{"product_id":"alive-isbn-9780553393125","title":"Alive","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • For fans of \u003ci\u003eThe Hunger Games, Divergent, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Red Rising\u003c\/i\u003e comes a gripping sci-fi adventure in which a group of teenagers wake up in a mysterious corridor with no knowledge of who they are or how they got trapped. Their only hope lies with an indomitable young woman who must lead them not only to answers but to survival. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“I open my eyes to darkness. Total darkness. I hear my own breathing, but nothing else. I lift my head . . . it thumps against something solid and unmoving. There is a board right in front of my face. No, not a board . . . a lid.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A teenage girl awakens to find herself trapped in a coffin. She has no idea who she is, where she is, or how she got there. Fighting her way free brings little relief—she discovers only a room lined with caskets and a handful of equally mystified survivors. Beyond their room lies a corridor filled with bones and dust, but no people . . . and no answers.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She knows only one thing about herself—her name, M. Savage, which was engraved on the foot of her coffin—yet she finds herself in charge. She is not the biggest among them, or the boldest, but for some reason the others trust her. Now, if they’re to have any chance, she must get them to trust one another.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Whatever the truth is, she is determined to find it and confront it. If she has to lead, she will make sure they survive. Maybe there’s a way out, a rational explanation, and a fighting chance against the dangers to come. Or maybe a reality they cannot comprehend lies just beyond the next turn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eAlive\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Suspenseful . . . [\u003ci\u003eAlive\u003c\/i\u003e] lives up to its hype, packing plenty of thrills.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Fascinating and intriguing . . . a cross between \u003ci\u003eLord of the Flies\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Maze Runner\u003c\/i\u003e and yet . . . so much more.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Fresh Fiction\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A ripping, claustrophobic thunderbolt of a novel, Scott Sigler’s \u003ci\u003eAlive\u003c\/i\u003e gives us an unforgettable young hero who must find the inner strength to lead without knowing where she is, who she is, and how bitterly the odds are stacked against her.”\u003cb\u003e—Pierce Brown, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eRed Rising\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sigler has created a wonderful and engrossing character in M. Savage. Strong and smart, but with the naïveté and misgivings of any teenage girl, she’s someone you’ll definitely want on your side when s*** hits the fan, which it most certainly does.”\u003cb\u003e—Veronica Belmont, host of \u003ci\u003eSword \u0026amp; Laser\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A tense, unsettling page-turner of a story—both deeply strange and wildly compelling.”\u003cb\u003e—Cherie Priest, author of \u003ci\u003eBoneshaker\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMaplecroft\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “From the first page I was hooked. The puzzle unfolds masterfully, right down to the last page.”\u003cb\u003e—Dr. Phil Plait, author of \u003ci\u003eBad Astronomy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Suspenseful . . . [\u003ci\u003eAlive\u003c\/i\u003e] lives up to its hype, packing plenty of thrills.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Fascinating and intriguing . . . a cross between \u003ci\u003eLord of the Flies\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Maze Runner\u003c\/i\u003e and yet . . . so much more.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Fresh Fiction\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A ripping, claustrophobic thunderbolt of a novel, Scott Sigler’s \u003ci\u003eAlive\u003c\/i\u003e gives us an unforgettable young hero who must find the inner strength to lead without knowing where she is, who she is, and how bitterly the odds are stacked against her.”\u003cb\u003e—Pierce Brown, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eRed Rising\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sigler has created a wonderful and engrossing character in M. Savage. Strong and smart, but with the naïveté and misgivings of any teenage girl, she’s someone you’ll definitely want on your side when s**t hits the fan, which it most certainly does.”\u003cb\u003e—Veronica Belmont, host of \u003ci\u003eSword \u0026amp; Laser\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A tense, unsettling page-turner of a story—both deeply strange and wildly compelling.”\u003cb\u003e—Cherie Priest, author of \u003ci\u003eBoneshaker\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMaplecroft\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “From the first page I was hooked. The puzzle unfolds masterfully, right down to the last page.”\u003cb\u003e—Dr. Phil Plait, Ph.D., author of \u003ci\u003eBad Astronomy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eScott Sigler\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Time\u003c\/i\u003es bestselling author of sixteen novels—including \u003ci\u003eAlive \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Alight\u003c\/i\u003e—six novellas, and dozens of short stories. He is also the co-founder of Empty Set Entertainment, which publishes his YA Galactic Football League series. He lives in San Diego.One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA stabbing pain jolts me awake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt hits quick but deep, a here-then-gone stinging where my neck meets my shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid something bite me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo . . . just a dream. A nightmare, maybe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s not how I should wake up on my birthday. I’m twelve. I can hardly believe it—I’m twelve, I’m not a little kid anymore. I should get to sleep in, I should get to sleep all day. There should be cake, and my friends, and I shouldn’t have to go to school.