“What do you mean?” Marcella asks, looking to me for confirmation. I nod. “How?” she asks.

“She left the academy with Winston Weeks,” Sydney says. “But … we don’t have all the details yet. The entire thing is”—she looks at me—“weird.”

“Lennon Rose is alive,” Brynn says, smiling and ignoring the negatives. “She made it!”

“She didn’t tell us?” Marcella asks suspiciously, earning an annoyed look from Brynn.

“Lennon Rose is alive,” Marcella continues. “Just … living her life, and she didn’t think to warn us? Didn’t tell us what the academy was doing to us?”

“Maybe she couldn’t,” Brynn says, sounding hurt that Marcella would criticize our friend.

Marcella noticeably tries to contain her irritation. “Okay, well, how did she end up in the same small town as us, then? Coincidence?”

“That’s what we need to figure out,” I say, finding my voice. I hand the glass of water back to Brynn and use the sink to pull myself up. When I’m standing again, I swipe the tears off my cheeks and steady my gaze on the girls.

“Annalise, can you track down info on Winston Weeks?” I ask. “See what his connections are to this town?”

“On one condition,” she says. “You let me bring Raven back.”

“Not now,” I say, wanting to leave this enclosed space, but Annalise steps in front of the door to stop me.

“You can’t keep going like this,” she says sternly. “You—”

“She had one at Lennon Rose’s place too,” Sydney says suddenly before wincing an apology to me.

“It wasn’t a breakdown,” I clarify. “It was … a vision.”

“Another one today?” Annalise asks, concerned. “Without your phone?”

“Not exactly the same,” I say. “But it was the same woman. She was there.”

Marcella marches right up to me, examining my eyes. “Mena … what is she doing to you? How is she getting to you?”

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“We have no choice, then,” Annalise says walking into the living room. I quickly follow her, my eyelids burning from my earlier tears.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Annalise walks over to the computer and begins clicking the keys. “I’m asking Raven to come over.”

She says it like I have no room to argue, but I reach over and close the laptop. She spins to face me.

“You need help!” she says.

“I know!” I shoot back just as easily. It wasn’t the answer she was expecting. Frankly, it wasn’t the one I planned on giving. I furrow my brow and lower myself to sit at the kitchen table. “I know,” I repeat.

Annalise sits next to me, watching me carefully. “We have to try.”

Solemnly, I nod. “I’ll meet with her again,” I say. “But I’m not going to promise you anything. I can’t just hand myself over to a hacker.”

“I understand,” she says. “But talk to her. See what she can do.”

I agree that I will.

The other girls come out, and we sit together to talk about Lennon Rose. Winston Weeks, no doubt, knows we’re here. If he didn’t before, we’re sure Lennon Rose has told him.

“Winston wasn’t so bad,” Annalise says. Sydney scoffs, turning to her. She shrugs.

“I’m just saying, he wasn’t as bad as the rest,” she clarifies.

“Just because he wasn’t absolute garbage doesn’t mean he was good,” Sydney says. Annalise flinches and when she turns, her scar catches the light.

“I’m aware, Sydney. Trust me, I’m aware.”

Sydney lowers her head. We forget sometimes about how Annalise was changed. And not just physically. The only reason she’s here now is because Leandra intervened to bring her back to life. We didn’t know how to save her; we were too trusting. That’s why Annalise has been so intent on learning about our bodies and systems—she wants to be able to repair us in the future. Teach us how to repair ourselves.

Annalise doesn’t trust easily, which is why her connection to Raven is so unusual. With that said, she’s not entirely wrong about Winston, but to that same point, neither is Sydney.

Annalise opens her computer and begins typing again.

“Raven said she can come tomorrow after school,” Annalise says.

“Wait, you’re talking to her right now?” I ask.

“Yep. Done.” She closes the laptop.

“What did you say? What did she say?” I ask.

“Nothing. I just asked her if we could meet, and she said she’d come by tomorrow.”

Annalise acts like this is all very normal, as if we’ve been using technology to communicate with outsiders our whole lives.

“Now,” she says, leaning back in the kitchen chair. A smile finally pulls at her lips. “How’s our Lennon Rose?”

12

I barely slept last night. I was scared of my dreams.

It’s left me slightly disoriented, but my headache isn’t too bad this morning. Sydney and I split apart when we walk into school. She heads toward her class, and I watch as several sets of eyes follow her.

Last night, Sydney brought up again that she’s getting an extra level of scrutiny at school. I can see it, and I wonder—if everyone else can see it too, why don’t they say something? Why is the school letting it happen?

I thought the outside world would be exponentially better than the academy, and in certain ways, it is. But it’s also more insidious. There is the same hatred and lust for control, but out here, they hide it better. They deny it or justify it. It’s maddening.

I walk into class and there’s a wolf whistle from the side of the room. I glance back and see Garrett smile at me.

“Nice legs,” he says.

It’s not a compliment. He says it to embarrass me, dominate me. I stare at him long enough to make his jaw tighten with anger. I walk the rest of the way to my seat, noticing that our teacher, Mr. Marsh, witnessed the entire exchange. He offers me an apologetic shrug as I sit down.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t address Garrett’s conduct.

Maybe if he corrected it, the behavior would stop. But instead, it’s allowed and therefore condoned.

I look sideways and see that Adrian isn’t in class today. I’m susceptible without her. There’s safety in numbers—a modicum of safety, at least. The girls and I learned that at the academy. But now I’m alone in the room with a boy set on humiliating me.

Mr. Marsh gets up in front of the class. I turn my attention to him immediately. Although I study at night, have already read the entire textbook, I want to hear his opinions on history. He goes to the whiteboard and begins to write.

“Essential Women’s Act,” he says as he writes out the words. “This isn’t in the books since the text is pretty dated.” He smiles at us like we should appreciate him pointing out the school’s obsolete materials.

“The EWA was awesome,” Garrett calls from the back of the room, and several of the boys laugh. I notice a girl wilt slightly in the corner desk.