***

            IT STARTS TO RAIN AS WE DRIVE, soft at first, slowly blossoming into a downpour as we come upon the gravel road leading up to the Mendoza Institute. The gate that Meredith destroyed has yet to be fixed.

            "Meredith did that," I tell Dad. "I was the one that told her to."

            He high-fives me. "Tell Meredith that I appreciate her handiwork."

            I lean my head against the window as a bolt of lightning colors the waning sky a violent shade of baby blue. The rain looks like sheets of melting glass against the looming trees.

            Dad puts the car in park. "If this all goes south, we take a hostage."

            I stare at him. "Take a hostage?"

            "You know... Politely."

            I roll my eyes. "We're not taking a hostage, Papà. You said you just wanted to talk to them."

            "You never know!" Dad drums his hands against the steering wheel in defense. "Plus, you just kidnapped their little experiment, and killed a lot of them, I don't think they're going to be very happy with you — "

            "They were going to kill her. I didn't have a choice."

            "And you did the right thing, and I'm proud of you, but that doesn't change the way they're going to view you." Dad replies. "You're going in there a wanted man. A hero to one, a villain to another; you can't please everyone. Being a good person isn't about making everyone happy. It's about doing what you know is right, even if the entire world seems against you."

            It seems a little odd that my literal murderer of a dad is giving me moral advice, but I've seen weirder.

            "Please, I'm always a wanted man." I push my door open and step out into the rain. It instantly soaks through my jacket — which, yes, I do admit is more for fashion than warmth, because, you know, I'm horrible. "Come on."

            Dad takes a deep breath and follows me outside. We walk up to the institute together, side by side, and I push the doors open.

            The inside is the same as ever. It shows no signs that anything out of the ordinary happened here today. It shows no signs that they were willing to kill an innocent eighteen-year-old girl for some bullshit experiment. It shows no signs of the massacre that happened within these very walls.

            I expected a bit more excitement. In my past experiences, that's what murder has always ensured.

            I lead Dad to Dr. Mendoza's office, and I knock on the door. The only answer is a weak voice asking who it is.

            "Her name's Dr. Mendoza," I quickly explain so Dad knows what he's dealing with. "She's the one that runs the institute."

            "Should I just...?" Dad whispers to me. "Should I just barge on in? This feels weird. What if she's like, watching porn or something, and I just walk in on her? That would be so awkward."

            "Don't think. Just do." I shove him forwards. "Go get 'em, tiger."

            Dad nods as if he understands and pushes the door open, angrily stepping inside. I follow behind him. Dr. Mendoza sits at her desk, her head in her hands. I notice Dad falter a little when he sees her, stumbling back a step, his lips parted in an emotion I can't read — surprise, maybe. Mercy. Maybe he hadn't realized that there would be a real, living, breathing person here; he'd just thought of the Mendoza Institute as this kind of abstract, evil force.

            But the moment is quickly washed away, and an expression of bubbling, burning, brittle rage molds his face into a mask fit of tragedies. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

        No polite questions. No Excuse me, what is this institute studying? No How has my son been a part of all of this? No Is the rift real? Just straight to blaming her, straight to accusing her. That's how my dad works.

            "What?" Dr. Mendoza drops her hands, suddenly looking up at us. Her dark eyes are puffy and lined with bags, and they narrow in on me like a hawk. I can see the cold calculations spinning inside of them, debating whether to say something to me or not. "Currently, I'm mourning the loss of some of my best employees. What brings you here? Please, take a seat," she instructs, motioning us forwards with a wave of her hand. "I could use something to distract me."

            I temporarily have the brilliant idea to literally take one of her chairs, run out of the institute, and never speak to her again. Yeah, a part of me thinks, that'll really show her. Justice for Thea.

            In reality, Dad and I both sit down across from her. Me, a little awkwardly, considering that I killed the people that she's mourning and she knows it and I know she knows it and neither of us say anything about it.

            Dad leans forwards in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've been doing human experimentation. You nearly killed a girl for it. And seriously? Never letting her go outside? Never even letting her have a single friend? And my son — you forced him against his will to partake in this. Is this all true?"

