Skelley Chase must notice my hesitance because he raises an eyebrow. “Completely open, Parvin.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name. It comes out like an order—something an impersonal father might say to his daughter after giving her a lashing. I fold my arms. “I’ll be as open as I want.”
He slides a thin, electronic gadget across the table. “Let’s get started then.”
It looks like a cross between a camera and a book with a tiny coin-sized button on the side.
“What’s that?”
“My sentra.”
I lean closer. “What’s a sentra?”
He stares at me for a moment. A sigh precedes his dull-voiced explanation. “It records a snapshot of your emotions. The button on the side takes the emotigraph. You’ll be pressing that button often. Readers thrive off emotigraphs; they draw them into the plight of the character—you, in this instance. The more your readers connect, the more they remember you.”
“Woah.” Things like this exist? I understand cameras taking pictures of scenes and people, but pictures of emotions? I want one. “There aren’t any emotigraphs in the biographies you write, though.”
“Not in the paper copies. All Upper and High Cities use X-books.”
I bite my lip, not wanting to continue my naivety, but craving answers. “I’ve seen mention of X-books in The Daily Hemisphere. What are they?”
Skelley Chase sets aside his empty cappuccino cup and blinks once. “Really, Parvin? Your hobby is reading the news. I would have thought you’d understand a little more of the higher life.”
I clench my fists. “Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t born with your Numbers, Mr. High-City. I would have thought that, with your profession, you’d learn a bit more tact within other cultures.”
We sit in silence for a moment. How dare he blame me for not knowing about High-City life? It’s not my fault the school refused to teach me further because of my low Numbers. How can he still see me as lowlife trash after he’s read my story?
Skelley Chase’s bored warble interrupts my seething. “An X-book is an experience-book. They’ve been replacing E-books for the past seven years since the release and success of emotigraphs. Your biography will be an X-book, which means that every time you feel a twinge of emotion—good or bad—I want you to press this button.”
He points to the tiny dot on the side of the sentra. I press the button with my forefinger. A sharp prick makes me jump. “Ouch.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
I glare at him. “Have fun feeling that emotigraph.”
“Your spunk is humorous. Now let’s edit.”
I force myself to exhale my pride and peer at the first page of my hard work. “You scratched out my Bible verse.”
He waves a hand. “Boring and dangerous—an interesting mixture. You have a level of unmatchable ignorance. Do you read the news at all?”
I falter. “Well, I’ve been spending most of my time writing.” When was the last time I read through The Daily Hemisphere?
“This religion stuff you include in here would get you—and your parents—arrested in a High City. It could even get you arrested here. Then again, you’re not exactly the law-abiding type. No one cares about the verse, pushing your faith is illegal, and it makes you look bad to your readers.”
I sit back in my chair. “So you want me to erase my beliefs?”
“No, I want you to keep them to yourself so this plan works. You haven’t hit me with your beliefs yet, so don’t do it to your readers just because they’re picking up your book.”
I stare at the harsh line through the verse. My cheeks warm. Why did I even put it in? Did I include it because I wear my cross ring? Is it out of obligation?
“Did your parents raise you with these beliefs?”
I still the spring of fear that enters my chest. “No. They know they’re not allowed to raise me in a religion before I’m eighteen. Reid influenced my faith. “
He remains silent. I can’t meet his eyes. I’ve kept my faith to myself my whole life. Why is it so tempting to continue doing it? Am I that weak?
“Okay,” I say. “We can take out the verses, but not the parts that talk about when I started believing in God. He is part of my story, it needs to stay in.” I look up.
Skelley Chase adjusts his nanobook. “Fair enough.”
We turn into a sort of team over the next several days—pouring over my ever-changing biography with pens and thoughts. My new diet consists of mochas and whipped cream. He asks about childhood memories, desires—both the abandoned and fulfilled—and beliefs. Every word I decide to grant him is recorded on his personal nanobook. My finger soon grows immune to the prick of the sentra.
