"If the Noble Forces thought the proposal could help them conquer the South, then it must have come from a Northerner, right?"

Rekkan frowned, running an absent thumb over the back of my hand. "Then you think the Head Chef is Mekkar?"

His voice was carefully emotionless, but unease flickered across his eyes and tightened his shoulders. Earlier, I had contemplated whether Mekkar would cook his own nephew. Now, I wondered whether Rekkan could kill his own uncle. My eyes dipped to his desk where I had seen the photo the night before, but Rekkan had hidden it before Serigg arrived in the morning

The one gift he kept, a consolation prize from the game he could never win. From the family who wouldn't keep him.

I played with his fingers and forced words out through a swollen throat. "It might not be Mekkar. Uzmed could have persuaded Arakko to make the proposal for him. That would explain all of their fights... and Uzmed's guilt."

"So you do believe he feels guilty about Arakko's death? That it's not just an act?"

I hesitated. "Well... do you believe Mekkar actually feels guilty about Serigg?"

Rekkan's eyes flitted to the drawer with the photo, and his tongue traced his lower lip. When he met my gaze again, he said, "But the lab experts seem pretty sane, don't they? Compared to the other Implanted?"

"The Implanted developed that way during the Implant Era, too," I reasoned. "The Freshly-Baked were confused, acting crazy. But the Fully-Fermented functioned flawlessly."

He gave a slow nod. "Maybe their brains stop fighting the Implant and just let it take over."

Something rattled overhead.

Rekkan stiffened, fingers tightening over mine. "What was that?"

I stared up at the silver air duct. "Uh... a mouse?"

He released my hand and pushed to his feet, bionic leg first, on the bed. The mattress sank beneath his socks. Lifting a fist toward the ceiling, he rapped on the shiny metal duct.

The 'mouse' sucked in a breath.

I blinked. "Pakket?"

"I didn't mean to!" the air duct squeaked. "And now I'm..." The voice disintegrated into a stuttering sob: "S-s-st-stuck."

Rekkan raised his eyebrows at me.

I shrugged back at him, mouth open and eyes wide in a 'definitely not my fault' gesture.

Rekkan pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out an exhale. Then he pushed up a slat of metal on the air duct and shifted it aside. Gripping the edge with both hands, he pulled himself up to peek inside the vent. He hung perfectly still, biceps and back muscles straining his shirt.

Not that I was noticing.

"Hey, kid." His soft bass rumbled through the air duct and room. "You're not in trouble, alright? Just slide a little closer, and I can help you out."

Fuck, I didn't know he could speak so gently — so sweetly. No no one could blame me for melting straight into the bed.

Pakket was evidently equally impressed, since I heard the squeak of knees on metal as he slid closer. Rekkan hooked hands under the tiny boy's armpits and pulled him out. He lowered Pakket to the bed, snatched his towel, and brushed it over the boy's blonde hair. Dust bunnies fluttered to the bed.

"There you go," said Rekkan. "See? All better."

I was fairly certain goo was spilling from every one of my pores, joining the dust bunnies. The laundromat was going to curse Ether while cleaning these sheets.

Pakket flashed a toothless grin at Rekkan. "That was actually kinda fun. Can we do that again?"

"Uh..." Rekkan cupped a hand over his temple to conceal his expression from Pakket as he appealed to me for help.

Alright, he really needed to learn how to handle children on his own. That was something we would have to work on when we became daddies for real.

Daddies for real? The accidental thought made my already-melted stomach flutter. Pakket told me his parents were both gone, and he was likely not the only child who needed a new home after all this. Whatever tough little kids outlived their parents could come stay with us. We could fill the whole fortress with —

"Zaf," Rekkan pleaded.

Right.

I cleared my throat. "Pakket, what were you doing up there?"

"Practicing climbing," he chirped. "I tried once before, but I only saw Ivogg's Southie brother, and he scared me a little, so then I turned back, but Razalu said if I keep practicing, maybe one day I can be like Fenn—"

"You saw Ivogg's Southie brother?" I said. "In the air duct?"

Pakket scrunched up his face. "Well, I was in the air duct. Not him."

"Where was he?"

He scratched his head, splaying blonde hair. "In the little room with the dragons. But the dragons didn't hurt him because he was, like, the master of the dragons." He splayed his hands wide, touching his thumbs to his pinkie fingers like the dragon master in a popular children's series.

Rekkan and I exchanged a wary glance.

I turned my focus back to Pakket. "These dragons... they fit in a little room?"

He nodded vigorously, blonde locks flopping. "Uh-huh. Because they're little dragons."

"Little dragons," Rekkan repeated.

"Really little," said Pakket. He drew his splayed hands closer, miming something rabbit-sized. Frowned. Drew them even closer. Then dropped one hand and scratched his head again with the other.

"Pakket, you should head back to your room," I said. "Who are you staying with?"

"My grandma. But she's kinda busy, since she's kinda..."

The recognition of resemblance knocked the air from my lungs. "Oh, Ether. Your grandma is Figgel?"

"I think that's her name," he said. "I just call her 'Grandma.' I used to visit her house with my mommy and daddy, and she would show me all her coolest things and listen about all of my favorite shows, like 'Dragon Master.'" But we couldn't watch the show together because Grandpa was always watching something scary. So we just played together, and I pretended to be a dragon master, and she pretended to be a dragon. It was great! Until..."

"Until?" Rekkan inquired softly. He sat beside Pakket now, shoulders curved toward the small boy but not quite touching him. 

Pakket swallowed. "Until it wasn't. My grandpa and my parents went out together while I stayed with Grandma. When they came back, they were... different, and Grandma had to... take care of it. And after that, she stopped."

