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PART II
"THE ASSAULT"
10
The scream begins in my lower back and works its way up through my body only to jam in my throat. I am
Avox mute, choking on my grief. Even if I could release the muscles in my neck, let the sound tear into space,
would anyone notice it? The room"s in an uproar. Questions and demands ring out as they try to decipher
Peeta"s words. "And you...in Thirteen...dead by morning!" Yet no one is asking about the messenger whose
blood has been replaced by static.
A voice calls the others to attention. "Shut up!" Every pair of eyes falls on Haymitch. "It"s not some big
mystery! The boy"s telling us we"re about to be attacked. Here. In Thirteen."
"How would he have that information?"
"Why should we trust him?"
"How do you know?"
Haymitch gives a growl of frustration. "They"re beating him bloody while we speak. What more do you
need? Katniss, help me out here!"
I have to give myself a shake to free my words. "Haymitch"s right. I don"t know where Peeta got the
information. Or if it"s true. But he believes it is. And they"re--" I can"t say aloud what Snow"s doing to him.
"You don"t know him," Haymitch says to Coin. "We do. Get your people ready."
The president doesn"t seem alarmed, only somewhat perplexed, by this turn in events. She mulls over the
words, tapping one finger lightly on the rim of the control board in front of her. When she speaks, she addresses
Haymitch in an even voice. "Of course, we have prepared for such a scenario. Although we have decades of
support for the assumption that further direct attacks on Thirteen would be counterproductive to the Capitol"s
cause. Nuclear missiles would release radiation into the atmosphere, with incalculable environmental results.
Even routine bombing could badly damage our military compound, which we know they hope to regain. And, of
course, they invite a counterstrike. It is conceivable that, given our current alliance with the rebels, those would be viewed as acceptable risks."
"You think so?" says Haymitch. It"s a shade too sincere, but the subtleties of irony are often wasted in 13.
"I do. At any rate, we"re overdue for a Level Five security drill," says Coin. "Let"s proceed with the
lockdown." She begins to type rapidly on her keyboard, authorizing her decision. The moment she raises her
head, it begins.
There have been two low-level drills since I arrived in 13. I don"t remember much about the first. I was in
intensive care in the hospital and I think the patients were exempted, as the complications of removing us for a
practice drill outweighed the benefits. I was vaguely aware of a mechanical voice instructing people to
congregate in yellow zones. During the second, a Level Two drill meant for minor crises--such as a temporary
quarantine while citizens were tested for contagion during a flu outbreak--we were supposed to return to our
living quarters. I stayed behind a pipe in the laundry room, ignored the pulsating beeps coming over the audio
system, and watched a spider construct a web. Neither experience has prepared me for the wordless, eardrumpiercing,
fear-inducing sirens that now permeate 13. There would be no disregarding this sound, which seems
designed to throw the whole population into a frenzy. But this is 13 and that doesn"t happen.
Boggs guides Finnick and me out of Command, along the hall to a doorway, and onto a wide stairway.
Streams of people are converging to form a river that flows only downward. No one shrieks or tries to push
ahead. Even the children don"t resist. We descend, flight after flight, speechless, because no word could be
heard above this sound. I look for my mother and Prim, but it"s impossible to see anyone but those immediately
around me. They"re both working in the hospital tonight, though, so there"s no way they can miss the drill.
My ears pop and my eyes feel heavy. We are coal-mine deep. The only plus is that the farther we retreat
into the earth, the less shrill the sirens become. It"s as if they were meant to physically drive us away from the
surface, which I suppose they are. Groups of people begin to peel off into marked doorways and still Boggs
directs me downward, until finally the stairs end at the edge of an enormous cavern. I start to walk straight in and
Boggs stops me, shows me that I must wave my schedule in front of a scanner so that I"m accounted for. No
doubt the information"s going to some computer somewhere to make sure no one"s gone astray.
The place seems unable to decide if it"s natural or man-made. Certain areas of the walls are stone, while
steel beams and concrete heavily reinforce others. Sleeping bunks are hewn right into the rock walls. There"s a
kitchen, bathrooms, a first-aid station. This place was designed for an extended stay.