            I'm suddenly glad that I didn't tell him that Thea's Dr. Mendoza daughter. I'm not sure he would have been able to handle knowing that. He might just have snapped and killed Dr. Mendoza on the spot.

            "Yes, it is. I'm working for the government," Dr. Mendoza cooly replies, her demeanor unchanged. "If you have something to say about my methods, you'll have to take it up with them."

        All it takes is that simple response, and I watch as my dad turns into the person history will remember him as — it's like watching clay harden into stone.

            "Is that supposed to justify it?" Dad flinches out of anger. "You're telling me that the government is responsible for this? That they're committing non-consensual human experimentation? That they've basically tortured innocent people? That they were willing to commit murder for — For what? To prove something?"

            Dr. Mendoza raises an eyebrow. "May I remind you that your son here murdered eighteen of my employees?"

        I sink down in my chair. Oopsies.

            "He killed eighteen corrupt government officials to save the life of an innocent girl," Dad replies, his voice shaking.

            "They had families. They had a life outside of here. She was nothing, she had nothing. She was dispensable."

        Somebody's life isn't measured by how useful they are to other people nor by their relationships with others, I want to say. But I don't.

            Dad's the kind of angry so terrible, he seems completely calm, save for the burning in his cheeks, the waver of his chin, the growl of his voice. "No human being is dispensable."

            "You're missing my point."

            Dad stands up so quickly that his chair falls from underneath him and slams his fist down on her desk so hard that I hear a cracking noise, and I'm not sure if it was from him or the wood. "You're missing mine!"

            Dr. Mendoza tilts her head. "And what was your point again?"

            "That you hide behind your claims of being a government-ran organization to justify the corrupt activities that your institute engages in."

            I'm sitting there watching the entire thing in shock. I didn't expect it to get so good. If only I had popcorn.

            Dr. Mendoza doesn't seem fazed. "The supposed corrupt activities that this institute engages in are to ensure the safety of the universe. We are quite literally saving the world with the research being done here."

            "I understand that," Dad's jaw clenches, and he aggressively points at her desk to justify his point, "But what you're doing here is immoral. The ends don't justify the means, Jessica."

            Dr. Mendoza looks thoroughly confused. "Jessica? My name... My name's Bianca."

            Dad's face turns bright red. "Sorry, I have a tendency to give people random white suburban names when I'm upset with them. It's a bad habit."

            "So, anyways..." Dr. Mendoza's stony expression turns almost desperate. "If you're such an expert on moral and immoral behaviors, what do you advise me to do? I'm running out of time and I'm running out of options."

            Slowly, Dad picks his chair up and sinks back down into it. "What do you mean?"

            "There seems to be an event of apocalyptic proportions looming in front of us. I thought I'd have years to prepare. It turns out that I don't even have months." Dr. Mendoza tiredly rubs the skin under her eyes. "Quite frankly, I don't have time to waste on moral ambiguity."

            Dad's dark hazel eyes flick back and forth as he tries to absorb this information. "What do you mean?" he asks again.

            "I mean that the end of the world is upon us, and I don't have time to take the morally sound route, not with what's at stake." Dr. Mendoza explains, slowly, like she's talking to a seven-year-old. "In times of crisis, somebody has to make the hard decisions, and that somebody has to be me. I'm not only saving seven billion people. I'm saving every life form in the entire universe. Aliens are real, and they're in danger. I can sacrifice a few to save many."

            "Aliens are real? And there's yet another secret the government was keeping from us." Dad can only stare at her for a couple of seconds. "And who's to say you get to decide who lives and who dies?"

            "The government does." Dr. Mendoza casually tilts her head. "I don't have time for this argument. I have more important things to be doing with my time. If you could be so kind as to leave — But you, Cain. You stay."

            I finally realize that I'm actually a part of this conversation. "What? Me? Why?"

            Dr. Mendoza smooths back her hair. "You killed eighteen people and kidnapped my daughter. I'm calling the police and having you arrested."

