I blink and see a city burning. Tall buildings crumble under the weight of smoke and flame. Silhouettes rise through the midnight sky, outlining people riding hoverboards. The wind swirls, spreading the fire.
Another voice speaks: “About time, Gunner.” It’s a girl, and I swear I know her. Maybe I am her.
I’m brought back to reality when my guardian says, “Time for school, Arena.”
“Arena,” I repeat. The name doesn’t fit, but I don’t have anything else.
I am Arena Locke.
I am sixteen years old.
I have midterm exams today.
* * *
Three hours later I settle into the ergonomic in lab seven. Unused tethers hang from the armrests. Inside, a quiet flurry of excitement rides underneath the blatant fear screaming through my blood.
I hate the practical exam. I hate touching other people and regurgitating their deepest desires onto a projection screen for the world to see. Most of all, I hate that they’re strapped down and I’m not.
Before I can dwell on that too much, the door in the corner opens. Van enters, a small smile playing on his mouth. Next to him strides a man I’ve never met, with black hair that’s turning gray. He moves with power, his shoulders square and his eyes already locked onto mine.
“Is this her?” he asks Van.
“Yes, General. This is Arena Locke.” He stops a few paces away. “Arena, this is General Director Ian Darke. He’s here to”—He exchanges a look with the General Director—“observe your exam.”
Behind them shuffles another man, badly injured judging from his walk.
As Van helps him onto the table, I want to look away but find I can’t. The other man, clearly as old as Van, isn’t wearing a shirt. His chest bears four identical wounds (halfway healed), that if connected, would create a perfect box.
“There you go, Thane,” Van coos. “Just lie nice and still.” He nods to the physician on my left, who reaches for me.
I usually let him paint on the perma-plaster willingly, but today my hands stay fisted in my lap.
“Arena,” Van warns, casting another glance at the General Director. I detect a glimmer of fear in Van’s expression.
I have to pass my exam, but I watch Thane, hoping praying needing him to speak.
“Don’t believe everything you see,” he gasps out, looking only at me. It sounds like he’s giving me permission, like it’s okay for me to touch him, drain him.
I raise my hand and uncurl my fingers. The physician slops on the connective tech and places my hand in Thane’s.
Then the show begins.
acknowledgments
It has been said that the second book requires much more work than the first. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s at least equal—and in a much shorter amount of time. I think that’s what almost killed me: writing and editing Surrender in under four months.
Of course, that would not have been possible without a great many people. My husband, Adam, whose enthusiasm to play taxi driver and eat too many Baconators was contagious. My son, Isaac, never complained about babysitting and/or riding his bike to activities so I could get more words written. And my daughter, Eliza, set aside games of Guess Who? and waited patiently for me to finish the chapter before I could watch her latest dance move.
Not only did I dedicate a solid chunk of time to this book, but Surrender would never have made it out of the embryo stage without the keen eyes of Christine Fonseca, a cherished friend and genius beta reader. She’s also terrific at late-night chatting, bringing treats to the ledge, and driving long distances for launch parties.
Let’s not forget Ali Cross, who feels like my right hand—and my left. Nothing I do gets done without her stamp of approval. A hearty dose of gratitude also goes to Michelle McLean, who donated her time to make me a better writer and storyteller. Talk about sacrifice.
I’d deserve to be whipped if I didn’t mention Bethany Wiggins, who read Surrender and kindly told me all the problems it had. Her advice opened my eyes to new avenues for the book. Ditto for Jamie Harrington, who clued me in to one of the most precious moments in the novel (can you spot which one it is?)—or at least what it should’ve been. I hope I did it justice.
Last, but certainly not least, Shannon Messenger did what any good crit partner should: She shredded me. I covered up all the bleeding wounds, opened the document, and performed CPR.
In addition to my beta readers, I need to thank my debut buddies, who helped to make 2011 one of the greatest years of my life. Lisa and Laura Roecker. Beth Revis. Jeff Hirsch. Angie Smibert. Julia Karr. Gretchen McNeil. Kirsten Hubbard. Myra McEntire. Matt Blackstone. Carrie Harris. Jessi Kirby. John Corey Whaley. Michelle Hodkin. Tyler Whitesides. Amber Argyle. Jessica Martinez. Stasia Ward Kehoe. They each helped in more ways than they know, from angsty e-mails to friendship to phone calls that brought me back from the brink. So yeah. Thanks, Team 2011!
My life would not be the same without the WriteOnCon Underbelly, who provided not only the best writer’s conference out there—for free!—but a safe place for me to be, well, me. Thanks to Casey McCormick, Jamie Harrington, Shannon Messenger, Lisa and Laura Roecker, Carolin Seidenkranz, Nikki Katz, and Dustin Hansen. And for the many thousands who attended and provided services for the con: We love you!
A special thank-you to Ally Condie, who always makes me feel like the most important person in the world. And one for Nichole Giles, who is surely tired of riding with me to signing events. And a final vote of gratitude to Heather Lyman, who continually asks about my books like she really cares.
I swear I’m almost done. These people are gems of the highest quality: Sara Olds; Stacy Henrie; Jenn Wilks; Heather Moore; Paul Greci; James Dashner; my blogging buddies; and all of Mr. Johnson’s sixth graders, past and present.
Everyone knows a book isn’t born by itself. Anica Rissi and her team of Freaking Smart People (Bethany, Michael, Mara, Carolyn, Matt, Jen, Anna, Dawn, Siena, Paul, and Laura, I’m looking at you!) at Simon Pulse deserve all the credit for making my words shine; Angela Goddard gets major props for the graphic genius that is Surrender’s cover; Beth Dunfey provided brilliance I never would’ve come up with on my own; Katherine Devendorf and the dedicated team of copyeditors at Pulse deserve praise for their tireless efforts to make the story look beautiful on the page. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
A million + one thanks to the best agent on the planet, Michelle Andelman. She believes, and because she does, I work harder. Thanks, M.
I’m additionally grateful for my parents, Jeff and Donna Watkins, and to my sister, Jessica (and Paul) Cottle. As if they weren’t already the most fabulous family a girl could ask for, I also have the best in-laws in the known universe in Chris and Carol Johnson, Keith and Lisa Johnson, Mary and Ryan McBride, Curtis and Alisha Johnson, Amy and Ryan Harris, and Bill and Janelle Johnson. Their undying support of me as a real, live person means more to me than their support of my books (which they also give freely). Love you guys.
And who does an author write for? You, the reader. I’ve received so many e-mails that have made me smile, brightened my mood, and encouraged me to keep writing this series. Thank you. I hope you enjoy!
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