White signs with letters or numbers are placed at intervals around the cavern. As Boggs tells Finnick and
me to report to the area that matches our assigned quarters--in my case E for Compartment E--Plutarch strolls
up. "Ah, here you are," he says. Recent events have had little effect on Plutarch"s mood. He still has a happy
glow from Beetee"s success on the Airtime Assault. Eyes on the forest, not on the trees. Not on Peeta"s
punishment or 13"s imminent blasting. "Katniss, obviously this is a bad moment for you, what with Peeta"s
setback, but you need to be aware that others will be watching you."
"What?" I say. I can"t believe he actually just downgraded Peeta"s dire circumstances to a setback.
"The other people in the bunker, they"ll be taking their cue on how to react from you. If you"re calm and
brave, others will try to be as well. If you panic, it could spread like wildfire," explains Plutarch. I just stare at him.
"Fire is catching, so to speak," he continues, as if I"m being slow on the uptake.
"Why don"t I just pretend I"m on camera, Plutarch?" I say.
"Yes! Perfect. One is always much braver with an audience," he says. "Look at the courage Peeta just
displayed!"
It"s all I can do not to slap him.
"I"ve got to get back to Coin before lockdown. You keep up the good work!" he says, and then heads off.
I cross to the big letter E posted on the wall. Our space consists of a twelve-by-twelve-foot square of stone
floor delineated by painted lines. Carved into the wall are two bunks--one of us will be sleeping on the floor--and
a ground-level cube space for storage. A piece of white paper, coated in clear plastic, reads BUNKER PROTOCOL.
I stare fixedly at the little black specks on the sheet. For a while, they"re obscured by the residual blood droplets
that I can"t seem to wipe from my vision. Slowly, the words come into focus. The first section is entitled "On
Arrival."
1. Make sure all members of your Compartment are accounted for.
My mother and Prim haven"t arrived, but I was one of the first people to reach the bunker. Both of them are
probably helping to relocate hospital patients.
2. Go to the Supply Station and secure one pack for each member of your Compartment.
Ready your Living Area. Return pack(s).
I scan the cavern until I locate the Supply Station, a deep room set off by a counter. People wait behind it,
but there"s not a lot of activity there yet. I walk over, give our compartment letter, and request three packs. A man
checks a sheet, pulls the specified packs from shelving, and swings them up onto the counter. After sliding one
on my back and getting a grip on the other two with my hands, I turn to find a group rapidly forming behind me.
"Excuse me," I say as I carry my supplies through the others. Is it a matter of timing? Or is Plutarch right? Are
these people modeling their behavior on mine?
Back at our space, I open one of the packs to find a thin mattress, bedding, two sets of gray clothing, a
toothbrush, a comb, and a flashlight. On examining the contents of the other packs, I find the only discernible
difference is that they contain both gray and white outfits. The latter will be for my mother and Prim, in case they
have medical duties. After I make up the beds, store the clothes, and return the backpacks, I"ve got nothing to do
but observe the last rule.
3. Await further instructions.
I sit cross-legged on the floor to await. A steady flow of people begins to fill the room, claiming spaces,
collecting supplies. It won"t take long until the place is full up. I wonder if my mother and Prim are going to stay the
night at wherever the hospital patients have been taken. But, no, I don"t think so. They were on the list here. I"m
starting to get anxious, when my mother appears. I look behind her into a sea of strangers. "Where"s Prim?" I
ask.
"Isn"t she here?" she replies. "She was supposed to come straight down from the hospital. She left ten
minutes before I did. Where is she? Where could she have gone?"
I squeeze my lids shut tight for a moment, to track her as I would prey on a hunt. See her react to the sirens,
rush to help the patients, nod as they gesture for her to descend to the bunker, and then hesitate with her on the
stairs. Torn for a moment. But why?
My eyes fly open. "The cat! She went back for him!"
"Oh, no," my mother says. We both know I"m right. We"re pushing against the incoming tide, trying to get
out of the bunker. Up ahead, I can see them preparing to shut the thick metal doors. Slowly rotating the metal
wheels on either side inward. Somehow I know that once they have been sealed, nothing in the world will
convince the soldiers to open them. Perhaps it will even be beyond their control. I"m indiscriminately shoving
people aside as I shout for them to wait. The space between the doors shrinks to a yard, a foot; there are only a
few inches left when I jam my hand through the crack.
