

## The Ivory Tower

### Kirstin Pulioff

The Ivory Tower

Copyright © 2013 Kirstin Pulioff

Cover Copyright © 2014 Amber Covers

Edited by Magpie Editorial Services

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than which is published. Your purchase allows you one legal copy of this work for your own personal use. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of the author. This book cannot be reproduced, copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload, or for a fee.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author's imagination. Any resemblances to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition- 2015

www.kirstinpulioff.com

# THE IVORY TOWER

I stopped counting and opened my eyes. Silence magnified the shuffling of leaves and the harsh caw of the crows.

"Ready or not, here I come," I boomed, assessing the empty forest around me. Nothing stood out in the overgrown underbrush: I saw only variegated shades of green, splashed with the occasional bright red dots of salmonberries. After a quick glance down at my olive green leggings, worn thin around the knees, and the scratchy burlap tunic, I smiled. I blended into the forest perfectly, a ghost among the neglected trees. With a quick crack of my fingers and a tug on my ponytail, I began.

"You'd better have a good hiding spot this time," I taunted, hobbling away from my starting point. One step in, and Christine already had an advantage. I leaned against the nearest tree, and shook out my left boot, watching small pebbles pour out. The tattered shoes matched my flimsy clothes, and I knew that wouldn't be the last advantage my friend got.

Soft strands of sunlight fell on me through the partially cleared canopy, warning of winter's quick advance. The cold season's bitter winds wreaked havoc on our camp, but here in the forest, scattered leaves painted the floor in a mosaic of colors. Discarded leaves from the maple trees crunched beneath me as I began my search. I quickly altered my steps, slipping my toes beneath the curled tips of the leaves, minimizing the noise as I ran.

I had learned small nuances like that over the years. Looking at the leaves falling around me, I also knew that even though fall had just begun, a harsh winter would be close behind, restricting us to center camp. Today would be one of our last trips out here for the season, if not longer.

Maybe that's why I slowed my steps, letting the game play out moments longer than usual. Whenever Christine hid, a game over quickly followed. But not today. Not when the brief splashes of sun through the trees warmed my arms. I wanted to push the limits and extend the game, even if it meant losing a bit of my pride.

It was the only thing I really had, and was rarely freely given. In fact, the only times I did lose were on occasions like this, when something more enticing dangled in front of me—in this case, a fond memory to warm me through the bitter cold months. I would do almost anything for a respite for those long months. Even lose.

Not obviously lose, though; no one appreciated pity. Technique was involved. I slowed my steps, pretending to miss the broken branches marking the edges of the game trails, and hid my smile at the running blur around the edge of my vision. I could lose, but not big enough for Christine to sense the deception. That would devastate her, and devastating her would ruin me.

Manipulation was commonplace for me in the orphanage, but I had learned early on that it didn't work on her. She followed rules to a tee, priding herself on honesty and integrity, and held me to the same unrealistic standards. We didn't have much but our word, she cautioned. So I became good at pretending. So good that sometimes Mrs. Booker, the orphanage caretaker, shot strange looks at me in the evenings if I forgot to drop the act. Just like Christine, Mrs. Booker had an ability to sense the manipulation, only she called it bullshit, and slapped it out of me if it lasted too long. It had happened so many times though that now I referred to them as love taps. And Mrs. Booker sure loved me.

This time I didn't have to fake too much. My scrappy leather boots needed repair, and even though I had already dumped a pile of pebbles, new rocks took their place. Sharper rocks jabbed my feet as I climbed through the woody debris. I pressed on, tucking my hands into the cuffs of my sleeves. The further into the forest I went, the darker and more oppressive the weather turned.

"Come out, come out," I teased, cursing silently that my breath showed. If Christine saw that, she'd jump out of her hiding spot, common sense getting the better of her. I felt the end of the game encroach. It was the same here as in camp; things I had no control over dictated my moves.

Every day that lack of control grew, tightening around my neck like a noose, suffocating me before I even knew what was coming. That noose had a name, though, and the closer it came to winter, the more frequently it tugged against me. The factory. Women disappeared inside the large, oppressive building at the edge of camp, only to be spat out at night, worn and tired. With both of us now aged sixteen, our time had come. And even though I had become a pro at skipping school, the factory was different. Only a lucky few had been able to escape the clutches of the factory. Promoted out, they called it. I wasn't the promotion type. I had to enjoy these last gasps of freedom.

