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is clenched.
    My heart pounds. Even if I didn’t trust him before, I trust him a lot more than anyone else here. I feel naked without him.
    Dr. Tycast sees this. “Relax. You’ll see him again. You might not believe this, but just a few days ago you trusted me implicitly. Come with me.”
    He takes my arm and guides me from the elevator. The men with the UMPs and creepy helmets fall in step behind us. The hallway is cramped and featureless, gray, with tiny lights embedded in the floor, showing us the way to wherever we’re going. The entire narrow ceiling is a light panel, glowing uniformly, illuminating every square inch.
    The first right is my holding cell. A cell, because we are immediately locked inside. The big metal door shuts and a bolt rams into place, followed by a too-loud buzz.
    Dr. Tycast pulls out one of two chairs at a metal table. “Sit,” he says.
    I wait just long enough to let him know I won’t jump at his commands, not even if I used to. Then I sit.
    A long mirror takes up the wall behind me and makes it impossible to not feel watched. Behind him is a wall that’s different from the others, like it’s covered in a fine film.
    He clasps his hands together and looks at me across the table. The chair is cold and sucks heat from my legs and butt.
    “Can I take this headband off?” he says.
    “Sure. It isn’t very fashion forward.”
    He breathes a laugh through his nose. “You’re not one for making jokes when you’re uncomfortable, Miranda.”
    “I guess I wouldn’t know that.” My curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s the headband for?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer.
    “It blocks the psychic energy you emit. Not as well as the helmets, but well enough. One develops a tolerance after so much exposure. But for those not used to it, being around a Rose is enough to cause discomfort, given enough time. Residual energy and such. But you’re not going to use your power on me, are you?”
    “No.”
    “Good.” He takes the band off and sets it on the table. It contracts into a circle small enough for a pocket. He keeps smiling this familiar smile. My shoulders relax a little. Taking off the headband was a gesture of trust. He’s vulnerable now.
    “What do you remember?” he says.
    What do I remember? Good question. I remember waking up on the bench. I remember meeting Peter, who makes me feel safe even though it’s obvious I can take care of myself. I remember the mall. The people and their screams. The little boy’s voice. The man who fell. The blood and broken limbs.
    How will the victims explain that? When the survivors are themselves again, what will they say?
    Who will talk to the families of the dead?
    I swallow hard again, fighting the urge to vomit. I don’t want to talk about what I remember.
    “Let me help you,” Dr. Tycast says.
    Behind him, the wall sparks to life. It’s a screen. A massive screen playing a video. It shows a room, narrow but long. At the far end is a big steel door. Halfway into the room, bunk beds are stacked along the walls to the left and right, one set on each side. Two small trunks sit at the foot of each bed. There’s open space between the beds, but set farther away from the door, closer to the camera, is a big table ringed with chairs. For surveillance footage, the video is perfectly clear.
    I wait for something to snap into place, some hint of recognition. But it’s just a room. There’s a brown rug between the beds. Each morning, it must have been the first thing my feet touched. I don’t know if it’s coarse. Or if I feel it with bare feet, or if I sleep with socks on.
    In the video, I lie on my side, on the bottom bunk to the left. A boy kneels next to me. At first I think it’s Peter, but he’s too slim. Not smaller, just leaner. And instead of midnight black, his hair is wheat-colored and shaved close to his head. He has one hand on the side of my face. I bring my own hand up and tap the tip of his nose with my