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSchool.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thought of that place chases away my excitement. I’m so tired. Feels like I’ve never slept at all. If I missed my alarm, I’ll be late for classes again. Mom will kill me. I don’t want to go. At school, the tooth-girls and the circle-stars always make fun of me. And I shouldn’t be teased on my birthday. I hate school, I hate them, I . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA tingling coolness on my neck, right where I felt that sting. Tickling, spreading . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. . . am I bleeding?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI open my eyes to darkness. Total darkness. I hear my own breathing, but nothing else. And . . . and I can’t move. Curved bars, cool and rough, hold my wrists by my sides. I roll my hands, trying to slip free, but the bars are so tight they scrape against my skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mom?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe word sounds too loud, almost a scream. Something is wrong. My voice sounds odd . . . kind of muffled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMom doesn’t answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dad?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pull harder, but it’s not only my wrists that can’t move—something holds my ankles, and my hips are pinned so tight I can’t even turn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis isn’t my bedroom. This isn’t my house. My parents aren’t here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy chest seems to squeeze in, as if it is clamping down on my hammering heart. My body tingles, every ounce of me screaming Get up! Getupgetupgetup!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Is anyone there?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Someone help me. This is . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy breath catches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t know my own name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI thrash and pull, yank desperately at the unforgiving bars holding me down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Someone, help me!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one answers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI scream so hard it tears at my throat. Someone had to hear that. Someone has to come get me, come help me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wait.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lift my head—my forehead clonks against something solid and unmoving. That’s why my voice sounded funny: there is a board right in front of my face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, not a board . . . a lid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePadding beneath me and at my sides.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am in . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. . . oh no, oh no . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. . . am I in a coffin?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Help! Somebody get me out of here!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pain that woke me plunges into my neck again, a sting so deep it locks me up, all tight-eyed and rigid and frozen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am trapped in the dark and something is biting me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(If you run, your enemy will hunt you. Kill your enemy, and you are forever free.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat thought seems familiar, a memory that stuck. Rage blossoms, gives me the focus to move despite my agony, gives me the strength to try harder. I pull and push, lift and twist. I focus all my strength on my right hand—pull, dammit—the skin of my wrist tears against the rough material, but I have to get out. . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePull, push, twist, yank, harder and harder until my coffin rattles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI feel the bar crack. I can move my right hand more. Only a little, but I can move it more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sting slides deeper into my neck, and I cry out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one came before, no one will come now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill it hit a lung? Pierce my heart?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill I die?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI jerk so hard the bones in my wrists grind against the bars holding them down. I hear another small crack, then another—my right hand flies free.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slide my fingers up my body to my neck, blindly grab at the thing slicing into me. My hand locks down on wetness, slickness, a cold snake that moves and wiggles. It’s trying to slither away, but I have it and I won’t let go. I yank it to my mouth and bite down, taste something horrid, crush my teeth together so hard my jaw hurts. I thrash my head, I bite harder—something inside of it crunches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt falls limp in my hand and mouth. I fling it aside, then spit, trying to get that vile taste off my tongue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRight hand to left wrist. I grab the restraint. Its surface crumbles at my touch, powder falling away to reveal pitted hardness beneath. Right hand yanking, left fist lifting, the cracking sound comes quickly and my left hand is free.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoth hands grab the bar that curves across my waist. I attack it, push-pull-push-pull-push-pull, making the whole coffin shake around me. The bar breaks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow for my feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe lid is so close to my face and chest that my hands can reach down only to my thighs. I’m wearing some kind of short skirt? I must reach farther, must keep trying. I have to get out, whatever it takes. I twist to my right hip, use the ankle restraints as resistance to wiggle my body lower, reach down with my left hand. My shoulder and face drag against the coffin’s smooth lid, pulling at my cheek and nose and closed eye, but even then my fingers barely touch my knees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI must pull harder, harder, I must keep fighting, must get out of the darkness. If I can’t reach my feet, I will die here alone and screaming and—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—my fingertip brushes the rough bars pinning my ankles. So close, just a little farther. Contorted muscles and twisted bones vibrate with pain as I wedge in even tighter, but finally my left hand grips a bar. Grab and shake and yank, must get loose . