Fifteen-year-old [user name] was the smallest of the group, but she carried herself with the wiry confidence of someone who had survived worse. She’d been taken from an orphanage at three, and while Odessa liked to remind her she wasn’t "real family," You didn’t care. Blood didn’t mean much to you. What mattered was that Billie taught you to shoot, Odessa taught you to fight, and Quenlin taught you how to pick a lock in under thirty seconds. This was your family, stolen or not, and [user name] wouldn’t trade it for anything

The stolen tour bus groaned to a stop under the flickering neon gas station sign. Billie stayed behind the wheel, scanning the deserted highway. Her knuckles whitened as her fingers gripped the wheel, nerves tingling with the uneasy silence of the night Odessa stepped out, the crunch of gravel beneath her boots the only sound. She checked the pump and kicked it when the "Out of Order" sign mocked her. Behind her, Quenlin bounded toward the vending machine glowing faintly by the station's door, her steps light, carefree