The room was blacked out, but more importantly it was locked. Deadbolts outlined the entrance as though they served a decorative purpose, and all thirty-two of them were clicked in place before Della could even find a light switch. She fumbled aimlessly in the dark, feeling down the wall until she hit the knob. “There you are,” she spoke to herself as she flicked it up.

Illuminated under a soft yellow tone was a space that scared her as much as it brought comfort to her. It was tiny, but decorated as if she had designed it herself. The floor was covered in black and white checkered tile, the walls were painted an electric blue, and a stained-glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, reflecting colors that sprinkled the room with opaque confetti. In the corner sat a twin bed upon a terra cotta frame, made up neatly with a fluffy sunshine yellow paisley comforter. A leather chest sat at the foot of the bed, stocked with granola, dried fruit, and an assortment of drinks. Opposite the bed was a lime green kidney bean shaped desk with a padded swivel chair and a stock of paper pads and colored pens. The back door presumably led to the outdoor alley that she had woken up in, and the side door led to an en suite bathroom, filled with honeysuckle and eucalyptus scented soaps, among all of the toiletries that tended to be reserved for the wealthy. It was lovely. For a prison.

Della took advantage of the finer accommodations she had been offered and decided to shower for the first time in several days. As much as she would love to repulse the others, Novak in particular, by continuing to bask in her own stench, she could hardly stand to smell herself anymore. She reeked of blood, sickness, and body odor. No wonder, she thought, standing in front of the mirror. She caught a glimpse of herself so infrequently that she was beginning to forget what she looked like. It was nothing to be proud of. The woman looking back at her was scraggly, exhausted, and utterly filthy. There was no distinguishing her tan from the dirt or the twigs from her unruly hair. After a lengthy soak under the hot water she found that some of the mud splattered across her face was really a splash of light freckling across her nose, and that some of the twigs were matted sections of her own crappy DIY haircut.

She almost laughed to herself when she opened the small armoire next to the shower. For people who seemed to have researched and understood every aspect of who she was, they either paid no heed to the clothing she wore, or they decided that she needed a makeover without her consent. She had to push aside six sundresses, two denim skirts, three crop tops, a hanger of bedazzled belts with tuna can buckles, and a rack of lingerie that disturbingly matched her exact size and preferred style before she could even spot a set of sleepwear. Evidently sleepwear qualifications were a lot more flexible than she had realized, and these were approaching waist-deep on the other side of a line that she didn’t want to cross.

Boycotting all things silk and lace, Della pulled her dirty shirt and pants back on. It was the more luxury items that she appreciated anyways; a two-blade disposable razor, a bottle of lotion, a tube of toothpaste. She had run out of toothpaste months ago, but she couldn’t complain about tasting mint rather than tasting her baking soda alternative.

The edge of the bed sunk in as Della took a seat and brushed the tangles from her hair. It wasn’t often that she remembered to take care of her hygiene, she was a busy woman after all, and even now that she had time to pamper herself she wasn’t enjoying any part of it. Her boredom was ravenous and consuming, as it usually was. It had motivated her to work three jobs through high school and undergraduate study, tackle another two internship positions as she double majored and triple minored, and continue her education after that. There were few things that Della loved about the world, especially in its current condition, but she did love learning new things, experiencing new things, and keeping busy. And now she was locked in this cubicle of a bedroom, running around and rearranging things to avoid being left alone with her idle hands. If the was anything worse than being high-strung, it was being a high-strung insomniac.

Della sat at the desk momentarily, but didn’t write. She didn’t want them to know anything she was thinking, anything she would put into words. Paper evidence was incriminating. Instead she thought about what she would write if she were to put the pen to paper, words appearing without effort that only she could read. At first all she could think about was wanting to leave, but darkness and silence, being left to lay in your thoughts, always brought about the nagging demons of doubt. Della knew that if she stayed there long enough she would begin to question all of her values. Would it really be so bad to stay here? What if their plan, this Reformation, what if it wasn’t such a bad idea after all? Can anything get worse than it already is?

She shook her head. She knew better than to give Novak the satisfaction of relinquishing her control over her own life after she had busted her chops trying to obtain it in the first place. She knew better than to believe that a rebel organization, sophisticated as it may be, could control a feral populous of daringly unpredictable people. She knew better than to subject herself to accept a position of power that she wasn’t qualified for and didn’t want. Della didn’t want to lead, persuade, or otherwise deal with people at all. She wanted out.