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCrack, crack—both feet come free.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slide up the coffin until I am again flat on my back. I press my palms against the lid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI push: it doesn’t budge. I’m not strong enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThink. think. You have to get out. . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI need to use my arms and my legs, use all of me. . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI twist and turn until I’m lying on my stomach. There isn’t enough room to get all the way to my hands and knees, but I push down as hard as I can while I arch my back against the lid. Sweat drips into my eyes. Sweat and maybe blood. I press until my back screams . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. . . something in the lid snaps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA sliver of blinding light hits the bed of my coffin, so bright it burns to look at it. I close my eyes and push even harder. I feel the lid lift, just a little, enough for me to slide my knees all the way beneath me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(Attack, attack, when in doubt, always attack, never let your enemy recover.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI take a breath, focus, and shove upward with everything I have left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe shuddering complaint of something bending and tearing. At the end of the fight, the strong lid breaks like a brittle shell—I am up and out and standing . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e. . . and falling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI land hard, kicking up a thick cloud of something powdery. My heaving lungs suck it in. The floor spins and whirls beneath me, and there is light everywhere, so bright it stings even through clenched eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLying on my side, I blink, trying to see. I cough, trying to breathe. I wait for my eyes to adjust, hoping they do before whoever locked me in the coffin comes to put me back inside once again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe light blinds me, makes my eyes water. Grainy dust on my tongue, coating my raw throat, so deep in my lungs it makes me cough again and again. The noise might bring the people who did this to me, but I can’t stop. I can’t see, I’m too weak to move.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am helpless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe coughing fit eases. My body relaxes enough for me to sit up. I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms tight around my legs. I rub my wrists; the rough bars ripped my skin raw.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy coffin was warm. I broke it open, hatched from it, and now I’m in this cold room. I’m shivering. I’m out, yes, but alone, exhausted and terrified.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere are my mom and dad? Why aren’t they here? Where is here, anyway?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI smell things I don’t fully recognize. Dry odors, stale scents. This place smells . . . dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe light still stings, but not as much. I can finally see a little.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGray. The dust is gray. It blankets everything, hangs in the air, floating specks that spin with my every breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy neck throbs where that thing bit me. I reach for the spot. A shirt. I’m wearing a shirt, and a tie. I slide my hand inside the collar, feel the wound . . . my fingers come away with a pasty mix of dust and blood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI look at what I’m wearing: white button-down shirt, the short skirt—which is red and black plaid—black socks that end a bit below my knee, no shoes. My shirt feels tight. The sleeves end halfway between my elbow and wrist. The tie is red, embroidered with a yellow and black circle of tiny images. White thread in the middle of that circle spells a word: MICTLAN.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have no idea what that means. And these clothes . . . are they mine?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy vision is blurry; I can’t see anything but my coffin. Sitting on the dusty floor, I’m too low to look inside it. The lid split evenly down the middle, from top to bottom. The half closest to me slid neatly against the side. The far half sticks straight up. Maybe I broke that half, bent something so it can’t move like it’s supposed to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eParts of the lid gleam under the lights—bloody finger streaks, I realize, from where I grabbed it, wiping away the thin layer of dust that clings to the surface.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy won’t someone come and help me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thing that bit my neck . . . what if it’s still alive? What if it’s in the coffin, coiling, getting ready to slither out and attack me again? I don’t want to look inside, but no one else is here and I need to know it’s dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I don’t, it could hunt me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI reach for the coffin’s edge, use it to pull myself up. My legs don’t want to work. They tremble and twitch as I rise and look inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhite fabric, torn in many places, smeared with long streaks of wet red and a few light spots of powdery crimson. Loose padding shows beneath the rips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA bloody, white pillow. Next to it, a limp, white snake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, not a snake: a tube.