As soon as the judge slams down her gavel, Benson takes me by the arms and guides me out of my seat, pulling me back down the aisle. I jerk my head toward my family, desperate to see them one last time, to etch their faces into the folds of my memory, because soon, that's all they're going to be to me and me to them.

A memory.

"I love you," I say, my voice coming out in frantic gasps. I dig my feet into the marble floor, desperate to slow down the process of Benson dragging me out of the courtroom and away from my family forever. "I love you."

The last thing I hear before I'm pushed through the door is Tristan whispering I'm sorry in Spanish.

I close my eyes for the rest of the journey, refusing to think about what'll happen next. Instead, I focus on quietly humming to myself, allowing the rocking of the truck to calm my jumbled nerves.

Humming has always been my favorite defense mechanism; when I hum, it's like the melody creates a barrier in my head, separating my mind from the thoughts trying to break their way in.

It started when I was young, when I used to hear the raised voices of my parents through the paper-thin walls of our two-bedroom house in New Mexico. The shrill screams of my mother, the bellowing voice of my father, the occasional sound of plates breaking or glass shattering, and then eventually silence–the worst sound of all.

My mother claims my father is the only man she's ever loved and the only man she's ever hated, though I've never understood why they loved each other at all. It wasn't just that they had nothing in common, which they didn't, it was that they seemed to bring out the absolute worst in each other.

My mother is argumentative by nature, but she was borderline intolerable around my father. My father was a drunk and a serial cheat, something my mother would conveniently turn a blind eye to, at least until the evidence became impossible to ignore.

But even though my mother insisted she loved him and he her, I never saw the evidence of it. Unless this is what love really is: a cycle of breaking up and making up and feeling as if the world is ending in between.

During the worst arguments, I'd lean against the wall with my brother bundled in my arms and hum. No particular melody, just a random concoction of sounds that kept us distracted from the war downstairs. It has the same effect now, untwisting the knots in my stomach and slowing my still-thumping heart. I manage to sit like that until the truck rolls to a slow and steady stop.

The doors slide open and a rush of warm, sticky air funnels into the truck. There is only a single guard waiting to get me out, which means Benson and Peterson must have sent me to the arena alone. For a moment, I'm angry at myself for not having tried to escape. It would have been impossible, anyway. The trucks are autonomous and can only be opened from the outside, requiring the fingerprint of a guard to do it.

I carefully study the man before me, trying to predict what kind of guard he's going to be. He is two or three years older than me, and tall, with brown skin, black, curly hair and eyes so brown they're almost black. It is these eyes that capture my attention more than anything. He has the same eyes as my brother; the kind that are impossible to read.

It's a skill achieved only by mastering the art of repression, and seeing my brother's eyes in his, knowing Tristan was forced to suppress himself in order to avoid my father's wrath, makes me wonder whose wrath this guard was trying to avoid.

I push myself onto my knees, shielding my eyes to block out the glare of the sun. The guard moves slightly, the metal name badge attached to his uniform catching in the light. His last name is Reyes.

"Get out of the truck," he says. His voice is low and authoritative, but there is a strange warmth to it I didn't expect to find.

Still, I stay in the truck like a new kitten afraid to leave its carrier, briefly wondering whether or not it's worth trying to escape. There seems to be just one guard to get me out, and if I land a good, strategic kick to the groin, maybe I can make a run for it. It's not like they can punish me for it. No matter what I do from here on out, my chance of surviving is slim.

"Before I drag you out," Reyes warns.

Reluctantly, I crawl to the edge of the truck, where he picks me up and gently places me on my feet. Now that I'm standing before him, I can see just how tall he really is. At least six-foot three, and built like an action figure: broad, muscular shoulders, biceps that threaten to rip the hems of his sleeves–there would be no escaping a man of this size, even if I wanted to.

Behind him sits the large, white colosseum where the gladiator matches are held. It's a large, lavish structure that can hold up to sixteen thousand people and mirrors the gladiator colosseums they once used in ancient Rome. I hear it's a famous tourist attraction for those with enough money, and people from all over the world flock to take pictures of its grandeur. Slowly, I glance over my right shoulder to see a tall, barbed wire fence topped with razor sharp coils. Beyond the fence, nothing but crop fields as far as the eye can see.

"Don't even think about it, honey. Not unless you want to be barbequed."

It's not Reyes who speaks. I know because his voice is naturally deep, and when he speaks, each word seems to rumble with an unspoken confidence. The voice that speaks is scratchy and worn, as if the man it belongs to has spent half of his life screaming at the top of his lungs.

I turn to face the owner of it, my eyes skimming him from head to toe. He reminds me of a snake—yellowish, deep set eyes and a thin, wide mouth. His name badge reads Wyatt.

"Let's go," Reyes says.

Reluctantly, I follow him toward the colosseum while Snake brings up the rear. "Orange looks good on you," Snake says, his thick, southern accent like nails on a chalkboard. I have to grit my teeth to stop myself from saying something he might make me regret.

We get to a set of white doors and Reyes stops to rest his finger on the security pad. The door slides open and fluorescent lights flicker on, forcing me to squint as I'm led down a narrow hallway lined with several gray doors. We only make it halfway before Reyes stops at a door to our left, presses his finger to the pad beside it, and pushes me inside.

The room is small, with plain white walls and the same gray floor as the hallway outside. A table sits in the middle with two plastic chairs, one already occupied by a balding man with wire-rimmed glasses and the other no doubt reserved for me.

Reyes maneuvers me into the chair before taking off the handcuffs attached to his belt. He loops one end to the metal leg of the table, which looks to be wielded to the floor, and the other end to my handcuffs. I can't help but wonder why he is bothering with the extra security. It's not like I have anywhere to run to.

"Is this really necessary?" I ask.

Reyes responds by tightening the cuffs, a wicked gleam in his eye.

I clench my jaw, turning my attention to the man sitting before me.

"My name is Doctor Litchfield," he says in an unaccented voice, which tells me he's not from around here. "First, let's take a quick look at your medical history."

He pulls a Smartbook from the briefcase by his feet, opening up my holographic medical map. "No diseases or ongoing ailments," he says, his hands strategically skimming the air. He spreads his fingers to maximize a certain document before flicking it away and highlighting something else. When he's satisfied there's nothing wrong with me, he puts the pad down and gives me a pleasant smile. "All right, Miss Gomez. I'm just going to insert a small device into the back of your neck."

I try to jump up, forgetting I'm chained to the table. "What device?" I demand to know, looking from the doctor, to Reyes, and back to the doctor again.

"Well." He picks up his briefcase before laying it flat on the table between us. "It's for security purposes. It will be controlled by a button on each of the guards' watches." He flicks open the briefcase and picks up an item, though my view is obscured by the briefcase's lid. "It's designed to administer an electric shock when you misbehave."

I laugh, because surely he's joking, but as he clicks down his briefcase, I catch a glimpse of the object in his hand–a shiny, metal scalpel.

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