            My fear of arrest suddenly jumps into my throat like vomit. The orange jumpsuits — My entire body seems to scream no at the idea. My leg begins to shake. "But I'm too pretty to go to prison," I whine. Even to me, my voice sounds pathetic.

            For the first time in the past sixteen years, I think of my mom. I don't have any real memories of her — I was too young when she was arrested — save for the faintest one. A photograph my dad showed me once. A pretty young woman, half Chinese, half white, with steely-gray eyes smiling on a beach somewhere as she holds baby-me in her arms, a sixteen-years-old version of my dad standing beside her and laughing at someone off-camera, her hair thick and curly and the color of Hershey's chocolate, her skin lightly bronzed. Dad doesn't like to talk about her all that much, either.

            However, I can tell that he's thinking about her now, too. He gets to his feet again, trembling, his voice low and full of so much hatred I don't even recognize it. "You wouldn't dare."

            Dr. Mendoza makes a face as if he insulted her. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't."

            I want to say something, want to plead my case, but all I can do is sit there in shock. Maybe they'll spare me and give me the death sentence so that I won't have to wear those horrendous orange jumpsuits for the rest of my life, I try to think positively. But is the death sentence even legal in New Hampshire? It better fucking be.

            "Because I'll — " Dad falters, unsure. Thinking fast, calculating. He deals in a business of risky negotiations and deals. He knows what he's doing. But I can tell by what he says that he came up dry. "You'll lose one of your valuable little experiments if you arrest him."

        "It would hurt us, sure," Dr. Mendoza agrees, tilting her head, "but we have others. It would be worth it if it would mean getting justice."

        "Oh, really? Well, then, I'll — " Another falter. He's flying by the seat of his pants. "I'll tell everyone about what's going on here. That the world's going to end. And I'll tell them what you did to try to save it."

            "And you think that they'll believe you?" Dr. Mendoza asks. "They'll just take you for one of those crackheads that carries around a cardboard sign reading about how the end is near, trying to scare everyone into going and following the word of Jesus."

            "I know that they'll believe me," Dad calmly replies. "Because I, unlike the Jesus Junkies, have proof."

        My dad likes to call Christians the Jesus Junkies. One time, someone broke his jaw because of it. I still have the video of their fight.

            That is the first thing that he's said that really seems to scare her. I can see it in the waver of her chin, the slight parting of her lips, the widening of her eyes. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself over. "And then they'll be prepared, and maybe they can help us. It wouldn't be ideal conditions, but we could work around it."

            "Listen." Dad's voice snaps, causing me to flinch. "You can't — You can't arrest him."

            "Why can't I?"

        I recognize the look in Dad's eyes — it's the same one he got when we were lost in the middle of nowhere and had to get food from this sketchy-ass gas station. He had to pick between year-old sushi and mystery meat formed in the shape of a cartoon bunny's head. He's muling over two particularly unpleasant options, and I think I know what they are.

        An image pops into my head, my dad and I in matching orange jumpsuits and friendship bracelets — bloodied silver handcuffs.

        "Papà," I whisper, hardly trusting my voice. "Papà, no. Deep breaths. Remember the yoga lessons we took. Miss Janet said no more shooting people. It fucks with our auras."

        Dr. Mendoza's eyes snap between the two of us, cold and calculating. One of her eyebrows arches, her lips part, her head tilts. She doesn't say anything, waiting to see what happens next. Waiting to catch her bearings.

        In that moment, I realize the difference between my dad and Dr. Mendoza. Where he's always a thousand steps ahead of his mind, waiting for it to catch up with the rest of him, it seems as if her head's always a step ahead of her. She's always thinking, always calculating, always considering. Nothing she does is a mistake, her actions are all carefully calculated; it's mapped out perfectly in her mind like a minute-by-minute itinerary that she doesn't stray from. She has a clear plan of what's going to happen before it does and how she needs to react to it; he lets everything happen around him and lets his plan figure itself out as he goes. But there is something horribly similar about them — they both seem to be a step ahead of the rest of the world.

        Me? Well, it always feels like I'm a step behind everybody else, and what happens next is no exception: It's like the world suddenly skips ahead as a part of my memory falls away, and I'm left staring in disappointment at a puzzle with the final piece missing.

