Arclight. Josin L McQuein

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      “I want to make sure the blood’s only coming from his face. Otherwise, we need to stop it.”

      “Yeah . . . okay. That makes sense.” Anne-Marie bites her cheeks to cut off whatever automatic protest she wants to make. I’d laugh at the effect if we were anywhere else.

      “I can do this,” she chants as we roll Jove to one side and free his arm from his jacket. “I can— I can— I can’t— I can’t do this.”

      Anne-Marie rocks back on her heels as soon as we lay him back down. It’s not fair that Jove caused the problem, Tobin did the damage, and we’re the ones with blood on our hands.

      “Is he all right?” she asks, chewing on her sleeve again.

      “We got lucky. Jove doesn’t know how to do laundry.”

      It’s a black shirt day, but Jove’s wearing his khaki one. If he was hurt, the whole thing would be caked as red as his face. How can a person bleed so much from just his face?

      “We should keep him still until Doctor Wolff can take him in the morning.”

      Anne-Marie nods, shrugging her jacket off to drape over Jove’s body.

      “We need to wash him off, and he needs water. See how much the dispenser will let you have.”

      Anne-Marie hugs her arms around herself, grumbling about the lack of plumbing as she picks her way over to a tall black box in the corner. She holds her bracelet out to the sensor on the front, prompting a single canister to roll into her hand. No matter how many times she shakes her bracelet, that’s all the box gives her, and kicking it doesn’t change its mind.

      Our bunkers aren’t meant to be lived in. They were storerooms initially, then converted to short-term shelters when the need arose. They’re nothing but a dash-away hole where we can hide until the Fade retreat into the Dark at dawn.

      Cinder block and steel dampen our scents and voices, but if pipes ran through here, or power lines, the Fade could follow the sound of flowing water and humming cables. We have to make do with a night’s rations and a twelve-hour generator.

      “It’s all I could get.” Anne-Marie returns with the one slim can of water, huffing from her assault on the dispenser. “Maybe we can use the babies’ bracelets for more.”

      “Did you ask it for bandages?” I ask.

      “I want a shower,” she sniffles. “And my own room. And my mom. And I really, really, really want Jove to not have so much gunk on his face I can’t see his skin. I can’t believe my stupid brother hasn’t even offered to help! I’m telling Mom exactly what he—” Her voice hitches as she scans the room. “Marina, have you seen Trey?”

      “Maybe he fell behind and had to go in with the adults. Did you see him in the hall?”

      “I don’t know,” she cries, searching for anyone the right shape or size to be Trey.

      “He doubled back.”

      I peer up at Tobin, smoothing away the white hair that falls in my eyes when I turn my head. I’m not sure if I should be angry with him for what he’s put us through or grateful for his help during the run.

      “I saw him as we were coming in. Trey turned around as soon as you were inside, Annie.”

      “Why didn’t you stop him?” Anne-Marie’s voice barely makes it out of her throat.

      The only reason Trey would have gone back is to help on the line. That means he’s out there—with them. Anne-Marie heaves on the floor, but there’s nothing in her stomach to come up.

      “Drink this,” Tobin says. “The adrenaline’s wiped out your blood sugar.”

      He holds out two bottles of pale amber liquid, but she refuses them. She sets her jaw and glares like she wants to replay the fight with him in Jove’s place and her in Tobin’s.

      “It’s apple juice,” he says, showing off three more in his other hand. “It’ll dry sticky, but you can wash your hands and face with it. The acid should help loosen the blood. Save the water for if Jove wakes up.”

      “You’d better not be lying about this, Tobin Lutrell.” Anne-Marie snatches one of the bottles out of his hand.

      “It’s just juice, Annie. I gave half of it to the ankle-biters.”

      In their corner, the youngest children sit in a circle slurping drinks and wiping their noses with their sleeves. Somehow, in the last ten minutes, Dante’s been elected jungle gym and a couple try to climb on his back, bottles and all.

      “Where’d you get it?” I ask. Glass bottles are used for the younger kids because they’re easy to sanitize and the tops screw on and off without needing a can opener, but they’re stored in the kitchen coolers, not down here.

      “This place has a lot of secrets, you just have to know where to look.” Tobin sets the last bottles on the floor, taking a seat on Jove’s other side. “It’s the same kind of dispenser they use for snack time in the lower-year classes. Juice is provided in bulk, in response to whatever number of students the teacher puts in, but water’s rationed to one bottle per person. They switch out the machines for maintenance, but always overlook the juice bottles and cookies.”

      He pulls off his jacket, biting a hole in it so he can rip the material. Within minutes, he’s got a pile of long khaki strips.

      “Bandages,” he says. “You okay, Annie?”

      “No. And I do not want to talk to you right now.” After downing the first bottle in one long gulp, she takes a handful of strips, pours some juice on one, and starts cleaning the dried blood away from Jove’s mouth.

      He’s a mess. His bumps and bruises have gained definition, changing the lines of his face and darkening his skin in places. He barely looks human.

      “At least he’s not awake to feel it,” I say as I wash off his knuckles.

      “Careful,” Tobin warns. “Only clean his skin, not the wounds. The sugar could give him an infection.”

      “Don’t you tell her to be careful, Toby,” Anne-Marie snaps, but she listens well enough to skirt the split on Jove’s eyebrow. “You should thank her for stopping you.”

      She takes a long swipe down Jove’s cheek, accidentally snagging one of the cuts. Tobin presses a clean bandage against it to stop the bleeding.

      “You know you didn’t have to hit him, or you could have just hit him once, but you didn’t. If Marina hadn’t made you stop, you could have killed him.”

      Apple juice sloshes out of the bottle as she shakes it at another bandage to clean off Jove’s cracked lips.

      “He’s burning hot, Toby. Feel his face.” Anne-Marie grabs Tobin’s hand, not giving him a choice. “When he wakes up you’re going to apologize or . . . well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but you’re not going to like it!”

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