I got to my feet. I was so dizzy, I had to concentrate on not falling. In one hand I held the light; in the other, my knife. I put them carefully in front of myself, ready to break my fall if I collapsed.

I swept the light around me, everywhere.

Quinn was lying on his back with his face turned away from me.

I had to kill the kid.

He was sick.

He was dangerous.

I was going to kill the kid.

Where do you stick the knife?

Where do you stick the knife so the kid will not fight and scream too much?

“Quinn?” I whispered his name.

The kid was not moving. I knew what it was like. Who knew what world or not-world he was in? Maybe he was whole. Maybe he was decent. Maybe he was lying at the side of a pool in another Glenbrook, talking shit with me and the boys.

I was going to kill the kid.

I moved.

I had to be sure.

“Quinn?”

Nothing.

My stomach twisted and retched. I unfastened Quinn’s pants, pulled them down past his knees so I could see the burning red crook of the mark that snaked through the kid’s pubic hair and curled across the top of his thigh.

He was a monster.

I was a monster, too.

He was not heavy. He did not struggle.

I was the king of all the monsters.

I dragged Quinn Cahill to the edge of the river, rolled him into the water, watched as the soft whiteness of his naked body fluttered toward consciousness and was sucked between the teeth of the churning spill gate.

I vomited again.

I pressed my face down into the dirt and cried.

*   *   *

At the edge of the river, I drank. It made me feel alive. I slid out of the backpack and lowered myself over the side. I had to get the smell of puke off my skin, out of my pants.

I had to wash my trespassing hands.

Better.

When I climbed out, sloshing, I picked up the pack and turned around, scanning the ground with the flashlight.

Quinn’s solitary boot sat in the dirt, about fifteen feet from where I stood. I walked over to it. When I kicked it, I uncovered the glasses.

Instantly, the dark cavern filled with moving light.

Look away, Jack.

A flash of that cop, Avery Scott, fanning out photographs on a table in a small room with no windows.

Look away.

I shut my eyes, turned my chin back into my shoulder, the way you’d snap your face away from a burning fire. I groped around blindly in the dirt until I had the glasses twisted up inside the sock in my backpack. I felt the wad with my hand, made sure the outer lens was flipped out of place. Then I zipped the pack shut. Hidden again.

“Quinn?” I whispered.

I shined the light out onto the surface of the water, looked for something white, pale.

Nothing.

I picked up the pack and ran into the tunnel, back to where I’d left the boys.

*   *   *

When I had gone far enough that the pale haze from Griffin’s flashlight glowed dimly at the mouth of the smaller side tunnel, I began to pick up my pace. And every few feet, I’d look back and sweep the beam of my light across the tunnel.

I was sick about what I’d done, what I’d had to do.

I thought about Ben and the boy he killed and then dumped in their swimming pool.

I imagined Quinn Cahill was following me, dripping water, smirking, blazing the red slash, the question-mark brand of disease.

Then I ran toward Griffin’s light.

*   *   *

It scared the boys when I came clattering up into the rise of the tunnel.

I dropped my flashlight and it clanked against the metal, scattering a frenetic dance of light that looked like a soundless firefight in the dark.

Griffin and Ben looked good. My friends.

It felt like I’d been away for months.

“Jack!” Ben lowered the spear when he recognized me. I could see the energy in his eyes. He was back, healthy.

And Griffin said, “He’s fucking clean.”

I put my arms around the boys; squeezed into them with my face between theirs. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t let it happen. I had to force myself to think about something else, not Nickie, not Quinn, not what happened on the train, or back at the river.

Think about getting out of here.

“How long was I gone?”

I let go of the boys, stood back, wiping my face.

Griffin shrugged. “Seemed like a couple hours. I wanted to go looking for you, but Ben wouldn’t do it.”

“I found a way out. We need to move.”

“Jack.” Ben’s voice was low. I already knew what he was going to say. “What happened to the kid?”

I looked directly at each of them.

I didn’t have to spell it out.

“It’s done.”

Griffin bent down, picked up the second pack. I heard him mutter, “Fucking bastard.”

“We have to just get out of this shithole,” I said.

I shook my head, trying to get the image of Quinn out of my mind.

Ben’s eyes were locked on mine. I could tell he understood exactly what I was thinking.

He said, “Which way?”

And we kept Griffin between us as I led them out into the main tunnel.

*   *   *

It energized the boys to see the pale light on the other side of the river, even if it was still only Marbury up there. At least it showed a way out of here.

And anything was better than here.

I shined my light onto the rushing surface, down toward the falls.

“Right there is how I got myself clean, Griff.”

“Is it good water?” he said.

“It’s good.”

Griffin seemed to be calculating the distance, the flow. He shined his light at the edge, where the river tumbled over the precipice and into a chasm so big and dark, it looked like a starless and growling universe.

That was where Quinn’s body was now.

Ben knew his brother was worried.

He said, “You can make it, Griff.”

Griffin shook his head and sighed. “Shit.”

We sat down in the dirt and removed our boots. We stuffed them inside the packs that Ben and I would pull across the river, last, with Griffin.

I uncoiled the nylon rope and tied it to my waist as tightly as I could. Then I fed the opposite end through the straps on the backpacks and knotted it, finally, in a loop around Griffin’s chest.

“Listen. Don’t be scared. When I get to the other side, sit down, so we can anchor Ben. He can hold on to the rope and use it as a guide to pull himself across. Once he’s over, I want you to put the flashlights inside one of the packs. Then Ben and me can pull you over.”

Griffin nodded.

Ben said, “Let’s do this. Let’s get the fuck out of here, Jack.”

So I dove into the river, as far out from the edge as I could jump.

The swim was much farther and more difficult than I thought it would be. Before I got to the other side, I felt my legs begin to drag below me. I was out of breath, and started drifting toward the falls.

If I had been doing it alone, I probably wouldn’t have made it across. But I just couldn’t stand the thought of letting Griffin and Ben down again.

When I finally did pull myself from the river, the flashlights on the other side looked like tiny specks—fireflies—and my muscles burned so bad that I couldn’t stand up.

I heard the boys shouting to me.

I blew long strands of snot from my nose and yelled back to them.

“Ben! Wait! I’m not ready yet!”

I wanted to get directly across from the flashlights, so I could make the rope shorter, tighter for him. When I was in place, I gave Ben the signal to come, and told Griffin to get down onto the ground.

I’d underestimated the force of the current on Ben. The rope tore into his palms, blistering his flesh, and the tighter I tried to pull it, the deeper down the water seemed to drag his light body.

Ben nearly drowned.

I couldn’t believe how long that kid could hold his breath.

The pull of Ben’s body in the water dragged Griffin through the dirt. I watched the glint of his flashlight as it scooted downstream and closer to the edge, but there was nothing any of us could do now.