He looked her up and down, frowning. “Stay here,” he said, as if she had any other choice. She couldn’t even leave the bathroom; if she did, she’d be visible from the hallway to anyone who passed. And she couldn’t be seen in street clothes. So instead she sat on the toilet lid, sucking in deep breaths. Her heart was worse than it had been in years. She pressed a palm flat across her chest, thought calm down, calm down, calm down, but it didn’t help. When she stood up again, blackness clouded her vision.

Connor reappeared, holding a pair of cheap-looking black heels, scuffed at the toes. Dea couldn’t believe it. “How?” was all she could ask.

“My stepmom works in an office,” he said. “She always keeps extra shoes under the desk. For dates with my dad or business meetings and stuff.” He shrugged. “The nurse working the welcome desk must be on break. But the shoes were there.”

“It’s shift change.” Dea pulled on the heels. She couldn’t even feel guilty about stealing. “She’s probably in the staff room gossiping with everyone else.”

The shoes were too small, and looked ridiculous with her outfit. But she didn’t care. She took a few tentative steps around the bathroom, wobbling a little. She hoped they wouldn’t have to run.

“What now?” Connor was watching her with an expression she couldn’t decipher.

Dea took a deep breath. “Now we walk out.”

“Just like that?”

The back of her neck was sweating. “I hope so.”

“What about the nurses?” he said. “What about the doctors?”

“You tell me,” she said. “You’re supposed to be scouting.”

“I’ll take that as an order,” he said. He vanished again, presumably to duck out into the hall, and reappeared a second later. His face was practically gray. Dea realized he was risking a lot—risking big trouble—just to help her. She was sure his family had warned him against her. Gollum had implied he was practically on lockdown. For all he knew, Dea was actually crazy, and would try to impale herself with a butter knife as soon as they were out of the ward. Or impale him. “Coast’s clear,” he said. “Except for someone mopping. And there’s a girl sitting out by registration.”

“A girl?” Dea’s heart sank. She hadn’t even considered the idea that one of the other patients might be killing time in the waiting area.

“Super skinny,” Connor said.

Eva. Dea knew hardly anything about her—they’d spoken only once, when Eva had unexpectedly volunteered the information about Roddy’s fake phone calls. She had no idea whether Eva would be inclined to give her away or not. On the one hand, she didn’t think Eva could possibly have anything against her. On the other hand, people were petty on the ward. She heard the chatter all the time from the nurses. Roddy wasn’t speaking to Andrew, because Andrew supposedly got more pudding with his dinner. Melissa had accused Kaitlyn of stealing her favorite socks. And on and on.

She had to risk it.

“Let’s go.” She tugged up her hood and cinched it tight, shaking her hair forward so it mostly concealed her face. She edged out of the bathroom behind Connor, uncomfortably aware of the loud clicking of her heels against the linoleum. She heard a burst of laughter from down the hall, in the direction of the staff room, and Nina hooting, “Girl, you’re crazy. You oughta be locked up, too.”

Connor glanced at her and she nodded. Her throat was so tight she could barely swallow.

They moved out into the stark-bright hall. Dea’s whole body was alert, stiff with fear. The guy with the bleached hair was standing at his door again, peering out the small window into the hall. As they moved past him, he suddenly reared his head back and slammed it once again the glass. Thud.

“Stop it,” Dea whispered desperately. He did it again. Thud. Connor had frozen. Thud, thud. “Stop it, please.” She wasn’t even sure if he could hear her. She knew that once he got started, he wouldn’t stop until the nurses came with more medication. Already, the voices in the break room had gone silent. “Please. It’s okay.” She pressed her palm to the glass, as if she could reach through it and force him to be still.

It worked. He jerked his head back and stayed there, his eyes clicking from her palm up to her face again. Dea felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back. Seconds stretched into infinity. At last, he smiled and touched his finger to her palm, through the glass.

“Bye-bye,” she whispered. She watched him mouth the words back: “Bye-bye.”

The nurses’ voices started up again.

Ten more feet and they’d be at the swinging doors. Dea felt like she was moving through a dream, like every step she took she was actually getting farther from escape. But then they were there: standing just inside the doors that led to freedom, next to the waiting room with its crappy green carpet and the collection of plastic chairs. Eva wasn’t even watching TV. She was just sitting there. Dea kept her head down, hoping her face was mostly concealed. The janitor was still wearing headphones, working a wet cloth over the reception desk.

“Excuse me.” Connor was doing his best to sound casual but Dea heard the strangled quality of his voice. “Excuse me.” He had to tap the janitor to get her to look up. She did, finally. “Can you let us out, please?”

She lifted a headphone away from her ear and shook her head, like I didn’t hear you. From the corner of her eye, she could see Eva watching them—rigid, suspicious.

“Out,” Connor repeated.

The janitor moved for the door.

“Wait,” Eva called out.

Dea’s chest seized up. She willed the janitor to punch in the code, to let them through, to ignore Eva. But now the woman’s hand was hovering, hummingbird-like, in front of the keypad. Dea felt herself turning against her will.

“Dea.” Connor’s voice was a low whisper, strangled. But it was too late. She had met Eva’s eyes. They were staring at each other across the short distance.

Eva’s eyes looked like the carvings on statues Dea had seen in certain history books, as if they had been gouged out of her skin with an instrument. Dea had stopped breathing. Now Eva would raise the alarm. Now the nurses would come pouring out of the break room, rushing down the hall to see what the fuss was about, and Dea would be hauled back to her room and strapped down to her bed for all eternity.

“I like your sweatshirt,” Eva said. She had a husky voice, low as a boy’s. For a quick second, Dea was sure she saw Eva smile.

“The code,” Connor said. “Por favor.”

The janitor didn’t look at Dea again. She punched in the code—a quick string of numbers and letters—and the doors clicked open. Suddenly, in a panic, Dea forgot how to move. Voices crested behind her, ricocheting off the walls—a burst of laughter, a subtle shift in the pattern of conversation. The nurses were coming to do rounds.

Connor took Dea’s hand and pulled her forward, into the hall. Dea took a quick, gasping breath, as if she’d just surfaced after being too long underwater. The doors closed behind her with a soft whoomf, and she heard the lock slide home.

Connor kept hold of her hand, and she didn’t once turn around.

SIXTEEN

They walked as fast as they could without seeming as if they were hurrying. Two doctors passed them without so much as glancing up from their charts. So far, so good. Dea scanned the hall, the clusters of nurses in their identical scrubs, all of them indistinguishable in her panic. Would they recognize her? Had these been the same nurses who had stuck her in the Crazy Ward in the first place?

They took the first stairwell they could find, moving quickly, in silence, to the ground floor. Dea was hoping the stairs would lead them to an emergency exit but instead they found themselves in yet another hallway. It reminded her of the maze she’d walked with her mother years ago in Florida, the high white walls and halls that dead-ended or abruptly switched directions, signs indicating an exit that never materialized. Everything looked the same: blue doors and speckled linoleum floors and bad pastel art.