I haven't been upstairs since the first time Alex brought me here with Hana, when we made it a point to explore every room of the house. I didn't even think to check the second floor earlier this afternoon. Here it's even darker than downstairs, if possible, and hotter too, a black and drifting mist.

Alex starts shuffling down the hall, past a row of identical wooden doors. "This way."

Above us, a frantic sound of fluttering: bats, disturbed by the sound of his voice. I let out a little squeak of fear. Mice? Fine. Flying mice? Not so fine. That's another reason I've been sticking to the ground floor. During our initial exploration we came into what must have been the master bedroom-an enormous room, with the half-collapsed beams of a four-poster bed still standing in the middle of it-and looked up into the gloom, and saw dozens and dozens of dark, silent shapes ma.s.sed along the wooden beams, like horrible black buds dangling along a flower stem, ready to drop. When we moved, several of them opened their eyes and seemed to wink at me. The floor was streaked with bat s.h.i.t; it smelled sickly sweet.

"In here," he says, and though I can't be positive, I think he stops at the door to the master bedroom. I shiver. I have zero desire to see the inside of the Bat Room again. But Alex is emphatic, so I let him open the door and I pa.s.s inside in front of him.

As soon as we walk into the room I gasp and stop so suddenly he b.u.mps into me. The room is incredible; it's transformed.

"Well?" There's a note of anxiety in Alex's voice. "What do you think?"

I can't answer him immediately. Alex has shoved the old bed out of the way, into one of the corners, and swept the floor perfectly clean. The windows-or what windows remain-are flung open, so the air smells like gardenias and night-blooming jasmine, their scents drifting in on the wind from outside. He has arranged our blanket and books in the center of the room and unraveled a sleeping bag there too, surrounding the whole area with dozens and dozens of candles stuck in funny makeshift canisters, like old cups and mugs or discarded Coca-Cola cans, just like they were at his house in the Wilds.

But the best part is the ceiling: or rather, the lack of ceiling. He must have broken through the rotted wood to the roof, and now an enormous patch of sky is once again stretched above our heads. There are fewer stars visible in Portland than on the other side of the border, but it's still beautiful. Even better, the bats-disturbed from their roost-have gone. Far above us, outside, I see several dark shapes looping back and forth across the moon, but as long as they stay in the open air, they don't bother me.

All of a sudden it hits me: He did this for me. Even after what happened today, he came and did this for me. Grat.i.tude overwhelms me, and another feeling too, bringing with it a twinge of pain. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve him. I turn back to him and can't even speak; his face is lit up with flame and he seems to be glowing, transforming into fire. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

"Alex-" I start to say, but can't finish. Suddenly I'm almost frightened of him, terrified of his absolute and utter perfection.

He leans forward and kisses me. And when he's pressed so close to me, with the softness of his T-shirt brushing my face and the smell of suntan lotion and gra.s.s coming off his skin, he feels less frightening.

"It's too dangerous to go back to the Wilds." His voice is hoa.r.s.e, as though he's been yelling for a very long time, and a muscle is working furiously in his jaw. "So I brought the Wilds here. I thought you would like it."

"I do. I-I love it." I press my hands against my chest, wishing I could somehow be even closer to him. I hate skin; I hate bones and bodies. I want to curl up inside of him and be carried there forever.

"Lena." Different expressions are pa.s.sing over his face so quickly I can barely catch them all, and his jaw keeps twitching back and forth. "I know we don't have much time, like you said. We hardly have any time at all...."

"No." I bury my face in his chest, wrap my arms around him and squeeze. Unimaginable, incomprehensible: a life lived without him. The idea breaks me-the fact that he's almost crying breaks me-the fact that he did this for me, the fact that he believes I'm worth it-kills me. He is my world and my world is him and without him there is no world. "I won't do it. I won't go through with it. I can't. I want to be with you. I need need to be with you." to be with you."

Alex grasps my face, bends down to look in my eyes. His face is blazing now, full of hope.

"You don't have to go through with it," he says. His words come tumbling out. He's obviously been thinking about this for a long time and only trying not to say it. "Lena, you don't have to do anything. We could run away together. To the Wilds. Just go and never come back. Only-Lena, we couldn't couldn't ever come back. You know that, right? They'd kill us both, or lock us up forever.... But Lena, we could ever come back. You know that, right? They'd kill us both, or lock us up forever.... But Lena, we could do do it." it."

