I remove her hand from my chest. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “What do you mean I don’t know how to communicate? If I didn’t tell you anything about the mission, it was because you didn’t need to know.”

I roll my eyes.

“You think I didn’t need to know that you’d given Anderson a heads-up? You think all of us didn’t need to know that he was (a) alive, and (b) on his way to murder us? You didn’t think of giving Delalieu a warning to shut his mouth just long enough to keep himself from getting murdered?” My frustration is snowballing. “You could’ve told me that you were going to throw us in the asylum temporarily. You could’ve told me that you were going to drug me—you didn’t need to knock me out and kidnap me and let me think I was about to be executed. I would’ve come voluntarily,” I say, my voice growing louder. “I would’ve helped you, goddammit.”

But Nazeera is unmoved. Her eyes go cold. “You clearly have no idea what I’m dealing with,” she says quietly, “if you really think it was that simple. I couldn’t risk—”

“And you clearly have no idea how to work in a group,” I say, cutting her off. “Which makes you nothing more than a liability.”

Her eyes go wide with rage.

“You fly solo, Nazeera. You live by a moral code I don’t understand, which basically means you do whatever you want, and you change allegiances whenever it feels right or convenient. You cover your hair sometimes—and only when you think it’s safe—because it’s rebellious, but there’s no real commitment in it. You don’t actually align yourself with any group, and you still do whatever your dad tells you to do until you decide, for a little while, that you don’t want to listen to The Reestablishment.

“You’re unpredictable,” I say to her. “All over the place. Today, you’re on our side—but what about tomorrow?” I shake my head. “I have no idea what your real motivations are. I never know what you’re really thinking. And I can never let my guard down around you—because I have no way of knowing whether you’re just using me. I can’t trust you.”

She stares at me, still as stone, and says nothing for what feels like a century. Finally, she takes a step back. Her eyes are inscrutable.

“You should be careful,” she says. “That’s a dangerous speech to give to someone you can’t trust.”

But I’m not buying it. Not this time.

“Bullshit,” I say. “If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it a long time ago.”

“I might change my mind. Apparently I’m unpredictable. All over the place.”

“Whatever,” I mutter. “I’m done here.”

I shake my head and I’m gone, already walking away, five steps closer to sleep and quiet, when she shouts angrily— “I opened up to you! I let my guard down around you, even if you can’t do it for me.”

That stops me in my tracks.

I spin around. “When?” I shout back, throwing up my hands in frustration. “When have you ever trusted me? When have you ever opened up to me? Never. No— You just do your own thing, whatever and however you want, consequences be damned, and you expect everyone to be cool with it. Well I call bullshit, okay? I’m not into it.”

“I told you about my powers!” she cries, her hands in fists at her sides. “I told you guys everything I knew about Ella and Emmaline!”

I let out a long, exhausted breath. I take a few steps toward her, but only because I don’t want to shout anymore.

“I don’t know how to explain this,” I say, steadying my voice. “I mean, I’m trying. I really am. But I don’t know how to— Like, listen, I get that you telling me you can be invisible was a big deal. I get that. But there’s a huge difference between you sharing a bunch of classified information with a large group of people and you actually opening up to me. I don’t— I don’t want—” I cut myself off, clenching my teeth too hard. “You know what? Never mind.”

“No, go ahead,” she says, her own anger barely contained. “Say it. What don’t you want?”

Finally, I meet her eyes. They’re bright. Angry. And I don’t know what happens, exactly, but staring at her cuts something loose in my brain. Something unkind. Unfiltered.

“I don’t want this sterilized version of you,” I say. “I don’t want the cold, calculating person you have to be for everyone else. This version of you is cruel and unfeeling and loyal to no one. You’re not a nice person, Nazeera. You’re mean and condescending and arrogant. But all of that would be tolerable, I swear, if I felt like you had a heart in there somewhere. Because if we’re going to be friends—if we’re going to be anything—I need to be able to trust you. And I don’t trust friendships of convenience. I don’t trust machines.”

Too late, I realize my mistake.

Nazeera looks stunned.

She blinks and blinks, and for one long, excruciating second her stony exterior gives way to raw, trembling emotion that makes her look like a child. She stares up at me and suddenly she looks small—young and scared and small. Her eyes glitter, wet with feeling, and the whole picture is so heartbreaking it hits me hard, like a punch to the gut.