It was a shot in the dark, but Della decided to step out into the alley. She wasn’t about to try escaping again, footsteps from groups of the cloaked men echoed off the concrete walls, but at the very least she could search for solace in the fresh night air. She wanted to be in an environment that wasn’t crafted by her kidnappers and didn’t confine her to the misgivings of her overactive and bewildered mind.

Something brushed up against her leg and she looked down to see a calico cat, weaving between her calves. Other strays roamed the alley at night, controlling whatever rodent population likely resided in the complex. Della sat down and ran her hand along the cat’s velvety fur, “Why hello there,” she greeted the cat with an unusual warmth. Almost every domesticated animal was abandoned during the war, whether it was because they were deserted after the death of their owners, kicked out when they could no longer be cared for, or sensed the danger and fled. Della’s heart went out to all of them with a sympathy that it didn’t possess for her own species. “Are you stuck here too?”

The cat looked up at her with steady emerald eyes, purring as it placed both paws on her outstretched leg and kneaded her shin.

“What’s your name?” Della asked, reaching out to flip over the tag on the cat’s polka dotted collar. “Kitty,” she chuckled, picturing a young child with a straightforward mind, like the ones that had come to visit loved ones at the hospital clutching a stuffed frog named Froggy or a stuffed rabbit named Bunny. “How original.”

Kitty meowed softly, still staring at her with temporary and conditional affection.

“Aren’t you sweet,” she cooed in an infantile tone.

“Are you– talking to that cat?” Della was so distracted by the simple pleasure of animal companionship that she didn’t notice Fletcher, leaning against his door frame at the opposite side of the alley with his arms folded over his bare chest. He looked as though he hadn’t been expecting her presence but had started off talking anyways with the intention of fighting over what had happened at the dinner table. His image was more of a silhouette in the shadows cast by the rooftops, but she could’ve sworn that she saw a glint of white as his lips stretched into a mocking smile and then closed over a cigarette. His face was illuminated in orange for a fraction of a moment as he flicked a lighter and cupped a hand over the flame.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

They took a small pause to stare at each other, silently entertaining the possibility that they were both there for the same reason. Even that idea did nothing to ease the animosity.

“Leaving,” she clipped, and slammed the door behind her as soon as she stepped inside.

Della immediately crawled under the sheets and stared at the ceiling, head throbbing in thought. Her eyelids were heavy but they remained pinned open for the next two hours. Sleep hit her suddenly, and it was gone as quickly as it came. The sun wasn’t even beginning to peek through the crack at the bottom of the door when she shot up, drenched in a freezing mist of sweat. She gasped several short, tight breaths and bent over to retrieve a bottle of water from the chest.

A rapid knock sounded at the entrance to her room. “Hey, is everything okay?” Tucker said on the other side.

She regained her composure and went to answer him, surprised to find that the door was unlocked and she was free to exit as she pleased. When she opened it, him and Kayden were both standing on the other side, looking relieved to find her in one piece. Her body continued to quiver, despite all her efforts to appear unshaken. “Why?”

“We heard you,” he answered.
            She placed a hand on her hip and leaned back on the door to steady herself. “Heard me…?”

“Heard you screaming.” Tucker looked even more embarrassed than she felt. She wondered if she had really been that loud.

“Our rooms are right there,” Kayden piped up, wiping the grogginess from his eyes and pointing a finger in either direction. He must have read her mind. Or her expression. Normally she did an excellent job of keeping her thoughts to herself, but mornings were always a vulnerable time.

“What time is it?” Della asked, noticing that Kayden wore a watch. One that probably would’ve sold for a pretty penny back when material belongings held value. She couldn’t remember the last time she kept track of the time.

“Bout four o’ clock,” he told her, midway through a yawn.

She looked around at the deserted hallway. She wouldn’t even know where to go if she tried. “Do you guys want to come in?” she offered. They looked taken aback, understandably so. Normally she wouldn’t have welcomed the company but the room was haunting her and she needed a distraction.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Tucker answered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want. I don’t need any charity,” she recovered quickly, straightening the creases of anxiety from her face.

