Page 58 of The Sixth Fraction

I shake my head. “Max.”

The last thing I want to do is invite Eric into this room with the girl who’s trembling from head to toe, lying in a pool of her own blood. I realize I’m holding on like she’s still trying to yank the knife out of her head, and I relax my fingers. I’m surprised when she grabs my hand, locking our thumbs together. She may be shaking, but her grip is still strong.

I’d call this a nightmare, but even my nightmares aren’t like this, copper-and-sweat-scented, hard stone under my knees, crying girl gone silent as she resigns herself to not moving. And somewhere, lurking in the dark in front of me, is the person who did this to her, like a snake that’s slithered back into its burrow.

Shauna is only half dressed when she sprints into the room, Lynn close at her heels. She stands at Christina’s head and looks down, scanning for—well, I don’t know. I don’t know what a paramedic sees in this horror that I don’t.

“I called for an ambulance; they should be waiting outside by the time we get out there,” she says. “Think you can pick her up? I’ll hold her head steady.”

Christina’s tall, for a girl, but I’m pretty sure I could pick up Al if it meant not having to ask someone who just got stabbed in the eye to move on their own. I nod, and Shauna touches the top of Christina’s head.

“Hi, I’m Shauna, I’m a paramedic, and I’m going to get you to a hospital,” she says. “Four will carry you, and I’ll make sure your head doesn’t move an inch. Okay?”

I try not to jostle her as I slide my arms under her legs and then her shoulders. I stand, with some difficulty, and remember—

“Uri,” I say.

“Here.” Uriah materializes a few feet in front of me. For once, he’s not smiling.

“Don’t let anyone leave until Max hears what happened,” I say.

I scan the crowd of initiates in front of me. There’s Myra, huddled close to Edward. Al, cowering off to the side. A handful of Dauntless-born initiates whose names I haven’t had to learn. And in the back of the room, arms crossed and face shadowed, is Peter.

Hours later I turn on the faucet in the hospital bathroom and stick my head under it.

Cold water spills over my short hair. It curls over my ears and dribbles into my mouth.

It’s morning. A few hours ago, the doctor—a hard-voiced Erudite woman—told Christina they couldn’t save her eye, but they’d attached an implant to her eye muscles and stitched her eyelid closed. Christina’s reaction was stoic. Unsettling, actually, but I’m not exactly a paragon of mental health myself.

I let the water run for a few seconds, then turn off the faucet without moving. I stay hunched there, water dripping from my head, until it hurts my back.

When I straighten, my shirt’s a little wet, but I feel better, my head clearer. I go back into the hallway, where a few doctors and nurses rush past, on their way to the next emergency. They wear all colors, since the hospital is one of the only places in the city where all the factions intermingle.

I step to the side as they hurry past me, then walk back to the room where they put Christina.

She’s lying in the bed, her head wrapped in white bandages and a blanket across her legs. And standing at the foot of it is Eric.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

“I think the answer to that is obvious,” Eric says. “I’m here to offer my sympathies.”

“She’s not dead.”

“What she is . . . is unable to continue in Dauntless initiation.” His voice is gentle, like he’s talking to a child after a bad dream. I take a deep breath to keep from punching him in his metal-studded mouth.

“There’s no reason why she can’t continue,” I say. “She’ll just have to skip the arena fights while she recovers, and move on to the next phase.”

“If she forfeits her last match, she’ll be ranked below the cut line,” Eric says, again in that patient, gentle tone.

“I don’t give a damn about your stupid cut line—”

“Four.” Christina’s voice is rough, but loud enough to cut me off mid-sentence. “Stop.”

I look back at her. She’s staring at the opposite wall, her gaze distant. Someone cleaned the blood off her face, at least. Her complexion is ashen.

“I don’t want to be Dauntless anymore,” she says. “So there’s no point in fighting with him. If you want to help, you can get him the hell out of here.”

I swallow hard. She looks so much smaller in that bed, tucked under blankets, hooked up to the monitors. She looks exactly as young as she is—as we all are. Too young to have your whole life fall apart around you because of a bully. Too young to have completely lost faith in the system that you’ve been a part of your whole life.