“Shh.” Atlas puts a finger to his lips, then lets out a low whistle.
“What—”
A higher-pitched whistle—one I might have mistaken for a bird if not for Atlas’s own call into the dark—answers. The two-toned melody is coming from somewhere down the fence line to the right.
“This way,” Atlas whispers, and we run again.
The snap of twigs explodes like fireworks. Each branch I bump rustles louder than a siren. I put a hand on my side and lean over trying to ease the cramping as I half run, half limp behind Atlas.
The two-toned whistle calls again—this time it’s much closer.
When we hear it again, it sounds as if we are right on top of the whistler.
“There!”
I skirt around an enormous pine and follow Atlas. It isn’t until I’m almost standing next to it that I see the thick black rope ladder dangling over the fence from up above.
“Jim and Elise are waiting for us on the other side. You go first.”
There’s no time to ask who Jim and Elise are before Atlas shoves the barrel of the gun in the waistband of his jeans. He grabs the rope to steady it as I reach up, grab the sides of the ladder, and climb.
The thick, rough rope grates against my raw, bloody hands, but I will myself upward away from the predators who are crashing through the brush and trees somewhere behind us.
When I near the top, I feel Atlas climb on the ladder below. Carefully, I ease my leg between the sharpened slats at the top of the fence. Wide-beam flashlights dance through the trees to my right as I feel with my foot for the next hemp rung.
I glance down. A man dressed in all black grabs the ladder and holds it still. “Hurry!” he urges as I start my downward climb.
Foot.
Foot.
Hand.
Hand.
I ignore the lights bounding in the darkness as the Instructors search, but I can’t tune out the voices.
“Have you found anything yet?”
“Search the fence line! They can’t be far.”
Not yet, I think, stepping off the rope ladder onto the ground on the other side of the boundary for the Great American Farm.
I jerk as a woman slips out of the shadows on this side of the fence and heads for a rope hanging from a nearby tree.
“She’s with us,” the man in black assures me as lights move through the darkness on the other side of the barrier.
Branches snap.
We have to hurry, I think as Atlas swings over the top of the fence and starts his climb down. When he is a few feet from the ground, he jumps to the dirt with a loud thud.
“I heard something. Over there!”
“I think I see them!”
“Go through the trees that way.” The man in black points to our right. “Look for the flashing light.”
Atlas steps beside me. “What about you, Jim?”
“We need to remove the ladder so they don’t know where you crossed,” Jim says. “Once Elise is done, we’ll clear out. Now, get going.”
The familiar two-note whistle rings from above as Atlas puts a hand on my shoulder and nods.
We leave Jim and the woman to erase signs of our escape and head through the trees—both of us listening to the sounds of the night—for shouts that will tell us if Jim and Elise have been captured or our rope has been discovered. But there are no gunshots. No screams or voices calling for others to give chase. Just our ragged breathing and the crunch of leaves and dirt under our feet. Then finally I see it—a flashing blue light to our right on an incline between two pines.
Atlas starts running. I can’t. Despite the fear and desperation that have propelled me forward, I can’t get my legs to do more than shuffle. I am too sore. Too tired. Too weak. When Atlas realizes I’m not beside him, he starts back to help, but I shake my head and wave at him to keep going. Maybe it is stupid, but I want—I need—to make this walk by myself.
I pull the black bag tight against my chest and limp toward the light. Something cold and dark settles into my chest by the time I reach the top of the incline and spot the two cars parked on the edge of a paved, narrow road.
Hands help me ease into the perfectly air-conditioned beige back seat of an old silver sedan. Atlas slides next to me. He speaks my name. He asks if I am okay, but I can’t seem to answer.
The older woman behind the wheel starts the engine. She keeps the headlights turned off when she pulls onto the road. It isn’t until several minutes later, when she turns her headlights on, that I am certain there is no one giving chase. Numbly, I lean my head against the cool glass and stare into the darkness, picturing Isaac and all the others held against their will who I am leaving behind, knowing no matter what I do there is no way to save them all.
Four days.
It was just over four days ago that I walked down the streets of Chicago with Atlas certain that the plan I’d helped create was the only way to help find Isaac—to bring Atlas’s father back—to return truth to those who didn’t understand they were being lied to. Four days since I stood in that alley and pushed aside the fear because I was convinced what I was doing was right. That Atlas would find and break me out of the Unity Center long before the battery on the GPS recorder expired.
When I handed him the device, there was less than an hour of guaranteed power left.
Now, as I step into the shower of a stranger’s house and watch the dirt and horror of my time at the Great American Farm wash down the drain, I know I should feel relieved to be free. I don’t. How can I, now that I have seen people trapped in a nightmare that the country believes is part of the American dream?
The soap stings each scrape and cut even as the near-scalding water soothes my weeping muscles. I’m not sure how long I stand under the hot spray. Long enough for the red-and-gray-streaked soapy water circling the drain to run clear. Long enough to prompt the woman who owns the house—a lady named Mrs. Acosta—to knock and ask if I need her to bring different clothes.
“I can get you others if those don’t fit.”
Since she can hear the water running, I understand she isn’t asking about the clothes. While Mrs. Acosta is at least forty years older than me, we are close to the same size. This isn’t about what I will wear. She is asking if I am okay.
“These should be fine,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
If I need anything . . .
Well, right now I need a lot of things.
I need to scream until I am hoarse and can’t scream anymore.
I need the blood to come out from under my nails. I need to feel sorry that I killed Wallace, so I know I’m not like him. That I’m not like any of them.
Only I’m not sorry, I think as I step out of the shower. I will never be sorry. So, what does that say about me?
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t let Atlas hold me as I cried once I knew we weren’t being chased or why I pretended to sleep as the car traveled two hours down the highway to the house with the cheerful white and red country kitchen that smells of freshly baked bread. Or maybe it’s because when he sees me, I know he can’t help but think of his father—whom I failed to find. I know so much more now than I did when I stepped out of that alley, but I still don’t have the answer Atlas most needs to hear.
Atlas and Mrs. Acosta turn to stare at me as I stand barefoot in the light at the kitchen’s threshold, clutching the black bag I brought out of the farm. The shock and anger on Atlas’s face as he comes out of his seat makes me cringe and the pity I see in Mrs. Acosta’s rich brown eyes makes me want to cry. While the washed-out blue sweatpants and a tight black T-shirt are long enough to conceal the damage from the beating I took, there is no hiding the long gash and sickly yellow and green bruising on my right cheek or the Band-Aids haphazardly covering the gaping wound in my ear.
“Where are Jim and Elise?” I ask, breaking the silence when I realize the two who helped us scale the fence to freedom have yet to arr
ive. “Did they—”
“They retrieved the ladder and got away just fine.” Mrs. Acosta pushes back her chair and crosses to the stove. “They checked in an hour ago to make sure you arrived safely. Have a seat. I’ll bring you something to eat. Atlas here said you aren’t a vegetarian so I made chicken soup. It’s after midnight, but I thought you could use a little home-cooked comfort after tonight.”
I take the seat next to Atlas so I don’t have to meet his eyes while the compact Mrs. Acosta brings two large steaming bowls to the table. It’s when she returns with a basket of bread and places it in the center of the table that I notice the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. There are blue and yellow flowers, which seem to be sitting on a decorative vase. But to my eyes the vase and the flower stems form something very different.
“You’re a Steward. That’s why you’re helping me.”
Mrs. Acosta wipes her hands on her trim white shorts and shakes her head. “I’d help you whether I was or not, but the Stewards are why they knew to send you here. Now eat up before it gets cold. I’m going to check to see about your train to the next stop.”
“Train?” I ask, looking at Atlas. “What happened to your car?” I assumed this was where Atlas left it.
“Since I was planning to break you out of Marshal custody, driving myself wasn’t an option,” Atlas says.
“He could have gotten here without any problem,” Mrs. Acosta explains. “But there would be records of his road transponder’s toll payments. That wouldn’t be a big deal coming, but . . .”
“If I got out the Marshals would search that information for anyone who traveled to the area from Chicago and use it to find the car on the way back.”
Mrs. Acosta nods. It was like the transit cards in Chicago. Any unusual travel would send up a red flag. The government is watching.
I turn back to Atlas. “Then how did you get here so quickly?”
“A friend goes to Dixon several times a year to visit family. She was able to get me that far. While we were en route, Dewey reached out to some relocated Stewards along this train line.”
“We typically relocate books or people out of Chicago. One-way tickets,” Mrs. Acosta explains. “This is the first time in years anyone has ever taken a return trip. That’s enough to give a lot of us hope to keep up the fight. Now you dig in before it gets cold.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask as she heads for the door.
Mrs. Acosta turns and shakes her cap of dark brown hair. “I ate before you arrived. If I stay around I’ll be tempted to eat again. I’m not young like the two of you. I won’t get to sleep if I eat this late at night.”
She disappears, leaving Atlas and me alone with the ticking of the kitchen clock. The time is 12:39. Neither of us speaks. I think of the things I failed to do—the man Atlas saw me kill. I did it because he was going to shoot Atlas, but I would have done it anyway given the chance. Even in the darkness he had to have seen the satisfaction on my face of watching Wallace drown in his own blood.
I pick up my spoon and swirl it in the soup that under the bits of fragrant green herbs is filled with hunks of chicken, carrots, and spiraled noodles, looking for the words that will break the taut, uncomfortable silence between us.
“Thank you,” I say as he mumbles, “I’m sorry.”
We glance up at each other.
“What are you sorry for?” I ask. “You found me. If you hadn’t gotten over that fence . . .” I wouldn’t be in this kitchen. I wouldn’t have smuggled pictures out of the farm. If Atlas hadn’t come when he did, the government would have those images and I would be dead right now.
Atlas runs a hand over the back of his neck and shakes his head. “I should have gotten you out of the Unity Center before the trucks ever left the city. It’s my fault you got hurt.”
“No!” I drop my spoon as the simmering rage that has been building since the Marshals captured me flares to life. Soup splashes over the bowl onto the polished wood table. “You don’t get to do that! None of what has happened is your fault. I made a choice. Me! You don’t get to take that on you. That place . . .”
