I sit up, heart already crawling up my throat. The white dress is still on, tangled at my waist from where I rolled in my sleep. I pull it down and smooth it flat with both hands, then stand, feet cold and naked against the vinyl floor.
The barefoot runners are by the bed, exactly where Colton left them. I slide them on and stand there for a second, waiting for my legs to work. The room is as I left it: chaos mapped in papers, evidence on every wall. For a second I think about grabbing the folder and screenshotting it all, uploading it to the web, but my hands won’t obey. There’s no room for souvenirs when you’re about to be erased.
The knock comes again, exactly the same.
I open the door.
Two figures wait in the hallway. Both in Westpoint guard uniforms. Their faces are smoothed out, their eyes so empty it’s almost a mask. Neither looks at me. Both just step aside, making a silent corridor for me to pass through.
I hesitate. They don’t.
They don’t say a word as I step into the hall and pull the door shut behind me, the click loud. The taller one leads, the shorter brings up the rear, and I am the meat in the sandwich. We walk. My feet slap against the floor, the shoes hugging every bone and tendon so I can feel the cold tile through them. Every step leaves a ghost print of sweat.
We reach the end of the corridor and turn left, then right, then down the main stairs. Every light in the building is off except for the ones that guide our path. It’s as if the rest of the world is asleep, or dead, or erased.
We exit through the side door, into the night.
The chill is instant. The moon is full and low, swollen and rotten at the edges. It throws everything into black and silver, even the grass. I can smell the wet in the air, the rain that never comes, the mildew and stone from the centuries-old walls.
The campus is empty. Not just the grounds, but the windows, the benches, the parking lot. The only motion is the wind, the way it flicks at the grass and makes the banners snap against the poles.
We cross the quad, the three of us in perfect step, like it’s been choreographed since the beginning of time. My teeth chatter, but I keep my chin high. The dress isn’t super warm, but it’s better than a short sleeve. The sleeves drag a little at my wrists, and the skirt catches the wind like a sail. I clutch it tight, just to keep my hands from shaking.
They take me the long way, across the main lawn, past the church and the greenhouse, down a path lined in statues of men who died richer than God and meaner than the devil. Their faces are lost in shadow, but I can feel them watching, as if they’re waiting for the show.
Ahead, I see the smoke first. Then the torches, spaced at perfect intervals in a wide ring around the field. The flames are blue-white at the center, but orange at the tips, and the smoke climbs straight up into the night.
There’s a crowd already assembled. Not a crowd, I realize as we get closer. An audience. Every single one of them in formalblack, faces drawn and pale in the torchlight. I see the Board, up front, their chairs set on a low riser. Steele sits in the middle, a blank-faced woman to his left and a younger, razor-cheeked man to his right. Then there’s the Funders, their hands gloved and their bodies so still they might as well be mannequins.
At the far end, standing a little apart from the rest, is Mr. Harrington. Even from here I can see the way his lips pull up at the corners, the small, mean smile he’s worn in every photo I’ve found. Next to him, in a darker suit and a more expensive tie, is Mr. Ellis. He doesn’t look at me; he looks through me.
In the center of the torch ring is the boulder. It’s the same one from that day in the field, flat-topped and the size of a coffin, its sides chipped and pitted by a hundred years of whatever the Board decides to do with girls like me.
To the right of the Board, a tripod stands. On top: a camera, the kind you see at press conferences, black and heavy and aimed directly at the boulder.
I feel the blood leave my face. The humiliation is total, public, immortal.
My escorts stop at the edge of the circle. The taller one gestures for me to go ahead.
I walk.
The torch smoke gets in my eyes, making them sting. My skin prickles under the gaze of the assembly. My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow.
I reach the boulder and stop.
The world narrows to the heat of the torches and the drum in my chest.
Steele stands. He waits for the torch nearest him to sputter, then walks to the edge of the circle. “Miss Allen,” he says, his voice projected but not loud. “You have been selected as runner for this year’s Hunt. Do you accept the rules?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He doesn’t seem to care. “Good. Approach the stone.”
I do.
There’s a faint whine from the camera, as it focuses on my face. For a second I want to smile, just to fuck with them, but the feeling passes.
“Shoulders back,” says Steele.
