquid.
“No,” I lie, shaking my head so hard my teeth rattle. “You’ll be fine. Just keep your eyes open.”
I hear Wes fire from above, see Twenty-two crouch behind a boulder in front of us. The men in the trees are coming closer, with their larger guns, their endless ammo.
“I thought the Project would come for us—” Tim gasps and his body goes tight. He bares his teeth and blood slides out the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t think about that. We’ll make it out of this. The Project will find us and we’ll go back in time and erase this whole night. You just have to hold on for a little longer.” I fight to keep my voice even.
“You told me your name.”
“Because I trust you.” I didn’t know a body could have this much blood, and my hands are slick with it. I press down again. Tim doesn’t even moan this time. There’s a large bruise blossoming on his neck in shades of blue. His skin is turning to rice paper, translucent and fragile.
I can stop it. I have to stop it.
“Lydia.” He sounds so faint, and I lean in close to hear him. “Get out. Promise me you’ll get out.”
“We’ll both get out.” Tears are clouding my vision, making it hard to see. A sob rips at my throat but I swallow it down. “Don’t give up.”
“Please.” The word is less than a whisper.
“No, no, no, no,” I chant. I feel Wes squat down
