am too stiff to shed my shirt. The platform is empty. I am alone, burning. I’m trying to come to peace with it, trying to accept that this is where I will die, when a pair of arms hook beneath my shoulders and drag me from the flaming stage. I can’t see who they belong to, and I don’t care. I let them pull me down a deserted alley and to safety. Hands rip the canvas bag holding the vaccine from my back and strip me of my shirt. Strong feet stamp out the flames that eat the material. I lie there, my back slumped against a stone wall until my senses return to me. The stinging in my eyes fades, my lungs cease screaming for air. And then my rescuer comes into view.
“You?” I mumble. “Why are you helping me?”
“You think you’re the only one who’s in on what’s happening here? You don’t think there have been others helping your crazy mission?” Bozo stands before me, his body hunched at an awkward angle as if he’s forgotten how to stand up straight.
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s a lot of people on the Rebels’ side in Taem. Just because we didn’t know about the virus doesn’t mean we weren’t ready to help when Ryder made the calls.” He seems stronger out of his cell, his voice more steady, his limbs looser. His fingers still race in odd, twitching patterns, tapping at the wall he leans against, but without his tattered prison garb, he could almost pass for a civilized member of society.
“But . . . why would Ryder call on a crazy prisoner for help?”
“Ryder and I grew up together. We tried to run from Frank together once, too. I was stupid and got myself hurt. Had to tell Ryder to go on without me.”
“You!” It’s suddenly so clear. He knew about the test groups the first day I met him, I’d just thought he was talking about something else. How had I not seen it? He’s not crazy, not Bozo at all.
“You’re Bo Chilton!” I declare.
He shoots me a wild grin. “Guilty.”
“How did you get out of the prison?”
“Bree had her own set of orders from Ryder, and she paid me a visit while Mozart was playing, broke me out on the spot.”
I should be happy about this. This plan helped me avoid shooting Harvey. This plan led to my being saved from the fire and yet I am furious. Livid.
“She kept me in the dark. That lying, back-stabbing, stubborn . . . And she shot me!”
“Oh, quit your whining,” Bo says. “She shot you with a rubber bullet and it was necessary. The others Ryder called on are fighting right now, keeping the Order busy so that you can get out of here. It’s a cover, don’t you see? A fight breaks out, the square goes up in flames, and you guys run in the thick of it.”
I look down at my stomach, the place I had been clutching in pain. There is blood, but not nearly as much as I expect. Beneath my sweaty palm is a nasty welt, red and raised and already blossoming into a bruise. Painful, yes, but not deadly. If anything, the wound I should worry about is my burned left arm, blistering from the shirt I have since shed.
“Nothing is more convincing than authentic shock, and you wouldn’t have acted the same if you knew the true plan,” Bo continues. “We only get one shot at this, and Ryder thought this was the best chance at getting all three of you out alive.”
“Harvey!” I exclaim, looking back toward the square. “Where is he?”
“He got hit by some crossfire—I saw that much. And then someone dragged him off the stage. I was told to get you both, if I could, but I think we’ve lost him. And if you and Bree want to get out of here, we have to move. Now.”
And right then, when her name is not included, I know I can’t leave without her.
“We have to go back for someone,” I say.
“Yes. Bree,” Bo agrees. “She is meeting us back at Union Central. We’ll hop a car from there.”
“Of course Bree. But Emma, too. I have to go back for Emma.”
He smiles a crooked grin. “Emma. She spoke about you.”
I pause, confused. “You know her?”
“We were cell mates for a few days, until they discovered that she was handy with a scalpel.”
“And she talked about me?”
“Wouldn’t shut up. I had