They turn their backs on me and walk away. I panic, beating on the wall between us. “They’re coming on Fitzmartin! They’ll kill us all! Please listen to me!”
Losing sight of them, I turn to look at Trey. He’s watching me, taking in everything about me. I look down at myself; I’m a complete mess. My hands are abraded from my fight with Giffen. The black jacket Trey gave me this morning is torn and missing several buttons.
Quickly, I go to the wall that separates us. I wring my hands as I say, “We have to get out of here! The Alameeda are going to be here soon.”
Trey mouths the words: Slow down. I can’t understand you.
I cringe and put my hands to my head. “I don’t know what time it is!” I say to myself, as fear overwhelms me. I try to take a deep breath to calm down before I lose it. I touch the wall between us, using the blood on my fingers. I smear a picture of the Ship of Skye among the clouds. Then I add flying ships dropping bombs on it. Next to it, I write in backward letters: NITRAMZTIF NO STRAP 61.
Trey’s hand touches my drawing of the Ship of Skye. He moves his hand to mine as I lean against the wall. I know he can’t hear me, but I say, “It’ll happen in about 48 parts from now! They get inside the shields! They bomb everything! It’s like the Hindenburg—ahh, you wouldn’t know what that is!” I scold myself as I thrust my hands in my hair, pulling it back from my face. “It’s like the whole place is on fire!”
His expression is grim. He nods in understanding. Turning away from me, he goes to his sink, to the soap dispenser. He takes the soap to the entrance of his cell, to the invisible barrier.
He uses the soap to write on the barrier: STRAP 84 NI TLUASSA LAIREA ADEEMALA.
Wayra leaves his post at the entrance to his cell for a moment. When he returns, he writes in soap on his wall: BAW-DA-BAW. Jax and the rest of the Cavars do the same.
I sit down on the metal cot and rest my cheek against the cool transparency of the wall.
“I have to think,” I murmur as I look around at the cell. It’s a nightmare in terms of escape. If I were to somehow break through a wall, I’d only find myself in the next cell. The only way out is through the front wall, and my nose still hurts from running into it. I glance at Giffen in the cell next to mine. He hasn’t moved yet. I wonder if he’s dead, but I see his chest rise and fall, and I know he still lives. I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing, or a bad thing. On one hand, he might be able to free himself once he wakes up, but on the other hand, a free Giffen may not be healthy for me. He might decide to kill me once he figures out I’m here too. Either way, the odds are looking like I’m going to die in here.
I close my eyes for a moment, fighting despair. What good is seeing the future if you can’t get out of its way?
When I open my eyes again, I meet Trey’s as he slouches next to me on his side of the wall. His eyes ask me questions. The first is: What happened to you? I shrug, and then cringe; my bruised ribs ache, making me not want to breathe. He motions for me to take off my jacket. He rises from the floor, waiting for me to do the same. Getting to my feet, I face him again. I gingerly peel off my black jacket and lay it upon the slab. I almost don’t want to look as I grasp the hem of my white top, inching it up my left side. My shirt is stiff, because it has ribbing sewn into it that pushes everything up and in, a fact that probably helped protect my ribs to a certain extent but now causes me to pause and wince, holding my breath for a second with my elbow pointed up. Finally exposing my ribs, I glance at them; they’re the color of midnight.
Trey’s reaction is pragmatic, except when his hands ball into fists. He gestures that I should wet my jacket with cold water to use it as a compress. Following his advice, I dampen the jacket and take it with me to the cot against our adjoining wall. Lying down on the metal slablike cot, I face him. He sits right next to me again against the floor, since his cot is located on his far wall.
With a lift of his chin in the direction of the hand clutching my side, his eyes ask, How did that happen to your ribs?
I point over my shoulder to Giffen stretched out on the floor in the next cell.
He nods his head in Giffen’s direction with a raise of his eyebrow.
I shake my head and say, “He’s like me.” I point to myself. “He has gifts.” I point to my hair and say, “He’s part Alameeda.”
Trey’s eyes open wider in surprise. He lifts both hands, palms up. What gifts?
I sigh, trying to think of a way to describe telekinesis without using words. I take the balled-up compress in my hand and rest it on my mattress, between us. I stare at it, pointing from my eyes to the compress and back again. Without looking away from the compress, I lift it up by sliding the flat of my hand underneath it, pretending I’m really levitating it with my mind.