At nine pm, the door to my room slides open again. I stand in the cubicle to be scanned before Reyes escorts me to dinner.

"Don't speak to anyone," he says on the elevator ride down. "Keep to yourself. Don't step out of line."

"Or you'll zap me?" I ask, glancing at the sleek, smart watch on his wrist.

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. His mouth twitches slightly in what looks like amusement. "Don't tempt me, inmate."

I roll my eyes. "I have a name, you know. It's Zoe." When he doesn't respond, I add, "And you are?"

He cocks an eyebrow, as though contemplating whether or not to ignore me. "Aron."

As soon as the doors open, he rests his palm on my lower back and guides me down the hall, stopping us just before we get to the cafeteria. He looks at me, his hand still resting on my back in a way that makes me nervous.

"I mean it when I say stay under the radar," he says. His eyebrows are furrowed, forcing his long lashes to curl into his browbone. "There are people twice the size of you in there. You can't prove to be the strongest, so your best defense is to act the weakest. Maybe a few of them will drop their guard if they think you're an easy kill."

Even though I know he is trying to help me, his words only serve to irritate me. How can I act weak when I have spent my whole life trying to prove I'm not? And Aron isn't just asking me to pretend to be weak. He's asking me to give up my pride; the only thing I have left.

"They can think whatever they want," I say stiffly, stepping away from his hand.

Aron's eyes flash with irritation. "Fine."

He leads me into the cafeteria, where it feels as if every pair of eyes turn to look at me. Whether they're already sat at the tables or still waiting in line, each inmate stops to watch me as I stand in the doorway, their eyes burning holes into my skin.

I force myself to stare back with feigned defiance. They are searching for something to prey on, any kind of weakness, and I'll be damned if I give them one.

Several guards line the back walls, and Aron quietly takes his place amongst them, his gun slung over his shoulder as his eyes sweep the room. They are no doubt under strict instructions not to shoot unless absolutely necessary—there would be no justice in that.

With a deep breath, I grab a tray and join the long line, trying not to make eye contact with any of the inmates. I've seen plenty of prison movies before–albeit this is a strange, luxurious type of prison–and I know what happens when you look at someone the wrong way. Even if I'm not going to pretend to be weak, I still don't want to give anyone cause to target me before the arena.

When I finally get to the end of the line, an old lady in a hair net spoons a mountain of rice onto my plate. Then she grabs a fork and spears a limp looking piece of chicken from off the tray before flinging it on top. I slide my tray down the rail, watching as the oil from the chicken seeps into the rice, turning it a pale yellow.

With a grimace, I move on to the vegetables, spooning as much of them onto my plate as I can before I grab a cup of water and a carton of orange juice and take a seat. There's only one other inmate on the table. He's a skinny man in his early twenties, with blonde, raggedy hair and bright green eyes.

I make sure to sit as far away from him as I can before I examine my food, nudging the piece of chicken with my fork. It doesn't look particularly appetizing, and with the nice rooms we've been given, I was expecting the food to look a little better than what's on my plate. Still, at least I recognize the meat as something. Only lord knows what the gray, rubbery lump I was served in the holding cell was meant to be.

"It tastes better than it looks," the man says in a southern drawl, a wide grin on his face. "I promise."

I lift the fork to my mouth and realize he's not wrong. The rice is a little sloppy from the chicken, but at least the food is edible.

"I'm Billy," he says, sliding his tray down the table toward me. "Nice to meet you."

Even before Aron's warning, I had no intention of talking to anyone here. Why would I torture myself by befriending another inmate I know I am only going to have to kill?

It's easier if I know nothing about the people I'll be fighting in the arena. Not their names, not their backgrounds, not the stories behind the murders they committed. All I need to remember is that they are murderers, and they deserve to be here, even if I don't. But what if this inmate doesn't take too kindly to me ignoring him and he tries to target me in some way before the arena?

"I'm Zoe," I say reluctantly, praying that will be the end of our conversation, but if I've learned one thing in these past two weeks, it's that praying doesn't work.

