The room burst into view, an overhead light casting its jarring glare over everything, and there stood Henry before me, tall, slender, troubled. He was paler than I remembered; his eyes were crystal clear, embers dying within them, and his mouth was slightly open in surprise. I wanted so much to reach for him, but he was backing away from me, and I saw that he did, indeed, hold a gun in one hand.

"Nadia? What's going on . . .?"

I turned toward the hallway, and there stood Jason by the opening. He'd come through the back door, no doubt, as I had, and he'd flipped a light switch I hadn't even known was there. Now he was still as stone, eyes moving between me and Henry, not knowing where we all stood, and when he caught sight of the gun, he put up his hands as if to calm us.

"Whoa, whoa--no need for that thing, is there?"

I looked back to Henry, whose features had become a stoic mask.

"What is going on here? One of you going to tell me?" Jason was fast angering.

I recognized Henry's arm move forward a little, as if to raise the gun, and I quickly spoke. "Jason, it's all right. Henry and I were just talking. He--he . . ." But I didn't know what to say.

"Just talking? Why's he got a gun? Should we get out of here?"

No. Never.

Not getting a response from me, Jason began to grow impatient. "Do you remember me, Henry?"

Henry studied him, tried. "No."

"You sure about that?" Jason stepped into the room, approached Henry.

"Yes, I'm sure. I know the man that was murdered, he was your father. I'm sorry for that, but I don't remember you."

Jason's eyes widened in a sort of demented way. "That so? I'm just surprised, is all. You sure you can't remember the way I beat your head against that brick wall? Gave you that scar, there?"

Knitting his brow, Henry raised his free hand, trembling, up to trace the thick scar that ran along his otherwise smooth forehead and down behind one ear. He frowned, breathed heavily. I didn't like where this was going.

"Both of you, listen," I tried to reclaim their attention. "We have to go."

Henry broke free of whatever he'd been thinking and turned back to me. "No," he insisted. "You need to go. Get as far away as you can. This is bigger than you know, bigger than I know. They won't ever leave you alone, Nadia. They'll always be after you. You have to go, and when I get away, I'll find you. I promise."

"Can't you come, too? Henry, you and Jason and I--we have a chance to get away. We can go to a friend I have in San Judo--or, or no. Not San Judo. We'll get as far away from San Judo as we can, so far they'll never find us. And . . . and . . ."

He was shaking his head very slowly, his face simultaneously sad and knowing. "It's too late. Don't you realize they're here, now? They've been here all along?"

Nowhere to run, anymore!

My thoughts, again, and this time, strangely I could've sworn I was laughing at myself. But there was no time to think of it; several things happened so quickly and all at once that I was lost in confusion: there was the sound of the back door crashing in, Jason lunged at Henry, the lights went out, Henry's gun fired in the darkness, and I myself fell to the ground, hearing only the last words I'd hear from Henry for a long time: "Don't forget me, Nadia . . . we promised!"

I was standing in a spacious, columned, marble-floored main room of the bank that I was supposed to rob, but I had other things on my mind. I was worried, so worried, but not about the bank job. I could crack the safe as easily as if I'd known the code. Because I did know it, or I was about to. My palms against the metal wheel, I closed my eyes, felt the digitized lock speak the numbers to me in its own way, and I spoke back to it, told it to enter those numbers. My partner--Henry's supposed friend--was impatient next to me. He'd never known me, but Henry had told me about him. Slim was his name; he didn't trust my ability, said he'd disabled the cameras for only a couple of minutes, glared at me with those rat eyes and told me to hurry up, but I knew what I was doing and had the safe open before he could hyperventilate any more.

As the safe door groaned outward and Slim went gleefully into it, I hurried through the alternating dark and light the windows cast on the marble floors. I knew I didn't have much time. This was the night Henry was supposed to do it--I'd made sure to be nearby--and I was anxious about what was going to happen. I didn't necessarily want him to kill that man, but it was so important that they didn't perceive him as a failure.

Gazing out the floor-to-ceiling glass, I saw him, Henry, tall and lean, determined and yet not so certain, walking somewhat erratically, as if speaking to himself and twice turning around only to turn back. He soon moved into an alley not too far away, where he disappeared from my sight. I hadn't been able to really see him, to read his thoughts in his features, so when I lost sight of him, I grew terrified that something was going to happen, something bad. I entirely forgot about my current role and headed toward the secret niche my partner and I had sliced into a side wall of the bank. He was still talking happily to me as I went, not even aware that I was leaving him. Once I was outside, my sense of alarm swelled. This was going to go badly, tonight. I was sure of it. I went to where I'd last seen Henry, but he was no longer there. Sudden shouts sounded behind the bank, where there was a wall in front of an alley that divided the bank and a row of convenience shops and newsstands. I quickly returned to the bank and easily scaled the wall in spite of its height. At the top, I propped myself up so I could peer down into the alley below.

