But the State doesn’t make mistakes. I’ve been told that over and over again. And yet, now they’ve either let five Sensitives slip through their system or they’ve unjustly accused five innocent people. Because there’s no way Beck and Kyra are Sensitive.
My determination hardens. I’m going to find him. Leaving him, alone, cast out without anyone, is not an option. Beck needs me. I need to help him.
I come to a large intersection, empty of people and wait for the light. If I’m caught making any sort of infraction by the overhead cameras, security will be here within minutes. I rub my hands together nervously and pray I just look cold to whoever’s watching me—the last thing I need is State security looking for me.
The light blinks green three times and I turn right, uphill, toward the train station.
It’s not until my teeth chatter that I realize I’m actually cold. I zip my winter jacket up, over the scarf, until just my eyes peek out, and pull my hat even lower on my head.
I run, not to save time, but to stay warm.
Running has always cleared my mind and allowed me to focus. Today is no exception. The events of the past two days roll through my thoughts. Beck and I walking to school, his hand in mine. Me chastising him for forgetting his gloves again. Beck on top of the hill. His lips on mine.
Annalise.
I stop running but my momentum sends me sliding forward a few more feet. Although I wobble, I manage to stay upright. My mind fixes on Callum and Annalise.
Beck knew what they were doing at school when they interrogated us, and he didn’t say anything. They came for him—that’s why he was afraid.
But why would they accuse him? Because Callum and Beck didn’t get along as children? This retaliation seems too harsh.
After scaling the rest of the icy hill, I pause at the top, squinting to see the train station in the distance. I jog down the hill, but after two slips, decide to take it slowly. I still have to cross the expanse of Union Square and can make up time on the flat land.
Too late, I realize I threw away my clock when I tossed my wristlet. Brilliant. I have no idea what time it is when I reach the desolate open expanse of Union Square. From my textbooks, I know this area was once a bustling center of commerce. But no one comes here anymore except for a few history buffs and the mandatory field trip during year ten.
Not wanting to miss the train, I sprint the best I can over the icy ground. After a dozen blocks, the eerie ghost-town feeling of Union Square melts into the chaos of the Transportation District.
The closer I get, the busier the surrounding streets become. It’s as if hundreds of transporters descended here at the exact same moment, let out all their passengers and are now trying to be the first to speed away. The result is a gridlock of people and vehicles crushing their way to the station’s front entrance.
Conscious of how well known my face is, I avoid eye contact as I shove my way through the crowd and into the massive station. The contrast between the near empty parts of The City and here is stark. Even though I know it’s the main form of transportation to and from just about anywhere, it looks like everyone in San Francisco has decided to take a trip today. Which could either allow me to hide easily, or mean someone will recognize me quicker.
Ahead of me, two large trains are parked and making preparations for their next departure. A wave of relief hits me. I’m not late.
I still need to purchase a ticket, so I press through the throng of people clogging the platform. Their hugs and tears tell me some of these people are saying their good-byes. I swallow a lump in my throat. Would it have been easier if I could have said good-bye to Beck?
No, it wouldn’t have mattered.
The signs for the ticket desk point me around the corner, and I follow them until I spot my destination and walk to the first open agent. A small, mousey man. His orange Singleton wristlet stands out against his dark workman shirt.
Nervous he’ll question me, I hesitate. What if Bethina alerted the authorities? For half a second, I consider sneaking onto the train. But no, she’s probably giving me time alone and won’t worry about me until well after dinner.
I stand back and pretend to study the schedules over the agent’s head. The right column lists the State trains that travel up to 700 miles per hour. The left column shows the times of the slower moving regional trains. My eyes rest on the Southern regional train schedule—it’s the only service to where I’m going.
I keep my scarf pulled up and my voice steady. “I’d like the next available ticket to Summer Hill, please.”
The agent studies me, and my stomach seizes. Calm, Lark. He can’t see you through the scarf. “You’re a bit young to be off on your own, aren’t you?”
I glance at him through lowered lashes. His lips are tight and his beady eyes suspicious. Perhaps he’s heard something.
My muscles contract and sweat beads along the back of my neck. I raise my head and stare right at him, in what I hope is an authoritative manner. Maybe the best approach is to look like I belong here.
“Not at all.” My voice is clipped and brisk like a State Woman. Too late, I realize my coat sleeves don’t hide my gloved but wristlet-bare arm. I yank at the damn regulation three-quarter length sleeve before giving up and pulling my arm up into my coat. Wonderful. That’s not obvious or anything. “I’m on official business. A follow-up, if you will.”
Nutter. Not only have I run off, but now I’m impersonating a State Woman, a capital offense. I’m taking myself from bad to worse.
“One way, then?”
“Yes, if you please.”
He types a few things into his system. “543.”
I reach into my pocket and tighten my fingers around the stack of bills. I slowly count the money and lay it on the desk.
The agent lets out a low whistle. “What’s this?”
“Money.” Mistake number two. Almost no one uses bills anymore. Stupid, Lark, very stupid.