"So, who'd you kill, Zoe?" Billy wants to know, and I almost choke on my rice.

"I thought that wasn't a very polite thing to ask in prison," I say.

Billy laughs, a deep guffaw that makes my skin crawl. "There ain't no prison etiquette here, darlin'. Don't be shy, now."

I don't want to tell him a thing about my life or the incident that led me here, but with the way he's looking at me with an almost manic expression, I feel as though I have no choice. "I shot someone," I say quietly, my voice barely audible.

There is a brief pause. "Did he deserve it?" Billy asks.

I look up, surprised by his question. "Does anyone deserve to be shot?"

Billy ponders this for a moment before shrugging his shoulders. "Some do," he says, leaning forward. "I killed my neighbor, Benny O'Ryan. He kept going around sayin' things that weren't true to anyone who was dumb enough to listen. So, one day, I told him calmly, I said, 'You keep runnin' your mouth, O'Ryan, and you're gonna find yourself with a belly full of buck shot.'" He leans back in his chair now, waiting for my reaction. "Well, go on," Billy urges, his green eyes alight. "Ask me what happened next."

I swallow hard, wishing I had chosen to sit on any other table but this one. "What happened next?"

Billy slaps his leg with the palm of his hand, a sound that makes me jump. "Why, he got a belly full of buckshot," Billy grins, his face lighting up at the memory. "I'm a man of my word, Miss Zoe."

I keep my eyes focused on my food as I grip the sides of my tray, gearing myself to move away without it looking like I'm disrespecting him, or else what will I find my belly filled with?

"That's good," I say, clearing my throat. "It's good to stick to your word. One second, Billy. I'll be right back." I get up with my tray in tow and move to another table before sitting back down.

"He can be a little erratic," says a deep voice opposite, "but he's all right."

I glance at the man before me, realizing he must have been paying attention to our brief exchange. "I don't think erratic is the word I'd use," I say. "More like crazy."

The man smiles now, revealing a perfect set of pearly white teeth. "We all must be a little crazy, don't you think? To have done the things we've done?"

I'm not, I want to say. I didn't kill someone because I didn't like what they were saying about me. I didn't kill anyone at all, but if I did, if Tristan's kill had been mine, it was to stop someone already committing a crime against us. That's different. That deserves to be recognized in a court of law.

"I'm Kyle," he says, offering me his large hand, and reluctantly, I take it.

I study him for a moment, trying to find some sort of weakness and coming up short. He's like a giant, over six-foot-tall, with jet black hair, olive skin, a strong jawline and muscles that tell me I'm not going to win in a fight against him.

No, there's no point in thinking so negatively. If I want any chance of making it through this thing, I have to believe that I can win this, even if my odds are diabolical. I'm fit, I've been running three miles a day for as long as I can remember, and I know how to defend myself. My dad made sure of that.

"Zoe," I say, and then as if I can feel him watching me, I glance behind me to Aron, who shakes his head once, a quiet warning for me to steer clear of Kyle.

"Don't bother," says Kyle, his own eyes focused on Aron with contempt. "The reapers won't shoot. Not even if you beg."

I try to work out what he means before realizing he must have thought I was contemplating suicide by guard. "I'm not the begging type," I say, picking up my fork. "Besides, what would be the point? We all volunteered for this."

"Old Joe volunteered, too," Kyle says, shoveling down his rice like he's afraid he won't see another meal. "Didn't stop him from slitting his own throat with a shank last week."

I tense slightly, wondering if Old Joe is the inmate I've replaced. "Why do you call them reapers?" I ask, needing to change the subject.

"Grim reapers," Kyle clarifies with a wicked grin.

"Oh," I say, and an uncomfortable silence ensues–at least until another man sits down on our table. He clanks his tray so hard against the table that some of his water spills over the rim of his cup and runs down the table toward me.

Kyle just rolls his eyes, as if this kind of thing is a regular occurrence. "Zoe, this is Shifty. Shifty, Zoe."

