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letter went on to discuss recent changes in the town—“We got a new traffic light on Main, and Dwight’s bakery shut down last week.”—and Ethan threw it away before he had finished.

His resolve to behave was now stronger than ever. To speed his release, he formally apologized to Stark as soon as their private sessions resumed.

“I appreciate that,” the doctor said, fidgeting nervously with his tie. They were sitting in a small office. Outside the door stood a stocky male nurse, ready to act if Stark shouted for him.

Ethan nodded toward the door. “Is he necessary?”

“For now.”

I could make him necessary, Ethan thought. But he had the good sense to say instead, “I suppose I understand.”

NOW

THE TUNNEL MARTIN had found wasn’t any wider or taller than a coffin. With his body flat, he dragged himself forward several inches at a time. The tunnel gently sloped down and then turned north. Martin worked his way around the bend until he could see what was ahead. And, while he couldn’t be sure, the tunnel appeared to lead to a sizable cavern some thirty feet in the distance.

He’d been on his own for about fifteen minutes, he guessed. Cynthia and Ethan would be expecting him soon. But he didn’t want to return without knowing exactly where the tunnel would take them, nor did he want to try crawling out backward, so he kept going.

Until he heard the low, deep crack of earth giving way.

He braced himself for something to fall. Where was it coming from? Was it behind him? Was his exit about to be sealed off?

His heart raced.

Was it another earthquake?

Then, one more crack and he realized what was about to happen.

He scrambled forward, but it was too late. The earth underneath him was rapidly collapsing. He fell feet first through the newly formed opening, scratching and clawing until there was nothing left to hold onto.

THEN

STARK KNEW THAT Ethan’s medication should have prevented his outburst. And he firmly believed a patient could not solve his problems without putting his rage aside. So he reserved a conference room on the second floor and called Nurse Habal up for a private meeting.

He was sitting at the head of a long mahogany table when she entered. This seat was usually reserved for the head of the hospital, but since they were alone, he took the liberty of pretending he was more important than anybody considered him to be.

“Have a seat,” he said, and she did. “Why haven’t you been giving Ethan his medication?”

“I’ve always given that boy his pills,” Habal said defensively.

“You’re sure he’s swallowing them?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

Stark rubbed his temples. “I don’t understand how this could have happened, then.”

“I gave him the pills.”

“It’s okay, Habal, I believe you.” They both sat silently until Stark added, “Maybe we need to increase the dosage.”

“If you think that’s best.”

“I don’t see any other option.”

Per Stark’s instructions, Ethan’s dosage was increased that same evening. And Habal, on her own accord, advised the nursing staff to watch him.

“Open up,” she said, after he’d swallowed that night’s pills.

“What for?” Talking was difficult with the drugs still in his mouth, so Ethan had to limit his words.

“Don’t question me, just do it.”

Ethan nodded and coughed like he had to clear his throat. But the cough grew quickly into a nasty hacking sound. He doubled over with his hands in front of his mouth. He couldn’t let her find the pills, nor could he spit them into his hand. So he used the disruption to work them out of his cheeks and swallow them.

He pretended to clear his throat with a sip of water and told Habal to proceed with the investigation.

“Show me your hands first.”

“I’m startin’ to think you don’t trust me,” he said, opening his hands, palms up.

She grunted, and then thoroughly checked his mouth. Even before the fake coughing fit, she was convinced he wasn’t swallowing the pills; now she knew he wasn’t. But she also didn’t think he would vomit them up, so she sent him on his way.

NOW

MARTIN DIDN’T FALL far—not as far as Cynthia had—but he was in pain when he landed, nonetheless. His back ached. His head throbbed. Had it not been for his helmet, he suspected he would be unconscious.

He slowly got to his feet, and his headlamp flickered. Then he looked around for a way to climb back up to the tunnel above him. But with the walls of this chasm tilted inward, he could tell right away that holding on would be impossible.

Then his headlamp flickered again.

THEN

ETHAN VOMITED UP every pill he was given until his release. He hated the burning in his throat and the nausea that followed each covert trip to the bathroom, but it was better than risking another close call with Habal. Another one of those and he feared they might switch to injections. Then he would be at their mercy.

“I got a phone call from Byron last week,” Stark told Ethan at one of their private sessions. Several months had passed since the attack, and the doctor’s fear of another seemed to have subsided.

“What’d he want?”

“He wants me to let you study for your GED. . . . I think it would be good for you.”

Ethan smiled as if the idea pleased him. “I agree.” But Ethan would have agreed to anything that might mean getting out of the hospital sooner.

“It’d be unorthodox, but if you think you can handle it . . .”

“Nothing but some good food could make me happier.”

Stark knew the hospital food was bland and chuckled with Ethan at the joke.

The books were delivered to Ethan’s room the next morning, and he used his studies as an excuse to withdraw further from the hospital staff and his fellow patients.

Any interaction he had with them increased the likelihood of another outburst. Just the simple request for his Jell-O at lunch would cause his eyelid to twitch, anything more and he would hear the flap of wings in the back of his