Kill us both. Of course, he's right. A lifetime of running: that's what I've just said I wanted. I take a quick step backward, feeling suddenly dizzy. "Wait," I say. "Just hold on a second." Of course, he's right. A lifetime of running: that's what I've just said I wanted. I take a quick step backward, feeling suddenly dizzy. "Wait," I say. "Just hold on a second."

He releases me. The hope dies in his face all at once, and for a moment we just stand there, looking at each other. "You weren't serious," he says finally. "You didn't mean it."

"No, I did mean it, it's just-"

"It's just that you're scared," he says. He walks to the window and stares out at the night, refusing to look at me. His back is terrifying again: so solid and impenetrable, a wall.

"I'm not scared. I'm just..." I fight a murky feeling. I don't know what I am. I want Alex and I want my old life and I want peace and happiness and I know that I can't live without him, all at the same time.

"It's okay." His voice is dull. "You don't have to explain."

"My mother," I burst out. Alex turns then, looking startled. I'm as surprised as he is. I didn't even know I was going to say the words until I said them. "I don't want to be like her. Don't you understand? I saw what it did to her, I saw how she was.... It killed her, Alex. She left me, left my sister, left it all. All for this thing, this thing inside of her. I won't won't be like her." I've never really spoken about this, and I'm surprised by how difficult it is. Now I have to turn away, feeling sick and ashamed that the tears have started again. be like her." I've never really spoken about this, and I'm surprised by how difficult it is. Now I have to turn away, feeling sick and ashamed that the tears have started again.

"Because she wasn't cured?" Alex asks softly.

For a moment I can't speak, and I just let myself cry, silently now, hoping he can't tell. When I have control of my voice, I say, "It's not just that."

Then all of it comes rushing out, the details, things I've never shared with anyone before: "She was so different from everybody else. I knew that-that she she was different, that we were different-but it wasn't scary at first. It just felt like our little, delicious secret. Mine, and hers, and Rachel's, too, like we were in a coc.o.o.n. It was... It was amazing. We kept all the curtains drawn so no one could see in. We used to play this game where she would hide in the hallway and we would try to run past her and she would leap out and grab us-playing goblin, she called it. It always ended in a tickle war. She was always laughing. We were all always laughing. Then every so often when we got too loud, she would clap her hands over our mouths and get all tense for a second, listening. I guess she was listening for the neighbors, to make sure none of them were alarmed. But no one ever came. was different, that we were different-but it wasn't scary at first. It just felt like our little, delicious secret. Mine, and hers, and Rachel's, too, like we were in a coc.o.o.n. It was... It was amazing. We kept all the curtains drawn so no one could see in. We used to play this game where she would hide in the hallway and we would try to run past her and she would leap out and grab us-playing goblin, she called it. It always ended in a tickle war. She was always laughing. We were all always laughing. Then every so often when we got too loud, she would clap her hands over our mouths and get all tense for a second, listening. I guess she was listening for the neighbors, to make sure none of them were alarmed. But no one ever came.

"Sometimes she would make us blueberry pancakes for dinner, as a treat. She picked the blueberries herself. And she was always singing. She had a beautiful voice, just gorgeous, like honey-"

My voice cracks, but I can't stop now. The words are pouring, tumbling out. "She used to dance, too. I told you that. When I was little I would stand with my feet on top of hers. She would wrap her arms around me and we would move slowly around the room while she counted out the beat, tried to teach me about rhythm. I was terrible at it, clumsy, but she always told me I was beautiful." Tears make the floorboards blur beneath my feet.

"It wasn't all good, not all the time. Sometimes I would get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and I'd hear her crying. She always tried to m.u.f.fle it by turning into her pillow, but I knew. It was terrifying when she cried. I'd never seen a grown-up cry before, you know? And the way she did it, the wailing... like some kind of animal. And there were days she didn't get out of bed at all. She called those her black days."

Alex moves closer to me. I'm shaking so badly I can hardly stand. My whole body feels like it's trying to expel something, cough something up from deep in my chest. "I used to pray that G.o.d would cure her of the black days. That he would keep her-keep her safe for me. I wanted us to stay together. Sometimes it seemed like the praying worked. It was good most of the time. It was more than good." I can barely bring myself to say these words. I have to force them out in a low whisper. "Don't you get it? She left all that. She gave it up-for, for that thing thing. Love. Amor deliria nervosa Amor deliria nervosa-whatever you want to call it. She gave me me up." up."

"I'm sorry, Lena," Alex whispers, behind me. This time he does reach out. He starts drawing long, slow circles on my back. I lean into him.