"Open it! Let me out!" I cry.
Consternation shows on the soldiers" faces as they reverse the wheels a bit. Not enough to let me pass, but
enough to avoid crushing my fingers. I take the opportunity to wedge my shoulder into the opening. "Prim!" I
holler up the stairs. My mother pleads with the guards as I try to wriggle my way out. "Prim!"
Then I hear it. The faint sound of footsteps on the stairs. "We"re coming!" I hear my sister call.
"Hold the door!" That was Gale.
"They"re coming!" I tell the guards, and they slide the doors open about a foot. But I don"t dare move--afraid
they"ll lock us all out--until Prim appears, her cheeks flushed with running, hauling Buttercup. I pull her inside and
Gale follows, twisting an armload of baggage sideways to get it into the bunker. The doors are closed with a loud
and final clank.
"What were you thinking?" I give Prim an angry shake and then hug her, squashing Buttercup between us.
Prim"s explanation is already on her lips. "I couldn"t leave him behind, Katniss. Not twice. You should have
seen him pacing the room and howling. He"d come back to protect us."
"Okay. Okay." I take a few breaths to calm myself, step back, and lift Buttercup by the scruff of the neck. "I
should"ve drowned you when I had the chance." His ears flatten and he raises a paw. I hiss before he gets a
chance, which seems to annoy him a little, since he considers hissing his own personal sound of contempt. In
retaliation, he gives a helpless kitten mew that brings my sister immediately to his defense.
"Oh, Katniss, don"t tease him," she says, folding him back in her arms. "He"s already so upset."
The idea that I"ve wounded the brute"s tiny cat feelings just invites further taunting. But Prim"s genuinely
distressed for him. So instead, I visualize Buttercup"s fur lining a pair of gloves, an image that has helped me
deal with him over the years. "Okay, sorry. We"re under the big E on the wall. Better get him settled in before he
loses it." Prim hurries off, and I find myself face-to-face with Gale. He"s holding the box of medical supplies from
our kitchen in 12. Site of our last conversation, kiss, fallout, whatever. My game bag"s slung across his shoulder.
"If Peeta"s right, these didn"t stand a chance," he says.
Peeta. Blood like raindrops on the window. Like wet mud on boots.
"Thanks for...everything." I take our stuff. "What were you doing up in our rooms?"
"Just double-checking," he says. "We"re in Forty-Seven if you need me."
Practically everyone withdrew to their spaces when the doors shut, so I get to cross to our new home with
at least five hundred people watching me. I try to appear extra calm to make up for my frantic crashing through
the crowd. Like that"s fooling anyone. So much for setting an example. Oh, who cares? They all think I"m nuts
anyway. One man, who I think I knocked to the floor, catches my eye and rubs his elbow resentfully. I almost hiss
at him, too.
Prim has Buttercup installed on the lower bunk, draped in a blanket so that only his face pokes out. This is
how he likes to be when there"s thunder, the one thing that actually frightens him. My mother puts her box carefully
in the cube. I crouch, my back supported by the wall, to check what Gale managed to rescue in my hunting bag.
The plant book, the hunting jacket, my parents" wedding photo, and the personal contents of my drawer. My
mockingjay pin now lives with Cinna"s outfit, but there"s the gold locket and the silver parachute with the spile and
Peeta"s pearl. I knot the pearl into the corner of the parachute, bury it deep in the recesses of the bag, as if it"s
Peeta"s life and no one can take it away as long as I guard it.
The faint sound of the sirens cuts off sharply. Coin"s voice comes over the district audio system, thanking
The faint sound of the sirens cuts off sharply. Coin"s voice comes over the district audio system, thanking
us all for an exemplary evacuation of the upper levels. She stresses that this is not a drill, as Peeta Mellark, the
District 12 victor, has possibly made a televised reference to an attack on 13 tonight.
That"s when the first bomb hits. There"s an initial sense of impact followed by an explosion that resonates in
my innermost parts, the lining of my intestines, the marrow of my bones, the roots of my teeth. We"re all going to
die, I think. My eyes turn upward, expecting to see giant cracks race across the ceiling, massive chunks of stone
raining down on us, but the bunker itself gives only a slight shudder. The lights go out and I experience the
disorientation of total darkness. Speechless human sounds--spontaneous shrieks, ragged breaths, baby
whimpers, one musical bit of insane laughter--dance around in the charged air. Then there"s a hum of a
generator, and a dim wavering glow replaces the stark lighting that is the norm in 13. It"s closer to what we had in
our homes in 12, when the candles and fire burned low on a winter"s night.