        And this is one of those times where I'm left fumbling for the final missing puzzle piece while the world spins on without me — without me, the center of the world and possibly the most beautiful and important person in it.

        My dad and Dr. Mendoza were just talking. I swear, that's all it was. But the next thing I'm aware of is the bangbangbang of bullets peppering the air, the scent of blood filling my nose, a crowd of people rushing into the room, the same alarm that went off when Thea and I escaped blaring as the room's washed in the same shade of red as the blood staining the floor.

            I realize, then, that the blood is mine.

            I'm not given time to react. Rough hands grasp my shoulders as rusty handcuffs (and not even the good kind of handcuffs) slide around my wrists. I stumble forwards, coughing, hacking, convulsing. Something wet glistens on my cheeks.

            As I'm pushed through the hallway by the rough hands, it's like my missing memories fall back into place, but not the whole picture — just snippets of it. Puzzle pieces I'm unable to connect.

            The gun in my dad's hands — oh, my God, my dad —

            He wasn't aiming for me. I didn't get shot. He wasn't aiming for Dr. Mendoza, either. He was aiming for himself.

            Arrest him, and my blood will be on your hands, he'd said.

            That doesn't scare me, she'd said.

            How much blood will it take for you to realize what you've done? she'd asked me.

            What he's done? How much blood will it take for you to realize what you're doing? he'd said.

            More puzzle pieces crash down upon me. Ones that are foggy, ones I'm not sure about, ones that are incomplete, ones that don't seem quite real.

        The gun clattering to the floor — I'd been the one to knock it from his hands.

        The blank expression on my dad's face as he fell to his knees.

        The shock on Dr. Mendoza's as he actually carried out his plans.

         My guilt: I was powerless to stop him, I was the reason that all of this was happening.

        Falling into a Mara-induced freak-out.

        Violent convulsions, temporarily blacking out, warm blood frothing at my mouth.

        A scientist rushing in and brutally escorting me out of the room.

        Struggling against them, kicking them, screaming at them, screaming for my dad.

        Cursing my noodly body.

        Powerless, powerful but so powerless.

            I think I remember all of these things, but the only thing I really remember is my dad's blood staining the tile floors. He'd shot himself.

            "Please!" I beg as I'm dragged through the halls of the Mendoza Institute, blood staining my lips and the floor and my hands cuffed behind my back. "Please, you don't understand, my dad — "

            We've come upon a door and person dragging me stops in front of it, pulling it open.

            "Enough," the person hisses, practically throwing me inside after they unlock my handcuffs. "Now sit in the corner and think about what you've done."

            The door's then slammed in my face. I scramble to my feet.

            "Asshole!" I call through the door, giving it a kick for good measure.

            I'm not sure how long I spend in the room  — without a clock, time seems to run together like wet clay. I just know that, at first, I refuse to accept my fate. I spend the first couple of minutes crying, screaming, banging on the door, begging for mercy, and trying to pick the lock. I eventually give up and sink to the floor, my back pressed against the door, my knees pressed against my chest, forcing myself to think.

            Think, goddamnit, think.

            An idea pops into my head that should have been the first thing I thought of  — my power. All of the emotions I currently have running through me has to be enough to fuel it.

            I think of myself in a tacky orange jumpsuit, of myself writhing in pain as they try to carry out the death sentence on me but accidentally inject me with the wrong dosage, of my dad bleeding out on the cold hospital floor, of my dad's funeral, and I can't help but thinking of my friends, of Thea and Rachel, of Pepper, even of Cerberus, of never seeing them again, and  —

            BOOM.

            A bolt of blue-hot fire shoots out of my hand, ricocheting off of the walls and floor and ceiling before slowly snuffing itself out in front of me.

            BOOM.

            BOOM.

            BOOM.

            The flames do nothing.

            I lean down, inspecting the ground, and it's just as I feared — it's made of concrete. Meaning that the room isn't flammable. Meaning that my power's useless. Meaning that I'm completely helpless and might as well give into the inevitability of death and start picking the flowers I'll want at my funeral. I think petunias would be nice. Or, ooh! Hanging naked men orchids! They'd really capture the spirit of my life.