But I'm not done yet. I swipe at the tears furiously, take a big breath. "Everyone thinks she killed herself because she couldn't stand to have the procedure again. They were still trying to cure her, you know. It would have been her fourth time. After her second procedure they refused to put her under-they thought the anesthesia was interfering with the way the cure was taking. They cut into her brain brain, Alex, and she was awake awake."

I feel his hand stiffen temporarily, and I know he's just as angry as I am. Then the circles start up again.

"But I know that's not really why." I shake my head. "My mom was brave. She wasn't afraid of pain. That was the whole problem, really. She wasn't afraid. She didn't want to be cured; she didn't want to stop loving my dad. I remember she told me that once, just before she died. 'They're trying to take him from me,' she said. She was smiling so sadly. 'They're trying to take him, but they can't.' She used to wear one of his pins around her neck, on a chain. She kept it hidden most of the time, but that night she had it out and was staring at it. It was this strange, long, silver dagger-thing, with two bright jewels in the hilt, like eyes. My dad used to wear it on his sleeve. After he died she wore it every day, never took it off even to bathe...."

I suddenly realize that Alex has removed his hand and taken two steps away from me. I turn around and he's staring at me, white faced and shocked, as though he's just seen a ghost.

"What?" I wonder if it's possible I've offended him in some way. Something about the way he's staring makes fear start beating at my chest, a frantic flutter. "Did I say something wrong?"

He shakes his head, an almost imperceptible motion. The rest of his body stays as straight and tense as a wire stretched between two posts. "How big was it? The pin, I mean." His voice sounds strangely high-pitched.

"The point isn't the pin, Alex, the point is-"

"How big was it?" Louder now, and forceful.

"I don't know. Like the size of a thumb, maybe." I'm completely baffled by Alex's behavior. He has the most pained look on his face, as though he's trying to swallow a whole porcupine. "It was originally my grandfather's-made just for him, a reward for performing a special service for the government. Unique. That's what my dad always said, anyway."

Alex doesn't say anything for a minute. He turns away, and with the moon shining down on him, and his profile so hard and straight, he could be built out of stone. I'm glad he's not staring at me anymore, though. He was starting to freak me out.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" he asks finally, slowly, as though every word is an effort.

It seems like a weird thing to ask in the middle of a completely unrelated conversation, and I start to get annoyed. "Were you even listening listening to me?" to me?"

"Lena, please." There it is: the strangled, choking note again. "Just answer me. Are you working?"

"Not until Sat.u.r.day." I rub my arms. The wind blowing in has a chilly edge to it. It lifts the hair on my arms, makes goose b.u.mps p.r.i.c.k up on my legs. Autumn is coming. "Why?"

"You have to meet me. I have-I have something to show you." Alex turns back to me again, and his eyes are so wild and black, his face so unfamiliar-looking, I take a step backward.

"You'll have to do better than that." I try to laugh, but what comes out is a little gurgling sound. I'm scared I'm scared, I want to say. You're scaring me. You're scaring me. "Can you at least give me a hint?" "Can you at least give me a hint?"

Alex takes a deep breath, and for a minute I think he won't answer me.

But he does.

"Lena," he says at last. "I think your mother is alive."

Chapter Twenty-One.

LIBERTY IN ACCEPTANCE;.

PEACE IN ENCLOSURE;.

HAPPINESS IN RENUNCIATION.

-Words carved above the gates at the entrance to the Crypts When I was in fourth grade, I went on a field trip to the Crypts. It's mandated that every child visit at least once in elementary school as part of the government's anticrime, antiresistance education. I don't remember much about my visit except for a feeling of utter terror, a dim impression of coldness, of blackened concrete hallways, slicked with mold and moisture, and heavy electronic doors. To be honest, I think I've successfully blocked out most of the memory. The whole purpose of the trip was to traumatize us into staying on the straight-and-narrow, and they definitely had the traumatize traumatize part right. part right.

What I do remember is stepping out afterward into the bright sunshine of a beautiful spring day with a sense of overwhelming, overpowering relief-and also confusion, as I realized that in order to exit the Crypts we actually had to descend several staircases to the ground floor. The whole time we'd been inside, even as we climbed, I had the impression of being buried underground, locked several stories under the surface of the earth. That's how dark it was, how close and bad-smelling: like being encased in a coffin with rotting bodies. I also remember that as soon as we got outside Liz Billmun began to cry, just sob right there while a b.u.t.terfly flapped around her shoulder, and we were all in shock because Liz Billmun was super tough, and kind of a bully, and hadn't even cried the time she broke her ankle in gym cla.s.s.

