Anthem's gold eyes pierce Serena and I on our way out to the woods.

Serena only grips my hand harder and approaches the exit to the woods at a more deliberate speed. Serena is one of those rare, wonderful people with whom a tight grip around the hand is not an expression of intimacy or even trust. Rather, Serena is the kind of person who can hold my weight. There's nothing more to our relationship than that, which I've always been grateful for, because it means I don't have to try around her. She won't be that upset if I'm silent. She won't be disappointed when I stare off into the distance, just waiting for her to fail. I don't ask her how she's doing because the answer is shitty. She doesn't ask me. We just do our jobs and get high off the omnipresent rush of hormonal bliss that shackles us to the job without ever seeming to make us truly happy.

As she clenches the mask in between her fingers, she surprises me by talking at all. "Did Anthem seem strange to you?"

I nod. "Does it say something about us, that we can tell now?"

"Nothing good. And what's there to say? She's always staring, but today, it was..."

"She was fixated on something besides us," Serena says. "What else is out there?"

"He is," I say. "She must be fighting for him."

Serena folds her arms. The mask is conveniently stowed back at her side, where she doesn't even have to look at it. "He knows where our houses are," she says, at last. "I've been thinking about it."

"Not with the mask on, I hope," I say. I have Anthem's voice, Anthem's eyes. She shouldn't disappoint me either.

"No, just when I've had the time. I can't stop. I think they're going to break down our doors every night, that it's all over, that we're dead. Aren't you afraid?"

"Evan wouldn't tell them," I say. "He's fighting."

Her face tenses up.

"Crying doesn't help. Pick up the mask."

I can't tell if she's sad for Evan or herself.

"Pick it up, Serena." I pause. "Or I'll put it on."

"I'd let you," she says. I reach out for it and she snatches it back, dragging a thin, graceful hand close to her face. "But you could kill me."

We stare each other down.

Her breath shudders. She puts the mask on and it takes her almost immediately, slumping her shoulders and readying a weapon between her fingers. I'm behind her, yanking it off. She clutches her head as the mask pulls free and dry heaves into the grass behind us. I watch her through empty eyes and try to feel something besides the nagging sense that she probably deserves, as much as I do, whatever's coming to us.

"Put it on again, Serena," I tell her.

"Adam," she warns.

"Chief." Sometimes she gets forgetful.

She places the mask on again. I watch her convulse into their shared consciousness, retrieve her from it, then command herself to dangle herself back over the edge. She does it without complaint. Self-hatred might as well be seeping out of the holes of the mask, tracing dark circles formed not only by nights of late missions but of two weeks spent staring at a ceiling and wondering how complicit you were in a classmate's death. I know her pain because I can use it like a weapon. The knife of regret is a force that we hold against each other's throats, to keep each other accountable, and then for Anthem to use as a yoke.

When I pick it off, she does not stand up, lying in the grass in push-up position, sobbing. I don't know what a stranger would think, seeing us here like this. Adam Rosenbloom might have had some snide comment about it. Adam Rosenbloom doesn't come around much. I won't let him. He could put us in danger, and then more people could die.

"Are we done?" asks Serena. She sounds small. The Serena everyone knows in school would never be forced to her knees. She's a warrior queen, the woman who does work the day it's assigned, gunning for president of five clubs and counting (although that's fallen off in the last few weeks), Serena is invincible. She sees me as a person. I see her vulnerable. We both pretend we didn't see anything, because to admit this to either person would be a serious blow to our egos.

"I guess we are."

Harper is waiting for us in the Veins when we get back. "When's the next mission?"

"Tomorrow morning. Four sharp."
We all sigh like this is a relief.

"Anthem," Serena implores the still white figure, who perches like a ceramic figure or something equally kitschy on the table. "I've been having difficulty with--"

"Get better," Anthem says. "Had you not taken such a long time to procure mastery of your powers, this would not be an issue. You have brought all of your misfortune upon yourself."

"What does it matter? We can't win," Serena says, frustrated. "We don't have the resources. There's no possible way."

Anthem's eyes flick back towards her. "Since the creation of the Echo Chamber. All of the Diosite has been centralized for the operation of the machine. All you need to do now is get down there."

We all look down.

Anthem jumps off the table. "I will see you all tomorrow."

Fair enough. I go home.

The house is bigger every time I get back to it. Now that we're edging back into spring, the sun is setting later, edging us up towards six or seven instead of five-thirty sunsets. Sunlight pours into the house through windows, burning the brown floors into bloodied auburn.

I jolt into attack mode when arms close around my neck. "Adam." I pretend that the instinctive kick-out was just a startled flinch as my mother's arms move down into a defensive hug. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," I say. My voice echoes a little. I don't know why we got a house this big for four people. It feels unnecessary and empty. "Just getting home from study. I finished all my homework. Get to sleep now."
"You have to do something besides sleep." That sounds like a threat. "Are you sure you wouldn't want to watch Jeopardy with us? You can just lie on the couch and doze off if you're that tired, but I think it might be nice to get out of your room."

I stare at the red light streaming through the windows. "Sure."

I don't pass out during Jeopardy, but Will does. He's curled up around the opposite arm of the sofa from me, looking frankly exhausted. Whatever he's been doing at the Naval Brigade has been wearing him out, hardcore. I don't understand why he'd choose to spend so much energy on something so menial, but I don't understand much about him these days, anyways.

The sofa's comfy enough, and although Jeopardy is just a bleary blue light a million miles away, when I don't focus hard enough, I can imagine the rhythm of his breath or the soft flesh of her fingers. The air laces itself with the poisonous lure of gingerbread, threatening to drag me back to a place before time, where I am lying on a different couch, happy.

Every now and then my parents speak, and I have to answer them. I feel like a trained animal. My actual involvement in the conversation is nil, but school's fine, friends are fine, recovering well, no one's given me trouble, I don't have any irregular mood swings, just a little tired, things will get better, things will move on, things will work out.

At one point my father gets up, then my brother, too, takes the opportunity to bolt upright like he's been hit by a taser and run for it.

"I should go do homework," I tell my mom.

"Honey," she says, but in the voice of a drowning person begging a wooden plank closer to her.

"I love you, mom."

"I love you too, Adam."

I pass my dad's office on the way down to the basement. I recognize his posture from Serena, catch the artificial lights of the room glint off a bit of plastic over his face. I can't look him dead in the face. I run up the stairs. I keep thinking about him in the attic or my mom in the living room, staring at the television and wondering why all the men in her life are garbage. I'm thinking of people who need me but don't need Adam Rosenbloom, the person. They need a cold, calculating hull that I can provide no matter how I feel. Serena would just let me do my job. Harper would give me a quick, sharp nod, but she wouldn't intervene. I imagine, as I descend into the basement, Evan's fingers against my flesh, seeking heat.

I can't stand people expecting things from me. They should know I can't deliver.