LAS VEGAS, NEVADA REPUBLIC OF AMERICA POPULATION: 7,427,431 JAN. 4. 1932 HOURS. OCEAN STANDARD TIME. THIRTY-FIVE DAYS AFTER METIAS’S DEATH. DAY JOLTS AWAKE BESIDE ME. HIS BROW IS COVERED with sweat, and his cheeks are wet with tears. He’s breathing heavily. I lean over him and brush a wet strand of hair out of his face. The scrape on my shoulder has scabbed over already, but my movement makes it throb again. Day sits up, rubs a hand wearily across his eyes, and glances around our swaying railcar as if searching for something. He looks first at the stacks of crates in one dark corner, then at the burlap lining the floor and the little sack of food and water sitting between us. It takes him a minute to reorient himself, to remember that we’re hitching a ride on a train bound for Vegas. A few seconds pass before he releases his rigid posture and lets himself sag back against the wall. I gently tap his hand. “Are you okay?” That’s become my constant question. Day shrugs. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Nightmare.” Nine days have passed since we broke out of Batalla Hall and escaped Los Angeles. Since then, Day has had nightmares every time he’s closed his eyes. When we first got away and were able to catch