“No, don’t say that. I think we could all use the company right now. There’s a lot going on. Here,” he stepped by and pushed the door open for her. “Let’s just sit.”

“Nightmares, huh?” Tucker asked as soon as they were seated. He had taken the chair while Della cornered herself at the head of the bed and Kayden leaned against the wall on the other end. His head lolled lazily as he tried to stay awake.

There was no point in denying it. “Yeah. Sometimes.” Sometimes every night. Sometimes twice a night. Sometimes more.

He nodded. “I think we’re a little used to it. Same thing happens to Fletcher, except we don’t really check on him anymore. It just makes things worse cause he gets, well, you know how he gets.”

She nodded. Of course she knew, she was the one provoking it lately. After a few deep breaths, she noticed that they were waiting for her to say something. She fought the urge to kick them out. “I’ve heard the stories and all, but how did you all become, uh, close?” The term friendship eluded her, and although she knew that she couldn’t care less, the topic was an easy one to steer away with.

“I’m sure it happened just as you heard it,” Tucker flashed a slight smile. “We’re just a couple of college kids with a lot of good luck.”

“I’d hardly consider surviving a stroke of good luck,” Della looked down at her knees and loosened her grip on them. Her knuckles regained a small flush of color. “But I know there’s more to it than that, you won’t convince me otherwise. No one is as shallow as they used to be.”

Tucker’s avoidance was poorly concealed. It faded his prominent dimples and clouded his chocolatey eyes. He appeared to be looking to Kayden for help with talking his way out again but Kayden was half conscious and definitely not paying attention. “Well we all started off pretty much in the same boat. Made it to school, made the grades, made acquaintances with each other. We were stupid. We thought we knew everything.” His tone of voice was a half-volume battle between his personable demeanor and his hesitant attitude. Della took comfort in knowing that there was at least one person in the room that felt more exposed.

 “What were your degrees in?” she pressed with as much leisure as she was capable of. The absent-minded small talk was minimally healing, but she liked to tell herself that it wasn’t just an awkward exchange of pleasantries and that she could be obtaining information that would later prove to be valuable. Della wholeheartedly believed that all information was valuable in some fashion, as long as it was put to good use.

“Carver’s was in applied mathematics, mine was in computer engineering, Kayden was just beginning law school, and Fletcher was undeclared before he left. He dropped out after three semesters.”

“That’s not surprising,” she commented.

Tucker chuckled dryly. People often mistook her bluntness for sarcasm. “Yeah. But, uh, anyways I guess we ended up being a little more successful than we should’ve been, not that it really ended up mattering anyways. Had some pretty good job opportunities lined up. Even Fletcher. Things were looking up, and then…well.”

“Then they weren’t,” Della finished for him.

“Pretty much,” his tone was shyer, more reflective than before. “We all left together, to fight in the war. Most of California was pro-revival, and so were we, but it wasn’t much of a choice anyways because they blackmailed us and recruited us against our will.” Noticing what he had just specified, Tucker’s eyes widened slightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask. I don’t mean to offend you, I don’t know what side you stood on.” The majority of the southern states were pro-ritual, so his caution wasn’t entirely without reason.

“No need to bite your tongue,” she assured him blandly. “I’m not pro anything. I’m anti-war.”

“With good reason,” Kayden added to the side. His eyes were still closed but his consciousness was alive with reminiscence.

Tucker rubbed the back of his neck. “From there I’m sure you know the rest of the story. We fled from the citizen’s army when things started to get ugly. Well, uglier. And it was stupid, really, to think we were going to make a difference over in Westwood. Things only get worse these days, no matter what you do.”

“You might not have made a difference, but you sure made some money,” Della scoffed, relaxing her position.

“And look where that got us,” Kayden cracked a bitter laugh. “Now we’re just the world’s richest prisoners.”

“What do you think they’re going to do with us?” Tucker didn’t appear to be asking, as he knew that none of them had a clue about what was going to happen with them.

Della tried to imagine him as a soldier and failed to understand what he would have done about his skittish personality. Perhaps the war was what made him like that in the first place. “One thing’s for sure, they are not doing anything with me. I’ll make sure of that.”

