Although I was sitting with my arms around George in the dark of the laundry room, I was fighting my own battle to regain control of my body. George had returned to normal, and had started to tremble and sweat as I held him.

"It's going to be alright, mate," I said to him. I wasn't sure if I really believed this, but it seemed like the right thing to say to keep him calm.

My muscles were still thick and firm across my body; in one sense it felt great, euphoric even, but they had to go. I was afraid I might not be able to return myself to normal, that the Pied Piper officers might have to tranquilize me again.

My body trembled as if I were freezing cold, though sweat layered my body, smelling quite pungent in the confines of the laundry room. The overalls felt irritatingly tight all over. If getting coiled up was going to be a regular thing for me, which I hoped it wouldn't, then I would be in need of overalls that could better accommodate the muscle.

Instead of trying to power down all at once I tried instead to power down bit by bit. The idea occurred to me all of a sudden, a true light-bulb moment understanding of how I might be able to return myself back to normal. Bit by bit I willed my body to lose the muscle; no more power, I thought, over and over again. My body in turn responded by doing just that, diminishing the muscles from the coiled up state until I was back to my normal self again.

"Phew," I said, aloud.

There was a building commotion beyond the laundry room door. Lots of boot-steps and Pied Piper officers barking orders at each other and the teenagers that had come to see what all the trouble was about. I couldn't hear much, and for a moment I considered trying to make my hearing better using my power; but then decided against it. Powers were what was getting us into this mess in the first place. Using these powers was something that needed to be taken seriously. George had proved just how out of hand things could get if we lost control.

"George?" I said.

"Yeah?" said George, in a pitiful voice.

"You okay, mate?" I said.

"No," he said.

I stayed silent, staring at the sliver of light peeking out from under the door which led to the hallway; the light flickered with the coming and going of officers preparing to barge in.

"You had another one of your panic attacks?" I said, "And this happened, right?"

"It's my fault," said George.

"You did this on purpose?" I said.

"I just wanted the bad thoughts to stop," he said.

He then broke into tears, sobbing in my arms. His breathing quickened and he repeatedly sniffled. He sobbed the way my mother used to sob back before she and my Dad got divorced; a kind of horrible defeated crying that made my heart feel like it was being wrung out.

There were many times in my childhood I would have torn my own heart out if it meant making my mother feel better. It seemed cruel that I could understand why she was so sad, that I could want her to be happy, yet in some horrible way I felt responsible for her unhappiness; that maybe if I didn't exist then she would have the room she needed to grow and change and live her life to the fullest. My mother loved me to the point I was sure there was no one else in the world she loved more. Somehow that made it worse because small, strange, stupid me didn't know how to handle that kind of responsibility.

George bowed his head and tried to say something but whatever he intended to say was lost among the gibberish brought about by his tears.

The door to the laundry room was kicked in. Light splashed inside and four Pied Piper officers darted inside with machine guns raised.

"Don't move!" one of them shouted, "Hands up!"

George and I did as we were ordered.

"Please don't hurt me!" George begged, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Shut up!" said the officer issuing commands.

George didn't say anymore but he did start to weep with renewed vigor. He was scared and justifiably so.

It was the middle-aged officer who had decided not to shoot through me to get to George. He put his machine gun aside and instead retrieved a handgun holstered at his hip. He looked to the doorway behind him and quickly holstered his gun again.

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I heard the clacking of Abigail's heels before she entered inside. Her eyes were frantic with worry; her gaze in particular was fixed on me. She put her hand to her chest and sighed with relief.

"Burgess," she said, offering her hand to me, "It's okay, come with me."

"What about George?" I said.

"They just have to check him," said Abigail. She shot a look at the officer who had just holstered his gun; the officer kept his gaze on George, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

"He's fine," I said, "George isn't that thing anymore. He's not dangerous."

"We know," said Abigail.

She stepped forward and ushered me to stand up. I did so slowly, keeping an eye on the officer who flashed a quick look at me and then trained his eyes again on George. The other officers in the room continued to keep their machine guns trained on George. Not tranquilizers. Machine guns.

"Let's go," said Abigail.