When I give reserved answers, he presses for detail, forcing me to be honest. I find myself opening up more than I expected. It’s refreshing to share—or should I say vent—my feelings about my empty life. He nods—a practiced listening gesture, but it makes me feel important. It makes me feel heard.
Somehow, spouting out every thought, regret, and memory puts my life back in perspective for me. My heart starts to hurt and cry a little inside me with each day of writing. Eighteen dead years. Why didn’t I see them dying? Why didn’t I feel my time wilting? I spent so much of my life lounging in regrets and sipping bitterness that I abandoned any thought of creating happy memories; instead, I wasted. Just wasted.
A letter from Mother and Father arrives five days later, written on one of the hospital napkins. Reid is healing well, but still requires a lot of day-to-day care. They are coming home on the new train, leaving him at the hospital for a few days. I look forward to seeing them once Skelley Chase and I finish. The house has been cold and lonely, the wind louder through the shutters, and I can’t say I’ve cooked much.
Mrs. Newton and one of her blond daughters visited three nights after my return. She stood on the doorstep holding a cloth-covered dish with potholders. An Enforcer stood beside her. Two others flanked the door to her house, standing like tattooed sculptures in the rain.
“I saw you home alone and made a meal for you. Is your family okay?”
Steam issued from the dish carrying the scent of baked potatoes with cheese and bacon. “Reid is in the Nether Town hospital. He was injured by the train derailment.”
Her brows creased and I sensed that, if she hadn’t been holding my gift of dinner, she would have hugged me. “I’m sorry.”
I wanted to ask her about the Enforcers standing guard at her door, but couldn’t bring myself to say anything while the black-coated tattooed official stood right behind her. Were the Newtons in trouble?
Mrs. Newton handed me the dish and her daughter held up a small basket also covered in a flowery cloth. “Bread!”
I took the basket and she grinned, half toothless. “Thank you,” I whispered as they returned to their house.
This morning, on my way to Faveurs, the Enforcers were gone. I knocked on the Newton’s door, but no one answered. The village postboard never announced a hearing. I have to hope they were relocated, but guilt has since wrapped its chilled arms around me. I should have asked the Enforcers why they were there, but my Clock is at the Nether Hospital. I couldn’t risk being caught. Not now. Not when I’m so close to grafting purpose into my life.
“This is the final draft,” Skelley Chase says. I peer at the organized nanobook. He taps it with its pointer pen.
The skimming words fill my story with meaning. Something in me swells—not the restless dragon, but something else. Pride? Joy? Why do I feel the urge to cry? I swallow hard. “Thank you, Mr. Chase.”
He tucks the nanobook into his briefcase. “Don’t thank me yet. We’re not done.”
“We’re not?”
He stands, flicks Frenchie a coin, and strides out of the coffee shop. He must expect me to follow. Of course, I do. His polished sho
es click on the cobbled sidewalk and we cross the main street, heading east toward the edge of town. Magnolia trees are in full bloom, arching over the bright yellow forsythias.
Now that we’re finished with the biography, Skelley Chase will leave. The thought makes me a little sad. Though his get-it-done manner dominated our every meeting, he’s a man of action—a person who makes his Numbers look good and used. If only I could be as efficient.
He walks up the steps of the county building and, out of habit, my breath quickens. I’d almost forgotten about Trevor Rain. How much has Skelley Chase cost over these several days? Will I need to return some of my Last-Year funds? It’s worth it.
Rat Nose squeaks from behind her desk and Skelley Chase throws her a wink.
Flirt. That wink just made her day—probably her whole year.
We don’t take the stairs but he leads me down a long hallway across from the reception desk on the right side of the wide entry.
“Where are we going?” I’ve never ventured to this portion of the county building.
“Here.” He holds a glass door open for me to the left.
Inside is a thick wooden desk next to a small corridor. A man sits behind the desk, tapping something onto the surface screen. He looks up and my nerves send a shock up my spine. A spiked, backward black E covers his left temple.
“This is Parvin Blackwater,” Skelley Chase says from behind me. “She’s a Radical.”
