And was that a shard of light poking through the top of the mound?

"Tell me about the soldiers," I said, more forcefully than before. The water was rising and our faces were angled upward and if we didn't do this now-at this very moment-there would be no second chance.

Hope clawed at the barrier with a sudden intensity, like some out-of-control beast, even as she shouted "No" over and over.

Suddenly there was a thrashing on the water's surface. Four hands, haloed by light, emerged from a narrow opening at the very top of the cave-in mound.

"Come on!" a voice cried out.

We blinked, adjusting to the sudden illumination, and for the longest time we just stared at the outstretched fingers, trying to make sense of them.

"Grab our hands!" the voice cried again.

Dumbly, as if commanded by some otherworldly presence, we raised our arms and grabbed the hands, fingers interlocking, only to be pulled forward by Scylla and Athena, yanked through to the other side of the tunnel-a side with flickering candlelight, where the water was only a foot or so deep.

"Let's get out of here!" Athena shouted, and we all rushed to the tunnel ladder as water began pouring in behind us.

"YOU WANT TO DO what?" Faith asks.

"Switch jobs," Hope says. "Just for tonight."

"Why would you want to do that?"

The answer's simple. By taking her sister's place on the cleaning crew, Hope can get access to Thorason's office in the Administration Building. But the less Faith knows about all this, the better.

"Is it because of him?" Faith asks. She points to Book, who stands alone in the corner.

Hope's eyes dart in his direction. Since they escaped the cave-in they've yet to really speak to each other. The things they said-the way they touched-felt natural. Felt right. But now, in the light of day, she's not so sure.

The only thing they've agreed on is the need to find out what Gallingham and Thorason were talking about. And Hope has to know one last thing: how her father fits into all of this.

"I hurt my shoulder in the cave-in," Hope lies. "I need a break from the barn."

"But I can't take over for you there," Faith says.

"You don't have to. I got Scylla to cover."

"So why are you-"

"I thought you could use a night off."

Hope can tell Faith likes the idea. She's growing weaker by the day, dark circles paint the undersides of her eyes, and even though Hope is smuggling much of her own food to her sister, it seems to be doing little good.

"What if the guards realize you're not me?" Faith asks.

"They're not going to. I'll walk like you, talk like you, I'll even wear Mom's pink shawl. They'll never know the difference. And look."

She rolls up her sleeve. Their tattoos are only one number off-738 for Faith, 739 for Hope-and Hope has taken a bit of coal and altered her 9 to an 8.

"Are you sure?" Faith asks.

"Positive. And wouldn't you rather rest than work?"

So that night Hope joins the three other cleaning girls trudging across the parade ground.

The Admin Building is short and squat and made of cinder block, and there is nothing about its frumpy appearance that suggests it houses the offices of the camp leaders. But it's where Hope is convinced she'll find out what Thorason is up to . . . and her father's connection to Dr. Gallingham.

Two guards stand waiting at the entrance. The first Sister in line is a girl named Iris with spiky black hair. She tugs up her sleeve and flashes her tattoo. The lummox of a guard-no older than nineteen who reeks of BO-glances at the number and makes a checkmark on his clipboard. Iris passes. The second girl steps forward; the guard glances, checks, and nods. Hope's heart is pounding as she moves up in line. To hide her trembling fingers, she clutches the sleeve's edge with a tight fist.

The guard takes in her number, staring at it longer than he did the others. Hope's heart rises in her throat, and when the guard's gaze drifts up to her face, she drops her eyes. A moment later she hears the pencil scratch of a checkmark and she passes by, cold sweat bathing the back of her neck. The guards shut the door behind them. No turning back now.

Iris goes to the supply closet and brings out cleaning supplies. Hope pretends to accept the materials with weary resignation.

But the fact is, Hope has never been inside this building before. So while she tries to give the impression she's done this a thousand times, her eyes probe the narrow hallways, attempting to figure out which one is Colonel Thorason's office.

A kick to her shin sends an excruciating pain up her leg.

"Pay attention," a guard snaps. He is tall with a jutting chin-the same guard who tattooed her number on her arm.

Hope realizes Iris is holding out a bucket, waiting for Hope to take it. Red-faced, Hope grabs the bucket and moves to the side.

Concentrate, she tells herself. Pay attention.

The girls begin marching off to their stations, but when Hope turns to go, a voice stops her.

"Not so fast," Jutting Chin says. He strolls closer, boots clicking on linoleum. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Hope's mind scrambles.

"You planning on using water or don't you believe in it?"

The guard laughs and Lummox joins in.

"Right," Hope mutters under her breath and shuffles back to the supply closet, placing the bucket under the spigot.

"Not the sharpest knife in the drawer," Jutting Chin says, guffawing.

"All foam, no beer," Lummox replies. Both guards are having a laugh fest.

Hope says nothing. She turns off the faucet and carries the sloshing bucket. She can't get away fast enough.

From what she's been told, Thorason's office is down this first hallway. Once she gets away from these two goons she can slip inside.

"One more thing," the guard calls out. "The overseer's office is off-limits tonight. Don't bother to clean it."