            I force myself to take deep breaths, force myself to calm down and think rationally. If I want to survive, I have to think.

            And then I remember that I still have my phone, they didn't take it away from me. I dig it out of my pocket and try to send Meredith a frantic message reading YOU ASSHOLE HELP ME THEY LOCKED ME IN A ROOM AND WONT LET ME LEAVE. However, almost instantly I get a notification letting me know that the message couldn't send. I try to send it as a text message rather than an iMessage, but the same thing happens. I try everything  — Snapchat, Instagram, even Kik, but nothing works.

            Goddammit, Meredith. The one time I need her.

        "Oh, fuck."

            Eventually, I give up trying and throw my phone across the room. But all's well — it's in a LifeProof case. It's practically indestructible.

            I take another deep breath. Think, Cain, think. You didn't go to all of those positive-thinking group-therapy sessions for nothing.

            They have to come check on me at some point, right? They can't just leave me to rot away in here. They have to come in, have to give me food and water, have to make sure I haven't hanged (although that's becoming a more and more attractive possibility the longer I spend in here) myself. At the very least, they have to come in to either arrest me or execute me.

            Oh, how dangerous. I love it. But if I can take advantage of it...

            I begin my search for a weapon.

            I quickly realize how easily this plan will fail. They've removed everything from the room that could possibly be used as a weapon  — there isn't even a stethoscope lying around that I could possibly use to strangle someone. The best thing that I can find is a used Dixie cup.

            And then I happen to venture into the bathroom, where I strike gold. No, it isn't a plunger, although I can imagine myself looking like some hot as fuck badass as I charge into battle with one of those bad boys. On the opposite wall from the door hangs a framed poster  — one of those cheesy ones that teachers always have about positive thinking and the meaning of family and whatever other bullshit they wanna brainwash us with. But, whatever. That doesn't matter, as the poster in itself isn't what interests me. The frame is.

            Even being as tall as I am, I have to stand on the toilet (yes, the seat was down, I'm not that much of a freak) to be able to reach the poster. But I manage to get it off the wall, and once I have it free, I throw it at the floor with all of the strength I can muster. The sound of shattering glass cuts through the air like a knife.

            I lean down and pick up the sharpest piece of glass I can find, holding onto it for dear life despite the fact that it cuts into my hand and burns like a motherfucker. I leap over the pile of shattered glass and head into the main part of the room to complete my weapon.

            On the counter, I find a twelve-inch wooden ruler. I tape the piece of glass to the end of it using medical tape and marvel at my handiwork. This, I think, would look awesome on my Pinterest page. Ah, DYI crafts.

            I snap a picture of it to upload once I get out of this Wifi-less hellscape.

            I make my way back over to the outdated bathroom and shut the door behind me, realizing that it doesn't have a lock  — but that's okay. My plan'll still work. I spend about ten minutes trying to figure out how to get the shower to turn on before finally figuring it out (Why can't there be a law where all showers have to work the same? That would really make my life easier), although the water that comes out is so cold, it feels like it's burning me.

            I step inside the shower fully clothed, my phone still in my pocket, — I don't have to worry, thanks to my ride or die LifeProof case — still brandishing my makeshift knife, and slide the shower curtain closed. I lean against the wall, cursing at the Satan's-piss-cold water, and try to figure out how to get the water to a decent temperature as I wait. It's an uncomfortable feeling, my clothes sticking to my body, the water sloshing around in my shoes (my poor, poor Converse), the air turning damp and heavy. But if this is going to work, I need to have the element of surprise. Lord knows it'll be the only way for me to pull something like this off.

            It seems like I stand there for hours, freezing cold and uncomfortable as shit and really, really needing to pee, before someone finally comes to the door. They don't knock, just barge right on in, having no respect for my privacy whatsoever. Upon not seeing me, I hear them kick something  — by the sound of it, it seems to be a wall. "Shit!" I hear them bounce around for a while, as if they're holding their foot in pain. "Ah, fuck, that hurt. Jesus, have mercy on my soul."