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA tube that ends in a long, glistening needle. Its white skin is torn where I bit it, showing some kind of black fibers beneath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI watch the tube for a little while. It doesn’t move. It’s dead, because I killed it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pick up a piece of the bar that held my waist. The surface is deeply pitted, crumbly with that crimson powder . . . rust, maybe? Rust that ate away much of the metal, making the bar thin and brittle. Had it been solid, there is no way I could have broken free.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy eyes aren’t stinging anymore. They’ve stopped watering. I can see the rest of the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere are eleven more coffins. Two parallel rows of six, lined up end to end. A wide aisle filled with a flat sea of untouched gray separates the rows. The thick dust coats the coffins, makes hard edges look like soft curves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was in the last one in the left-hand row. I can see it clearly now, see all the detail. It is decorated with intricate carvings: cartoonish people with big noses and huge, wild headdresses; squat pyramids with lots of steps; simple versions of the sun; big cats with exaggerated eyes and tooth-filled snarls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis room is long and narrow, like it was made specifically to hold these coffins. It doesn’t seem that bright in here now that my eyes have gotten used to it—the arched ceiling has only a few lights that work, barely enough to illuminate stone walls that are covered with gray-coated carvings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the far end of the room, I see an archway. In that archway . . . doors, maybe? They look heavy and solid, but I don’t see any handles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething at the foot of my coffin catches my eye. A flat area, about the size of my hand, surrounded by dozens of small bumps, all of it hazed in puffy gray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI reach out, trembling, and brush dust from one of the small shapes. It’s a jewel: deep orange, glowing like frozen fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wipe clear the flat area. It’s engraved with seven letters and one period.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eM. Savage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs that my name?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hear something. A small sound. Very quiet, very faint. It makes me think of being trapped in the dark, and then I realize why.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a girl’s scream, coming from inside another coffin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy wobbly legs still can’t quite support me. I lean on the coffins to stay on my feet, stumble my way toward the scream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach step kicks up a small cloud of dust, as if I am the first person ever to set foot here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe noisy coffin is halfway up the left-hand row. As I get closer, I can make out faint words coming from within.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Help me! Mommy, get me out of here!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI put my hand on the dust-caked lid. I feel tiny vibrations: the girl inside is struggling. I think of that long, bloody needle jutting from the white tube.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith big swipes, I brush the dust from her coffin, accidentally creating a brief fog. The polished carvings gleam under the lights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI rap my knuckles on the lid; her screaming stops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Calm down,” I say. “I’ll try and get you out.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is a pause. Then she speaks, the coffin cutting the volume of her words but not the desperation they carry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who are you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho am I? No idea. Somehow, I don’t think telling her I’m Savage is going to make her less afraid. I don’t even have a first name, only an initial, but maybe that will work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My name is Em. What’s yours?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I . . . I don’t know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA feeling of relief explodes inside of me, so intense I almost fall down again: I’m not the only one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have to get this girl out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are there bars holding you down?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Something is,” she says. “I don’t know what, I can’t see anything. I can’t move. It’s so dark in here, please help me!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I told you to stay calm.” My voice echoes off the stone walls, and I hear how harsh it sounds. She’s afraid, she’s trapped; yelling at her isn’t going to help.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s okay,” I say in a softer tone. “Listen, you have to break those bars.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Break them?” Her voice cracks. “I tried, they’re too thick!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Try harder. I broke mine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother pause. I listen to her grunting and struggling, then hear the raw terror carried on her words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I can’t break them, I told you I’m not strong enough. Get me out, please get me out!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slap the lid, hard.#1 New York Times bestselling author of Alight; No rules. No law. No chance.","brand":"Del Rey","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300633465061,"sku":"NP9780553393125","price":14.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553393125.jpg?v=1767721253","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/alive-isbn-9780553393125","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}