What I saw reminded me of something from an old Western movie: two people, one a man, and one Henry, stood facing each other, about thirty feet dividing them. The man's face I couldn't see, because he was wearing a hat, and I was looking down on him, but Henry I saw clearly, and his sea-glass eyes shone with fear. He was holding the gun he was meant to kill the man with, but I was uncertain as to whether or not he could follow through. I didn't know why they wanted Henry to kill that man--wasn't even sure he knew; I hadn't spoken with him in months. But I prayed he'd do it. I didn't want Henry to go against his nature--he wasn't like me in that way--but I just knew we'd be in peril if he didn't prove himself.

The two of them weren't talking. If they had said anything at all, their conversation was over now. The man stood rooted to the pavement, his hands out in the air, like he thought that maybe if he showed himself to be unarmed, he'd be left alone. The scene was so tense I felt as if a single sound could snap it and set off the gun. Henry held out his arm, strong and straight, and I was sure he'd fire at any moment, but to my surprise (and some mix of relief and disappointment), he began to lower the gun until it pointed toward the ground. He wasn't going to go through with it, and ultimately, that was probably what was best for him. I didn't want Henry to do this thing if it meant destroying who he was. He was no coward--not Henry--but he didn't want to hurt anyone undeserving of it. What that meant for us, I didn't know, and the apprehension of not knowing began to build in me as I began to lower myself from the wall, but then I caught sight of another figure, a dark shadow that emerged from a branching alley behind the man Henry was supposed to murder. The figure raised and immediately fired his own weapon, shattering the quiet night with the sound of it, and I watched as Henry's target, his arms still outstretched, fell to his knees. The figure that had seeped out of the shadows soaked back into them. Henry stared wide-eyed at the dying man, ran to him, tried to catch him as he fell but couldn't hold him. He appeared to be saying things, but I couldn't hear any of it; I knew only that I had to go to him. I had to get down there.

I struggled to get over the wall, to drop down and run to Henry, but before I could even get my legs up, Henry stood, threw his gun aside, and ran to the end of the alley, shoving someone else out of the way as he went. I froze, lying, now, atop the wall, as a boy with orange hair inspected the body on the ground, picked up the gun Henry had thrown aside then dropped it again, and took off running in the same direction as Henry. I swung my legs over the wall, almost dropped down and would have, had not that dark figure jogged back into the alley and toward the body. I swore in frustration but stayed where I was, certain it was someone from the Circuit that had killed the man. I stayed where I was, holding onto the wall awkwardly, and watched as not one, but two darkly-clothed figures crept out of the gloom and hurried to the dead man's side. They knelt, examined him, looked quickly at the gun on the ground, and then one said to the other, "They were right. He wasn't ready, yet."

"This one will never be ready!" hissed the other figure. "They should never have crossed their business with ours, but nobody listens to Aguado, do they? Damnit, this is a mess."

"Shut up and grab that gun. We've got to fix this fast. That second kid touched it—left his prints. This won't be too hard to clean up. They'll take care of Henry."

The two began to work quietly, quickly, as if they cleaned up murders all the time, which maybe they did. I needed to get out of there. Find Henry, talk to him, figure out what we should do.

My shoes scraped on the bricks as I lost my grip and fell to the pavement. The two looked up sharply and caught sight of me.

"Damn!" spat one.

"Deal with her," said the other.

One of them, the woman, started toward me. I didn't recognize her, but they were surely Circuit. There was no hope for us if they caught us.

My legs stung from my fall, but I shook the feeling back into them and ran. I was faster than that woman. I raced in the direction I'd seen Henry and the other boy run. I passed several side streets before I found them--heard before I saw them, actually, angry curses, thuds . . . The narrow passageway between two abandoned buildings was dark, but there were two people in it, and one was hunched up on the ground; the other was beating him. Kicking, hitting, lifting his head and shoving it so hard against the wall that I could've sworn I heard the skull crack.

An mad rage overcame me. I was on top of that orange-haired boy so fast, grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him off of Henry, who was now lying motionless on the ground. To my relief, instead of turning around and starting on me, the unknown boy let me pull him away and drag him to the end of the alley, out onto the sidewalk and into the light of the street. When I let go of him, I saw that he was covered in blood and sobbing heavily amidst curses and other incoherent mumblings. Then I left him there, crouching and muttering and crying, while I turned back to Henry. He was unconscious on the pavement, maybe even dead--but no, I wouldn't--couldn't--believe that. His body was twisted up, but I knelt on the ground and pulled his head up onto my knees, his skin warm to the touch. I could feel a long, serious opening along the front and side of his head, and while I couldn't properly see in the darkness of the alley, I make out dark matter running through his ash-blonde hair, wet and sticky. I tried to clear the blood out of his eyes and off his face with my shirt, but mostly I just held him. He wasn't dead--I'd have felt it if he were dead--but he was terribly hurt. Knowing what I risked, I called for help. I needed to bring someone, anyone to him. I didn't even care who came at that point; I just knew he needed far more help than I could give him.