            "Help me!" I yell the second they stop cursing, trying to summon the spirit of my inner elderly grandmother and make my voice as believable as possible. "I slipped in the shower. I think I broke something. I can't move."

            "Oh, thank God. Jesus, you a real ride or die," the person replies. "Why were you taking a shower, though? You've only been in here a couple hours."

            "I was bored and the shampoo smelled nice."

            In the middle of my response, the bathroom doorknob starts to turn. I take a deep breath to steel my nerves over as the door's pushed open. A young employee, maybe in his twenties, hesitantly walks in.

            "Should I, uh  — Should I close my eyes? Are you decent?" he asks.

            "No, I shower fully clothed  — Of course you need to close your eyes. If you'd want to see me like that, you'd need to pay." Well, he's cute enough, he might not have to.

            "Right. Sorry," he squeaks.

            I watch through the tiny crack between the shower curtain and the wall as he closes his eyes and blindly reaches his arms out, cautiously walking forwards. After a couple of steps, he reaches the shower curtain, slowly pulling it back. As he's doing this, while I have the element of surprise on my hands, I jump out at him.

            The plan could have worked perfectly if I wasn't me.

        I trip over the shower curtain as I jump (my legs had fallen asleep from standing still for so long) and split my chin open on the tiled floors. Luckily for me, I manage to trip into him, successfully shoving him down with me. He lands on his back, staring at the ceiling with his eyes still tightly shut, stunned. I scramble to my feet, pulling him with me, holding him in a chokehold with the makeshift knife digging into his throat, causing tiny pinpricks of blood to appear. He's tiny, both height and weight wise  — I tower over him. Yay, an advantage.

            "What's  — " he gasps, hopelessly tugging at my arm in a panic, his eyes shut tight, "What's going on? Are you naked?"

            "You wish. Oh, honey." I purse my lips together, tilting my head in mock sympathy. "Don't you understand? I just took you hostage. Cain, one. You assholes, zero. I'm winning."

            "Why," he asks, oblivious, his eyes finally opening, "would you take me hostage?"

            "Because if I don't get out of here, I'm going to die. And if I don't get out of here, I may or may not have watched my dad kill himself, and I'll never get closure." I reply, no hint of emotions in my voice. "Now you're going to listen to me without question. Capisci?"

            His voice comes out a bit strangled. "What do you want from me?"

            "I said no questions. But I want you to take me to my dad."

            "I don't know anything about your dad, kid," he replies. "Sorry, but if he just got up and walked out on you one night  — "

            I press the shard of glass tighter into his skin. He whimpers. It doesn't satisfy me. "Luca Terranova's my dad," I explain.

            "The  — ohhh. The guy that tried to kill Dr. Mendoza? He's your dad? I can see the family resemblance."

            My heart soars. My memory of what happened is fuzzy, after all. Maybe I didn't see Dad shoot himself. Maybe he shot Dr. Mendoza. "Do you know where he is?"

            "I — I think."

            "Take me there."

            "Will you kill me if I'm wrong?"

            "If you purposely take me somewhere to ambush me I'll have no problems slitting your throat."

            "I — that's understood, sir."

            Slowly but deliberately, like he's walking on thin ice but determined to make it to the other side without getting his shoes wet, he leads me out of the room and through several hallways. My mind reels, trying to memorize the route we take. Right, left, right, right, left, right, left, left, right, oh, fuck, how many rights were there, again?

            Eventually, he declares, "I — I think we're here. I have a skeleton key."

            I allow him enough freedom to unlock the door without letting him escape, and I push it open myself.

            The room is the same as the one that I'd been locked in, only, there's a slight difference. My dad lies on the hospital bed, curled into a tight ball, his face contorted in pain as he sleeps. He's hooked up to an IV.

            Forgetting all about my hostage, I run to his side. "Papà," I exclaim, gently shaking him. "Papà, please wake up. Please."

            His eyes slowly open. His voice is tired and bored. "Have you come to kill me?"