He stares at it. “No State money card? I thought that was standard issue?”
I pause, and purposefully eye his orange wristlet before giving him a disdainful glare. “That’s really none of your business, is it?” I shove the money across the desk.
“Suppose not.” He takes the bills and leafs through them, counting. “Having problems over at the school?”
“No.” My voice falters a bit. He’s searching for information. “Nothing of the sort.”
“Really? I heard that there was a big to-do up there today and a breach yesterday.” The agent prints my ticket but doesn’t give it to me. Instead, he holds it in his hand just out of my reach on the other side of the cashier cage.
“Well, then you heard wrong. Surely you don’t believe a silly, impossible rumor like that?”
The agent frowns but seems convinced. “Guess not.”
I slide my hand under the cage and grab my ticket. “Thank you.”
I turn to go.
“Take care, Lark.”
I freeze. Blood pounds in my ears. Damn it.
I look back at the agent, prepared to deny my identity.
He winks. “I won’t tell the Vice Head. Promise.”
Just then, a gust of wind rips through the station scattering his papers. While he tries to prevent more papers from flying away, I sprint across the platform.
10
I took my first train ride when I was seven. My mother had summoned Beck and I to my family estate for a binding.
The lightning-fast trains enamored Beck. He pestered the weary conductor with questions and dogged his steps. Beck was obsessed with how magnetism powered the environmentally-friendly trains and caused them to float over the track.
For me, there’s a more memorable part of the trip: the conductor dangling between two cars.
Beck, with me in tow, had found the conductor and fired off questions about the effects of friction on the train. The conductor snapped at him and told us to shove off. Beck sulked back to our room.
An hour later,
as Bethina guided us toward the observation car, we came upon the terrified conductor. He was trapped between two cars and balancing on a thin ledge of swaying metal. His hands were a bloody, raw mess.
Bethina left Beck and I in our berth while she ran for help.
We didn’t take a train for another three years.
#
The narrow hallway is empty. I follow the berth numbers in descending order until I find mine and enter the room. It’s cozy—just a chair, table and bed—but it’ll do. I fling my backpack on the worn chair and flop on the bed. It’s a little too firm for my liking, but since I only have one night in it, I can’t complain.
It’s too hot in the little room, so I shed my extra layers and lay them neatly on the chair.
My head throbs, a dull ache just behind my eyebrows. With my fingertips, I apply pressure to my forehead. It doesn’t do much good and I wish I had Dr. Hanson’s pills.
The ticket agent recognized me, but how? He couldn’t see my face, not with the scarf wrapping most of it. My eyes? My voice? What?
I need to do better than this. But to be honest, I have no fear of him contacting my mother. Who is he but a Singleton—and not even one with a decent placement. He won’t get through to Mother. I’m sure of it.
But if Bethina finds out…then she’ll be on the next train after me.
I stare at the smooth, blank surface of the ceiling and begin formulating a plan. So far, I’ve only really thought about getting to the train. But now that I’m here, it’s time to figure out my next move.
Finding Beck and hearing his side of the story is my first priority. I’m not convinced he’s Sensitive, but if he is, I have to know.
Bethina doesn’t think he’s in jail, so perhaps his parents know where he is. But what will I find there? Security? What if his whole family is Sensitive? What then?
The train picks up speed and I don’t fight sleep when it comes for me.
#
We’re six. Bethina has taken us all out on a picnic.
It’s late summer and I’m lying on a blanket trying to find shapes in the clouds. Beck’s head rests on my stomach. He’s so much smaller than the rest of us. I twirl his hair around my finger.
An older girl, from another house, trips over her own clumsy feet as she runs past and lands on Beck.
Beck cries out. His nose bleeds. The girl runs off but as she moves beneath the trees, a branch falls and knocks her to the ground. Her leg sticks out at a strange angle. Bethina, frantic, scoops Beck up and tells the rest of us to follow her.
Our picnic is over.
#
My eyes fly open. That wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.
Beck hurt the little girl. I remember it vividly. His bloody nose. Her scream. Bethina’s shocked face.
And the conductor—he hurt the conductor, too.
I roll to my side and pull my knees into my chest. How have I never noticed his bursts of anger?
The memory of Beck on the hill with the Sensitives forces its way into my mind and my breath lodges in my throat.
He did that. The truth digs at my heart and stings. I can’t accept it. I can’t. Beck doesn’t hurt people—he doesn’t kill people. He’s kind and funny and everything that’s the opposite of wicked.
But the evidence...Is that what Bethina had meant?
Tears again. So many tears for a boy who always made me laugh.
The train rumbles on, each mile bringing me closer to my destination. But I’m no longer so sure I want to go there. I can’t change Beck. I can’t make him into a non-Sensitive. Isn’t that why Caitlyn Greene and her fellow patriots went to such lengths to identify Sensitives? Because they couldn’t be changed and will always be a threat?
I wipe the dampness from my face and sit up. By this time, Bethina knows I’m gone. I wonder if she’s told anyone?
Of course she has. It’s her responsibility. Plus, she’s a rule follower. Just like me.
