his hand, dislocating his thumb. He backed up to the security doors, but before he could step through and lock them, she kicked again. Kevin flew backward through the door into the stainless steel cart, knocking it over, sending trays and dishes and leftover food crashing to the floor.

The day shift had just begun, and two nurses in Unit 8 around the corner had just come on duty when they heard the racket and came running with an orderly. Kevin Ferguson saw them standing over him and heard them ask what had happened, what had caused all the mess and commotion. Dazed, he told them about the patient and the little girl. They called the security guard; getting no answer, they set off the emergency alarm and went off to search the area. Aching and bruised, thumb and belly throbbing, Kevin stumbled to his feet to help. But no one found any sign of the woman or the child. They were gone.

Down the hall, though, Kevin and the others did find some other people. Locked in a utility closet, they discovered a chloroformed orderly. Near the security door, they found the art therapist, stabbed in the back. And in the nursing station, the night nurse and an aide lay under the desk, gagged, their hands and legs bound together. As he limped along through the carnage, it dawned on Kevin that every single room was empty. The patients—the most violent psychotics in the Institute— were gone. What the hell had happened that morning? Had there been a damned revolution?

Mystified, Kevin reached the end of the hall and was about to give up his search when he got to the catatonic’s room. Stepping inside, he let out an involuntary scream. It wasn’t the bloodstained pink sweater beside the commode that spooked him; it was what lay on top of it. It turned out to be just a wig, but at first glance it looked like a giant dead brown rat.

SEVENTY-THREE

OF COURSE, I WAS AWARE OF NONE OF THAT. I HEARD ABOUT Kevin Ferguson later, when they told me that Phillip Woods had escaped. Wounded, his pink sweater sliced and blood-soaked, he’d left a trail of blood from Evie’s room through the hall, down the back stairs, and out into the snow. There, like the man who’d spilled it, the trail had disappeared. So had Rupert’s car, although it had been found hours later, empty, crashed into a telephone pole on South Street near the Schuylkill River. But I didn’t know any of that. Not yet.

The first thing I really remembered was surprise at opening my eyes. Convinced that I’d died, I was amazed that pain still seared my ribs. And I was indignant that death should hurt.

Then, looking around, I realized that, unless heaven or hell was an emergency room, I hadn’t died, at least not yet. There were tubes in my nostrils, and some green-masked person was leaning over behind me, hurting me. I protested, pulling away, emitting something between a yelp and a groan. More eyes, another green mask darted above my head. A voice muffled through the mask welcomed me back, apologizing because I’d felt that.

“Tell her I’m almost through,” said a voice, and the second mask reported that the doctor was almost through. Another jab, stab, searing scrape, and tug. My nails dug into my palms, but I couldn’t move. My arms, apparently, had been strapped down. I looked around. Iv bottle, green masks, green walls. This was not hell, I told myself. I was in a hospital because I’d been stabbed by Woods, and because I’d survived. And Molly? Where was Molly?

I struggled to turn over and sit up. Was she okay? I’d left her with Evie. I tried to speak, but no one was listening. Hands, and now one, two, a third green body held on to me. I squirmed to get their attention, tried to tell them to listen to me. I needed to find out where Molly was.

“Wait,” I said. “just a second—”

“Hold her still. Don’t let her move.”

The hands tightened, pressing me down. I struggled and shouted, but they seemed not to hear. The more I tried to talk, the more they resisted listening.

“Relax, Zoe,” a mask said. It sounded female, soothing. “Everything’s going to be okay.” Why wouldn’t she answer me? Had something happened to Molly?

Another stab, this time in my arm, and a moment later I decided to lie back and rest. Still, I fought to stay awake, my ears