“I thought you hated me,” she says.

“What?”

“Sophomore year.” She tosses the crumpled paper towels into the garbage. “You slept over. I thought it was great and then you stopped talking to me. I called and your sister said you didn’t want to speak to me anymore. I could never figure out what I did.”

The room does a slow rotation. I want to reach out for something, steady myself, but I’m frozen.

“I didn’t know she did that.”

“How could you not?”

“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t know Lily did that, Grace.”

Grace studies me. “Where is she now, anyway?”

“She ran away. Six months ago,” I say. When Grace’s expression morphs into something pitying, I shrug and look away. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“I’m so sorry, Sloane. I can’t even imagine being here without Trace,” she says. “And you two were as close we were…”

“Right. Were.” I pull at a strand of my hair. I want to rip it out. I want to climb onto the roof and throw myself off it. I want to bash my head against the mirror until it breaks. “That’s past tense.”

She seems awed, like I’m more than what I am, like I’m not imagining a thousand different ways I could end it all right now and trying to remember why I can’t.

“See? You just accept.”

And then it’s just me and my former English teacher.

The dinner trays are cleared from the table, the garbage is thrown away. The others decide to search for how Baxter got in. Cary’s going to give them the rundown on everything we’ve managed to piece together about what happened before Baxter got in and the possibility that he’s lying and then we’ll all be suspicious. I stayed behind because I feel sick and tired and Cary said it’s good if one of us stays because it will prevent Baxter from getting suspicious of our suspicion of him. Rhys said it might make him more suspicious and then suspicious stopped seeming like a real word. I can’t tell if Cary is enjoying this or not, but I feel like he might be. I know he’s worried about how Baxter got in but it’s like the rest of it, the paranoia, is just something to do so he can feel like he’s doing something.

“Do you think you could get me some water?” Baxter is still sitting at the table and I’m on my mat and I don’t know why he can’t do that for himself but I get him a bottle of water and bring it to him. He sets it on the table and then he grabs me and his fingers are as rough against my wrist as they were against my face. I swallow.

“You’re hurt,” he says. “The others aren’t. Did they do this to you?”

“They?” My stomach turns when I realize what he’s suggesting. “No.”

He holds my gaze and then he lets my wrist go. I exhale and resist the urge to rub it. I walk back to my mat and sit down on it instead.

“It’s good, then, that you’ve found people you can trust.”

“I guess,” I say.

“That’s a rare thing at a time like this.”

“Is it?”

“I think so,” he says, and then he starts to ramble. “Panic reduces people to ruin. Cortege is gone and so are most of its residents. And the people who are left … won’t be … they won’t be good. That’s not how you survive, by being good … but—you all must be good and yet you made it this far.” I want to ask him about the man outside, if he was good. “But you must be the exception.”

He winces and leans forward a little, letting out a slow breath through his teeth and after a long moment, he straightens. His eyes are watery.

“Are you okay, Mr. Baxter?”

“Just tired,” he assures me. “You all address me like I’m still your teacher.”

“I’m sorry. We can—”

“I’m fine. I’m still your teacher…” He drums his fingers on the table. “If they hurt you, you can tell me. We can figure out what to do. You don’t have to pretend that they’re good.”

It is so strange to hear this question from someone in this context. I think of all the times I sat in Baxter’s class, long-sleeved sweaters on hot days, no one saying anything. I imagine how it would have sounded to me then. If he hurt you, tell me. We can figure out what to do. You don’t have to pretend that he’s good.

“I’m not. We went outside the night you got here,” I say. “It didn’t go well.”

He stops drumming his fingers. “Why would you do something so ridiculous?”

I know I shouldn’t say what I say next but I say it anyway.

“We went to get that man—the one you came here with.” Baxter’s face goes white but he doesn’t say a word and I keep talking because I’m not smart but maybe these things should be said. “Mr. Baxter, we know you didn’t come here alone. We know you came with another man—he was outside. He was calling for you when we got to him … he was calling your name. Nick. He was alive. He’s not anymore. You can tell us about it. It’s okay.”

Baxter stares at me blankly. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I came here alone.”

My heart sinks. “You really can’t remember how you got in?”

“You think I’d lie about that? Is that what you’re telling me?”

I shake my head but when Cary and Rhys come back that’s what I tell them. He’s lying about everything.

In spite of this, I think most of us envision our future with Baxter as uncomfortable but inoffensive; the kind of situation where the other person is so strange, you start to wonder if the actual problem is you, so you don’t say anything to them but nothing comes of it anyway and it’s okay. I don’t think any of us are expecting things to go so badly so quickly, but they do.

We are dead asleep when his shouting wakes us up.

“Where’s the gun? Where did you put the gun? I want the gun—”

Baxter’s voice echoes around the room, shrill and demanding. The gun. At first I think I’m dreaming but I realize my eyes are open and everyone is getting to their feet, so I do the same. Baxter stands at the edge of the stage with a flashlight, pushing aside garbage and crumpled clothes and running his hands through his hair.

“What the fuck?” Trace asks. “What’s going on—”

Baxter turns to him. “Where did you put it?”

“Are they inside?” Harrison’s as shrill as Baxter. “Did they get in—”

“No one got inside,” Rhys says quickly. “Mr. Baxter—”

“Where is the gun?”

Cary steps forward. “Mr. B, what’s wrong—”

“I want my gun, Mr. Chen. Where did you put it? I need it—”

“I don’t have your gun. What do you need it for?”

Trace grabs the other flashlights and hands one to Grace. The room brightens. Baxter makes a frustrated noise and moves back to the stage, tries to climb up on it. Cary turns to Rhys, panicked, and I know right away the gun is somewhere beyond the curtain, somewhere obvious. Luckily, Baxter is too weak to get himself on the stage. He drops back to his feet.

“If Roger is out there, I need—”

Cary grabs Baxter by the arm and pulls him away.

“I think you’re confused—”

“Roger is out there!” Baxter insists. He grabs at Cary’s shirt, his eyes everywhere, unable to focus. “I need the gun. You have to understand. I need it—”

“I do—I understand—I totally understand—but we can’t do anything until you calm down, okay? You need to calm down—”

“Roger is out there—”

“I know, but—”

“You have no idea what he’ll do—”

“Mr. Baxter—”

“He’s out there!”

“I know, but he’s not in here!”

Finally, a combination of words that work. They sedate Baxter, make him go limp. He sinks to his knees and realizes where he is. The way he breathes is so ragged and so worn out.

“Harrison,” Cary says. “Can you get Mr. Baxter some water?”

“I’m not going in the kitchen alone,” Harrison says.

“I’ll go with you,” Trace says.

They are the only ones who move. The rest of us watch Baxter try to get a hold of himself. Cary’s face is ashen. All of this is beyond him, beyond us. Grace moves to me. She grabs my hand and squeezes and just for a second, I feel the kind of strong she thinks I am.