She's alone. Not just in the room, but in the world. Dead are her mother and father and now her sister too. And Book is far, far away. She is utterly, entirely alone.

H & FT.

When there are no tears left to shed, her eyes catch sight of something else. Next to Faith's lifeless body, lying in a small, untidy heap, is her pink shawl. Never to cover her sister's frail shoulders.

The tears begin again.

Two days later Hope is discharged from the infirmary. When she returns to the barracks, several Sisters pat her on the shoulder and Scylla grabs her by the arms and stares into her eyes. There's something in her expression that tells Hope this is why Scylla doesn't speak. At some point, she lost her sister, too. Just as they've all lost sisters. As Hope casts a wild gaze around the room, she realizes Athena and Helen are the only set of twins remaining.

Hope stumbles to her spot on the floor, flinging the ratty blanket over her shivering body. She no longer cares about the chancellor's letter and Thorason's intentions and the "question of the Less Thans." Her father's involvement means nothing to her. Warmth is what she craves now. And sleep.

And Faith.

She abandons the tunnel. What's the point? Maybe they can finish it, and maybe they can even escape-but why? Will that make their lives any safer? Is a life on the run really better than all this? She did that for ten years and where did it get her?

She goes through the motions. Breakfast, roll call, daily chores. She's reassigned from cleaning stables to gardening in the fields. It's thought she needs more "supervision."

Late one morning her group is assembled in the roll call yard and handed hoes and spades. As four Brown Shirts lead them outside the camp, the girls sling the tools over their shoulders like soldiers on parade. Past the barbed wire they trudge, stopping only when they reach the fields.

Hope works with a kind of dull precision. As she chops at the offending weeds, thoughts swirl in her head like falling leaves. Maybe if she and Book hadn't gone nosing around in the Admin Building, Dr. Gallingham wouldn't have subjected Faith and her to the water tank. Maybe her sister would still be alive. Maybe Hope wouldn't feel like she does-devoid of any feeling whatsoever. Numb. No sharper than the dull edge of her hoe that bites into the ground.

At one point, Hope hears a strangled scream. A girl's voice, coming from the infirmary. The Sisters hesitate, look up briefly, then return to their labors. They've grown accustomed to such sounds. It saddens Hope. They're getting used to things they have no business getting used to.

This isn't a life they're leading, she realizes, it's a life sentence.

At the same time, something feels different. Something she can't define. It's almost like they're being watched. Not just by the guards-she's used to that-but when she lifts her head and casts a sweeping gaze across the landscape, all she sees are guard towers and fences topped with coils of concertina wire and the jagged silhouette of Skeleton Ridge.

Hell on earth.

I WATCHED HER . . . AND I knew.

The night before, I'd scampered down the mountain until I reached the ridge above Camp Freedom, where I observed Hope at work in the fields. Once, she gave a glance right in my direction. If I didn't know better, I would've said she could sense me.

That's when it hit me, what we had in common. Pain. Something about those liquid brown eyes and the expression on her face told me she knew pain. That was the quality the two of us shared-and why I had to save her.

So how do I get to her? I wondered. After all, those guards weren't going anywhere.

I watched as the day went on. I kept thinking about that book I'd read at camp-one of those left in my trunk. The Art of War. There'd been something in there about diversions. All warfare is deception, it had said. The thought stayed with me.

The idea came in the middle of the night.

I circled around the camp until I reached the barn, sneaking inside before the morning arrival of guards or inmates. I found a goat-a kid-and placed a strip of duct tape around his white muzzle. Then I carried him off into the woods until I came to a small mound of boulders.

"Sorry about this," I said, and the goat looked at me with a fearful expression. "You'll be free soon enough."

I pinned one of his legs beneath the rocks so it looked like he'd escaped and gotten stuck. Then I ripped off the tape and ran as fast as I could to the side of the field. As I hurried away, I heard the goat's bleating, insistent and high-pitched.

I crawled to a hiding place at the edge of the field and waited. It began to pour.

Finally, the gate groaned open and the female prisoners marched out, two dozen of them, surrounded by the same four guards as before. They all wore dark green ponchos because of the rain.

The guards took their stations and the prisoners began chopping away at the muddy, brown canals. Hope was smack-dab in the middle. Figured.

Three of the guards drew together to share a cigarette, and that's when they heard the goat. They lowered their M16s and swung them toward the woods. When they realized it was animal and not human, they relaxed, slinging their rifles back over their shoulders. The three Brown Shirts gestured to the fourth that they would go investigate.

Once they disappeared into the woods, I launched a pebble from my slingshot. It landed near Hope's foot. She seemed not to notice. I swore silently and loaded up again. This time the rock bounced off her left boot. Her head snapped up. The other inmates were oblivious.

The guard's back was turned to me, so I rose to a standing position.

Hope's eyes went round. Just as quickly she regained her composure and speared her hoe into the sopping earth. I lowered myself back down and waited. The girls worked. The rain fell. The guard watched.

Hope made a motion to the guard: bathroom break. The guard nodded brusquely, watching as the girl marched into the woods. I flattened myself behind the ridge, face digging into mud.

I heard rather than saw Hope making her way toward me. When the trees hid her from the Brown Shirt, she stopped and stared at me.

"What're you doing here?" she hissed.

"What do you think? I came back to rescue you."

She snorted with derision. "Who says we need rescuing?"

Her words caught me off guard. So did her attitude. I thought she'd be relieved to see me. Grateful, even. Didn't she know the sacrifice I'd made to return? Instead, she seemed downright hostile.

"But I thought that was the plan," I said. "Build a tunnel. Escape to the next territory."

"Maybe that was the plan-not anymore. What's the point?"

I didn't know what to say. How to react. I wondered what happened to the old Hope-and who this imposter was.