I can see why he's named so. He's skinny, with brown, cropped hair, pale skin, and light gray eyes that look everywhere at once. My eyes follow his around the room, scanning each guard, each face, and now that every inmate has collected his or her food, something clicks.

"There's only twenty-three of us," I say, counting again in case I've miscalculated. "Where's the twenty-fourth?"

"Austen Grayer is missing," Shifty says through a mouthful of food. "He ripped his shocker right out of his neck a few days ago and now he's in isolation."

I stare back at him in horror. "He ripped it out?" It hurt like hell to have that thing put into my neck; I can't imagine how it would feel to rip it back out again.

Kyle must notice my horrified expression. "This isn't summer camp, Zoe. I hope you're ready for what the government are about to do to us."

It strikes me as odd that he says what the government are about to do to us. Has he forgotten already that the reason he's here is because he murdered someone? That that's why we're all here?

"They created that outbreak, you know," Shifty says, picking his chicken up with his hands before taking a bite. I try to stop myself from grimacing in revulsion.

"What outbreak?" I ask. Shifty gives me a disapproving look.

"Don't you pay no attention in school, newbie? The outbreak. The one thirty years ago."

I vaguely recall a lesson in history about an illness that spread through America. Not many died from it if I remember correctly, but quite a few developed organ failure as a result.

It came at the worst time, too. The country was going through a government shutdown. People were unhappy, the economy was failing, and without their paychecks, many were struggling to get by.

"Why would the government create an outbreak?" I ask. "If they wanted to kill us, don't you think they'd have picked a disease with a higher death rate?"

Kyle sighs, as if he's heard this theory a thousand times. "Don't get him worked up, Zoe. He'll be talking about it for days."

"They weren't trying to kill us," Shifty says, ignoring Kyle's comment. "They were trying to scare us."

I raise my eyebrows. "Why?"

"Think about it," Shifty says. "They could detect new viruses before they even spread, so how did this virus go so long without them knowing about it? Why wasn't it detected early on?"

Clearly, Shifty is a few cards short of a deck, but I find the way he talks drawing me in, anyway. "It happened years ago," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Their technology wasn't as developed as it is now."

Even though I don't believe a word he's saying, Shifty's mad ramblings are a welcome distraction from my usual somber thoughts. It's been a long time since I have had a conversation that doesn't involve the superficial things I talked about with Darren and Luna, and I'm desperate to get my mind off my imminent death.

"Their technology was developed enough to send people to Mars," Shifty reminds me. "Developed enough to detect other diseases around the same time. Let me ask you something, Zoe. Why do you think the government rushed to pass these new laws straight after the outbreak? They relied on the outbreak to prove their point and push their agenda. Rising numbers on the transplant list, how harvesting criminals would benefit everyone. They pressed the issue that those who had contracted the disease were in desperate need of new organs, but where oh where to get them? Don't you think the set up was a little too perfect? The outbreak was the perfect way to soften the blow."

"Okay," I say, pretending for a minute that what he is saying is true, "but who cares? The Harvest does benefit everyone, so what's your point? We're better off for it."

Shifty's expression darkens in a way that sends nerves to my stomach. "The Harvest might be better than the lethal injection," Shifty agrees, "but if the Harvest had never been introduced, we wouldn't have the Arena of Justice."

I roll my eyes. If there is one thing Mr. Gordon taught us during History, it was that we shouldn't make sweeping statements or generalizations. "You can't possibly know that."

"Oh yeah?" Shifty says. "The reason people started protesting in the first place was because they thought the Harvest was too kind. That's why they came up with the arena."

"Does it matter?" Kyle suddenly growls, and both Shifty and I jump at his sharp, abrupt tone. "Who cares how or why the arena is here? It doesn't change the fact that in a few days' time, we're all heading into an arena that only one of us is walking back out of."

Nausea creeps through me when I realize he's right. We're sitting here arguing about things that don't matter, because only one of us is going to make it back out of this place alive. And if only one of us can make it out alive, that means twenty-three of us here are already dead.

We're just waiting to lie down.