Hope's heart sinks. She has managed to gain entry into the camp headquarters only to be told there's no access to the very place she wants to see.

She tries to hide her despair, even as she passes a nameplate on a door that identifies the overseer's office. She doesn't stop until she reaches the end of the hallway, where she makes a show of mopping. The guards are still in sight, but they've ceased to watch her. A game of cards has stolen their attention.

She leans the mop against the corner and flicks out a dust rag. Stepping into the open office bordering Thorason's-someone named Major Hart-she lights a lantern, aware of the rectangle of light that lands in the hallway.

Returning to the bucket in the hallway, she noisily dips the rag in the water, wrings it out, and reenters Major Hart's office.

After her fourth visit to the bucket, she approaches Colonel Thorason's office instead, placing her sweaty palm on the brass doorknob. To her relief, it's not locked. She quickly steps inside, pressing the door shut behind her.

Hope waits for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. A shaft of moonlight creeps past the window's blinds, tinting the floor a blackish blue. She goes to the window and slides it open. Book pops his head up from outside.

"Good?" he asks.

"Hurry," she says.

He slides into the room and she pulls the blinds shut. It's just the two of them in the dark room. Hope remembers the tunnel-how Book held her. Even as her body tingles with the memory, she tries to shake it away. Now is not the time.

On a far table stands a half-melted candle in a pewter candlestick. A box of matches rests nearby. Book picks out a match and prepares to strike it. Hope stops him at the last moment.

"Wait," she whispers, and points to the door.

Its bottom edge is a good inch above the floor. If they light the candle, yellow light will seep beneath the crack: a dead giveaway someone's inside.

"So what do we do?" he asks.

She shrugs, pulling the shawl tight around her shoulders.

And there lies the answer.

She lays the shawl on the floor and rolls it up tight as though sculpting a snake from clay. Trembling fingers jam the coil beneath the door, and she lights the candle, its flickering glow scattering moonlight.

Thank you, Faith. Thank you, Mom.

They start with the desk. There are dozens of files in the drawers, but just purchase orders, budget plans, and government-issued books. Building a Strong Republic. What You Can Do For Your Territory. Action Steps to a Better Tomorrow.

"Anything?" he asks.

"Not even close."

She retrieves the candle and makes her way to a file cabinet, her fingers skipping atop a thick nest of folders. All old correspondence, but nothing explaining the conversation . . . nothing about her father.

When Book joins her, they move to the next drawer. If someone comes in now, there is no disguising the fact that they're up to something. A lit candle. An open file cabinet. A shawl stuffed under the door. Not to mention the fact that there's a Less Than in Camp Freedom. They'd be as good as dead.

Hope's hands push the bottom drawer closed and she sits leaning against the cabinet, legs splayed, consumed by frustration.

"There's nothing here," she says.

Book sits across from her. "Maybe we already know enough."

Hope grunts but says nothing. She has yet to tell Book about her father's possible involvement. And why should she? Even if her father did collaborate with Dr. Gallingham in some distant past, she has no reason to believe he ever worked here in Camp Freedom. So why would there be a file on him? And why should she tell Book?

She pushes herself up from the floor and goes to the desk, collapsing in the chair. Her hands cradle her chin. Who was she kidding? What did she really expect to find?

"What do you want to do?" Book asks. "Keep looking?"

Hope gives her head a shake. "There's no point. There's no time." Her eyes dart up to his. "You better get going. I'll meet you back at the barracks."

When Book makes a move to the window, she rises from the chair. As she does, the sweat from her elbows lifts the leather blotter a fraction of an inch.

Just enough to reveal a corner of a piece of paper.

"Wait," Hope says. She lifts the blotter and pries the paper free. It's a letter, folded in three. As though picking up a wounded butterfly, her fingers pinch one corner and unfold it. Book rushes to her side and looks over Hope's shoulder. Their gaze is drawn to the signature at the bottom.

Chancellor C. Maddox Their eyes race across the words.

. . . no choice but to perform extreme and necessary measures . . . ensure the safety of our territory . . . finish the research begun by Dr. Uzair Samadi.

Hope has stopped breathing. Her one hand holds the letter; the other covers her mouth as though stifling a silent scream. It can't be true. It can't be. Her father really was involved with all of this? But how? And why?

"What?" Book asks.

"Nothing," Hope lies. "I mean, I just can't believe what it's saying."

A still bigger surprise is in the letter's final paragraph. Sentences they have to read multiple times to make sure they're reading them correctly. Words that take their breath away . . . and convince them they can't stay at Camp Freedom a moment longer.

A nervous, clammy heat rises from Hope's body and her heart beats so loudly she hears the thudding in her temples. Which is why she doesn't hear the footsteps in the hallway, just outside the door.

"HOPE," I SAID, AND pointed to the door.

She heard them, too: the heavy tread of footsteps.

"Brown Shirts," she said, more to herself than me. Then she whispered fiercely, "Go."

"No. I'm staying here with-"

"If they find you, they'll kill you. They can't hurt me." The footsteps became louder. "Hurry!"