Brendan frowns. Looks up. “I’m talking about Sam. Her ability to see across long distances.” He retrieves the spoon from Ian’s hand and replaces it on the tray. “What a remarkable skill.”

Sam’s preternatural ability to see across long distances was what convinced us of Anderson’s threats to begin with. Several days ago—when we first got the news about the kidnapping—she’d used both data and sheer determination to pinpoint Anderson’s location to our old base at Sector 45. She’d spent a straight fourteen hours searching, and though she hadn’t been able to get a visual on the other supreme kids, she’d been able to see flickers of James and Adam, who are the only ones I care about anyway. Those flickers of life—unconscious, but alive and stable—aren’t much in the way of assurances, but I’m willing to take anything at this point.

“Anyway, yeah. Sam is great,” I say, stretching out against the counter. “Which brings me back to my original point: Adam and James are going to be fine. And J is going to wake up soon and be fine. The world owes me at least that much, right?”

Brendan and Ian exchange glances. Winston takes off his glasses and cleans them, slowly, with the hem of his shirt.

The electric kettle pops and steams. Brendan drops a couple of tea bags into a proper teapot and fills its porcelain belly with the hot water from the kettle. He then wraps the teapot in a towel and hands it to Winston, and the two of them carry everything over to the little corner of the room we’ve been claiming for ourselves lately. It’s nothing major, just a cluster of seats with a couple of low tables in the middle. The rest of the room is abuzz with activity. Lots of talking and mingling.

Nouria and Sam are alone in a corner, deep in conversation. Castle is talking quietly with the girls, Sonya and Sara. We’ve all been spending a lot of time here—pretty much everyone has—ever since the Sanctuary was declared officially on lockdown. We’re all in this weird limbo right now; there’s so much happening, but we’re not allowed to leave the grounds. We can’t go anywhere or do anything about anything. Not yet, anyway. Just waiting for J to wake up.

Any minute now.

There are a ton of other people here, too—but only some I’m beginning to recognize. I nod hello to a couple of people I know only by name, and drop into a soft, well-worn armchair. It smells like coffee and old wood in here, but I’m starting to like it. It’s becoming a familiar routine. Brendan, as usual, finishes setting everything up on the coffee table. Teacups, spoons, little plates and triangle napkins. A little pitcher for milk. He’s really, really into this whole thing. He readjusts the cookies he’d already arranged on a plate, and smooths out the paper napkins. Ian stares at him with the same expression every night—like Brendan is crazy.

“Hey,” Winston says sharply. “Knock it off.”

“Knock what off??” Ian says, incredulous. “Come on, man, you don’t think this is a little weird? Having tea parties every night?”

Winston lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’ll kill you if you ruin this for him.”

“All right, enough. I’m not deaf, you know.” Brendan narrows his eyes at Ian. “And I don’t care if you lot think it’s weird. I’ve little left of England, save this.”

That shuts us up.

I stare at the teapot. Brendan says it’s steeping.

And then, suddenly, he claps his hands together. He stares straight at me, his ice-blue eyes and white-blond hair giving me Warner vibes. But somehow, even with all his bright, white, cold hues, Brendan is the opposite of Warner. Unlike Warner, Brendan glows. He’s warm. Kind. Naturally hopeful and super smiley.

Poor Winston.

Winston, who’s secretly in love with Brendan and too afraid of ruining their friendship to say anything about it. Winston thinks he’s too old for Brendan, but the thing is— he’s not getting any younger, either. I keep telling Winston that if he wants to make a move, he should do it now, while he’s still got his original hips, and he says, Ha ha I’ll murder you, asshole, and reminds me he’s waiting for the right moment. But I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’ll keep it inside forever. And I’m worried it might kill him.

“So, listen,” Brendan says carefully. “We wanted to talk to you.”

I blink, refocusing. “Who? Me?”

I glance around at their faces. Suddenly, they all look serious. Too serious. I try to laugh when I ask, “What’s going on? Is this some kind of intervention?”

“Yes,” Brendan says. “Sort of.”

I go suddenly stiff.

Brendan sighs.

Winston scratches a spot on his forehead.

Ian says, “Juliette is probably going to die, you know that, right?”

Relief and irritation flood through me simultaneously. I manage to roll my eyes and shake my head at the same time. “Stop doing this, Sanchez. Don’t be that guy. It’s not funny anymore.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

I roll my eyes again, this time looking to Winston for support, but he just shakes his head at me. His eyebrows furrow so hard his glasses slip down his nose. He tugs them off his face.

“This is serious,” he says. “She’s not okay. And even if she does wake up again— I mean, whatever happened to her—”

“She’s not going to be the same,” Brendan finishes for him.

“Says who?” I frown. “The girls said—”

“Bro, the girls said that something about her chemistry changed. They’ve been running tests on her for days. Emmaline did something weird to her—something that’s, like, physically altered her DNA. Plus, her brain is fried.”

“I know what they said,” I snap, irritated. “I was there when they said it. But the girls were just being cautious. They think it’s possible that whatever happened to her might’ve left some damage, but—this is Sonya and Sara we’re talking about. They can heal anything. All we need to do is wait for J to wake up.”

Winston shakes his head again. “They wouldn’t be able to heal something like that,” he says. “The girls can’t repair that kind of neurological devastation. They might be able to keep her alive, but I’m not sure they’ll be able t—”

“She might not even wake up,” Ian says, cutting him off. “Like, ever. Or, best-case scenario, she could be in a coma for years. Listen, the point here is that we need to start making plans without her. If we’re going to save James and Adam, we need to go now. I know Sam’s been checking on them, and I know she says they’re stable for now, but we can’t wait anymore. Anderson doesn’t know what happened to Juliette, which means he’s still waiting for us to give her up. Which means Adam and James are still at risk— Which means we’re running out of time. And, for once,” he says, taking a breath, “I’m not the only one who feels this way.”

I sit back, stunned. “You’re messing with me, right?”

Brendan pours tea.

Winston pulls a flask out of his pocket and weighs it in his hand before holding it out to me. “Maybe you should have this tonight,” he says.

I glare at him.