The Dark and Hollow Places by Carrie Ryan

didn’t flood. The tunnels have always been off-limits and dangerous but have only gotten worse since the Rebellion: aside from the caved-in sections I’ve heard that some areas are underwater. It’s a labyrinth that might just swallow us whole.
    I remember the last time I came underground and feel my scars tighten—each one a reminder of just how dangerous these tunnels can be.
    “It would be a risk,” I finally say. “A huge one. I’d be guessing which way to go. There could also be Unconsecrated down here, and unless smugglers still use this tunnel a lot, the dead could be downed and we won’t even know until we stumble onto them.”
    Catcher winces and I realize belatedly that the Unconsecrated wouldn’t sense him. They’d only sense me. I open my mouth to apologize but he waves his hand to brush it away.
    “Would there be fewer in the tunnels than up in the streets?” he asks.
    I stare into the darkness and then back over my shoulderto the stairs. Already the moans are sounding louder, as if they’ve breached the outer door. “It’s impossible to know,” I tell him honestly.
    “Are you willing to take the risk?” I can tell that Catcher doesn’t know how I’ll answer the question and it reminds me that we’re strangers to each other. I wonder how much of my personality he thinks he understands because of my sister.
    I wonder if when he sees the smooth side of my face he forgets that I’m not her.
    “I’ll do anything to save my sister,” I tell him. And when I say it out loud I know it’s true. It’s the only way I can think to finally forgive myself.

C atcher breaks off a thick shaft of wood from one of the subway ties and wraps the remnants of my quilt around it. He lights the tattered cloth from the fire, creating a makeshift torch. It glows a warm red, not giving much light but enough for us to see our feet and avoid the debris scattered along the old tracks.
    I hold the machete Catcher found aboveground tight in my chapped hand as wind swallowed by the tunnels moans like the dead. I huddle deeper in my clothes, bracing against the cold, almost positive the Unconsecrated have broken down the door to the stairs and are shambling after us, their footsteps lost in the echo of our own.
    With every step I think about the bodies that could be strewn about in the darkness. The forgotten dead, now in a quasi-hibernation, just waiting to sense me and wake up. Chills chase each other up the back of my neck and along my arms. It’s better down here than out there, I remind myself, to stop the fear paralyzing my mind.
    “What’s she like?” I ask Catcher, trying to distract myself from the way the tunnel furls tightly around us, forcing us to move forward into the possibility of more danger than what we’re leaving behind. “My sister,” I add.
    Catcher walks slightly ahead, torch held high. “Gabry’s …” He trails off for several steps and I glance at the way his shoulders tense as he concentrates. “She’s strong. Dedicated and loyal.”
    There’s admiration in his tone but also an underlying current of melancholy.
    “Were you good friends with her?” My voice trembles through my chattering teeth.
    He stumbles and because I’m following so close behind I press my hands against his lower back to keep from careening into him. His heated skin blazes through his clothes—so delicious in this freezing darkness. Before I can stop myself I press my palms harder against him, curling my fingertips into the warmth and smiling.
    “You okay?” I ask when he doesn’t resume walking. There’s an odd expression on his face and he looks away from me before I can figure out what it is.
    “There’s something you need to know,” he says.
    I realize I’ve pushed tighter against him. It’s like leaning toward a fire on a frozen day—the way it eases through you, unwinding muscles and loosening joints.
    I’m surprised at how comfortable I am with him already, how he doesn’t quite feel