Time slowed; it seemed hours passed while I sat with Henry, terrified and nauseated as I was, but before long, I myself was being pulled away, out of the alley, maybe by the woman who'd come after me or someone else--there were several people, and they all looked the same because I couldn't focus on any of their faces. I was despondent, didn't even know who or if to fight.

"It's the other one" a voice said overhead as I was being pulled into the light. "It's just as well we turn them back over together."

A car door slammed somewhere nearby. I half-turned to see a police car parked in the road, its lights blaring and the face of the orange-haired boy who'd beaten Henry staring blindly out the half-rolled window. When he saw me, saw Henry being taken out of the alley, his face contorted. "It was him!" I heard him shout. "Why aren't you taking him? He killed my dad!"

That boy's words, his anguish brought me to my senses. I couldn't let them take both of us. I had to get away, find Henry later, otherwise we were done. I bit one of the hands holding me so hard that I drew blood, and whoever the hand belonged to released me with a scream. They tried to reclaim me, but I fought like a wild animal, and unless they wanted to hurt me, they had to let me go. Dealing with Henry was probably enough for them, for the moment, and they gave up on me, probably assuming I'd be easy to take care of afterward.

But they underestimated me. I followed them, found where they'd taken Henry, though it cost me days of searching. By the time I found them, over three weeks had passed, and once I managed to get through all those miles of woods, finally found the cabin, I had to wait even longer to watch, to wait and see what was happening, to know when it was safe to go inside. It was absolute torment wondering what they were doing to Henry. They'd never kill him—of that I was sure. Whatever Henry was to them, they wanted him alive. He was important enough for that.

I stayed in the brush outside, observing. During daylight, I moved far, far back into the woods, kept quite a distance from the cabin, because it was visible through the thin trees even about a mile away. I'd stay there until nighttime, and then I'd move as close as I dared. There were too many people there; I knew just walking in would end in my capture. So instead, I waited for three days outside, until at last I was fairly sure the adults I'd seen moving about within the cabin--one a woman with bright red hair, the others unremarkable or too obscured to make out--had gone (it was difficult, as I never quite saw them leave and seemed to catch them moving about only in the interior). All the lights had been out for twenty-four hours. When the third night fell, I made my way through those woods to my destination, so afraid I wouldn't find Henry, but hopeful I'd find clues. To my dismay, though, just as I began to sneak toward the cabin, I discovered I was being watched. I didn't know who was watching me, only that someone was, and when dark figures clambered toward me through the undergrowth, I made a break for it and ran to the cabin. They almost caught me; it was only a matter of time until they did. It was hopeless, but if I could only get inside, maybe I'd find something!

Unfortunately, the moment I reached the back door of the cabin, punched in the panel of glass, opened the door, and stepped inside, I was startled by someone already in the house, who immediately took hold of me. "Been waiting for you for quite some time now, love," said the man, whose hawk nose and black glittering eyes were accentuated by freakish filed teeth, which I saw when he grinned his foul grin. "Get the room ready," he called over his shoulder, as a light switched on beyond him. "And notify Oliphant we'll be sending another a while after we send Henry."

I tried to wrestle free of him, but he held me firm, surprising strength in his wiry frame. "You should know me well enough by now," he said, though I couldn't recall ever having seen him, "to know that I always come prepared."

Something stung my arm, a brief prick of pain, and within seconds, the interior of the building was blurring into shapelessness, a mixed palette of color and shadow. My arms and legs--I couldn't move them. I couldn't do anything at all; my senses were blending with the room itself.

"What's her name, then?" asked a disembodied voice.

"Should I know?" was the vampirish man's strange question. "Looks like Amirah. But she'll soon forget it."

Everything that followed was a nightmare; I was sure they took me through a door hidden in the floor of one of the bedrooms into a concrete basement with a wall fan whooshing slowly against one wall to ventilate the cell. It was so dark down there. So dark I could see only when one of the shifting black shapes above me turned on a small bright bulb overhead. The sounds made little sense, clinking and muted conversation, and the smell of moisture was so potent, even as my other senses dulled—water was dripping in some hidden corner. I felt strapped down, saw a shape with what appeared to be a long, thin needle, and a metallic tool that caught the light from the bulb above the instant it was switched off--or had my vision blacked out? Total darkness . . . fan blades whooshing in methodical indifference . . . a voice: When you wake up tomorrow, you won't even remember your name . . .