I had sworn that day that I would never, ever return to the Crypts for any reason. But the morning after my conversation with Alex I'm standing outside its gates, pacing, one arm wrapped around my stomach. I wasn't able to force anything down this morning except the thick black sludge my uncle calls coffee, a decision I am now regretting. I feel like acid is eating my insides.

Alex is late.

Overhead, the sky is packed tight with enormous black storm clouds. It's supposed to thunderstorm later, which seems fitting. Beyond the gate, at the end of a short, paved road, the Crypts looms black and imposing. Silhouetted against the dark sky, it looks like something out of a nightmare. A dozen or so tiny windows-like the multiple staring eyes of a spider-are scattered across its stone facade. A short field surrounds the Crypts on this side, enclosed within the gates. I remember it from my childhood as a meadow, but it is actually just a lawn, closely tended and bare in patches. Still, the vivid green of the gra.s.s-where the gra.s.s is actually managing to a.s.sert itself through the dirt-seems out of place. This seems like a place where nothing should flourish or grow, where the sun should never shine: a place on the edge, at the limit, a place completely removed from time and happiness and life.

I guess, technically, it is is on the edge, since the Crypts is sitting right on the eastern border, flanked on its rear by the Presumpscot River, and beyond that, the Wilds. The electrified (or not-so-electrified) fence runs directly into one side of the Crypts, and begins again on its other side, the building itself serving as a seamless connective bridge. on the edge, since the Crypts is sitting right on the eastern border, flanked on its rear by the Presumpscot River, and beyond that, the Wilds. The electrified (or not-so-electrified) fence runs directly into one side of the Crypts, and begins again on its other side, the building itself serving as a seamless connective bridge.

"Hey."

Alex is coming down the sidewalk, his hair whipping up around his head. The wind is definitely chilly today. I should have worn a heavier sweatshirt. Alex looks cold too. He's keeping his arms folded across his chest. Of course he's just wearing a thin linen shirt, the official guard uniform he wears at the labs. He has his badge swinging around his neck, too. I haven't seen him with it since the first day we spoke. He's even wearing a pair of nice jeans, crisp dark ones with cuffs that aren't totally ragged and stepped on. This was all part of the plan: to get us both in, he needs to convince the prison administrators that we're on official business. I take comfort in the fact that he's still wearing his scuffed-up sneakers with the ink-stained laces, though. Somehow that little familiar detail makes it possible to be here, with him, doing this. It gives me something to focus on and hold on to, a tiny flash of normalcy in a world that has suddenly become unrecognizable.

"Sorry I'm late," he says. He stops several feet away from me. I can see the concern in his eyes, even if he manages to keep the rest of his face composed. There are guards circulating the yard and standing just beyond the gate. This is no place for us to touch or reveal any kind of familiarity with each other.

"That's okay." My voice cracks. I feel like I might have a fever. Ever since Alex and I spoke last night my head has been spinning, and my body has been burning one second and icy the next. I can hardly think. It's a miracle I was able to get out of the house today. It's a miracle I'm even wearing pants, a double miracle I remembered to wear shoes.

My mother might be alive. My mother might be alive. That is the single idea in my mind, the one that has supplanted the possibility of all other rational thought. That is the single idea in my mind, the one that has supplanted the possibility of all other rational thought.

"Are you ready to do this?" He keeps his voice low and toneless in case the guards will overhear us-but I can detect the note of worry running underneath it.

"I think so," I say. I try to manage a smile, but my lips feel cracked and dry as stone. "It might not even be her, right? You could be wrong."

He nods, but I can tell he's sure he hasn't made a mistake. He's sure that my mom is in here-this place, place, this above-ground tomb-has been there all this time. The idea is overwhelming. I can't think too much about the possibility that Alex is right. I need to concentrate, focus all my energy on just staying on my feet. this above-ground tomb-has been there all this time. The idea is overwhelming. I can't think too much about the possibility that Alex is right. I need to concentrate, focus all my energy on just staying on my feet.

"Come on," he says. He walks in front of me, like he's leading me on official business. I keep my eyes trained on the ground. I'm almost glad that the presence of the guards requires Alex to ignore me. I'm not sure I could handle a conversation right now. A thousand feelings swirl through me, a thousand questions whip around my mind, a thousand suppressed hopes and desires, buried long ago-and yet I can't hold on to anything, not a single theory or explanation that makes any kind of sense.

