“He’s gone,” she says. “You may as well come out.” Just to be safe, she picks up the pitchfork. Her damp palms grip the wooden handle.
The boy eases forward, brushing hay from his arms. He walks with a slight limp.
“Thank you,” he says. “He would’ve killed me.”
“He would’ve killed me,” she responds, not hiding her irritation.
A look of regret sweeps across the boy’s face. “I’m sorry I put you in that—”
“You shouldn’t have. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
“I’m sorry. I just thought—”
“It’s bad enough the other girls want to kill me, now the guards will as well.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
They stand there, facing each other, saying nothing. Separating them is a slice of sunlight, dancing with dust.
“Can I just ask one question and then I’ll get out of your hair?”
She nods curtly.
“What is this place? What’s going on here?”
“Camp Freedom,” she says.
“Why are you here? Why’re there guards and barbed wire? Are you all criminals or orphans or what?”
She doesn’t know how to answer that—not in any brief kind of way.
“Look, I don’t have much time,” he says, “and I know I shouldn’t have bothered you …”
“I’ll say.”
“… and I’m sorry if I’ve gotten you in trouble, but I’m a Less Than from Camp Liberty and—”
“A Less Than?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s what they call us. We’re looking for an escapee and we thought he might’ve come here.”
She gives her head a shake. “Here? Why on earth would someone come here?”
“What I’m really asking is: If someone wanted to get to the next territory, what’s the fastest way?”
For the longest time Hope doesn’t speak. Ever since she and Faith came into camp, they’ve been ignored by everyone. Now, finally, someone is talking to her. Needing something from her. And that someone is this boy, whose honest expression and probing eyes set her heart racing.
“Can you help me or not?” he asks.
That’s when she realizes what she recognizes in him. It’s not like she’s met him before—it’s not like that—but there’s something in his eyes. Kindness. Maybe even warmth. She doesn’t mean to stare, but she can’t look away.
“The Brown Forest,” she blurts out.
“What about it?”
“That’s where you want to go.”
“Where is it? How do we get there?”
Hope leans the pitchfork against the hay bales and wipes a section of floor with her hand. “This is where we are,” she says, hastily sketching a map.
He crouches next to her. She can feel the heat from his body. Smell traces of sweat and musk and woodsmoke. Masculine smells.
“You need to get east of the mountains,” she says, her fingertips tracing the outline of Skeleton Ridge. “Until you hit the Flats.”
“The Flats?”
“A white desert. Cross it and you’ll reach the Brown Forest. Somewhere on the other side of that is the next territory.”
“Have you been to the Brown Forest?”
“Once. A long time ago. My father took us.”
“Is it safe?”
“Safer than here,” she says.
They happen to lock eyes at the same moment, and Hope feels the blood rushing up her neck.
“Thank you,” he says.
She nods. Her breathing is unnaturally shallow.
“I’m Book,” he says, extending a hand.
She hesitates. A long moment passes before she reaches forward. “Hope.”
They shake. His grip is surprisingly strong, and it’s like a jolt of electricity shoots up her arm. She pulls her hand back.
From outside comes the sound of footsteps. Book shoots a glance toward the barn door.
“If we ever escape,” he says, “I promise we’ll come for you.”
“Don’t. Not if you want to live.”
A moment later, the Less Than named Book scrambles down the ladder and out the barn. Long after he’s gone, Hope can still feel the touch of his hand, the heat of his skin. For reasons she doesn’t understand, it’s the first time she’s felt alive since she and Faith were captured.
13. (#ulink_d13f6cd8-c762-5f7d-8ec3-be8bdafd7772)
