“What does that mean?” I say.
He ignores my question and leads me up two flights of stairs to the third floor. We wait in the stairwell until the bell rings and all the students are in their classes. Then we continue on, stopping at a doorway surrounded by ten soldiers and Terrance Lir. When he sees me, he stands a little taller and gives me a smile that’s full of hope. Again I look away. I’ve never been this cruel to anyone before, and my mind torments me with flashes of his kindness: how he read Samuel and me stories when we had sleepovers, how he bought me a stuffed walrus at a birthday party at the aquarium, how he made waffle sandwiches with bananas and Nutella for us to eat during the long sun-soaked days at the beach.
“He’s waiting inside,” Terrance says softly. I’ve wounded him.
Mr. Doyle gestures to the door. “We’ll be right here.”
“I’m going in alone?”
“These soldiers are here if you need anything, and Mr. Lir will stand by to help with any communication issues. You’ll be fine.”
Terrance opens the door. I take a big breath and let Mr. Doyle’s promise play on a loop in my head. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. It’s just an hour . . . alone . . . with a boy who has arms that turn into machetes. I step inside and Terrance closes the door behind me with a click.
Fathom is crazed. He’s tearing the brown paper off the windows and growling like a rabid dog. He’s completely different from the arrogant kid who hovered over me in my last class.
“Please don’t do that,” I beg. “They put that up so the lunatics can’t see us.”
He ignores me and continues pulling the paper down until we’re exposed. Then he stands in front of one of the windows, hands on hips, defiant and grinning.
“There are people out there with guns who will shoot us.”
He looks at me and throws his head back as if what I’m saying is ridiculous. Then he bends down, opens the window wide, and sticks his head out into the sunshine.
I charge back through the door, slamming it behind me.
“What’s wrong?” Terrance asks, clearly concerned.
“He took the paper off the windows,” I say.
“Why?” one of the soldiers asks.
“I don’t know why. I’m not trying to be difficult, okay?” I look around, wanting Doyle to see my panic, but he’s gone. Of course he is! He wound the key in my back and set me down to run about. If Fathom stomps on me, it’s none of his concern.
Terrance reaches for the door. “I’ll talk to him, Lyric.”
I flash him a pleading look. Don’t use my name, Mr. Lir. Don’t be familiar!
“No,” one of the soldiers says as they file into the room. “We’ll handle this.”
Now I’m alone with Terrance Lir.
“How is your mother?” he says softly.
I point to the camera mounted on the ceiling. Terrance looks up at it and frowns.
Through the door I hear shouting, something falls over, and then there is more shouting. I hear the window slam shut, and then the door opens and one of the soldiers pokes his head out. “He would like to speak with you,” he says.
Terrance again tries to enter, but the soldier stops him.
“I’m talking to her,” he says, pointing to me. “Give us a second. We’re putting the paper back up.”
The door closes, and Terrance and I are alone again.
He turns to the wall, his face hidden from the camera. “Your father doesn’t want you to talk to me, right?” he whispers.
I don’t say anything.
“Lyric, I’m still your friend.”
“We’re ready,” the soldier says when the door opens.
Back in the room I see a couple of desks have been overturned and the contents of a trash can have spilled all over the floor, but the brown paper is back on the windows. Fathom, however, is still feverishly pacing back and forth.
“Why are we here?” he says.
“I’m being forced. What about you?”
“The same, but for what purpose?”
I stifle a laugh. His speech is so dignified, like he’s a Shakespearean hero. It’s also dripping with an accent that’s hard to place—something between British and Irish. I realize Ghost and Luna speak with it too, and that I’ve heard hints of it in my mother’s speech.
“They think if you and I spend time together, you will want to be more like me,” I say. Maybe Doyle didn’t want me to share his master plan, but honesty feels right.
“Are they not worried that you might want to be more like me?”