Alex had refused to tell me more after his declaration last night. "You have to see," he kept repeating dumbly, as though it was the only thing he knew how to say. "I don't want to get your hopes up for nothing." And then he'd told me to meet him at the Crypts. I think I must have been in shock. The whole time I kept congratulating myself for not freaking out, for not screaming or crying or demanding an explanation, but when I got home later I realized I had no memory of the walk at all and hadn't been keeping an eye out for regulators or patrols. I must have just marched stiffly down the street, blind to everything.

But now I get the point of shock, of numbness. Without the numbness I probably wouldn't have been able to get up and dressed this morning. I wouldn't have been able to find my way here, and I wouldn't be taking careful steps forward now, pausing a respectful distance behind him as Alex shows his ID badge to a guard at a gate and begins gesturing to me.

Alex launches into an explanation he has obviously rehea.r.s.ed. "There was an... incident incident at her evaluation," he says, his voice icy. He and the guard are both staring at me: the guard, suspiciously; Alex with as much detachment as he can muster. His eyes are steel, all the warmth drained out of them, and it makes me nervous to know that he can do that so successfully-become someone else, someone who doesn't have any attachment to me. "Nothing too severe. But her parents and my superiors thought she might benefit from a little reminder about the dangers of disobedience." at her evaluation," he says, his voice icy. He and the guard are both staring at me: the guard, suspiciously; Alex with as much detachment as he can muster. His eyes are steel, all the warmth drained out of them, and it makes me nervous to know that he can do that so successfully-become someone else, someone who doesn't have any attachment to me. "Nothing too severe. But her parents and my superiors thought she might benefit from a little reminder about the dangers of disobedience."

The guard flicks his eyes over me. His face is fat and red, the skin on either side of his eyes protruding and puffy, like he is a mound of dough in the middle of rising. Soon, I fantasize, his eyes will be concealed behind flesh altogether. "What kind of incident?" he says, snapping his gum. He shifts the enormous automatic rifle he is carrying to his other shoulder.

Alex leans forward, so that he and the guard are separated through the gate by only a few inches. He drops his voice, but I can still hear him. "Her favorite color is the color of sunrise," he says.

The guard stares at me for a split second longer and then waves for us to pa.s.s through. "Stand back while I get the gate," he says. He disappears into a guard hut, similar to the one at the labs where Alex is stationed, and after a few seconds the electronic gates shudder inward. Alex and I start across the courtyard, toward the building entrance. With every step, the hulking silhouette of the Crypts looms a little larger. The wind picks up, whirling bits of dust across the bleak yard, sending a lone plastic bag tumbling and skipping across the gra.s.s, and the air is filled with the kind of electricity that always comes before a thunderstorm-the kind of crazed, vibrating energy that makes it seem like something huge could happen at any second, like the whole world could just dissolve into chaos. I would give anything to have Alex turn around, smile at me, and offer me his hand. Of course, he can't. He strides quickly ahead of me, spine stiff, eyes forward.

I'm not sure how many people are confined in the Crypts. Alex estimated it to be about three thousand. There's hardly any crime at all in Portland-thanks to the cure-but occasionally people do steal things or vandalize or resist police procedurals. Then there are the resisters and sympathizers. If they aren't executed immediately, some of them are left to rot in the Crypts.

The Crypts also serves as Portland's mental inst.i.tution, and while there may not be much crime, despite the cure we have our share of crazies just like anywhere else. Alex would say because because of the cure we have our crazies, and it's true that early procedures or procedures gone wrong can lead to mental difficulties or a kind of mental fracture. Plus, some people are just never the same after the procedure. They go catatonic, all staring eyes and drool, and if their families can't afford to keep them they get shoved into the Crypts as well, to molder and die. of the cure we have our crazies, and it's true that early procedures or procedures gone wrong can lead to mental difficulties or a kind of mental fracture. Plus, some people are just never the same after the procedure. They go catatonic, all staring eyes and drool, and if their families can't afford to keep them they get shoved into the Crypts as well, to molder and die.

Two enormous double doors lead into the Crypts. Tiny panes of gla.s.s, probably bulletproof and webbed with dirt and the residue of smeared insect parts, give me a blurred view of the long, dark hallway beyond, and several flickering electric lights. A typed sign, warped from rain and wind, is taped to the door. It says ALL VISITORS PROCEED DIRECTLY TO CHECK-IN AND SECURITY ALL VISITORS PROCEED DIRECTLY TO CHECK-IN AND SECURITY.

Alex pauses for just a fraction of a second. "Ready?" he says to me, without looking back.