I reach for Prim in the twilight, clamp my hand on her leg, and pull myself over to her. Her voice remains
steady as she croons to Buttercup. "It"s all right, baby, it"s all right. We"ll be okay down here."
My mother wraps her arms around us. I allow myself to feel young for a moment and rest my head on her
shoulder. "That was nothing like the bombs in Eight," I say.
"Probably a bunker missile," says Prim, keeping her voice soothing for the cat"s sake. "We learned about
them during the orientation for new citizens. They"re designed to penetrate deep in the ground before they go off.
Because there"s no point in bombing Thirteen on the surface anymore."
"Nuclear?" I ask, feeling a chill run through me.
"Not necessarily," says Prim. "Some just have a lot of explosives in them. But...it could be either kind, I
guess."
The gloom makes it hard to see the heavy metal doors at the end of the bunker. Would they be any
protection against a nuclear attack? And even if they were one hundred percent effective at sealing out the
radiation, which is really unlikely, would we ever be able to leave this place? The thought of spending whatever
remains of my life in this stone vault horrifies me. I want to run madly for the door and demand to be released into
whatever lies above. It"s pointless. They would never let me out, and I might start some kind of stampede.
"We"re so far down, I"m sure we"re safe," says my mother wanly. Is she thinking of my father"s being blown
to nothingness in the mines? "It was a close call, though. Thank goodness Peeta had the wherewithal to warn
us."
The wherewithal. A general term that somehow includes everything that was needed for him to sound the
alarm. The knowledge, the opportunity, the courage. And something else I can"t define. Peeta seemed to have
been waging a sort of battle in his mind, fighting to get the message out. Why? The ease with which he
manipulates words is his greatest talent. Was his difficulty a result of his torture? Something more? Like
madness?
Coin"s voice, perhaps a shade grimmer, fills the bunker, the volume level flickering with the lights.
"Apparently, Peeta Mellark"s information was sound and we owe him a great debt of gratitude. Sensors indicate
the first missile was not nuclear, but very powerful. We expect more will follow. For the duration of the attack,
citizens are to stay in their assigned areas unless otherwise notified."
A soldier alerts my mother that she"s needed in the first-aid station. She"s reluctant to leave us, even though
she"ll only be thirty yards away.
"We"ll be fine, really," I tell her. "Do you think anything could get past him?" I point to Buttercup, who gives
me such a halfhearted hiss, we all have to laugh a little. Even I feel sorry for him. After my mother goes, I suggest,
"Why don"t you climb in with him, Prim?"
"I know it"s silly...but I"m afraid the bunk might collapse on us during the attack," she says.
If the bunks collapse, the whole bunker will have given way and buried us, but I decide this kind of logic
won"t actually be helpful. Instead, I clean out the storage cube and make Buttercup a bed inside. Then I pull a
mattress in front of it for my sister and me to share.
We"re given clearance in small groups to use the bathroom and brush our teeth, although showering has
been canceled for the day. I curl up with Prim on the mattress, double layering the blankets because the cavern
emits a dank chill. Buttercup, miserable even with Prim"s constant attention, huddles in the cube and exhales cat
breath in my face.
Despite the disagreeable conditions, I"m glad to have time with my sister. My extreme preoccupation since
I came here--no, since the first Games, really--has left little attention for her. I haven"t been watching over her the
way I should, the way I used to. After all, it was Gale who checked our compartment, not me. Something to make
up for.I realize I"ve never even bothered to ask her about how she"s handling the shock of coming here. "So, how
are you liking Thirteen, Prim?" I offer.
"Right now?" she asks. We both laugh. "I miss home badly sometimes. But then I remember there"s nothing
left to miss anymore. I feel safer here. We don"t have to worry about you. Well, not the same way." She pauses,
and then a shy smile crosses her lips. "I think they"re going to train me to be a doctor."
It"s the first I"ve heard of it. "Well, of course, they are. They"d be stupid not to."