She tugged on my hand. I resisted it, staying where I was.

"I'm not leaving without George," I said.

"It's okay, Burgess," Abigail said, "Let them do their jobs."

Abigail tugged on my hand some more. I relented, letting her guide me as if I were blind out of the laundry room.

"Crap," said Abigail; she nearly twisted an ankle after slipping on one of the fallen overall packets.

She led me out to the main corridor. I took in the sight of the bullet-ridden kiosk, which seemed like some strange work of modern art now the gunfire had ceased. There were a dozen Pied Piper officers in the corridor; they had cordoned off the area with yellow tape. Mike was standing at the opposite wall; his face was still a shade of red. He looked very fragile.

The corridor at both ends was empty.

"Where is everyone?" I said.

"In the cafeteria," said Abigail, "Until they're told it's safe for them to go back to their blocks."

Abigail looked up at me and put her hand to my cheek.

"Are you okay?" she said.

I froze, not knowing what to say to this sudden concern for my well being.

"I, eh, yeah, I'm fine," I said.

All of a sudden there came a sudden yelling.

"HE'S CHANGING!" the voice yelled. It belonged to a Pied Piper officer.

I turned and looked beyond the kiosk to the doorway and saw several flashes of light and the sound of machine gun fire coming from the laundry room. It lasted several seconds then stopped.

"George!" I yelled, and started to move towards the doorway.

Abigail's hand gripped mine like a vice.

"Burgess, no!" she cried.

I turned back to look at her and her eyes were wide like they had been when she had first entered the laundry room to find George and I.

Everyone in the corridor became very still with their gazes fixed on the doorway which led to the laundry room. I could feel Abigail's hand gripping mine to the point it hurt. I didn't know what to do so I kept my gaze on the doorway like the others.

They shot George?

That was obviously what had just happened. The Pied Piper officers had just shot him. The gunfire had rang out loud and clear. In the wake of the gunfire was a horrible silence which held from one moment to the next. I became aware of my own breathing and the rising and falling of my chest. My heartbeat was accelerating, beating faster and harder until the sound of my heartbeat was strangely meshed with the unbroken silence filling the corridor.

I heard the crinkle of boots on plastic. The Pied Piper officer who had taken out his handgun emerged at the doorway. His inscrutable face fixed on me.

"What happened?" said Abigail.

She stood by my side, her hand still firmly holding mine.

"The boy started to change," said the officer, "We took him out."

I didn't faint. I didn't feel the world spin. I didn't hear a ringing noise in my ears. Everything around me was crushingly normal as if uncaring that George had just been murdered. It felt wrong of me just to stand where I was aware that they had just killed George. My brain tried to make sense of what was happening but all I felt was a blank nothingness.

He's not really dead, is he? I thought.

"Get him out of here," said the officer, gesturing to me before tucking his thumbs into his belt as if he were some cowboy.

"Come on, Burgess," said Abigail, trying her best to be stoic.

I didn't move. I couldn't. I was completely numb. None of this made sense.

"Now, Miss Hoffman," said the officer.

"Burgess!" said Abigail, taking hold of me by the shoulders, "We have to go now. Trust me, please."

I stared down at her. She seemed to know what needed to happen. I forced myself to try and think things through. If they had just shot George – murdered him – then that meant I was in danger too. I was out in the open in the corridor but I couldn't be sure the Pied Piper officers would care much about being seen executing one of us teenagers. I didn't have the luxury of staying where I was to try and understand every last bit of what had happened. Every moment I stood near that black haired officer was another moment he might turn his gun on me next. There was something about the way he was looking at me that told me he would relish doing so.

"Okay," I said to Abigail, and I walked with her to the left side of the corridor. We ducked beneath the yellow tape on our way and continued on.

For a few minutes there was just the warmth of Abigail's hand holding mine, the clomping of her heels filling the corridor, and the white corridors of the third floor leading from one to another.

We reached the checkpoint. Two Pied Piper officers checked our IDs, scanned us both using hand detectors, then let us pass through to the elevator.

"Where are we going?" I said to Abigail once the elevator door dinged and closed.

"To see Dad," she said.