“Tell me,” I say softly.

He does, and by the end I have tears in eyes that I thought were all cried out.

He wasn’t a twin, but an accident. Most women are sterilized after giving birth, but if there’s any doubt about the first child’s survival, they remain fertile until the danger is thought to have passed, several years at least, to be sure. They’re supposed to be on infallible birth control, but apparently nothing is infallible. Rook was premature (though he certainly made up for it) and weak as an infant. Lachlan was conceived two years after Rook was born, and the parents—middle circle merchants, owners of a small chain of grocery stores—decided to keep him, to hide him.

“I lived like you must have lived—alone, always anxious, always a little angry, hearing about the world from the brother who was welcomed into it with open arms. My parents loved me, as far as I could tell, nurtured me. I was happy—mostly. But I know now how hard it was for them to live in constant fear of arrest. They were brave . . . but not brave enough. All along they were looking for a foster family for me.”

“As they should have,” I say, nodding approval. “It’s the only way a second child can have a normal life.”

“Until we change what normal is,” he says, a fierce passion in his eyes.

So he left his loving home at age ten, and went to his new family. It was hard enough thinking about the prospect at sixteen. I can’t imagine being torn from my family at the tender age of ten. His parents told him what a wonderful life he would have, hid their tears, and little Lachlan tried to put on a brave face. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, he told himself.

It was worse. So much worse.

He didn’t give me details. Part of me didn’t want them anyway. But judging from the tension in his entire body, it was probably worse than anything I could imagine.

“They made me do things,” he said flatly. “They said if I told, they’d turn me in. Me and my whole family. I couldn’t say no. At least, not when I was ten.”

They were supposed to get him the black market lenses so he could live a normal life. But they never did. He thinks they just pocketed the money his parents gave them. So even in his new home he was trapped, though he was often out at night, he said, doing the things they made him do.

When he was sixteen, though, his foster father died, and Lachlan left his foster home for good. He didn’t say it, but I get the impression that he might have had something to do with the man’s death. His big hands clench and unclench methodically when he speaks of it.

He went home again, maybe not expecting that everything would be like it was before, but believing that they would help him, hide him, that they’d had no idea what kind of life they sent him to. Rook welcomed him with tears and laughter. He’d been searching for Lachlan ever since he left. The parents, though . . .

The ten years of fear had been too much for them, and the last six had been a relief. They told Lachlan flatly that he was not welcome. They shut the door in his face.

“After that I lived on the street, getting what help Rook could manage. I’ve made a few friends, learned my way around. It’s not so bad now.”

I would express more sympathy for his story, but he tells it flatly, matter-of-factly, and I think somehow he wouldn’t welcome too much emotion right now. For myself, thinking about someone else’s suffering seems to dull my own. I want to tell him about my mother, unburden myself about everything. But I can’t quite bring myself to trust him yet.

“Good thing you have a home, people you can depend on,” he tells me. “You do have that, don’t you?”

“I . . .” Secrecy kept me safe for sixteen years. Only when I abandoned it did my life shatter. I left my safe shelter. I trusted Lark. (No, she would never betray me. I know it. No, I feel it.) Instinct tells me to keep silent now.

“Why should I trust you?” I ask, glaring at him with hostility. Maybe I’m ungrateful. He saved me, after all. But I can’t put my faith in anyone. Mom, Ash, that was all. Now it’s just Ash, and he can’t do anything to help me. Now he’s nearly as alone as I am.

Lachlan doesn’t seem at all surprised or upset at my suspicion. “You shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t trust you. Sure, we’re both second children. We both face the same penalties if we’re caught—and believe me, they’re worse than you think.”

“Worse than death?” I ask. “What could be worse than that?”

He swallows hard, and I can tell he’s trying to control his emotions. “Pray to the Earth you never find out. But I’m sure a second child would betray another one in exchange for a promise of protection. People can be weak, or selfish, or just plain scared, and do terrible things as a consequence. I don’t trust you . . . yet. But I think you can trust me a little bit, can’t you? After all, I saved you, at considerable risk to myself. The nanosand is designed to swallow up any living thing that crosses the wasteland.”

“You mean, someone made that stuff? I thought it was natural.”

“It’s almost exactly like real quicksand, except it travels. It searches out signs of life, tracks them, hunts them . . . and eats them.”

“Eats?”

“Bones and everything,” he says. “After a while the nanosand secretes acids to digest whatever organic material it swallows.”

I start frantically brushing the crumbling mud and sand from my limbs. “Easy, easy!” he says, lunging forward to catch my wrist. I freeze, and he seems to suddenly become acutely conscious of his fingers on my skin. I know I am. He lets go, but I feel the lingering warmth where his fingers pressed. “It takes a long time, and it becomes inactive in the presence of air. You’re perfectly safe now.”

And the funny thing is, when I look at him, I feel like I am.

He’s the first stranger I’ve ever met, really. Lark wasn’t a stranger, because I’d heard about her for so many years it was like finally being introduced to my best friend. I had casual contact with a few other people, like the other laser tag players. But this is in a way the first time I’ve sat down and looked for a long time into a complete stranger’s eyes.

My brain tells me not to trust him—not to trust anyone at this point, no matter what the evidence says—but some other part of me, my heart, my skin, my blood, tells me that I can rely on Lachlan. Is it an accident of his face? That broad brow that inspires confidence, the straight strength of his nose, the earnest wide set of his eyes—he simply looks honest. Everything about him screams Trust me. That in itself makes me suspicious.