"They"ve been watching me when I help out in the hospital. I"m already taking the medic courses. It"s just
beginner"s stuff. I know a lot of it from home. Still, there"s plenty to learn," she tells me.
"That"s great," I say. Prim a doctor. She couldn"t even dream of it in 12. Something small and quiet, like a
match being struck, lights up the gloom inside me. This is the sort of future a rebellion could bring.
"What about you, Katniss? How are you managing?" Her fingertip moves in short, gentle strokes between
Buttercup"s eyes. "And don"t say you"re fine."
It"s true. Whatever the opposite of fine is, that"s what I am. So I go ahead and tell her about Peeta, his
deterioration on-screen, and how I think they must be killing him at this very moment. Buttercup has to rely on
himself for a while, because now Prim turns her attention to me. Pulling me closer, brushing the hair back behind
my ears with her fingers. I"ve stopped talking because there"s really nothing left to say and there"s this piercing
sort of pain where my heart is. Maybe I"m even having a heart attack, but it doesn"t seem worth mentioning.
"Katniss, I don"t think President Snow will kill Peeta," she says. Of course, she says this; it"s what she thinks
will calm me. But her next words come as a surprise. "If he does, he won"t have anyone left you want. He won"t
have any way to hurt you."
Suddenly, I am reminded of another girl, one who had seen all the evil the Capitol had to offer. Johanna
Mason, the tribute from District 7, in the last arena. I was trying to prevent her from going into the jungle where the
jabberjays mimicked the voices of loved ones being tortured, but she brushed me off, saying, "They can"t hurt
me. I"m not like the rest of you. There"s no one left I love."
Then I know Prim is right, that Snow cannot afford to waste Peeta"s life, especially now, while the
Mockingjay causes so much havoc. He"s killed Cinna already. Destroyed my home. My family, Gale, and even
Haymitch are out of his reach. Peeta"s all he has left.
"So, what do you think they"ll do to him?" I ask.
Prim sounds about a thousand years old when she speaks.
"Whatever it takes to break you."
11
What will break me?
This is the question that consumes me over the next three days as we wait to be released from our prison
of safety. What will break me into a million pieces so that I am beyond repair, beyond usefulness? I mention it to
no one, but it devours my waking hours and weaves itself throughout my nightmares.
Four more bunker missiles fall over this period, all massive, all very damaging, but there"s no urgency to the
attack. The bombs are spread out over the long hours so that just when you think the raid is over, another blast
sends shock waves through your guts. It feels more designed to keep us in lockdown than to decimate 13.
Cripple the district, yes. Give the people plenty to do to get the place running again. But destroy it? No. Coin was
right on that point. You don"t destroy what you want to acquire in the future. I assume what they really want, in the
short term, is to stop the Airtime Assaults and keep me off the televisions of Panem.
We receive next to no information about what is happening. Our screens never come on, and we get only
brief audio updates from Coin about the nature of the bombs. Certainly, the war is still being waged, but as to its
status, we"re in the dark.
Inside the bunker, cooperation is the order of the day. We adhere to a strict schedule for meals and
bathing, exercise and sleep. Small periods of socialization are granted to alleviate the tedium. Our space
becomes very popular because both children and adults have a fascination with Buttercup. He attains celebrity
status with his evening game of Crazy Cat. I created this by accident a few years ago, during a winter blackout.
You simply wiggle a flashlight beam around on the floor, and Buttercup tries to catch it. I"m petty enough to enjoy it because I think it makes him look stupid. Inexplicably, everyone here thinks he"s clever and delightful. I"m even
issued a special set of batteries--an enormous waste--to be used for this purpose. The citizens of 13 are truly
starved for entertainment.
It"s on the third night, during our game, that I answer the question eating away at me. Crazy Cat becomes a
metaphor for my situation. I am Buttercup. Peeta, the thing I want so badly to secure, is the light. As long as
Buttercup feels he has the chance of catching the elusive light under his paws, he"s bristling with aggression.
(That"s how I"ve been since I left the arena, with Peeta alive.) When the light goes out completely, Buttercup"s
temporarily distraught and confused, but he recovers and moves on to other things. (That"s what would happen if
Peeta died.) But the one thing that sends Buttercup into a tailspin is when I leave the light on but put it hopelessly
out of his reach, high on the wall, beyond even his jumping skills. He paces below the wall, wails, and can"t be
comforted or distracted. He"s useless until I shut the light off. (That"s what Snow is trying to do to me now, only I
don"t know what form his game takes.)
