My life devolves into a constant struggle to stay awake. Arduous climbs up the many rock walls of the resistance, and constant physical exercises consume my life. I no longer have any problems sleeping in my hammock, because I can barely hold myself upright by the end of each day. My shaking limbs become such a problem that even a simple task like eating becomes a chore in and of itself. I am no stranger to physical activity, but everything demanded of me here seems to poke holes in what passed for training back home.

I never stop watching Morran. I know he hasn’t forgotten me. He is just waiting for the right time. With sleep tugging at my eyelids every waking minute, I almost dare to believe that it is over— that with the bruised gash on my cheek, he will be done. But with the one week anniversary of my arrival dawning, I know that I am dead wrong.

“Kess, wake up.” Quinn tosses a roll at the side of my face, startling me from a light sleep. I don’t even bother moving.

“Why must you always use the rolls as projectiles?” I say into my arm.

“They’re aerodynamic.”

“About as aerodynamic as you,” Mara says from a few seats down. I hear the light thud of another roll finding its mark, this time close to Mara. Mara has become a normal— if questionable— addition to our group. In small doses, her sarcasm and wicked sense of humor can be amusing. But with three sleepless nights in a row, I can’t seem to find anything funny.

“Cheer up, Kess.”

“I don’t need to be cheered,” I say. My words are slurred and my voice turns into some kind of unintelligible mush that I doubt anyone can understand.

“We’re upstairs today,” Claire says quietly. That does get my attention. I sit up slowly, suddenly grateful for the dim, glowing stones of the Resistance shelter rather than the blinding artificial lights I’ve spent my childhood around.

“Upstairs?” I ask. I feel my mouth twisting into a frown as I grab a piece of bacon. “He’ll just take us to the second waterfall.” I twist the bacon in my hands, suddenly losing my appetite altogether.

“No,” Claire says. “The top floor.”

“Not the very top—”

“No,” she amends. “Before the Shell.” The Shell is our overly affectionate name for the top five empty levels of the Resistance. The Shell. Our protection. I think that someone named it that a long time ago, and the sarcasm was lost over the years. The things we face inside the Shell are likely far worse than anything outside it.

I breathe a sigh of relief and manage to down a piece of bacon. The inner Shell will be far away from the rushing waters of the lower levels. Maybe I can breathe easier today.

I watch Quinn pile his plate with more food than I can possibly eat in a week. “Did you hear?” Quinn asks between bites.

“Hear what?” Claire asks. It takes him a moment to reply, preoccupied as he is with his meal.

“My brother told me they found another Errant squad a couple of days ago. All gone. Only their clothes left.” He sets down a roll long enough to draw his finger across his throat, his face a macabre impression of death. Mara snorts.

“So someone jacked the clothes from some storehouse and then left them,” she says. “Doesn’t mean anything.” Quinn finishes his bacon and smiles knowingly, his face very much like a five year old who knows a secret.

“Spit it out, Porkchop,” Mara growls. I would never say this to her face, but her irritation reminds me more of Morran than anyone else. Quinn polishes off his roll with an unconvincing look of mock-hurt on his face.

“Get this, though,” he says. “The uniforms were all spread out, perfectly. The swords, the lockets, all lined up just like someone was wearing it. Kind of strange, don’t you think?”

“It could’ve just been some kids playing a prank,” Claire says, level-headed as always. Quinn slams a hand down on the table, his eyes wide.

“But the neighbors saw them disappear,” he says. “How do you explain that?” Silence descends for a brief second before Mara moves to put her tray up, scowling.

“Who cares? If they kill themselves off, then that’s great. Fewer for us to deal with.” She marches off, slamming her tray down by the kitchens in front of a startled cook. We watch her awkwardly for a moment before Claire clears her throat in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Well,” she says. “If we’re done sharing ghost stories, I’m off to watch Morran beat the tar out of us. I’ll save you a seat.” I laugh bitterly and turn to wolf the last few pieces of food on my plate. The promise of a water-free day of training brings back my appetite with a vengeance, and almost nothing can spoil my improved mood.

Quinn watches me eat, his boyish face frozen into a pout.

“What do you think?” he asks. I freeze momentarily as I remember Rowan and Arlette’s conversation. Are these the same people they were talking about? No— I very vividly remember Rowan referring to them as dead. So then what are these people? Just gone?

I shrug, trying to keep my face flat and expressionless like Rowan and Arlette, but Quinn picks up on my hesitation immediately.

“You know something,” he accuses.

“Not anything that helps,” I say. Still Quinn continues to squint at me, as if I’ve committed some kind of crime.

I watch my friend’s face very carefully for a moment. I trust him, don’t I? But it’s so hard to give out any information when so much is on the line. When one wrong move could spell the end of finding Oliver.

After another moment of silence, his eyebrows crease together and he begins to pile things onto his tray, his motions quick and jarring. I can’t bring myself to stop him.

I sit there for several long moments after he leaves the awning, my mind and my heart in knots. Trust. I’ve never had a use for it in my life. But now, with everything on the line, I am going to need it. I am going to need someone to fall back on, even if it destroys me in the process.