Arena Three

I can see my dad’s eyebrows rise. He’s not usually one for outward emotion, but I can practically see the questions in his eyes asking me how, exactly, we escaped from an arena. I’m almost excited at the prospect of telling him that we didn’t just escape, but that I killed three of their most prized fighters and then killed their leader, all while snake venom swirled in my bloodstream.

“I look forward to getting to know you, Ben,” Dad says.

“You too, sir,” Ben replies, looking as awkward as a boy meeting his prom date’s parents. Then he tips his eyes to me. “You did it, Brooke,” he whispers, squeezing my hand tightly in his. I can see tears glittering in the corners of his soft, blue eyes. “I always believed in you.”

I squeeze his hand back, overcome with emotion.

Next I take my dad over to Ryan’s bed. It’s only now in this clean hospital setting that I realize how disheveled Ryan has become since we left Fort Noix. His hair has grown a little longer, softening his look. Normally, he’d be the sort of clean-shaven, buzz-cut kind of guy my dad would immediately respect. But with his unkempt appearance he looks much more boylike. His arm is in a sling, his dislocated shoulder having been injured further by supporting the weight of Molly and having to carry Jack.

“Where is Jack?” I ask, expecting to see him sleeping on the end of the bed like Penelope was with Charlie.

Ryan looks at me sadly. “He didn’t make it,” he says.

Bree lets out a sob. Grief washes over me. Jack had been a trusted ally, fighting side by side with us since day one. He even saved our lives back in the tunnels in Toledo. To have lost him now seems so unfair.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to Ryan, squeezing his good arm.

He nods, but I can tell he’s not ready to talk about it. Jack was his best friend. When others died around him, Ryan always had Jack. The loss will take a long time to heal.

“Where’s Molly?” I say, realizing that the bed beside Ryan’s is empty.

But before he has a chance to answer, I look up and see a shock of ginger hair peeking through a gap in a curtain around a bed a few down from where we stand. I’m in two minds about seeing Molly again. Because of her, Stephan and Zeke were left behind in Memphis. If Molly hadn’t lied, perhaps I’d have been able to save them. But despite the feelings of anger inside of me, I’m glad that she’s here. Molly had it worse than any of us back in the desert. She is my friend, after all, and no matter how disappointed I am in the decision she made back in Memphis, I still love her.

I prepare myself for the sight that awaits me, knowing full well her leg will have been amputated because of the bite she sustained from the radiated wild dogs. But as I approach her bed, the doctor quickly rushes over and blocks me from proceeding.

“Brooke, maybe it’s time for another saline solution,” she says.

“In a minute,” I reply, trying to move past her. “I need to see Molly first.”

The doctor becomes more insistent. “I really think you should have another drink now. Please, this way.”

Bree can tell something’s up. She ducks past the doctor quick as a flash and hauls open the curtain surrounding Molly. As I look over the doctor’s shoulder, I see Bree suddenly halt and gasp.

“Bree,” I say, feeling my heart begin to thump. “What is it?”

The doctor finally drops her arms and sighs loudly. “Your friend didn’t survive,” she tells me.

The words hit me like a punch in the gut. “What?” I cry, barging past her. My stomach churns as I hobble over to Molly’s bedside.

She’s covered in a white sheet, and her skin is so pale it makes her ginger hair even more strikingly red. She looks peaceful in death in a way she never did in life. It’s like her fight is finally over.

“The bite on her leg was too infected,” the doctor explains, coming up beside me. “Even amputation couldn’t have saved her. We gave her pain relief and then she slipped away. I didn’t want you to know in case it caused too much shock to your system. I’m sorry.”

Bree and I stand side by side, looking over Molly’s lifeless body.

Dad grips my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “We will give her a proper funeral.”

Bree leans down and kisses Molly’s cold cheek.

“Come on,” Dad says, guiding us gently away from Molly. “I think it’s time to go home.”

Home. The word echoes in my mind, feeling unreal to me. I can hardly believe we have a home again. A real home. That for the first time in four years, we will be a family again.

Dad leads us out of the hospital and through the compound. Everyone we pass salutes him. He is so well respected and it fills me with pride to be his daughter.

“So you were living in the mountain cabin?” Dad asks as we walk.

“Yes,” I say. “Bree and me. Sasha too. She was killed by slaverunners.”

He looks downcast. “I didn’t think to look for you there,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I say, frowning.

“I came back for you,” he says.

A pit opens up in my stomach. I made us leave home. I told Mom there was no point waiting for him anymore, that he’d left us for good. I’d been wrong.