“Too soon?” I repeat, thinking he’s talking about it being too soon after Richelle’s death. I try to think of something comforting to offer and come up blank. I know how worthless even the most well-meaning words can be in the face of such loss. Nothing can make it better.

“Too soon after the last time we were pulled.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s spent days shouting. Or crying. I’m guessing he’s been doing some of both. “We need recovery time.” He shoots a look at Jackson and raises his voice. “They know that. They trying to kill us all?”

The question is all the more terrifying because Tyrone doesn’t actually sound like he cares.

“Who?” I ask. “Who are they?”

Jackson picks up a holster and strides toward Tyrone. “What they know or don’t know has no relevance,” he says. “What matters is that we’ve been pulled. We have a job to do. And we’ll do it.” Or we’ll die, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t have to. We all know it.

“Who are they?” I ask again.

“Don’t bother asking,” Tyrone grumbles. “He’ll just say it’s decision by committee.”

Jackson tosses the holster at Tyrone’s feet. Tyrone stares straight ahead, his expression blank. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror. I stared at it every morning for months after Mom died. Some mornings, I still do.

Tyrone’s broken, like I was—am—broken, the gray fog weighing so heavily on his soul, he’s barely even aware it’s there.

I’m better now than I was two years ago. At least now I can use the tricks Dr. Andrews taught me. I recognize the bricks sitting on my chest and the endless need to sigh for what they are. I feel them pressing down on me right now.

Tyrone might start to heal, in time. But time is one thing we don’t have. This is only my second mission, but I already know that it’s going to go forward whether we’re ready for it or not.

“Tyrone,” I say, moving to stand directly in front of him. I rest my palms on his cheeks and stare straight into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m hurting and I barely knew her. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.” But I can. I know what it is to mourn.

He swallows. Rage and anguish flicker in his expression. “I can’t talk about her back at home.”

“Because of the rules.”

He nods. “I can’t talk about her to anyone. They’ll want to know who she was, how I knew her. And I can’t tell. That makes it worse. I want to remember her laugh. Her eyes. Her smile.” He pauses. “She never had a boyfriend. Now she’ll never get the chance.” He looks away and whispers, “I was waiting for her to grow up. Now, she never will. I shouldn’t have waited.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“How old was . . .”

“Seventeen.”

No, he shouldn’t have waited. Two years isn’t such a big gap.

Sorrow claws at my chest, making it hard to breathe. Richelle won’t get the chance for a lot of things. Prom. Graduation. College.

“It hurts to think about it,” I say.

“It hurts not to.”

I know exactly what he means.

“Nothing’s the same,” he says. Then he laughs, the sound twisted and ugly. “I used to play all the time. Every night. I’d play and I’d think about the game, this game, and I’d jot notes about scores and points and badges. I had plans. Big plans. Sell my game for millions, you know?” He snarls and spins away, breathing heavily, his back toward me. “Every time we got pulled, I’d see her numbers climb. She was almost out!” He slams his fist against his palm with such force that I jump and gasp. Then he repeats, very softly, “She was almost out. Almost free.”

Almost out. Almost free.

. . . all he cared about was himself and getting out . . .

I feel like someone just turned on a spotlight, making the whole world shine bright. I cut a glance at Luka. “There’s a way out? Other than dying?”

Before he can answer, Tyrone rounds on him. “How can you still play?” he asks, his voice a low rasp. “How can you laugh and joke and talk about running faster with a knife, like this isn’t life or death? Like the score isn’t the most important thing for us now? Our ticket out?”

Luka looks abashed, and for some reason I feel angry on his behalf.

“He didn’t choose to be here any more than you did,” Jackson says, his voice low and smooth.

I rest my hand on Tyrone’s arm. “He’s just doing the best he can. He’s stuck in this, same as you. If he’s laughing, it’s because that’s better than crying, isn’t it?” Better than feeling nothing at all. If you force yourself to laugh, to pretend you feel okay, eventually you will feel okay. At least, that’s the theory.

Tyrone stares at me, then scrubs his palm over his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Tyrone, you need to gear up,” Jackson says. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I swear I hear a hint of sadness in his voice. Or maybe I just want to hear it. For a second, no one moves. Then Jackson grabs the harness off the ground and nudges Tyrone, who does absolutely nothing to aid the process.

“That’s gonna cost me,” Tyrone mutters.

“Cost you?” I ask.

“Points deducted for the cost of weapons,” Tyrone says. “Primary weapon costs fifty. Harness is twenty-five. He”—he juts his chin toward Jackson—“has a secondary, the knife. That’s another fifty off his score.”