8
000.175.19.01.00
My blood turns to frozen tar. Over the course of a second, I register what feels like a thousand thoughts: I’m in danger. They know my name. I don’t have my Numbers.
He betrayed me.
The Enforcer stands from his desk, knocking the edge with his knee. His chair scrapes backward.
I bolt.
My shoulder clips Skelley Chase as I slam through the swinging glass door with both hands, fleeing the sounds of frantic shuffles behind me. My legs feel like weighted baggage and my arms shake almost as fast as my unnerved heartbeats. I sprint across the entry, eyes fixed upon the exit.
Oh God, oh, God, oh, God . . . The desperate plea sounds over and over. I dare a look over my shoulder just as the Enforcer tackles me. I scream.
We fall to the ground and the back of my head cracks against the marble. My body tumbles to a limp stop, pinned under his weight. Pain overtakes all sensation. I shut my eyes, but flashes of light and thick blackness invade my vision. I groan. My head rolls to the side. The cold marble soothes my flushed cheek as every zing of panic ebbs into a thick pool of surrender.
God . . .
The Enforcer moves to the side, holding my arms with one hand. My wrist bones press against each other, grinding, bruising. My head throbs. I moan. “Stop.”
I need to hold my head. It pulses, begging for relief. The grip relents and I pull my arms close to my body. He must know I can’t flee now. I curl into a ball and slide my shaking fingers up my cheeks, through my hair, and around my head.
“Only a Radical would run like that,” the Enforcer says. “Thank you, Mr. Chase.”
“Is everything okay?” I know this voice—Rat Nose. Her rasp comes as an odd comfort and her next words sound confused. “She can’t be a Radical. She’s been meeting with Mentor Trevor Rain for her Last Year.”
“She’s a Radical. Unregistered, at that.”
Skelly Chase’s voice erases my agony. I open my eyes. “Traitor . . .” I intended to scream at him, but my voice is weak, pinched by too many negative emotions.
Rat Nose looks between us with a frown.
Blood pounds inside my head so I close my eyes again, taking a deep breath. The Enforcer hauls me to my feet, but my legs are still weak.
“Stand up,” he grunts, but I bounce on useless puppet legs until he throws me over his shoulder. Humiliated, I squirm, despite the continued ache in my head, and he sets me back on my feet. I cooperate this time, swaying a little, but determined not to crumple.
“Take me to my parents.” They must be back by now. Mother will know what to do. I close my eyes against ripples of nausea.
“You’re going to the containment center until we set up a hearing.”
“A hearing?” I’m dizzy. Is this really happening? “I’ve lived in Unity my entire life. I was born here. An Enforcer checked my Clock just last week!” But I know better than to think he’ll listen. I watched that other Enforcer drag Frenchie away.
I look at Skelley Chase. I may have never finished schooling and I may have wasted my life, but I inherited my Mother’s cunning and it’s not hard to see his plan. “You’re using me for a good story.” Chilled fury rises inside.
He just stares down at me with a creased brow and his lips pursed to one side. He pulls the sentra from his pocket and holds it in front of my face. “Press this.”
I let out a sharp, “Ha!”
He grabs my bruised wrist and presses the button with my palm. I yank my hand away. “Yes.” He smiles now and returns the sentra to his pocket. “I’m getting a good story.”
He turns and walks away. Rat Nose trots behind him with a nervous glance over her shoulder. The Enforcer yanks me toward the exit.
How did this happen?
I don’t register the trudge to the containment center until the Enforcer shoves me into a cell made up of bars and a single wooden bench. “What happens now?” I lean against the bars. My heart pounds my chest. “Can I see my parents?”
“You get a hearing tomorrow morning. You’ll see them then . . . if they come.” The Enforcer walks into a different room and out of sight.
“They don’t even know I’m here!” I cry after him. “You have to tell them!”
He doesn’t respond. A shiver races down my spine and I twitch as goose bumps follow like a swift shadow. Why didn’t I suspect Skelley Chase—a famous biographer knowing all my secrets and wanting to help? How stupid could I be?
