That was when the shout rang out.
“She isn’t dead!”
Gasps rippled through the room. Chairs scraped across the floor. Anger flared through my grief as I turned around.
The boy stood near the doors—thin, filthy, his clothes hanging loose, no older than thirteen. His eyes weren’t crazed or delusional. They were terrified.
Before anyone could stop him, he ran forward, pointing with a trembling hand.
“She’s not dead,” he said again. “I swear.”
Something inside me broke.
“Get him out!” I screamed. “Get him away from her!”
Security grabbed him as he struggled—not violently, but in sheer desperation.
“Please,” he cried. “You have to listen.”
Continue on the next page:
