Neither of us spoke as we made our way across camp. As we passed two LTs, one of them knocked into me and I nearly lost my balance. The LT shouted out, “Who’s your boyfriend, Book Worm?”
They laughed. So much for making a good impression on the new guy.
Beneath the arched ceiling of the Quonset hut, a hundred-some bunk beds stretched out in long rows. At the base of each bed was a wooden trunk, storing all our worldly possessions. In my case: books. Dozens of them.
Black T-Shirt stopped, pointing to the very last bunk in the room. “This one taken?” He clambered effortlessly to the top and lay on his back like some Egyptian sarcophagus.
Apparently, the tour was over.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he said.
His words startled me. “Get what?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely to the barracks, the camp itself.
“I get as much as I need to get,” I said, suddenly defensive.
He shook his head. “You have no idea.”
I turned on my heels and stormed out, angry I had ever bothered to help save L-2084’s life in the first place.
I walked to the southwestern edge of camp. Below me lay endless desert; above me a jagged range of mountains. The cemetery itself was soundless. I made my way through a labyrinth of sun-bleached crosses until I found the marker I was searching for.
L-175. Known to us as K2.
A series of eerie images danced through my brain like fireflies.
Giant trees crashing to earth. Startled shouts. A final, haunted expression.
Pounding on a door. Red on white. Blackness darkening the edges of my periphery.
My face grew suddenly clammy. I squeezed my eyes shut and gave my head a violent shake, as if it were that easy to chase away demons.
It didn’t work, of course. Never did.
I opened my eyes to blinding sunlight and reached out a hand to the wooden cross, rubbing my fingertips over its weathered ridges. I tried to speak, but the words got stuck in my throat. Those twin demons, guilt and grief, clamped my mouth shut.
Poor K2.
I noticed a yellow school bus heading up the hill below me, trailing a white plume of choking powder from the gravel road.
I knew who was in it, of course. Orphans. Headed for the nursery, where they’d be raised by surrogates until—one day—they’d become LTs.
There were fewer and fewer buses these days. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. All I knew was that I’d go through the Rite and be long gone before these kids could even read or write.
The bus came up the rise. On its fender were three crudely drawn inverted triangles. Inside the vehicle were row after row of boys, some so young they were held in nurses’ arms. Others slightly older, their faces pressed against the window in a mix of fear and wonder. Years from now they wouldn’t be able to recall their mothers or fathers; what they’d remember was the day they arrived at Camp Liberty … and be grateful it wasn’t someplace worse.
I spun around and returned to camp. Gone for the moment was the shame of my past, the guilt I carried, replaced instead with those mysterious words uttered by Black T-Shirt.
You’ve gotta get me out of here.
6. (#ulink_07752a13-c40b-5e5b-bcea-1f46a63e721a)
ORANGE LIGHT FLUTTERS ON Hope’s face. She pulls a gutted rabbit from the spit and eats every last morsel, sucking the bones clean. As she pokes the embers, thoughts of Faith swirl in her head. It’s been nearly a week since they went their separate ways and Hope knows her sister has no flint. Has she been without fire this entire time?
But it was Faith’s decision to go off on her own. Besides, their father said they should make this choice. The thought of him makes her pat her pocket and feel the small gold locket. Also the crumpled bit of paper with that one word: Separate.
No. I can’t think about it.
What she thinks about instead is the boy with the piercing blue eyes. He’d come traipsing through just a few weeks past, looking for a night’s shelter from the rain. Her father allowed it, on the single condition that he stayed at one end of the cave and his two daughters at the other. Hope remembers how she and Faith stared at him long through the night: his sandy hair, the embers’ dull orange light sculpting his face, the rise and fall of his chest as he slept.
He was the first guy her age she’d ever seen, and she often wonders who he was and where he came from. Wonders if she’ll ever see him again. Or if she’s destined to be by herself her entire life.
She tries to sleep, and when she wakes just a few fitful hours later, Hope knows what she has to do. She douses the fire, packs her belongings, and heads out, her route reversed from the day before—she must find her sister.
Faith is ridiculously easy to track. She might as well have left painted arrows on the ground. Did she learn nothing from their father?
Hope suddenly stops. Something has caught her eye.
She retraces her steps. All around her, spring wildflowers poke through the earth: shimmering royal blue, egg-yolk yellow. And a carpet of miniature blossoms, the petals white as snow.
But one is stained with a single dot of red.
Blood. Fresh blood.
Other drops on blades of grass. Faith is bleeding.
Hope takes off in a jog.
Her father’s message echoes in her brain: Separate. What he failed to understand was that she doesn’t have a choice. Faith is her sister—her twin. As different as they are, there’s no separating them.
Late that afternoon, Hope finally spies Faith from a great distance: a solitary figure wading through waist-high weeds. She zigzags back and forth. Is it delirium that pushes her from side to side? Or loss of blood?
Hope has two options: race straight across the valley or hug the tree line and circle around. Her second option will take longer, but it’s obviously safer. A body walking through a barren meadow is just begging for trouble.
Despite her best instincts, Hope chooses the quicker route. Faith is in trouble. She needs Hope now. Hope begins to run, her heart hammering in her ears.
When she finally reaches her, Faith’s words are accusatory. “What’re you doing here?”
Hope is taken aback. “Coming to find you, what do you think?”
“I don’t need to be found. I’m just fine on my own.”
“You’re bleeding …”
Faith clenches her right hand into a fist, but not before Hope sees the thick slice across her palm. “It’s nothing. Knife slipped.”
“Let me see.”