"Yes," I choke out.

The smell that hits us as we enter nearly jettisons me backward-out the door, through time, back to fourth grade. It's the smell of thousands of unwashed bodies packed closely together, underneath the stinging, burning scent of industrial-strength bleach and cleanser. Overlaying it all is the smell of wet- wet-corridors that aren't ever truly dry, leaking pipes, mold growing behind walls and in all the little twisty places visitors are never allowed to see. Check-in is to our left, and the woman who is manning the desk behind another panel of bulletproof gla.s.s is wearing a medical mask. I don't blame her.

Strangely, as we approach her desk, she looks up and addresses Alex by name.

"Alex," she says, nodding curtly. Her eyes flicker to me. "Who's that?"

Alex repeats his story about the incident at the evaluations. He's obviously on pretty familiar terms with the guard, because he uses her first name a couple of times, and I can't see that she's wearing any kind of name tag. She logs our names into the ancient computer on her desk and waves us through to security. Alex says h.e.l.lo to the security personnel here too, and I admire him for his coolness. I'm having a pretty hard time just undoing my belt before the metal detector, my hands are shaking so badly. The guards at the Crypts seem to be about 50 percent larger than normal people, with hands like tennis rackets and chests as broad as boats. And they're all carrying guns. Big Big guns. I'm doing my best not to seem utterly terrified, but it's difficult to stay calm when you have to strip down practically to your underwear in front of giants equipped with automatic a.s.sault weapons. guns. I'm doing my best not to seem utterly terrified, but it's difficult to stay calm when you have to strip down practically to your underwear in front of giants equipped with automatic a.s.sault weapons.

Eventually we make it through security. Alex and I dress again in silence, and I'm surprised-and pleased-when I actually manage to tie my own shoelaces.

"Wards one through five only," one of the guards calls out, as Alex gestures for me to follow him down the hall. The walls are painted a sickly yellow color. In a home, or a brightly lit nursery or office, it might be cheerful; but illuminated only by the patchy fluorescent lights that keep buzzing on and off, and stained with years and years of water and handprints and squashed insects and I don't-want-to-know-what, it seems incredibly depressing-like getting a big smile from someone with blackened, rotting teeth.

"You got it," Alex says. I'm a.s.suming this means that certain areas are restricted from visitors.

I follow Alex down one narrow corridor, and then another. The hallways are empty, and so far we haven't pa.s.sed any cells, although as we continue making twists and turns the sounds of moaning and shrieking begin to float to us, as well as strange animal sounds, bleating and mooing and cawing, like a bunch of people are imitating a barnyard. We must be near the mental ward. We don't pa.s.s any other people, though, no nurses or guards or patients. Everything is so still it's almost frightening: silent, too, except for those awful sounds, which seem to emanate from the walls.

It seems safe to talk, so I ask Alex, "How does everybody know you here?"

"I come by a lot," he says, as though this is a satisfactory answer. People don't "come by" the Crypts. It's not exactly up there with the beach. It's not even up there with a public restroom.

I'm thinking he won't elaborate further, and I'm about to press him for a more detailed answer, when he blows air out of his cheeks and says, "My father's here. That's why I come."

I really didn't think that anything could further surprise me at this point, or penetrate the fog in my brain, but this does. "I thought you said your father was dead."

Alex told me a long time ago that his dad had died, but he'd refused to give any details. "He never knew he had a son": That's the only thing Alex had said, and I figured it meant that his dad was dead before Alex was born.

Ahead of me, Alex's shoulders rise and fall: a small sigh. "He is," he says, and makes an abrupt right turn down a short hallway that ends at a heavy iron door. This is marked with another printed sign. It says LIFERS LIFERS. Underneath the word, someone has written in pen, HA HA HA HA.

"What are you-" I'm more confused than ever, but I don't have time to finish formulating my question. Alex pushes his way out the door and the smell that greets us-of wind and gra.s.s and fresh things-is so unexpected and welcome that I stop speaking, taking long, grateful gulps of air. Without realizing it, I've been breathing through my mouth.

We're in a tiny courtyard, surrounded on all sides by the stained gray sides of the Crypts. The gra.s.s here is amazingly lush, reaching practically to my knees. A single tree twists upward to our left, and a bird is twittering in its branches. It's surprisingly nice out here, peaceful and pretty-strange to be standing in the middle of a little garden while enclosed by the ma.s.sive stone walls of the prison, like being at the exact center of a hurricane, and finding peace and silence in the middle of so much shrieking damage.