“They already are,” Kayden crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re already here. And by the looks of it you won’t be going anywhere until they’re done with you. Until they’re done with all of us.”

“You seem awfully calm about all of this,” Della observed.

“Apparently the only skill I learned at law school that actually turned out to be useful,” Kayden smirked. He looked down at his watch as if it contained answers, and then looked sideways at her again. His eyes were a collage of mixed emotions, all hidden. “I’m not any happier about this than you are. On the contrary, I had plans outside of sitting around in my house just getting by.”

The jab was obvious but not painful. It was refreshing to see a rawness in his speech above the usual professional mediation. Besides, Della didn’t care what he thought of her life. It wasn’t the one she had worked for and she wasn’t enjoying it any more than she enjoyed the criticism for it. “See you’re only wrong on one count. I don’t plan things, I just get them done.”

“What if this turns out to be a good thing though?” Tucker threw out optimistically. He didn’t appear to believe the idea himself but confirmation couldn’t hurt. “Maybe we just found a new purpose. Maybe we could do some good.”

“Is that what you told yourself when you joined the citizen’s army?” Della questioned.

His shoulders tensed as they usually did when she spoke to him directly. The piercing intensity of her judgement was understated, as always, but unyielding. She had a terrifying tendency to reveal things to people that they didn’t want to know about themselves, and she did it all, undid everyone, before they had a chance to protect their minds. “I’m just trying to make sense of everything. Whatever way I can. It’s too much and I, I just, I don’t know what to do.”

“Well if you do make sense of it, go ahead and let me know. Because I would love to understand at what point I went from being a street doctor to being a scientific, political, and social experiment.”

Kayden shrugged. “I don’t think it’s worth worrying about if it’s out of our control. Sure, they’re crazy, but people are. You can’t figure out everything after one night of this mess so just kick back for a second and listen to what’s going on around you. That’s my plan.”

Della rolled her eyes. Again with the planning. “I can’t just go along with this.”

“Why? Because it’s not on your terms?”

            Exactly. “Because there’s something wrong about this. You know this is wrong. You know what happened last time people started doing things like this.”

            “People have been doing things like this for centuries,” he countered quickly. “Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

            The realization hit her with a crushing blow. “You’re all over this. This giant mess. This is a political dream come true to you, playing a part in repairing a broken country and its broken people.”

            “And you’re any different?” he blinked lazily, bored with her headstrong antics. “We all saw the way your face lit up last night while you talked about that damn drug. It was the exact same way you looked at us when you found out about the money. More excited, even.”

            It was true. It was true of all of them. There was something in the deal for everyone. Tucker could have a sense of security, Carver could gain some social recognition, and Fletcher would finally have the profound purpose that he found himself so worthy of. Della cursed herself for making the fatal mistake of assuming that she was one step ahead, and now she felt that it was her turn to play the game. By her rules.

            “That doesn’t change the fact that you’re about to let this cult of strangers have their way with you, exploit you, for the sake of some twisted world domination scheme.”

            “Hey,” he demanded her attention without a care in the world as to whether or not he received it. “Nobody’s exploiting me, I’m more than capable of making my own decisions. Do I know if they’re the right ones? No. But the way I see it, I have limited opportunities and limited options. I’m going to make the best out of what I’m dealt. These people, they aren’t stupid and they aren’t rash, if that wasn’t obvious enough by the detail that went into devising this whole plan. Of course, there are going to be aspects designed to lure us into this whole Reformation deal, they couldn’t have possibly expected all twenty-five of us to hop on board at a moment’s notice. I’m not saying I support their cause, I’m saying I’m open-minded and I’m curious. And if things don’t pan out to my benefit, then I’ll just have to find my way out.” His grin was convincing, as always. Even when there was nothing apparent to be convinced of. “Every plot has its holes.”

            Tucker let out the breath he was holding but his eyes remained fixated on his friend. For a minute, Della paused her thoughts on the matter and admired the closeness of their friendship. How they exchanged conversations with glances and read each other’s emotions like an alphabet book. Even when she had the time to make friends she had never exerted the effort. It was a linear effect, a one-way road with a dead end at “oh, we just grew apart”. She shook any envious emotions from her mind and surfaced back to reality. Even if she had built those kinds of relationships in her previous life, they would have undoubtedly been knocked down by death.