But not today. Today, I’ve piled up broken rules faster than I can count. And for what? A boy who lied to me his whole life?
I rub my hands across my eyes. There has to be more to this. I need to let Beck explain. I owe him that much.
My stomach gives a low rumble and I weigh the risk of visiting the dining car. Maybe if I’m fast, no one will notice me?
I slide my feet into my shoes, put on my coat and rewrap the scarf so it doesn’t cover my face, just my chin. It would look odd to wear a hat, so I leave it on the bed. My run-in with the ticket agent highlighted the need to keep my bare wrist concealed and I pull my arm into my coat—like it’s injured.
With my free hand, I untangle the knots from my hair. No one’s ever seen me in public without my hair pulled back, nice and tidy. I pray my “Long Winter” inspired outfit and loose hair is enough of a disguise. Surely, no one expects to see me in something so ridiculous.
But then, the ticket agent knew who I was—even with my scarf pulled up.
Hunger gnaws at my stomach. Unless I want to starve, I don’t have many options. After adjusting my jacket one last time, I force open the berth door and scope out the hallway. It’s empty.
The train sways side-to-side and I bounce off the passage wall. I don’t want to fall, so I test my ability to steady myself a few feet at a time. Once I master the fine art of walking, I follow the scent of food to the dining car.
The car’s not too crowded, which isn’t good. The less people, the more attention I draw. The bartender lifts his eyes from the drink he’s preparing and glances briefly at me before turning back to his work.
Not even a flicker of recognition. Good.
I roll my shoulders, releasing tension and sink into a plush seat next to a window. I position myself so my back faces the rest of the car and my bare wrist lies snug against my chest, under my coat. I hope it looks like I’m admiring the passing scenery.
When the waiter comes, I keep myself carefully half-turned away from him, and place my order.
Ruins blur past the observation window. This area was once called Los Angeles and had a population of millions. Now, it’s nothing but deserted wasteland and crumbling buildings—like most Old World cities.
After the Long Winter, only a few larger cities—San Francisco, Calgary, Austin, Chicago and Ottawa—survived. The crush of people seeking refuge and taxing already limited resources destroyed the other large cities. Towns and rural areas simply disappeared until the State actively rebuilt them by granting large tracks of vacant land to States People as private estates. The Channing estate, Summer Hill, is one of those places, as is my mother’s in the far north.
Mile after mile of decrepit buildings whirls past. Is this what Beck saw as he was rushed away from the only home he’s ever really known?
“Oh, Beck,” I whisper and close my eyes.
A dull clunk tells me the waiter left my fruit plate on the table. I wait a minute to make sure my tears stay put and then open my eyes. Starving, I grab a piece of pineapple and inhale it in an unlady-like manner. Bethina would be appalled if she saw the juice running down my face. Not to mention my complete non-use of cutlery.
I try to prevent it but the picnic dream invades my thoughts. Beck hurt that little girl. I’m sure of it. Even Bethina knew.
And yet she didn’t report him. It doesn’t make sense.
I cut off a piece of cheese, using just my fork so that my naked wrist stays hidden under the table, and layer it over an apple slice. As I chew, I mull over Bethina’s involvement.
Perhaps Beck has the power to influence people or control them? Mr. Proctor discussed it in Society class. Sensitives can cause natural disasters, famines, wars and take people’s free will. I rack my mind and try to remember if they ever covered falling tree limbs. I don’t think so, but it doesn’t sound like a far reach.
So what about Bethina? If my memory is right, she knew Beck was Sensitive and did nothing about it. But at the house, she acted like she had no idea what was happening. It doesn’t add up.
“Five of ‘em. All students,” a nasally male voice says. The person isn’t too far behind me and I shift my attention from the lifeless, gray sky and miles of nothing to the conversation.
I stab a piece of mango in an effort to seem preoccupied.
“The West is getting soft, I tell you. The trials haven’t done a damn thing to stop the attacks and now the schools—the safe schools—are being infiltrated. What’s next?” The other male speaker has an accent I associate with the Eastern Society, trilling and fast.
I turn my head slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the two men without exposing myself. They’re dressed as States People, both with prominent blue wristbands. Every society has the same structure to make it easier to identify rank. But one of them wears a soft blue scarf instead of the normal green. Definitely a diplomat from the East. Which means, they most likely know my mother…and me.
“Do you know any of them?” nasal voice asks.
“Perhaps, the girl.” The Eastern diplomat responds. “But the rest aren’t known to me.”
I furrow my forehead. Kyra? Is he talking about Kyra? But how could they not know Beck? He’s the best known out of all of them.
“They should all be tried and executed. Every last one of them,” Nasal Voice says. “After all, that’s what they do to us. They show us no mercy.”
My stomach drops and a tiny gasp escapes my lips. Executed? Is that even possible? Would the State kill students? Even if they are Sensitive?
Panic threatens to overwhelm me, but I wait a few more minutes, eagerly eavesdropping. The conversation, however, has turned toward crop production and politics.
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