My voice croaked. "Stopped what?"

He jerked his shoulders in a shrug. "Stopped being my Grandma."

My heart clenched. It was so much easier to think of Figgel as just being crazy. Not to think of why she became that way... or who it affected.

"But you still stay with her?" Rekkan's growl made his disapproval clear. When I raised my eyebrows at him, he didn't even meet my eyes, still focused on Pakket.

Pakket's doe eyes fixed on a fray in his jeans. "Well... I don't really have anyone else."

Rekkan's shoulders deflated, and his teeth trapped one corner of his lower lip.

Well, fuck. We definitely needed to adopt this kid.

But first... first, we needed to save humanity.

I patted the small boy's shoulder. "Pakket, can you go back to your room? Just stay there, alright? We'll see you again at lunch."

Pakket's hair bounced with his nod, and another piece of dust fluttered to join the rest. "Alright, Mister Zafaru." He turned a hesitant gaze toward Rekkan. "Thanks for the help, sir."

"Yep," said Rekkan, voice choked.

Pakket slid off the bed and headed toward the door. When his head dipped out of sight and the door latched behind him, Rekkan and I locked eyes.

"Well?" I said. "What do you think of this Southie brother?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't make sense. How can a Northerner have a Southie brother? And what dragons? Maybe he's..."

"Crazy?"

"No." His voice was sharp, but he softened it before continuing. "He's imaginative, like a kid should be." A half-smile lit his face. "I used to imagine my pet cockroach was a dragon, until..."

Until Marvikk murdered it, I thought, but I only said, "What do we know about the Southie doctor overseeing the infirmary?"

"Doctor Vizan, you mean? Do you think he could be Implanted, too?"

"I don't know. I haven't heard anything strange from him, but I also haven't seen him recently. If he's locked in there with the Implanted, he's in danger. And if the door's not locked..."

His brow furrowed. "Then the Implanted could be anywhere."

"Maybe we should —

"Don't you dare suggest that we —"

"— check the Infirmary."

Rekkan's shoulders rolled up along with his eyes. "And I suppose you don't want me to do it without you."

I folded my arms over my chest. "You're not the only one who worries, you know."

He shifted to face me, eyes flicking between mine just inches away. "What do you mean? You worry about me?"

The suppressed anxiety from the entire morning spilled into shaky laughter, a burst of hysteria. "If Figgel and Mazamu didn't distract the lab experts with their love-fight when you were in the lab, I might have distracted them by shitting my pants."

His breath left in a surprised burst, a one-beat laugh that spilled hot air over me. "You don't need to worry about me, Zaf. I know how to defend myself."

"You never know." My hand darted toward his but then stopped, landing on the blanket between us — an exclamation fading to a question mark. "One of these days, you might need me."

"One of these days? Nope." He snagged my hand, enveloping my cold skin with his warmth and answering my unasked question. "I always need you, Zaf. That's why I want you to stay safe. If I survive, but you don't, that's... that's worse than dying."

Ether, the way he said those words. So simply, so earnestly. Not something new, but something he had tucked away too long and could no longer hide. Not a romantic gesture, but a reluctant admission.

Though warmth sparked in my chest, I shook my head. "Mekkar and Uzmed both have keys to every place in the Refuge. No one is safe until we get out of here. Not Fennikk, not Pakket, not me, and not even you."

Rekkan scrubbed his free hand over his face, blew a noisy exhale through barely-parted lips... and then nodded.

Still hand-in-hand, we left the room.

On the way to the infirmary, we passed the lab. Crisscrossing tape now covered the lab door, complete with a tacked-on red sign: Do Not Enter. A buzz rattled the door. 

We stopped in front of the infirmary. An identical sign and tape covered the entrance. Rekkan rapped on the door. After a brief silence, a moan seeped out into the hall.

Rekkan's wide eyes flicked to me in question.

In response, I breathed an eloquent eloquent summary of my thoughts. "The fuck?"

Rekkan thumped the door harder, and the latch clicked out of place with a broken clunk. When the door creaked open, Rekkan's hand shot up to push me back. Then he stopped himself, dropping his hand with a belabored sigh.

"Be careful, sweetheart?" he murmured.

I nodded. "Yeah, I will."

He pressed three fingers to the door, easing it open further, and shouldered into the room. I slipped in behind him.

And froze.

Empty beds ripped to shreds, frayed ruins billowing. Blood stained sheets and seeped to the floor like spilled paint. The only sign of life was one elderly man. Vizan, the great Southie doctor, curled in a fetal position on the floor. His hands clawed at one ear, and he whimpered barely discernible words.

"Help me."

Rekkan snatched my arm—an unnecessary precaution, since fear and confusion already nailed my feet to the ground.

"Help how?" I whispered, barely aware of my mouth moving. "Did the patients attack you, Doctor?"

But I could already see the blood was not Vizan's. The only broken skin on his body was the tender spot beneath his ears, succumbing to his scratching fingernails.

His head swayed side to side on the ground, eyes fixed on a scalpel gripped in his trembling fingers. "No, not the patients. The Head Chef."

"What did he do?"

"Freedom!" Doctor Vizan sucked in a rattling breath and wrenched a hand through his hair, ripping out tufts of white. The hair drifted to the ground around him like snow. "No, no, no. You won't take me, you bastard. I won't be your—freedom!" He shook his head again. "No, not freedom. You won't add me to your army. Your flies can't—can't control—"

He shot up to sitting and flashed us a grin, though his eyelids fluttered like one trapped in a nightmare. The heart rate monitors and overhead air ducts clattered with his bellow. "Freedom! Freedom at—"

He shoved the scalpel through his throat.