I ignored my clouding breath and trudged forward, hoping my enthusiasm would keep Christine from bailing too soon. We had played this game for years, revising it as we went along for higher stakes. This time, everything was laid on the line, much more than a pouch of paint or pride.

"You can't hide forever," I goaded, my smile reaching through my words. I slid gracefully through the game trails, mimicking the smooth movements of the deer, weaving neatly between brambles, dormant hives, and traps. In my haste, I missed the darker patches of mud, and gasped as the cold muck slipped through the hole in the bottom of my boots. Cold mud sloshed through my boot, sending shivers down my spine. I jerked my head up at the surprising misstep, and caught her gaze. Fear flashed in her eyes before she turned and became a blur of red at the edge of my vision.

I had caught her. My fingers deftly unclasped the steel container tied to my belt as I kept a watchful eye on the swaying branches in the distance. Carefully pulling out a small bag, I smiled and rolled the golden coagulated paint in its plastic pouch. I tossed the package between hands, careful not to squeeze it too hard.

Training my ears to the forest, I heard the trampling of bushes, skittering of animals, and a loud thump as she fell. I smiled. Christine had been my friend for years, and despite her natural grace, she lost all delicacy at the first sign of danger.

Slow and deliberate, my steps announced my approach. I couldn't stretch it any longer. The air filled with the crunching of leaves, shuffling of rocks, and cawing of the crows. Then I sped up. Over the rocks, and around the trunks, my mind hummed with triumph, my heart beating a tempo for the victory song. Shades of green blurred as I narrowed in on my target.

Belly down on the ground, Christine looked up from beneath a crumpled cranberry sweater covered with broken branches and patches of dirt. A pang of guilt touched me as I lobbed the ball of paint. It didn't last long.

"Got you!" I exclaimed. The bag popped, and gold paint coated Christine's back. Her cranberry sweater resembled corroded rust, and small dots of yellow speckled her tangled auburn hair.

I jumped down, half expecting to be ambushed. Nothing happened. I tilted my head, questioning the silence. "Christine?" I asked, poking her from behind.

Christine slowly twisted around, her blue eyes wide in terror.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I creaked, scanning the forest.

Christine's jaw trembled. Pushing herself up, she pointed back into the woods.

Nothing seemed odd or out of place. I took a quick inventory of our surroundings—the grayish-brown bark of the old cedar trees, spindly trunks of the maples, bright berries, and a white trunk. My gaze immediately jumped back to the white. I looked up slowly, following the white trunk until the details grew, and the recognition unfurled.

"The ivory tower," I breathed.

"We have to go," Christine whispered behind me.

I froze, barely feeling her insistent tugging on the cuff of my shirt.

I had never been this close to the edge of camp before. We had run the small stretch of woods in the back of the camp near the orphanage cabin for years, but never ventured to the outer boundaries. I focused on the barbed wire camouflaged into the stacked brambles and woody debris. Rust and moss grew around the sharp teeth of the corroded metal. And beyond it, what I'd taken for a white trunk revealed itself as the brick base of a tower.

The skillful, tidy stacks of bricks had worn over the years. White paint flecked off the sides. The dilapidated mortar left exposed gaps and piles at the base. At the top, the tower widened. A row of shattered windows looked out behind them, toward the camp. Squinting, I glimpsed writing on the dangling threshold marker. Faded charcoal letters described the tower with one word.

"Restricted," I whispered, my breath clouding the air. Christine's cold fingers pulled against my sweater as I moved closer.

"Simone, this isn't safe," she urged, pulling more insistently. "We shouldn't be this close to the edge." Christine's words fell on deaf ears. I was captivated.

She tugged again, drawing me away from the discovery. Twisting around, I shot her an annoyed look and brushed the bangs out of my eyes. "What?" I demanded.

"I want to go," she said, tears brimming at the edge of her eyes.

I looked at my friend, obviously afraid, and back to the tower, searing the image into my mind. A new sensation gripped me, a seductive blend of fear and curiosity. In sixteen years here at camp, I had never felt that rush. I didn't want it to end.

"Simone," she insisted.

I relented with a sigh, feeling the lure of the tower break.

* * *

No matter how hard I tried to recall the seductive blend of emotions the tower aroused, it escaped me. The memories were pale imitations of that first surge of excitement, reminding me more of what I was missing rather than what I had experienced. That longing haunted me, and I had no one to talk to about it.

Christine had disappeared shortly after we made it back to camp. The last thing I remembered was terror clawing her eyes, and a silent scream that stilled her voice. As much as she wanted to tell, to share the fear tearing through her, she couldn't. No one spoke about these things. Alarming the camp would only bring pressure down upon us. No one wanted extra notice from the guards.

