Free With the Enemy by Eva Gray Page A

understanding them. I want to apologize to them. I want to tell them I love them. I just want to hear their voices.
    I look around at the desolate landscape we’re running through, houses reduced to embers and rubble, and I wish I could close my eyes and be with them. Be safe.
    How did I end up here? How did I end up so far from home?
    I miss you, Mommy and Daddy
.
    I have an almost insurmountable urge to just stop. Sit down. Give up. What are we doing? How can we possibly think we can save Maddie? Six starving kids on the run with nothing but a compass, an old map, and a lame theory? There’s no chance we can avoid being picked up by the authorities.
    A ragged curtain of silver lightning appears in the sky to our left, followed by a plume of smoke as it sets a building on fire.
    Assuming we’re not incinerated first.
    “No way,” Louisa says. “Look.”
    My eyes follow her finger past three blackened carcasses of buildings to a squat, solid cement structure. The words LUXE LIFE CAR WASH are printed in faded paint on the side.
    No neighbors. Built to withstand storms. Good drainage. And since there’s not enough water to take showers, let alone wash cars, unlikely to be in use.
    We run for it.
    Inside, it’s not exactly Cozy Corners.
    The floor is blanketed with broken bottles and soda cans and pieces of debris. It turns out that those air freshener things that dangle from rearview mirrors don’t smell better when they’re old, moldy, and decaying.
    But the building is fairly well boarded up so it’s private, and, as the storm whips itself into a frenzy outside, it proves itself to be mostly leak free.
    It’s also only six blocks from the nearest library.
    We spend the hour the storm lasts setting up camp. When the sky clears, it’s almost three o’clock, at leastaccording to the clock Rosie and Drew “borrowed” from a motel office when we first escaped from CMS. The six of us set out. We’re on a double mission: to get into the library and to get food.
    The car wash seems to mark the end of the relocation zone, and a block away from it, the houses show signs of being lived in. The streets are quiet now because most people keep factory hours, which run until five. The only person we come across is an elderly woman looking for her cat, but it is a good reminder that we need to start being more careful about where we go and when.
    I check both my map and my compass when we get to 1150 West Fullerton Avenue to make sure we’re in the right place. The building is made of brick and has a tower to one side, but there’s nothing to show it was once a library. The sign outside says HELPING HANDS CHARITIES, REFUGEE RESOURCE CENTER.
    The refugees must not get their help here, though, because the place is deserted. There’s a single car in the parking lot with an ad for 2 GOOD 2 B TOFURKEY andthe words MARTIN SECURITY on the side. There’s no sign of anyone inside.
    We split into two teams, Alpha team — Rosie, Ryan, and Louisa — going left, and Beta team — me, Alonso, and Drew — going right, both looking for a way into the building.
    “All locked on our side,” Rosie’s voice says over the phone.
    “Here, too,” Alonso confirms. “But we might have something. Will keep you posted.”
    He, Drew, and I are standing at the bottom of a sloping driveway. There’s a loading dock, a door, and two Dumpsters blocking the view from the street. Which means it’s a good lock for us to try picking.
    Drew kneels in front of the door with an unbent paper clip. “I used to pick the lock on my mom’s office all the time,” he says. “And it’s a pretty serious lock.” He turns to me. “Neither of you would happen to have a rubber band, would you?”
    We’ve left our backpacks at the car wash, but I always carry a few essentials in the pockets of my pants. I fishout a rubber band and hand it to him. “Your mom works at home?” I ask.
    “Kind of. It’s more like we live at her office,” he says, holding