“It’s just a detour,” says Asher, casting a knowing look in her direction. “We won’t get close.”
Lys’s jaw ticks. “I’d prefer to stay as far away as possible, actually.”
“Why?” asks Poppy. “What’s the risk?”
Asher snatches the map out of the tub. “Thereisno risk,” he says, as Lys says, “Contagion.”
A sick sort of understanding swims into Shea’s stomach. “Gridley’s is full of hollows.”
Asher tosses a murderous look toward Lys. “What are you doing?”
“Telling her the truth,” says Lys. “She doesn’t need you to coddle her. And you and I both know that if you’re not leaking Rot at intake, you’re sure as hell full of it by the time you leave. Gridley’s is a death sentence. It’s run by botanists, not doctors. There’s no oversight, no quarantine protocols. Nothing. They’re not trying to control the spread; they’re trying to study it.”
“The more variables they have for their research, the better the data,” says Poppy.
Shea’s blood turns to lead. “They’re experimenting on sick people?”
“They’re not sick,” says Asher. “They’re gone.”
“My mom isn’t gone.”
And just like that, they’ve circled back around again. This time, they’ve gone all the way back to the start. Caution creeps into Asher’s eyes. “I don’t want to have this fight with you right now.”
“It’s not a fight, Asher, it’s a fact. My mom’s heart is still beating, which means she isn’t gone. And neither are any of those people.”
“Thosepeoplewould rip your throat out without a second thought. Why do you think they exterminate entire towns if one of them gets loose? Why do you think we go in and wipe the whole place? How do you think the Rot spreads, Parker? Huh?”
“I don’t know,” she admits.
“Your dad never told you, did he?” Asher rolls up the map, his expression grim. “He never explained what exactly happened in Highbush. Do you even know how it started?”
“It started with a woman named Rose Darnell,” says Poppy quietly. “She ingested untreated water from a pump by her house. The neighbors found her in the kitchen, eating her husband’s intestines. They put her down and thought that was the end of it. But once it mutates, it spreads through the bite. It’s almost impossible to contain an outbreak. The only effective way has been mass quarantine.”
“Or death,” adds Lys. “It’s cheaper.”
Shea’s stomach pits. “I didn’t know that.”
“Because you live in a bubble,” says Asher. “Your parents cushioned you from everything. You don’t have the first idea what things are really like out here. If you did, you’d never have gone into the Gravewood in the first place.”
“That’s not fair,” whispers Shea, but Asher isn’t done.
“You want to feel bad for the hollows? Fine. But watch them rip someone apart in front of you first and then tell me how you feel.”
The quiet shuts up around them. She has never felt smaller than this, caught in Asher’s crosshairs, her naivete on full display.
“And that’s why it’s too risky,” says Lys, pulling Asher’s focus. “If we go in close, we risk tangling with faulty wiring or a downed fence. I don’t trust the camper to outpace a horde.”
Asher unrolls the map. “Then we keep to the east—”
Shea doesn’t hear any more. She slips out from the bathroom and into the hall beyond, the tile cool under her bare feet. No one notices when she goes. She is quiet and unobtrusive as a mouse. Little Shea Parker, no relevant skills. No helpful knowledge. No understanding of the way the world works outside her door.
Don’t coddle her, Lys said. But that’s what she is. Coddled. Clueless. Back in Mercy Ridge, Asher tried to talk Shea out of agreeing to Lys’s terms. She’d thought, in that moment, that his insistence was born out of a lingering desire to protect her—leftovers from a childhood spent stepping in whenever there was trouble. She knows better now. He didn’t want her because he knew how little she’d contribute.
At the end of the day, Shea Parker is nothing more than a liability. Trouble, down to her bones.
Her knapsack is in the camper, tucked away in a shallow cabinet above the bed. She pries it loose, rifling through the contents until she finds what she’s looking for. The dress from Paris, red silk beneath black lace overlay.
Come to the revel. Alone.