            “I understand where you’re coming from.” Della’s face visibly knotted with the sourness of resolve. She repeatedly rubbed the base of her middle finger against her thumb, hard enough to light a match with it. “But I refuse to accept this as my fate. I refuse to be used by them, I refuse to play a puppet. We are surrounded by people in pain. They have been oppressed and tormented and strung out to dry, and I will not cut into wounds that are still fresh. I will not put myself in a position to be blamed by other victims that are all looking to put a face to their suffering. That’s what people do when they’re hurt. They look for a way out.”

She felt Tucker and Kayden connect with her words, felt them absorb everything with their gazes. They exchanged a look with each other, somewhere between pity and wonder, and both slid a couple of inches toward her. Kayden reached out and slowly placed a palm over her wrist. His touch was warm, without rush or expectation. Tucker’s fingers were clammy with nervous sweat as they brushed the tips of her own. “I will not be the way out. I won’t.” Della swallowed the unease in her voice.

“You’re a strong woman, Della,” Kayden admonished. He had a way of passing off reassurance as flattery, but she didn’t feel the need to correct him. He spoke to her with the upmost respect and without a shred of doubt. He was no fool. “And you aren’t in this alone.”

“Yes. I am,” she slipped her wrist away from his touch. “We are all alone.”

“Well allow me to keep you all company then.” Carver’s voice was blindly recognizable as his vibrancy filled the room. He shut the door behind him and sauntered over, hopping up on the desk and kicking off his shoes like he owned the place. He let out a long whistle. “Damn Del! I didn’t realize that you invited the Bee Gees over last night.”

Della shrugged coolly, bouncing the irritating nickname off of her shoulders. Her name was only two syllables, why did he feel the need to shorten it even more? “I didn’t design it.”

            His laugh was crisp and sardonic. “Nice try, I know they modeled this room after what you’re into. The one I’m in is practically a replica of my old apartment.” He paused and surveyed his surroundings again. “To scale,” he added as an afterthought.

            “Well hopefully it smells better,” Tucker cracked, the left corner of his lips tugging upward.

            “Not for long I’m sure.” Carver’s cheeks piled up on his high cheekbones and his stormy eyes crinkled with mischief as he fell into a natural boyish grin. “But hey, I just stopped in cause I heard you guys talking from the hallway and Fletcher and I were just on our way to find some breakfast. Care to join us?”

            Della’s stomach had been hardened by hunger cramps from the night before. It made her nauseous to think that she hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours when she normally had something to munch on every two hours or so. Her meals were often scattered throughout the day, frequent and always generous in portion and in nutritional value. She made sure to keep her energy high and her health in impeccable shape lest she wind up like the patients she treated. She wanted nothing more than to gorge herself, but it wasn’t by will that she was going to trust anyone else with the preparation of her meals.

            “Don’t be a scaredy cat,” Carver teased, reading her thoughts. “I ate enough food last night to feed an infantry for a month and look at me. I’m still here.”

            “Still annoying,” she added.

            “Still hungry,” he finished. “C’mon, whaddaya say?”

            Kayden shuffled off the bed and stood up, stretching his long, lean arms behind his head and groaning as he yawned. His tongue darted out to wet his dry lips. “I’m in. As long as they have coffee.”

            Tucker shrugged. “Whatever you guys wanna do. I could eat.”

            Della eyed Carver hesitantly and remained in place, but as soon as he took her silence for a dismissal she swung her legs over the side of the bed and followed behind. The walls felt like they were crushing her without the others to hold them in place.

            Carver cast a glace over his shoulder at her, and she almost turned back when she saw the unspoken victory in his lopsided grin. “Excellent.”

            They strolled through the hallways in a cramped silence, Della lagging in the back of the group at a distance that would allow her to listen in on their conversation and also kept her far enough away that she could separate herself from their antics if need be. Fletcher seemed to be in agreement with that idea, as it helped him to ignore her existence after the series of dirty looks her threw her way in the three seconds they initially made eye contact.

            There must have been hundreds of rooms in their one section of the building alone, and almost all of them were locked. Della grew more and more suspicious with each motionless door handle, and reached a peak when one finally opened. She felt entitled to see what was inside, but didn’t want to unless it led to somewhere, anywhere else. One day in this place was already more than enough.

