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"We're a biracial queer throuple wanted for murder. Are you sure we'll fit right in with the cult? I've watched a lot of cult documentaries; they never end well. Who or what are we supposed to be worshipping?"

"You called us a throuple. That's sweet," Tate says.

"Shut up, Tate."

"I'm sure," Silas says. "You think I'm unaware of who we are and how we look? I'd never put us in danger like that. And it's not a cult, Noah; there's no religion involved."

"Okay," Irelent.

But I don't really believe him. I don't believe any of it. When I close my eyes, I don't see peace. I don't knowhowto see peace; I have no idea what that would even look like. I still see a body impaled on a wrought iron fence and my mother's dead green eyes when Silas stepped around her body on our living room floor, still open and following me out the door.

I see an open grave filling with muddy water, and now I see blood staining Jodie's white area rug and the look in her eyes when she realized I'm a monster.

But in grey scale—so it's not that bad. It's just enough to remind me that I'm not the kind of person who gets things like peace and quiet. Still, when I sleep, I don't have nightmares.

twenty-five

Runaways

Noah

Ididn't think we'd ever make it, but I was wrong. We drove for about thirty hours, only stopping for food, when I needed to vomit, and to use the bathroom when it was absolutely necessary. I thought I was going to throw up when we crossed the border, but they didn't ask us many questions. Silas gave them an address in Saskatoon that we very much wouldn't be staying to visit a friend named Jake, then they opened the trunk for a few seconds and sent us on our way.

Silas switched off with Tate only once to sleep for about seven hours, and I moved to the backseat until they switched back.

We arrived at our destination before the sun had risen and parked outside the locked gates of the community, the entirety of which seems to be interred in barbed wire.

"Hey," Silas says, nudging me, "wake up."

I open my eyes and lean my seat forward. It's later in the morning, and still, at this latitude, the sun is barely visible on the horizon. And it's cold—much colder here than it was in Washington. Bare trees and a thin layer of snow covering the rocky terrain indicate winter has already arrived wherever here is. The sign on the front gate cautions anyone who comes upon it that they're onprivate, surveilled property and warns trespassers to turn back.

Or else. It literally says, 'or else.'

A man jumps out of an old red Jeep and unchains the gate, nodding to Silas as if he knows him before waving us through.

Silas pulls in, waiting at the entrance while the man chains it closed again and approaches the window. He gives him directions to something he callsthe big houseabout a mile down the road and to the right.

"Do you know these people, Silas?" I ask as he rolls the window up.

"We've been communicating," he replies succinctly.

A few minutes later, we pull up to what I assume must bethe big house. It resembles an old ski lodge, though I can't imagine it was ever used in that way. As we approach, we're ushered into a garage off the side of the house. Two men manually roll down the door behind us, and suddenly, I feel uneasy in the dimly lit space.

"Silas…" I whisper.

"It's okay," he says. "Get out of the car. It's fine."

I nod, turning toward my door, but one of the men opens it before I get a chance, waiting with an impatient look on his face. Tate exits on the same side, and I quickly move until I'm right next to him, watching as Silas gives the vehicle's keys to another man. A third takes our belongings from the trunk and sets them on the ground.

Tate moves to grab his suitcase and backpack as well as my own garbage bag of crap, and I watch another man peel back the bottom of the trunk and start pulling out guns.I hear a cracking sound as the one who impatiently waited for me to get out of the car pops off the side panel.

Jesus. This is a lot more than what they took from Jodie's house.

"Let's go inside," Silas says, grabbing his own suitcase. He places his hand on the back of Tate's neck and kisses him before adding, "I'll take that, too," and then takes my bag of shit from him.

Inside, there's a large wood-burning stove, a very dated kitchen, and two long tables where a handful of people are eating breakfast.

"What do we do now?" I ask.