Why is she removing the tracker? I don’t want it removed. I want to keep it forever and ever and ever. “Aunt Lina. You have to stop.”

“Can’t do that, sweetheart.” Another snip.

I pull at my bonds. When I fail to gain my freedom, I arch my back and twist to the side, willing to do anything to get those stupid scissors out of me. “You have to stop. Okay? All right? I need to be tracked. I want to be. It’s important.”

“I want you to be still.”

I only struggle harder.

Expression resigned, she climbs on the table and straddles me, digging the scissors in deeper. Frantic, I buck my hips and wrench my arms. What will it take to make her understand? I’ll die without the tracker. It’s a part of me. It’s the best part. “If you do this, I’ll hate you forever. Please. Just stop. Please.”

“No, you won’t hate me. In just a few seconds, you’ll love me.” Sweat trickles from her temple as she pulls the light back into position under eyes and snips, snips. “Just one more to go...” Snip. “Got it!”

She lifts the scissors to reveal a capsule pulsing with neon red liquid, wires sticking out of its belly like spider legs.

“That’s mine. Put it back where it belongs.” My voice is a guttural snarl now.

I blink rapidly as the fog inside my mind thins. Wait. I begged to keep the tracker? “Are you freaking kidding me!”

“A drug,” she explains. “We call it Special K.”

“K?”

“K is for keeps.” She giggles like a schoolgirl, and I have to cut back a groan.

How close is Loony Lina from taking over?

She climbs off me and drops the capsule into a jar of thick black goo. “All right. Time to go.” As she unstraps me, my core temperature begins to rise, the rush of cold abandoning me.

After she glues my flesh together and places a bandage over the wound, she helps me stand. My dress falls back into place. She moves the gurney aside by cranking an old, rusty lever, revealing a concrete floor with a drain. Only, the drain is a dial she fits her fingers on, turning this way and that, causing one of the cement cracks to expand, creating an opening just large enough for me to wiggle through, my feet balanced on stairs.

A dog barks in the distance. The sound of breaking glass provides terrible background music.

“I’m going to take a wild guess. They’re here,” she says.

She throws a backpack at me, and I fall as I release the ladder to catch it. Landing hurts, air gushing from my lungs. She climbs down, stopping to reach up and do the dial thing again. The cement closes, darkness falling over us.

A rustle of clothing. A brush against my shoulder, and I know she’s standing beside me.

“Come on.” Her voice reverberates on walls I can’t see.

I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. Drip, drip. I anchor the backpack in place and extend my arms to feel my way to...wherever. Contact. Cold, hard stone. Under my fingertips, a soft glow comes to sudden life.

“Oh, yeah. Forgot about those,” she says, moving in front of me. “Oh, and we have to be quiet. They can hear us.”

“Then stop talking,” I whisper.

“Right.” She runs a finger over her lips, pretending to zip them shut.

I touch another spot on the wall and more light springs up. We’re in a small four-by-four room, empty but for dust and stagnant pools of water. Wait! There’s a crawl space in the right corner.

She zooms in on it, and I stay right on her heels, different sounds floating to me. Toppling furniture. Falling tools. Footsteps. My aunt’s shed is being ransacked.

Pearl’s orders, I’m sure.

As we come out the other side of the crawl space, I dig through the pack, searching for a weapon. I find a cell phone, bandages, a bottle of water, protein bars, a change of clothes, a pair of shoes in my size and a gun with a clip of ammo—yes! I sheath the gun at my waist and stuff the clip in my pocket. The effort pulls at my newest wound, a warm cascade of blood trickling down my leg.

We’ve entered another black hole. I press my palm against the wall, hoping—yes! A soft glow saves me from curling into a ball and sobbing. We’re not in a room this time, but a narrow tunnel. I straighten to full height and race forward, still following after my aunt. The more ground we gain, the shorter the roof gets, and soon we’re both hunched over.

She giggles again, and I groan. No Loony Lina. Please, please, no Loony Lina. Not now.

A quiet squeak is the only warning I have before three rats dart in our direction. While she waves at the things, I have to bite my fist to silence a scream as they pass me. Then I have to concentrate on bladder control as I wonder what they were running from.

Can’t stop. Have to keep going.

The tunnel twists and turns for miles, surely. The water level rises to our ankles. And it reeks. Oh, zero, it freaking reeks. I gag when a dead frog floats past me. Are there now different strains of bacteria and other microscopic beings crawling all over my skin?

I kind of wish I’d stayed in that shed to fight to the death.

If I’m splashing around in used toilet water, I might kill myself.

Finally the water thins and the tunnel expands, allowing us to stretch to our full heights once again. When we reach a dead end, I laugh without humor. Oh, irony, you nasty whore. You’ve struck again.

Wait! There’s another crawl space in the corner. Aunt Lina shimmies through and again I’m right on her tail. We enter another four-by-four room with stairs that lead to a drain in the ceiling...and another drain. She climbs up, up...and reaches for another drain/dial thing.

She turns her wrist to the right, the left, then the right again and the drain turns with her. Success! A new crawl through opens up.

“Why do you have this passage?” I whisper. “How?”

“Always knew we’d need it,” she says. “Knew where to live, knew when and how to dig into tunnels that already existed. They go all over the city. Troikans built them centuries ago!”

So how does she, a Myriad loyalist, know about them?

She disappears over the top. I climb the ladder. My biceps strain and my calves burn as I hoist myself into a bathroom—with three people inside.

I reach for the gun even as I take stock. Two males, one female. One of the men is asleep on top of the woman, who is also asleep. Both are covered in dried vomit. The third occupant is slumped against the wall and watching me through slitted lids. He doesn’t appear worried (or interested) by our sudden appearance or my gun. There are empty syringes all over the floor, and a tourniquet is still tied to the watcher’s arm. Drool leaks from the corners of his mouth.

No question, this is a drug house. I sheath the gun as Aunt Lina turns the drain, ensuring the cement closes and no one can crawl through.

“Change,” she says, and starts stripping. There’s a pile of clothes already waiting for her.

Right. We’ll draw far too much attention in our fecal-is-the-new-black outfits.

We toss our soiled garments in the trash and shimmy into the clean clothes, mine coming from the pack. I’m unconcerned by my audience, certain Drool Man won’t remember us, anyway—if he even knows we’re here. As we head for the door, I notice the numbers painted all over the walls, different math problems written over and over again, every single one equaling ten. This can’t be a coincidence.