Page 87 of The Sixth Fraction

“Four?” she says. “Like the number?”

“Yep. It’s weird, I know. Let’s go.”

I get up, and make a cradle of my hands, the same way Four did for me. She puts her foot into it, wiping her nose with the back of her hand as she does, and I lift her, my arms unsteady.

She grabs the edge of the window and scrambles up the wall, more nimble than I am, and smaller. I watch as she disappears through the gap in the wall, and then stare up at the window frame.

I didn’t think about how I would get out of here.

Smoke is pouring into the room from above. I have to act fast. I grab the bookcase next to the bed and drag it over to the door, letting all the books spill across the floor. Then I climb on top of it and grab the edge of the window frame. I’m going to have to do a pull-up.

Like Carr told me: Every factionless should be able to lift her own weight.

I’m not sure I can. But I have no choice.

I jump, and try to pull myself up. It’s not enough; I get my head over the frame, and then drop down again, my arms aching.

“One more time!” Four calls out. “You can do it.”

“Have you seen me?” I demand, frustrated. “Do I look like someone who can do a pull-up?”

“You’re stronger than you look.”

I’m stronger than I look, I tell myself. I’m stronger than I look. I’m stronger than—

I jump as high as I can, and pull. My head is over the frame. I scream into my teeth, and wrench myself forward, so my chest is right on top of the window frame. Behind me, a wave of heat flares against my back. White-hot pain sears into my shoulder, and I scream again, this time in agony.

I feel like an animal in a trap. Half-feral. Desperate to escape. I kick against the wall beneath me, pushing myself through the gap, not caring that I’ll fall through and land on my head.

Only I don’t.

He catches me, his arm firm around my back. He holds me against his chest, his sternum hard against my cheek. I feel the pounding of his heart. I feel the desperation in his grip. And then I feel a wave of pain in my burned shoulder, and I make an involuntary, pathetic sound.

“All right,” he says. “Should I carry you, or do you want to walk?”

The idea of him carrying me makes something twist in my stomach. I’m desperate to say yes, because saying yes would mean I get to stop and let someone else take over. But I shake my head. My eyes are watering—from the pain, or from the smoke, I’m not sure—as we hurry away from the safe room, back the way we came.

I can barely see; I keep the dark shape of Four in my sights, as well as the smaller figure of Mae jogging beside him. He pauses at a rudimentary map fixed to the wall, IN CASE OF FIRE, USE EMERGENCY STAIRWELL. He navigates us through a complicated series of hallways that take us to the stairwell in question.

My legs are trembling as we descend. The stairs are empty, everyone else already evacuated, and the air gets clearer the lower we go, until there’s no smoke in it at all. Firefighters in Dauntless black pass us on their way up, dragging hoses with them; they barely seem to notice us, and it’s better that way.

We reach the south lobby, and my eyes go right to my father.

He’s standing across the room, next to Jack Kang. He looks just the same as he always has, in his Abnegation grays, but his arm is bandaged, his sleeve cut off at the elbow. He must have gotten burned. And I wonder if parents have a magnetic pull toward their children, because his head turns right as I walk in, and his eyes widen as he looks me over.

He looks older than he did when I left. I know that’s not possible; it’s only been a few weeks. But it feels like years separate us from each other. Decades.

He starts toward me, and I think of him telling the Memory Vault to take my memory.

Heat claws its way up my throat, and I’m not sure if I’m angry or about to burst into tears. So I turn away from him.

I can’t. I’m glad he’s alive, but I can’t face him.

Someone nearby is calling my name. My new name.

“Tris!”

Christina is running toward me, looking frantic. She’s wearing the simple black eye patch the Mender made her instead of the one painted with an elaborate brown eye. She doesn’t look hurt. She moves like she’s going to throw her arms around me, then she seems to think better of it, and puts a hand on my uninjured shoulder.