I think of the barcodes—the cages—the woman singing the song, looking for hope in the dark—the oath—
“Everything I saw and went through was about taking away choices. I decided the truth is important enough to fight for. I chose to let myself be captured. Those choices might have sucked, but they belong to me!”
I wait for him to shout back. To glower or storm out of the room. Instead, Atlas takes my hand as I reach for my spoon. He waits until I stop trying to tug it free, then turns my hand over. He runs a finger lightly along each scratch and scrape of my abused palm, then lifts my hand to his lips. The ice-cold rage I’ve used as a shield shatters at the brush of his warm mouth against my jagged skin and the words I’ve been needing—hating—to admit break free.
“I didn’t find him,” I say, looking down at the steaming bowl on the table in front of me. “Your father. I looked for him in the cages at the Unity Center, I tried, but after—” Tears thicken my throat as I ignore Atlas telling me I have nothing to be sorry for and keep going. I have to get it out or I’m not sure I can look at him again. “I barely thought about him after they loaded me into the truck. I wanted to. I promise I did. I thought when I was put into the transport that I could find him and Isaac, but after I was told Isaac was dead . . .”
“Isaac is dead?”
“No,” I say. “He isn’t . . . wasn’t . . . Liz thought he was and . . .”
I shake my head and pick up one of the tall glasses of milk Mrs. Acosta left on the table. And even though I’ve never been wild about milk when it wasn’t used to dip cookies, I’m grateful for the way it coats my raw throat and settles me enough to catch my breath. “It’s hard to talk about.”
“You don’t have to right now.”
“Yes, I do,” I say. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to go back there, but Isaac risked his own life to save mine. He is waiting—counting—on me to be brave. “Did you download the GPS recorder images?”
He reaches into a bag on the chair beside him, pulls out a screen, and sets it on the table. “It finished just before you came into the kitchen.”
My stomach turns. “Have you looked at the pictures?”
Atlas shakes his head. “I was waiting for you.”
“You need to see them. So does Mrs. Acosta. Everyone needs to know what is happening.”
Atlas places the spoon in my hand and says, “You eat. I’ll get Mrs. Acosta. When you’re ready, we’ll look at them together.”
He pushes back from the table and heads out, and I look down at the bowl in front of me and swirl the soup with my spoon. It takes only one mouthful to realize how hollowed-out my stomach feels. I almost whimper as the warm broth runs down my throat. Until this very moment, it never made sense why everyone seemed to think chicken soup was the only thing a person should eat when they felt sick. The flavorful soup is familiar and comforting and warms a part of me that the heat of the summer sun in the fields could never touch. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten much in days, but I shovel bites of chicken and noodles and vegetables in with the single-mindedness of a general preparing for battle. I contemplate licking the bottom of the bowl, but instead use a hunk of crusty bread to mop up the last of the liquid. I’m finished with both the bread and soup when Atlas and Mrs. Acosta, who has changed into a mint-green terry-cloth robe and matching slippers, step back into the kitchen.
“Atlas says you have something the Stewards on this route need to hear.”
Slowly, I reach for the tablet where Atlas downloaded the images I captured and click the power button. The screen flares to life and I take a deep breath. “I am not sure how good these pictures will be, but this is what I saw.”
Twenty
REVOLUTION—(n.) The action by a celestial body of going around in an orbit or elliptical course; the period made by the regular succession of a measure of time o
r by a succession of similar events; a motion of any figure about a center or axis
Up until a few weeks ago, I only heard the word “revolution” used when someone was talking about a bicycle wheel or the planets’ movement around the sun. Then I sat in my kitchen the day after meeting Atlas with the history textbook Dewey gave me. That’s when I saw the word in a context I didn’t recognize. I looked up the word in the battered Merriam-Webster collegiate dictionary I am certain Dewey never thought I would use and found the definition that our country was created with. It was the meaning of “revolution” our government no longer wanted anyone to know.
REVOLUTION—(n.) An overthrow or repudiation and the replacement of an established government or political system by the people governed
Not just finding a way to get the truth out to the country, but offering a way forward and convincing everyone that it will be better.
A combination of excitement and dread swirls in me as I climb into the back of the emergency plumbing van waiting outside Mrs. Acosta’s house. People need to understand what has been taken . . . the unknown sacrifices for the safety they think they have gained. I had thought like my mother and Atticus and Dewey had before me—that if we could just get the truth out to the country, it would change others the way it had me. That the truth had so much power that once it was set free, the rest of us could step back. But there is no stepping back anymore. If the truth is to spark a revolution, it cannot do it on its own. It needs people to lead.
I look down at the book Mrs. Acosta handed me when we walked out of the house. “You should take this. It was one of my husband’s favorites,” she said as she pressed the book into my hands.
American Revolutions.
“I think you’ll find the people here had the same problems you’re trying to solve now. No one is ever chosen to start a revolution,” she says, gently placing a hand on my shoulder. “Revolutions begin because people step up, marshaling their resources and doing what needs to be done.”
Our driver, Craig, looks at Atlas and me settled on the floor between large tool chests and lengths of long white pipes and asks, “Ready?”
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