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can’t tell if this is a good idea. I’m confused and tired. Luka has gotten us this far. Leela and I never would have pulled off the escape plan without him. He’s been the rock—strong and steady. And Dr. Roth gave Luka these pills, a man who proved to be trustworthy. That has to say something, especially since he didn’t want me to go on them to begin with. Maybe they can serve a momentary purpose.
    “I need to make sure you’re safe.” His eyes are ablaze. His voice, vehement. “Please.”
    I hesitate. With every second that ticks past, Luka looks more and more tortured. I don’t want to see him in pain, so I pick up the pill and put it on my tongue. Pushing away the memory of the saccharinely sweet woman force-feeding me pills much the same as this one, I take a long drink from Luka’s water bottle.
    He lets out a relieved breath.
    “What about you?” I ask.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Who’s going to protect you?” Apparently, I’m too selfish to look out for his wellbeing. If I had a smidge of bravery, a hint of honor, I would have attempted to talk Luka out of coming with me to Detroit. Convinced him that he didn’t have to get on this bus with me. That I would be fine without him.
    “They aren’t after me like they’re after you. They never have been.”

Chapter Nine
    Dead Ends
    L uka wakes me up when we arrive in San Francisco. We need to get off and transfer buses. I slept for five hours straight with zero dreams. Unlike the peace my dreamless slumber offered before, when I was a high school student grasping for normalcy, it offers no peace now. This time, I know what is happening. The joy and relief and wonder I felt the first time around is completely absent. How can I feel any of those things when I know that somebody may have died that I could have otherwise saved, all for the sake of my safety?
    Luka grabs my backpack from the overhead compartment and discreetly scans the bus, checking to see if any of the passengers are looking at us. There are dark circles beneath his eyes.
    “Did you get any sleep?” I ask.
    “A little.” His smile is strained. “Any dreams?”
    I shake my head. Dr. Roth’s theory is proving itself true. Luka places his hand on the small of my back and walks close behind me. We file outside with the rest of the passengers, stretch our legs, and board another bus. I long for the freedom of the woods that surround my home in Thornsdale, or the crisp briny air that rolled in from the ocean whenever I sat on the back deck reading or writing in my journal. Instead, we will be on another bus for the next three days. It feels like a prison sentence.
    We ride down the coast of California, stopping for brief five-, ten-, twenty-minute stints in towns along the way. We transfer in Bakersfield and again in Las Vegas, where we ditch the thick, useless manila folder of Dr. Roth’s former patients. I take another pill and sleep through a long stretch that lands us in Denver. We buy two winter coats, some extra clothes, and a rolling suitcase, which lightens the load considerably.
    There seems to be a positive correlation between Luka’s dark circles and the protective way he acts around me. The more pronounced they become, the more protective he becomes. When we stop in Ogallala, he’s never more than two feet from my side. And yet, he no longer holds my hand. In fact, he has stopped touching me altogether. I don’t know what to make of it. I encourage him to sleep, and he does a little. But it’s fitful and sparse. Anytime I ask what’s haunting him, he doesn’t say. I can make my own educated guesses, though. I’m positive I’m dying in his dreams. And in them, Luka cannot save me. Whatever he sees when he sleeps, it has him withdrawing. Retreating into himself with haunted eyes, and I can’t save him either. I’m not even sure I can reach him.
    We have one final transfer in Chicago. By then my awe over the big cities has waned. We’ve seen at least seven or eight