“We’re not talking about Bella, we’re talking about some girl who may or may not even be alive,” Pickpocket says. “For all we know Hook’s already dissected her or whatever that madman does to kids.”
Mikey, his face cleaned of the mud stains from earlier, hides behind a wooden barrel a short distance from the disgruntled group. I crouch down beside him.
“What’s going on? They all seem so angry,” I whisper.
He wraps his arms around my neck. “They don’t want to help get Joanna back.”
“Don’t worry. Pete will convince them,” I say. “And if he doesn’t, I will.”
“This isn’t going to work,” Pyro says. “No one ever comes back from Everland. You know the rules! If you get caught, you’re on your own.”
“No one’s returned because no one has tried,” Pete says.
The gathering of boys say nothing, but pass worried glances among themselves.
“I am going, whether you choose to come or not,” Pete says, resting his hands on the hilts of his daggers. “I’ve given Gwen my word and I intend to keep it. On my own, there’s no guarantee the mission will be successful. But if you come with me, if I can count on you, I know we’ll get Joanna back.”
“Why us?” a stout boy says, his hands twisting the fabric of his oversize brown trench coat. His milky eyes stare past Pete. “What do you need us for?”
“Mole, who is a better tracker than you?” Pete asks.
“Nobody. I can smell a Marauder several blocks away,” Mole says, wrinkling his nose. “Among other foul things.”
“And you, Pickpocket, there isn’t a Lost Boy who can crack locks like you can,” Pete says, pointing at the muscular boy.
“That is true,” Pickpocket says gruffly. The Lost Boys nod in agreement.
“And you, Pyro, you know everything there is to know about explosives,” Pete says.
Pyro removes his derby hat and scratches his closely shaven head. “True enough. I could blow a hole a meter wide into a steel door with just a stick of dynamite.”
“So let me get this straight—we’re putting our necks on the line for her?” Pickpocket says, pointing to me. “Even she knows how crazy this is. Look at her! She’s cowering behind a barrel.”
“Stay here, Mikey,” I whisper as I creep from behind the drum.
“We’re putting our necks on the line for her sister, to be accurate,” Pete says.
“Please!” I say, addressing the boys. “I need your help to get her back. If Pete says you’re the best, then you have to help.”
“I’m not risking my life for your sister. Count me out,” Pickpocket says, storming past me. “You’re on your own, Immune.”
“Lost Girl,” Pete corrects, his expression serious. “She’s one of us now.”
I gaze at the green-eyed boy, my chest swelling at his words. Lost Girl. They settle over me and I realize for the first time that I am a part of their group. Their family.
Pickpocket halts but doesn’t turn around.
“Please, just listen to me for one minute,” I say, placing a hand on Pickpocket’s shoulder.
He turns, folds his arms, and frowns. It is then I notice them, the gloves that cover both of his hands.
“Joanna and Mikey are the only family I have, at least until now,” I say, glancing at Pete. He nods, encouraging me to continue. “Surely you had a sister, a brother, parents, someone you’ve lost. You’d want someone to help you rescue them if you had the chance, wouldn’t you?”
Pickpocket leans close to me, his hot breath whispering against my cheeks. “My family is dead. I am my own family now.” He shoves me aside, his leather-gloved hand brushing against my arm.
Impulsively, I grab his hand, curl my fingers under the leather edge, and rip it off. The Lost Boys gasp.
“What are you doing?” he yells, protectively pulling his fist into his chest.
I throw his glove to the ground. “Show me your fingers.”
“What are you talking about?” he says. His eyes dart from me to the other boys. He tucks his naked fist into the crook of his arm, hiding it from view.
“Show me your hand,” I demand, reaching for him.
Pickpocket doesn’t budge.
“Do it!” Pete says in an authoritative tone.
Pickpocket glares at Pete but reluctantly holds his hand out. His fingers are covered in boils. The skin on his palms is flaky and the backs have spots of raw flesh. He winces as my fingers barely graze his hand.
“You’re not immune,” I say.
More boys join us, erupting in a flurry of whispers. Pickpocket reaches for his glove. He shifts uncomfortably, noticing the shocked expressions on Mole’s and Pyro’s faces. “It’s only a few sores. What’s it to you?” he says, growling.
“I can help you.” I show him my hands. “I am immune. The only Immune. My body contains the cure—the antidote or whatever. I am resistant to the virus. Or at least that’s what Doc seems to think.”