            My hands fall to my side. "No."

            "Cain?" he asks. Then, he repeats himself, more sure of it this time. "Cain!"

            "What happened?" I ask.

            He grunts, sitting up. "I shot myself in the arm. I'm fine, though. Just blew a chunk of skin off. I've had worse."

            I feel on the verge of tears. "I — I thought you died."

            "Well, I didn't." Dad then does something that's definitely a very bad idea — he proceeds to rip his IV out as if it's nothing more than a minor annoyance. Shakily, he climbs to his feet. "We need to get out of here."

            "But you were shot."

            "And I'm fine. Come on. We need to hurry."

        "In your arm."

        "In my arm," he echoes. "Not my chest. Trust me, Cain, I'm fine."

            I nod as I turn around, noticing that the hostage is still awkwardly standing in the doorway, as if he isn't sure if he's allowed to run or if he needs to stay and he's too scared of the two of us to ask.

            "Hey, man..." he bashfully says. "Would you mind just kind of... Stabbing me?"

            Oh. This is new. What a freak! It's kinda hot. "You want me to stab you?"

            "Yeah. I hate working here," he admits. "Maybe if I can say that you attacked and stabbed me, I'll be able to quit and sue them for enough money to survive until I'm able to find another job."

            "An honorable pursuit." Spoken like a true millennial. I tilt my head, weighing my options, then hand my makeshift knife over to him. "Here you go. Stab yourself. Have a blast."

            He tears up. "Thank you so much, man."

            Dad and I then calmly walk out of the room, like we're supposed to be there. The hostage just stands there, looking at the knife as if he doesn't quite understand what he's supposed to do with it.

            We're able to sneak out of the Mendoza Institute and reach Dad's car without anybody stopping us, save for the security guard at the door, but we trick her into tasing herself and rush past her while she's distracted. They really should get better security. I'll have to write a complaint letter. Poor security. Poor treatment of prisoners. Little to no glitter. Overall unsatisfactory experience. Cute workers, though.

            We drive home as if nothing that happened really did just happen. Dad parks the car in our driveway, and we get out and head inside. As soon as the door's pushed open, Rachel suddenly appears, bombarding us.

            "Thank goodness you're home, there's a strange girl in our living room," she says, a note of panic rising in her voice.

            "A strange girl?" Dad asks in response, a note of confusion rising in his.

            "Thea," I remind him.

            "Oh, right. Thea."

            "Who's Thea?" Rachel asks.

            "Long story," I reply. "Is she okay?"

            "She's refused to say a single word to me," Rachel answers. "She also refused to leave when I told her to. I just figured she was your weird friend or something."

            I push past Rachel and head into the living room, both my sister and Dad trailing after me. Thea's sitting in the middle of the floor with Cerberus in her lap, petting him and asking him Who's a cute boy? over and over again in a baby voice.

            "Don't talk to him like that," Dad whispers, looking insulted.

            Cerberus then leaves Thea and runs straight for Dad, who picks him up and cuddles him like he's an infant.

            Thea gets to her feet. "You guys, thank goodness you're here, a strange girl came and I didn't know what I was supposed to do, your note didn't cover that — "

            "Relax, she's just my sister," I tell her.

            "Sister," Thea echoes the word as if it's foreign to her.

            Rachel walks over to her and holds her hand out for her to shake. "Hi. I'm Rachel."

            Thea stares at her hand, not understanding what a handshake is. "I'm — I'm Thea?" she says it like a question, as if she's uncertain of it, then stands on her tiptoes to look over Rachel's shoulder at me. "Does sister mean friend?"

            I see something flicker in Rachel's eyes — a sudden spark of understanding. But then she looks over at Dad and I, and confusion once again befalls her. "Dad, why are you bleeding? And Cain, why are you wet?"

        "Rach, take a seat. There's something we need to tell you about," Dad replies.

***

tbh the deeper i get into this book the more i Hate myself!!! bc it was good in the beginning but all the later chapters kinda suck and im too lazy to rewrite them. but anyways i am publishing every last one of them if it kills me and it's gonna it's fucking gonna