Maybe this realization on my part is all Snow needs. Thinking that Peeta was in his possession and being
tortured for rebel information was bad. But thinking that he"s being tortured specifically to incapacitate me is
unendurable. And it"s under the weight of this revelation that I truly begin to break.
After Crazy Cat, we"re directed to bed. The power"s been coming and going; sometimes the lamps burn at
full brightness, other times we squint at one another in the brownouts. At bedtime they turn the lamps to near
darkness and activate safety lights in each space. Prim, who"s decided the walls will hold up, snuggles with
Buttercup on the lower bunk. My mother"s on the upper. I offer to take a bunk, but they make me keep to the floor
mattress since I flail around so much when I"m sleeping.
I"m not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together. The pain over my
heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso, down my arms
and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt of a bunker missile and I could shatter
into strange, razor-sharp shards.
When the restless, wiggling majority has settled into sleep, I carefully extricate myself from my blanket and
tiptoe through the cavern until I find Finnick, feeling for some unspecified reason that he will understand. He sits
under the safety light in his space, knotting his rope, not even pretending to rest. As I whisper my discovery of
Snow"s plan to break me, it dawns on me. This strategy is very old news to Finnick. It"s what broke him.
"This is what they"re doing to you with Annie, isn"t it?" I ask.
"Well, they didn"t arrest her because they thought she"d be a wealth of rebel information," he says. "They
know I"d never have risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection."
"Oh, Finnick. I"m so sorry," I say.
"No, I"m sorry. That I didn"t warn you somehow," he tells me.
Suddenly, a memory surfaces. I"m strapped to my bed, mad with rage and grief after the rescue. Finnick is
trying to console me about Peeta. "They"ll figure out he doesn"t know anything pretty fast. And they won"t kill
him if they think they can use him against you."
"You did warn me, though. On the hovercraft. Only when you said they"d use Peeta against me, I thought you
meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow," I say.
"I shouldn"t have said even that. It was too late for it to be of any help to you. Since I hadn"t warned you
before the Quarter Quell, I should"ve shut up about how Snow operates." Finnick yanks on the end of his rope,
and an intricate knot becomes a straight line again. "It"s just that I didn"t understand when I met you. After your
first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you"d continue that strategy.
But it wasn"t until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I--" Finnick hesitates.
I think back to the arena. How I sobbed when Finnick revived Peeta. The quizzical look on Finnick"s face.
The way he excused my behavior, blaming it on my pretend pregnancy. "That you what?"
"That I knew I"d misjudged you. That you do love him. I"m not saying in what way. Maybe you don"t know
yourself. But anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him," he says gently.
Anyone? On Snow"s visit before the Victory Tour, he challenged me to erase any doubts of my love for
Peeta. "Convince me," Snow said. It seems, under that hot pink sky with Peeta"s life in limbo, I finally did. And in
doing so, I gave him the weapon he needed to break me.
Finnick and I sit for a long time in silence, watching the knots bloom and vanish, before I can ask, "How do
you bear it?"
Finnick looks at me in disbelief. "I don"t, Katniss! Obviously, I don"t. I drag myself out of nightmares each
morning and find there"s no relief in waking." Something in my expression stops him. "Better not to give in to it. It
takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart."
Well, he must know. I take a deep breath, forcing myself back into one piece.
"The more you can distract yourself, the better," he says. "First thing tomorrow, we"ll get you your own rope.
Until then, take mine."
I spend the rest of the night on my mattress obsessively making knots, holding them up for Buttercup"s
inspection. If one looks suspicious, he swipes it out of the air and bites it a few times to make sure it"s dead. By
morning, my fingers are sore, but I"m still holding on.
With twenty-four hours of quiet behind us, Coin finally announces we can leave the bunker. Our old quarters
have been destroyed by the bombings. Everyone must follow exact directions to their new compartments. We
clean our spaces, as directed, and file obediently toward the door.
Before I"m halfway there, Boggs appears and pulls me from the line. He signals for Gale and Fin
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