"What's going on?" I asked. "You seem . . . different."

Her expression changed quicker than the flick of a switch. The anger melted away and her eyes welled with moisture: big, fat tears that spilled over her bottom lids and trailed down her cheeks. When she began to speak, the words were unintelligible.

"I can't understand you," I said, leaning in.

Again, her mouth moved, but her words were swallowed by tears.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I still can't quite . . ."

"Experiments," she murmured, swiping at a tear with muddy fingertips.

"Go on."

She gulped for air. "I had a sister."

"I know," I said. "Faith." I was still trying to understand. What did this have to do with anything? Was her sister missing? Did she want me to look for her?

Hope turned away and covered her mouth. I thought she was about to cough, but then I realized: she was sobbing. Her shoulders jerked up and down in a kind of pantomime. Somewhere along the way she had learned to cry silently.

I reached out a hand and touched her shoulder. "I'm sorry . . ." I didn't know what else to say.

She turned and her eyes met mine-I couldn't help but recoil. It was a look of hopelessness, of a kind of sorrow I'd never seen or experienced. I was about to speak when I noticed the guard squinting in our direction. Hope noticed, too.

"You really want to help?" Hope asked. "Then leave me alone. . . . Don't ever come back here again."

Before I could respond, she picked up her hoe and walked back to the field.

HOPE WORKS IN A kind of trance the rest of that day.

A chill air raises goose bumps on her arms, and her feet radiate pain from standing so long. Despite that-despite all of it-she thinks about Book.

She questions her decision to send him away. But she's afraid of getting hurt. Afraid to put her faith in a total stranger, only to have him break that trust . . . and her heart. No, it's better this way, she tells herself. It's better.

She doesn't really know if she believes it or not.

They've just settled into bed when two Brown Shirts undo the lock, blue moonlight catching them in silhouette. Who have they come for now? Hope wonders. It's what they all wonder.

When the Brown Shirts know every eye is on them, they throw something to the floor. It lands with a skidding thud. The guards turn and exit, chaining the door shut.

Hope sits up and looks. What she sees takes her breath away.

It isn't something that was tossed to the floor, but someone. Helen. Frail, little Helen. She is shivering uncontrollably, and Hope's first thought is that they dunked her in the tank of freezing water. But a closer inspection reveals a series of burn marks up and down her arm, her neck, the side of her face. Helen isn't shaking from cold; it's from shock.

"Give me a hand!" Hope calls out. They take Helen to her bed, covering her with blankets, grabbing extras from their own beds to warm her up.

"You're okay," Hope says, placing a soothing hand atop Helen's forehead. "Everything's okay." But even as she says it her eyes catch sight of Athena's bed. Empty. A single strand of red hair coiled atop her pillow.

Gallingham took both twins after morning roll call . . . and only one returned. Hope realizes there are no more sets of twins in Barracks B.

Helen isn't the first girl to lose her sister, of course. Nor the first to be tortured. Dr. Gallingham's experiments have become more barbaric in recent weeks. There's no longer a pretense at science; it's pure sadism. He wants to see just how much pain the human body can endure.

White light breaks through the window and splashes the wall. Not guard towers' searchlights-something else entirely.

Hope slides forward and peers above the windowsill. The front gates shriek open and a small convoy of military vehicles streams in, thick tires crunching gravel. As Hope watches them circle the infield, she notices the .50 caliber machine guns mounted in the Humvees' turrets.

Her throat goes dry as she pieces it together. The letter. Thorason's words. Eliminate. Leave no trace. The Brown Shirts mean to finish them off-sooner rather than later. Their days are numbered . . . unless they do something right away.

Hope turns to Diana. "How long till the tunnel's done?"

Diana's surprised. "The water's still high-"

"I know."

". . . and filling up again-"

"So how long?"

"I don't know. Five, six weeks."

Hope takes this in. "How about five or six hours?"

Diana nearly chokes. "That's not possible," she stammers. "There's too much water. And if we dig up too fast we're liable to cause another cave-in and you know what that's like."

Hope does know. But it doesn't lessen her determination. "We leave tonight," she says, looking at the other Sisters.

They can't believe what they're hearing. "But the gear's not gathered," they say. "We only have a portion of the food."

Hope goes on as if they hadn't spoken. "Could we reach the surface tonight?" she asks Scylla. "If we dig straight up?"

Scylla answers with a vague shrug.

"Could we?" Hope asks again.

Scylla casts a glance at Diana, then looks back at Hope. She nods yes.

Hope sighs gratefully. "Then let's do it."

At first, no one moves. They're paralyzed-not only by this sudden change of plans but by this sudden change in Hope. It's like she's a different person. A new leader, stepping in for a departed one.

They're about to head to the tunnel when a frail, quavering voice calls out from beneath the blankets.

"Why, Hope?" It's Helen. Her first words since returning.

Hope walks to Helen's cot and sits by her side, eyeing the burn marks that spot her body. "Because we can't wait a minute longer," she says.

They divide into groups. Some chip away at the damp ceiling. Others form a bucket brigade, passing water up from the tunnel. Still, the water continues to rise, the black surface glinting yellow from candlelight. For every bucket they empty, two buckets seem to dribble in.

But whenever Hope doubts-whenever she thinks the task is too big-she remembers Faith. And Athena. And the weapons the Brown Shirts just drove in. This tunnel is the Sisters' only chance of salvation.

Something else as well. Unless they manage to escape, she'll never see Book again. Never curl her body into his and share her innermost thoughts. Never find out his favorite memory.

She's suddenly convinced only Book can release those haunting demons that dance around her head. Only he can help her get past her guilt of losing Faith. Oh, Faith, my sister, Faith, I tried to take care of you but it wasn't enough.