I lower myself onto the bench. I should have seen it coming. I was too desperate—desperate to trust, desperate to share my story, desperate to tame my restless dragon. I trusted the wrong person.
Or was my mistake in trusting You, God?
Hasn’t He seen my fears of the Wall? My desperation to help Radicals? Why would He do this to me? Is it because I took the Bible verses out of my biography?
“Why would You do this?” He and I seldom talk unless I’m angry. I tried to be nice to Him on the hospital floor last week, when I asked Him to do something with my dwindling time. But I think when He decided to form Parvin Brielle Blackwater He wrote my story on a pitch-black canvas with a stark ending.
I’m in a cell and will be given a hearing tomorrow—me, with nothing to my name. Yet now I’m a criminal. Will my village turn up to save me?
The bench is rough against my clothing. I sit on the floor, curled against the one wall not made of bars. I’ve never joined in the world’s ability to throw the topic of death around in flippant afternoon chatter. I can’t treat death lightly because Reid and I have never known when we’ll die. Without knowing, I can’t prepare myself—not for my own death or for his. Is this how people lived before Numbers? Uncertain? Fearful?
I pull my knees close and rest my forehead on them. My stomach growls, I swallow some tears to feed it. As my thoughts swirl themselves into a hopeless stupor, I think of nothing. It’s calming. I’ve heard men can do it—think about nothing—and women aren’t supposed to be able to, but I must have stolen a few of Reid’s triplet genes.
I drift in and out of consciousness, aware of the growing hardness of the floor and agony in my head. It’s pulsing again. Someone once said falling asleep can be dangerous with a head injury. Right now, I don’t mind the idea of danger. My thoughts go blank. I’m running back from Nether Town. It’s raining. I trip and land in mud, startling myself awake, only to drift back into a dream of Mother arrivin
g at my cell.
She’s here. She can fix it. She’s Mother.
The rays of dawn arrive with a clatter on the bars of my door. I look around and my heart slips. Mother’s not here. No one is, except an Enforcer with a stern face. He opens my door and pulls me to my feet. I’m still groggy and the saliva in my mouth feels thick. It’s hard to swallow.
His face spins a bit before I’m able to focus. Are all Enforcers cold and stoic? Are they trained that way? Don’t they have hearts?
He leads me out of the containment center and into a black beetle car small enough to fit three people and squeeze through the narrow streets of Unity Village. I pass the painted gold backward E on the exterior. We climb inside and it moves with a high-pitched electric whine toward the village square.
Is this what other Radicals experienced? Did they feel alone and ashamed? Wonder who would show up at their hearing? Now more than ever, I’m thankful I vouched at hearings, even if I never succeeded. At least the Radicals had someone on their side.
Mud squelches beneath the wheels. “This is my first time in a car,” I say to my Enforcer. Someone might as well know.
We arrive at the square at 5:20 a.m.—the hour most people in Unity rise to make the most of their Numbers. I’m led to the weathered, wooden platform in the center, surrounded by bare dogwood trees, due to bloom any day. Will I even see them?
We walk up the warped steps next to the empty vegetable stand. Master Gardener Harman isn’t here yet. I wish he were, to attest I grew up in Unity, but my parents will testify.
On top of the platform, flanked by two Enforcers, I wipe the sweat off my hands before looking up. The twelve people at the base of my guilty podium are all I have to show for my empty life. More than half are probably here out of curiosity. They want to see if I’ll cry or plead, scream or faint, freeze or run.
I square my shoulders and look out at them. I’ll explain what happened. I’ll remind them who I am. I’ll show them I’m worth saving.
I scan the faces. My chin quivers of its own accord and I bite my lip. Mother’s not here. I would have spotted her in a moment. Is she ashamed of me? Father’s here, though. He stands in the center of the tiny crowd. The Newtons aren’t present, but I meet the eyes of the young Enforcer who helped repair their roof thatch. His mouth forms a grim line and his eyes slant downward. A tiny crease brings his eyebrows together. I don’t remember him looking so sad before.
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