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to close my eyes and remind myself to breathe, that the metal walls around me are not closing in. I don’t have to go far—none of these shafts will lead to the third floor. I only need to get far enough to pop out into one of the hospital’s stairwells, away from the soldiers on the first floor. I press forward. I think of Eden’s face, of the medicine he and John and my mother will need, and of the strange red X with the line through it.
    After several minutes, the shaft dead-ends. I look through the vent, and in the slivers of light I can see pieces of a curved stairwell. The floor is an immaculate white, almost beautiful, and—most important—empty. I count to three in my head, then bring my arms as far back as I can and give the shaft cover a mighty shove. The cover flies off. I get one good glimpse of the stairwell, a large, cylindrical chamber with tall plaster walls and tiny windows. One enormous, spiraling set of stairs.
    Now I’m moving with all speed and no stealth. Run it. I squeeze out of the shaft and dart up the steps. Halfway up, I grab the railing and fling myself to the next highest curve. The security cameras must be focused on me. An alarm will sound any minute now. Second floor, third floor. I’m running out of time. As I approach the third-floor door, I tear the ID tag off my necklace and pause long enough to swipe it against the door’s reader. The security cameras haven’t triggered an alarm in time to lock down the stairwell. The handle clicks—I’m in. I throw open the door.
    I’m in a huge room filled with rows of gurneys and chemicals boiling under metal hoods. Doctors and soldiers look up at me with startled faces.
    I grab the first person I see—a young doctor standing close to the door. Before any of the soldiers can point a gun in our direction, I whip out one of my knives and hold it close to the man’s throat. The other doctors and nurses freeze. Several of them scream.
    “Shoot, and you’ll hit him instead,” I call out to the soldiers from beneath my handkerchief. Their guns are focused on me now. The doctor trembles in my grasp.
    I press my knife harder against his neck, careful not to cut him. “I won’t hurt you,” I whisper in his ear. “Tell me where to get the plague cures.”
    He lets out a strangled whimper, and I can feel him sweating under my grip. He gestures toward the refrigerators. The soldiers are still hesitating—but one of them calls out to me.
    “Release the doctor!” he shouts. “Put your hands up.”
    I want to laugh. The soldier must be a new recruit. I cross the room with the doctor, then stop at the refrigerators. “Show me.” The doctor lifts a trembling hand and pulls the fridge door open. A gust of freezing air hits us. I wonder if the doctor can feel how fast my heart is beating.
    “There,” he whispers. I turn away from the soldiers long enough to see the doctor pointing at the top shelf in the fridge. Half of the vials on the shelf are labeled with the three-lined X: T. Filoviridae Virus Mutations. The other half of the vials are labeled 11.30 Cures . But all the vials are empty. They’ve run out. I curse under my breath. My eyes skim other shelves—they only have plague suppressants and various painkillers. I curse again. Too late to turn back now.
    “I’m letting go,” I whisper to the doctor. “Duck.” I release my grip and shove him hard enough to make him fall to his knees.
    The soldiers open fire. But I’m ready for them—I hide behind the open fridge door as bullets ricochet off it. I grab several bottles of suppressants and shove them into my shirt. I bolt. One of the stray bullets scrapes me and searing pain shoots up my arm. I’m almost at the exit.
    An alarm goes off as I burst through the stairwell door. There’s a chorus of clicks as all the doors in the stairwell lock from the inside. I’m trapped. The soldiers can still come through any door, but I won’t be able to get out. Shouts and footsteps echo from