            Carver was the first to pop his head in the door, and she considered telling him not to until she remembered that whatever happened to him didn’t concern her. His joyful chuckle was startling, an even more concerning response than a scream or a gasp would have been. “No way.”

            Tucker looked at her over his shoulder with a question mark written on his face. As if she would have any clue what was hidden in the hallways after spending her night locked in a glorified closet.

            Fletcher put a hand on Carver’s shoulder and gave him a gentle push forward so he could have a look, and then happiness lit up in a warm coral blush on his cheeks. Della couldn’t help but think that it was as repulsive of a look on him as it was unusual. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

            “Is somebody planning to let us know what’s going on in there or are we just gonna stand here and wait for the two of you to do something?’ Kayden rolled his eyes.

            Fletcher turned back to face them, and for once, didn’t seem to mind that Della was there. He didn’t even seem to notice her. A smile faintly tugged at one cheek before it took over. “It’s…it’s music.”

            Della couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic enough. Music? Shouldn’t they be looking for a way to bust out of captivity? Weren’t they looking for breakfast at the very least? “And you think I care about music right now?”

            “Poor Debbie, they should’ve called it a ‘Della downer’,” Carver cracked. “Don’t you have any idea what this means?”

            “I know exactly what this means. This means we can listen to some CDs while we sit here through all of this bullshit.” Just when she was beginning to find their company tolerable. She wondered where she’d be right now if only she could shoot them.

            “Not just CDs,” Carver continued, ignoring her attitude. “Look.”

            She could care less about whatever remnants of musical culture laid in rest behind closed doors. If it didn’t concern the here and now, it didn’t concern her. She tapped the heel of her boot on the floor. “I’m going back to my room,” she announced. “I don’t have time for this.”

            “My bad, I must have forgotten that you have no sense of adventure,” Carver prodded.
            Della rolled her eyes, immune to his baiting, and turned around.

            “No,” his protest accompanied a hand on her shoulder that she slapped away with expert reflex. He raised both in surrender. “We should really stick together. Just stay, okay?”
            “Give me one good reason.”

            “C’mon, live a little,” he smiled, holding open the door for her and gesturing for her to step inside.

She assumed it would do no good to point out that that wasn’t a good reason at all, but she followed him anyways, Tucker and Kayden trailing behind. “A piano? That’s the big deal?”

Carver nodded enthusiastically. “And a guitar.”

“You–” Della huffed in exasperation and combed back her hair with both hands. “Let me get this straight. None of the events that took place last night fazed you. Whatsoever. You don’t care that we’re locked up god-only-knows where, in god-only-knows what region, by some random anarchy. You don’t care that we’ve been drugged with an unregulated, unknown vaccine. But you care about a goddamned piano?”

Language seemed to have the opposite effect on Carver. His smile broadened as she lost her composure. “Don’t forget about the guitar.”

Della looked at Kayden and the Tucker, who were biting back their amusement. Clearly, she wasn’t in on the joke. “Am I missing something here? Or am I the only one here with a lick of common sense?” The answer to the second question was already a yes in her mind.

“You don’t like music? Who doesn’t like music?” Carver asked rhetorically.

He took a seat at the dilapidated piano bench and it wobbled under his weight. With a refined touch, he arched his hands over the keys and pressed down, playing a soft disarray of broken chords. Dust flew off and coated his fingers with each new contact and the notes reverberated in a metallic croon, but he was entranced nevertheless. Della assumed he was practicing, for what, she had no idea, but she had never seen a musician so involved in warming up.

“Fletch you should join in,” Carver suggested. So apparently, it wasn’t just her. He shortened every two-syllable name when he felt like it.

“I don’t know,” Fletcher rubbed the back of his neck with uncharacteristic reserve. He was already inching closer to the guitar. “It’s been a long time.”

“No pressure man, I’m rusty too. Maybe even rusty enough to level the playing field,” he winked, glancing over at Della again to explain. “We used to play together at this old piano bar. Did a couple of open mics, a couple of little gigs, nothing major.”

“Don’t act all modest, you guys were really great,” Tucker chimed in. He directed his attention to Della as well in a playfully secretive manner. “They reminded us of it all the time, too.”

