Her words stopped Blair from moving; she froze and lifted her head, she squinted her eyes and looked straight at Lucy, her breath rising and falling in quick bursts. She took three small steps forward and lifted a finger to Lucy, pointing at her, her mouth falling open.

“Lucy?”

“I’m Lucy!” she screamed. And she smiled. Recognition had danced across the young woman’s face. “Yes, yes! I’m Lucy King.”

“And the boy next door is Ethan?” Blair pointed to the left wall—indicating that Grant was on the other side.

Lucy stopped.

The water was at her waist. Her feet felt like they were weighted with lead.

The girl knew them. Knew who they were. She knew Ethan’s name; it had rolled off her tongue with ease.

Smiling, certain of her safety, Lucy shook her head. “No. My brother is still in Oregon. He’s injured. I need to get him help. Please, can you take me to my father?”

“Wait…that boy…was he vaccinated?” the girl took another step toward the glass, her brows knit with confusion and worry.

“He’s a survivor.”

“A survivor? What do you mean a survivor? I don’t understand.”

“He made it past Day Six. He’s immune. Somehow.”

“Immune. No. He survived the outbreak?” She looked even more concerned. Blair stood there with her mouth tight and her body leaning toward the door, itching to leave.

Lucy nodded. Which answer would save her or save him, she wondered.

After a long pause, the water lapped upward across Lucy’s chest, the girl turned. She scrunched up her features and balled her fists.

“I’m so sorry,” she sighed. “Please God, forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

And with that, she turned and ran out of the door, slamming it behind her.

The water was over Lucy’s head now. She had kicked off her sneakers and they sank to the bottom of the room—the tank, she now realized—and kicked her legs and circled her arms, just like her swim teacher taught her. Treading water was never Lucy’s strong suit, but she was too panicked and the water was rising with too much speed for her to float. Her head dipped beneath the surface and she’d pop back up, assessing the ceiling and estimating how much time she had left before she’d run out of breathing room.

Four feet separated her mouth and nose from the top of the tank.

She prayed and when she did, she felt for Salem’s crucifix, still around her neck. The chain stuck to her neck. She had never prayed before the Release, but during her time with Grant she had picked up on his penchant for reaching out to pray in tough moments. It still seemed silly to hope that there was a higher power, but when she had mocked Grant’s go-to response, he had chided her. Grant had said, “How could it hurt?” And it was a question Lucy took to heart.

There wasn’t any time to fully process what was happening: the woman knew her, knew her father, but still left her here to die. Escape seemed elusive, but Lucy was hopeful that there would be a way for Grant to avoid this fate. Her prayers now shifted to him. Save Grant. God, please save Grant. How cruel for him to be a miracle and then lose his life like this.

There were two feet of air remaining.

Her body rose and bobbed; her head hit the cement above her. She kicked her legs wildly and pushed her hands against the ceiling. Then she swam to a corner and positioned herself between the angles of the walls—one leg bracing against one wall, her other leg bracing against the second wall. She kept losing her grip and sliding down, falling into the crystal clear water, the dry room on the other side of the glass visible through a hazy film.

One foot remaining. The water slid up her neck and toward her chin. The metal holes flooding the water were now completely underwater; still the water poured outward and still the waters rose. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the glass, but Lucy couldn’t see what was happening from her vantage point. It looked like people entered the room. Two shapes. Lucy ducked her head under the water and swam over to the glass. She held her breath and propelled herself down, then opened her eyes.

Blair was back.

And there was a boy with her.

A man.

A young man. A middle-aged man, maybe.

Lucy couldn’t tell anything else.

She wondered if they were there to watch her die: if somehow her drowning was a spectacle to be witnessed.

But then she noticed that the man had Blair by the arm and they were arguing and Blair tried to pull away, but the boy pushed her toward the glass. For one quick second, Lucy, with her cheeks puffed up with as much air as she could muster, saw Blair’s face on the other side of the glass watching her—like Lucy was a fish at the aquarium. Lucy’s lungs burned and she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She let her breath escape and giant bubbles formed in front of her and gurgled upward. Then she let her body travel back up to the top; there were only inches left and Lucy tilted her head backward and sucked in more air through her nose, maximizing the last final seconds of breathing.

It happened.

Lucy was fully submerged. All was quiet underwater; and Lucy concentrated on the air in her lungs—willing herself to hold her breath until she couldn’t any longer. She pushed herself down and opened her eyes; the boy and the girl were still fighting and then she saw him hit Blair with an open palm across the face. Her blonde hair flew and she reeled against the force. Blair stumbled backward and touched the spot where his hand had been.

Lucy closed her eyes.

Drowning. What would it feel like?

Soon she would have to breathe. Soon she would need to breathe.

Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. She commanded herself—Lucy kicked her legs and pounded her fists against the glass. Everything in her chest burned and ached; her brain commanded her to take a breath. She fought it as long as she could. She opened her eyes.

From beyond the glass, Blair was moving toward the plastic box, cradling her cheek.

She pushed a button.

There was a rumbling and a whoosh. The ground of the tank shifted and sunk downward, and it created a gap so the water could drain. Lucy felt herself being pulled to the bottom of the tank, propelled by the force of the water above her seeking an exit. But it was too late, even with hope of escape seconds away; Lucy couldn’t fight it any longer. No matter how hard she struggled against the impulse, her body forced her to expel the air in her lungs. And then, mechanically and instinctually, she breathed in. Water stung her nose and burned her throat, and it settled deep inside her chest like a cool compress on her lungs.

Then the panic set in and Lucy kicked her legs and felt the pain of death in every inch of her body. There was no air, no relief. Her body flailed and rippled with spasms; she tore at her clothes and her chest. In her head, she was screaming, but in reality, she was making no sounds at all.

Her body felt heavy and she couldn’t even find the strength to move; she just let the water travel into her lungs, and she sank to the bottom of the tank—she looked at the mismatched tile beneath her.

The pain subsided, the panic drained from her. She resumed breathing, in and out, and there was a coolness in her body, like she had swallowed an ice cube and could feel it traveling past her lungs and settling in her stomach. But then she realized: she didn’t feel afraid anymore. She just kept trying to fill her lungs with water to feel the cold. Lucy thought she might have smiled as she embraced the calm and the peace of knowing this was the end.

She let herself float now. Her body bobbed. Keeping her eyes trained on the cement above her, Lucy watched the gray ceiling move further away and then her body hit the floor. She closed her eyes and thought of her family—she had come so close and she was sorry that she wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. Her life was not flashing before her eyes but the images of Harper, the twins, Galen and her mom and dad did float past her vision. They would be sad. She hoped they would find comfort.