Hudson whimpers again, and I lean over him, whisper that I’m here, that everything is going to be okay, but I don’t know if that’s true. I would take his pain if I could, go through watching Xavier die a million times if it meant sparing Hudson this. But I can’t, so I do the only thing I can do right now—sit here holding on to him and praying for it to be over soon.

Eventually the red lights click back to normal.

The dots on the wall reset themselves to green.

And Hudson’s lashes finally flutter open.

I’ve never been more relieved to see someone wake up in my life. At least until he looks at me and whispers, “I don’t deserve to ever leave.”

118

Long Time

Gone From Grace

“Oh, Hudson.” I reach for him, but he turns away, tucks himself into a ball like he’s trying to protect himself. From what? I wonder. The Chamber…or me?

It doesn’t make any sense that it would be me, but every time I try to touch him, he shudders a little, like he can’t stand it. Which ends up freaking me out, because that’s definitely not a problem Hudson and I usually have. Normally, he can’t wait to have my hands on him.

He’s shuddering now, his whole body trembling like he’s freezing cold. I want to go to him, want to hold him until he can warm up—another problem he usually doesn’t have—but I’m afraid of what will happen if I try to touch him. Because every time I try to get near him, he shrinks away.

But he’s shivering so badly that I can’t just do nothing—especially when his teeth start to chatter.

Not knowing what else to do, I go back to my bed and strip the thin blanket off it. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. I place it over Hudson, on top of the sheet and blanket he’s already got on him. I’m tempted to tuck it in around him, but I hold back.

He’s already so freaked out that I don’t want to do anything to make it worse.

My stomach is pitching and rolling like we’re still spinning around, and for a second, I think I’m going to be sick.

I take a couple of deep breaths, breathing in through my nose so I can keep my jaw firmly locked against the nausea churning deep inside me. But when Flint lets out a low scream and jerks so hard that he slams onto the floor next to his bed, I know I’m going to lose the fight.

I race to the bathroom and throw up everything in my stomach, then deal with several rounds of dry heaves as well. I know Remy said the Chamber was bad—he and Calder both did—but I didn’t expect anything like this.

Not when Hudson and Flint have both proven that they are more than happy to walk into hell if they have to—and come out the other side making jokes. For them to be acting like this?

Another wave of sickness hits me.

When it’s finally over, I make myself stand up. Make myself brush my teeth with one of the brand-new toothbrushes that came through the hole with our dinner.

Make myself rinse off my face and take several deep breaths to try to calm down.

There’s no mirror in here, but I don’t need one to know what I look like right now. Limp hair, ashen skin, eyes wide and bruised-looking.

I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of rampaging elephants, followed by half a dozen city buses and an eighteen-wheeler or two. And I didn’t even have to go in the Chamber.

I walk back through the bathroom door when all I really want to do is hide in here forever and move to Flint, who is awake now but still lying on the ground, curled full-on into the fetal position.

I struggle and help him back into his bed despite the way he flinches away from me, too. And the way he looks at me with horror-drenched eyes.

After Flint is taken care of, I glance at Calder and realize that Remy must have taken care of her when I was in the bathroom. She, too, is tucked under the covers, and while she’s not curled up like Hudson and Flint, her fists are clenched and her mouth is stretched open in a silent scream.

I move back to check on Hudson. Unlike Flint and Calder, he’s still awake. Even worse, he pushes himself all the way back against the head of the bed when he sees me walking toward him—like he can’t get far enough away from me.

It hurts, but I have no idea what he suffered in the Chamber. I have no right to judge—or be hurt by—him wanting nothing to do with me. Or, more, that he seems scared of me.

I stand near the end of his bed for a while, trying to decide what to do. He looks like he needs comfort—more comfort than I think it might be possible to give—but he’s also made it clear that he doesn’t want any of that comfort to come from me.

In the end, I walk back to my bed and sit down in the center of it. Then I pull my knees to my chest and prepare for a never-ending night.

It isn’t long before Calder lets out a guttural scream, and Flint rolls over and presses shaking hands to his ears.

“Is it happening again?” I ask Remy, and even I can hear the fear in my voice.

But Remy shakes his head. “It usually happens like this. Calder can sleep for up to ten hours after she’s been in the Chamber.”

“Ten hours?” I ask, horrified. I can’t take ten more hours of not being able to reach Hudson, of not being able to talk to him, to see his eyes, to make sure he’s okay.

“Consider it a blessing. The nightmares only last for a few minutes, and then they’ll settle back down.”

I hope he’s right, but the way they’re tossing and turning makes the theory sound pretty far-fetched. “This is awful.”

Remy shrugs. “It is what it is.”

He sounds callous as he goes back to reading the book he must have pulled out of his underbed drawer, but then I realize two things at once. One, he’s had to go through this who knows how many times with Calder, and the only way for him to survive without losing it is to put some distance between him and the process. And two? The book he’s “reading” is upside down, which means he’s nowhere near as untouched by all of this as he wants me to believe.

I think about calling him on it, but before I can say anything, Flint shoots up out of bed with a hoarse scream.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, rushing over to sit on the bed next to him. “You’re okay.”

He’s shaking so badly that I’m afraid he’s going to end up falling off the bed again. I take his hand, try to calm him. At least until he opens his eyes and realizes I’m the one holding his hand. He flinches, instinctively holding a palm up in front of his face, like he thinks I’m going to hit him.

“It’s okay, Flint,” I tell him soothingly. “Whatever you dreamed, it wasn’t real. It was—”

“It was real,” he tells me hoarsely, and he’s pulling his covers up like he wants to hide underneath them.

Like he wants to hide from me.

Which freaks me out enough that I stand up, hands in the air to show him that I’m not going to hurt him…or even touch him. It doesn’t seem to make much of an impression through the fear, though, so I back away, tears in my own eyes.

As Flint settles into an exhausted sleep, I turn to look at Calder. And realize she’s finally settled down, too, though her cheeks are still wet with tears.

And fuck this, just fuck it. The Chamber and its aftermath are truly the most horrible things I’ve ever witnessed. Whoever devised this prison was a monster. And so is anyone who sentences people here.

Fuck them all.

Seven hours later—at least according to the ridiculous dots on the wall that are back to counting down to tonight’s Chamber—breakfast comes through the slot in the floor. Remy and I don’t even glance at it. If I try to eat now, I’m positive that I’ll throw up again.

Instead, I cuddle on Hudson’s bed behind him, curling my body against his. He’s still trembling badly as I wrap my arm around his waist, but at least he’s asleep. And not trying to get away from me anymore.

But as I lay here listening to the too-fast beating of his heart, I can’t help thinking that there has to be another way.

Can’t help thinking that we can’t go through this for five or six more nights.

Because if we do…if we do, the question won’t be about how we get out anymore.

It will be about who we are when we finally do.

119

Big Stick Energy

Hudson wakes up about an hour later, though he looks like he hasn’t slept at all. His hair is disheveled, yes, but not in the sexy way I’m used to. It’s more like a been-to-hell-and-I’m-still-living-there look. The fact that Flint and Calder are sporting the afro and prom queen versions of his not-so-pompadour look only makes everything feel so much worse.

He sits up, and I try to reach for him, but he evades my hands, and I end up clutching at air.

He walks straight to the bathroom and turns on the shower. It runs and runs and runs for what feels like forever.

Remy, on the other hand, has pulled a couple of wrapped packages out of the drawer under his bed—apparently he’s got an entire convenience store in there. “Get ready,” he tells me over his shoulder.

“For what?”