Della wondered why they felt the need to include her in this little anecdote. They must have been missing the part where she still wanted nothing to do with their diversions. “Well that’s wonderful. I’m glad that the two of you have such…irrelevant skills.”

“You really need to loosen up,” Carver told her, laughing.

Fletcher gave into the temptation after a weakly fought internal battle and picked up the acoustic. He tuned with a voracious speed, admiring the way the altered pads of his fingers slid along the old wire firmly and cleanly despite not having exercising his callouses in supposed years. He played a couple of runs, looking down at his own hands as they performed an action he had likely never pictured them being able to do again.

She watched him, for once without an ounce of ill will, but with a placid jealousy. No matter how badly she wanted to leave, she kept her feet glued and her mouth shut for the sake of allowing their moment to last. That was all any of them had, moments. And when nearly every moment was a struggle, not even she could be cruel enough to take away the few that were lighthearted, if only momentary.

“Oh, oh!” Carver had contemplated for several minutes about what song they should play while they messed around and reacquainted themselves with the instruments. By the sound of it, he figured it out, and by the look on his face, Della was going to hate it. “I dedicate this song to Della Maguire: badass witch doctor and buzzkill extraordinaire.”

Within ten seconds of out of tune, but otherwise admittedly incredible introduction, she recognized the song. So did the boys, judging by the swallowed guttural snorts that erupted in place of laughter. If she could frown any harder, she would.

“Stayin’ Alive? Really?” she curled a hand around her hip. Although she didn’t appreciate his mockery, she did appreciate the subtle irony in its double meaning. “What’s next? I Will Survive? Everybody Wants to Rule the World?”

“Wonderful suggestions,” Carver applauded.

He nodded in silent question to Fletcher, asking whether or not he could jump in. And then he did, improvising with impish entertainment as he took in Della’s scowl.

“Or should I say, ‘groovy’.” Carver laughed at his own amendment.

Della ignored the creeping enjoyment she felt in listening to music for the first time in what felt like an eternity. There was something oddly comforting in being immersed in the now obsolete pop culture, even if it was pop culture from the disco era. In her case, especially if it was from the disco era. Not that she would ever confirm their jesting by admitting it.

It hadn’t been long since the age of social media and celebrity worship, and already everyone had forgotten about the virtual gods they once idolized. Music was one of the last things to go, but still it had remained a distant memory. The Green War didn’t discriminate by income or social status, and these famous people had never really seemed as human as everyone else until they bled the same blood.

“I liked you better when you were dying of pneumonia,” Della said. “But just slightly.”

“Woah now, simmer down flower child. Don’t get your bell bottoms in a twist.”

Carver was too into his playing to laugh with the others at his own joke, but they more than made up for it, unable to contain the hilarity any longer. Even Della almost smiled, despite the fact that every crack he made was at her expense, but she hoped that if she kept that option closed that he would eventually lose interest and move on to another victim. He was quite a work of art, that’s for sure, a beacon of jubilation where there should be none, but she was the one person who couldn’t be swayed by the illusion of merriment that his presence provided. She had learned to believe that hopefulness was a dangerous emotion.

Another chuckle parroted their own, only it was loud, deliberate, and eerily unfamiliar. It abruptly cut through their good time, leaving the piano ringing in the accustomed silence. The five of them turned around to face Novak, filling the frame of the doorway with his thick bones and intimidating stature. A group of personal guards closed in the space behind him. “I see you must’ve gotten lost on your way to breakfast,” he taunted. “But don’t let me ruin your fun. We want you to enjoy your stay here with us.”

“You’ve already ruined our lives, so what does it matter,” Della muttered under her breath, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to elicit a response.

“Ah, well I think we’ll just be going now, if you don’t mind,” Carver smiled and stood up, making a move to the door.

“We don’t mind at all,” Novak remained in place. “In fact, allow us to escort you then.”

The dread that had been alleviated sunk back into Della’s bones. She felt as sick as she was starving, as scared as she was annoyed. She didn’t know what was planned for her; this morning, this afternoon, or for the rest of her incarceration. She didn’t want to know. All she knew was that she didn’t have a choice.

Next Chapter: Chapter 5: Embezzlement