It wasn't as tough for me, staying silent that is. No one spoke to me anyways. Civility didn't always reach the other side of camp. I bit my tongue, waiting through the torture of Christine's absence.

It'd been three days, but it felt like infinity. Images of the tower haunted every moment. When I closed my eyes in bed, visions of a forgotten tower wandered in. Instead of seeing the rotten wooden planks around my room, I saw rows of dilapidated bricks. The creaky floorboards in the cabin sounded eerily similar to the swinging of the threshold marker. Even as I waited in line for my daily rations, the wind blew against the frayed remains of our camp's striped flag, reminding me of the red maple leaves that pressed up against the base of the tower: a blend of red and white. The monotony of the camp, its desolation, reminded me of the bricks. I couldn't escape it. Everything took my mind back, especially Christine—or more specifically, the lack of her.

My gaze drifted back to the empty hole in line. Her absence illuminated the last thing we shared, and her disappearance highlighted its dangerous appeal. Thoughts tingled through me. She should be here. Being afraid was one thing, but being so frightened that she couldn't show up for rations or school was unheard of. I had to beg before she'd skip with me, and now she'd missed three days. Something was wrong, and I knew whatever kept Christine away had to do with more than just the tower. No one missed rations.

I shivered, feeling a knot form in my stomach. Panic pulled the edges of the knot tight, squeezing my heart into a cold lump in my chest. I clutched my arms, trying to warm the freeze spreading through me. The strange feelings surprised me. For years they had been regulated to the dark shadows of my room where nightmares and memoires of my mom surfaced. That's where I needed them to stay.

I clenched my jaw and pressed my nails into the rough fabric along my arms, anything to distract me from those thoughts. Now was not the time to replay history, or reminisce on the long list of people who'd abandoned me. Christine wouldn't leave me like they had.

Refocused on the empty spot in line, I counted the families around it. At the front of the line, Stuart Lindle and other camp elites stretched out on the wooden deck in front of the general store. Mr. Lindle leaned against the first wooden post, arms folded against his chest, face hidden beneath the wide rim of his straw hat. Every once in a while, his chin jutted forward and he brushed the tips of his handlebar mustache down. The bright, white cuff at the bottom of his denim sleeve announced his position with a single digit.

Behind him, the men called 'checkers', due to their black and white patterned shirts, kept to themselves. In charge of market inventory and storage, they rarely spoke except to each other or the guards. Anytime I had gotten close, their conversations of broken sentences sounded more like a secret code, almost as if they were systematically checking off a list in their minds. Behind them, other camp officials sat on top wooden boxes and overturned pallets, crowding under the store's overhang.

Behind the elite, the rest of camp sprawled out along the warped deck in front of the meeting hall, down the dusty path, around the overgrown garden, and to the other edge of center camp, where broken stones and rotten planks bordered the main street. The further down the line I scanned, the starker the contrast. Clean clothes darkened to stained ones, patches overtook shirts, and the tips of straw hats frayed. Dirt and dust permanently marked the thighs and knees of work pants. Layers of dirt and grime stained the farmers' clothes, hiding the sewn-in numbers. Dust scattered around people as they painstakingly brushed off the dirt. A hidden number was as good as a missing number.

By the time I reached the embroidered number seventy, my scan slowed and heart raced. The pain of betrayal tightened in my stomach again. Hawthorne Wentmire, the youngest of the Wentmire farmers, laughed with his brothers. Even standing at the end of the line, I could hear the rich chuckle, and see the way his face scrunched up in amusement. Each ripple of laughter punched me in the gut. He used to react to my jokes that way.

Not anymore. Not in a long time. I wondered when it would stop hurting, but I suppose betrayal never did.

"Get it together," I mumbled, running my fingers through my hair, catching a glimpse of my own embroidered number—677. I sighed and clasped my hands behind my back.

Every other group in camp stood out, easily identified by the style or condition of clothes—elite, farmers, factory, services—but orphans, we survived on scraps. The scraps of camp, rations, the scraps of care and kindness. We were forgotten or ignored until desperation hit, or we were needed for something.

"Christine!" I yelled, waving my hands over my head as she turned into view. I ran toward her and stopped when I saw her face.

Walking closely behind her parents, her downcast head explained why she had been missing. Hidden beneath a blank expression, dark shadows outlined her eyes, and the discolored remnants of a bruise spotted her left cheek. Christine stood stoically in line, ignoring my outburst.

"Christine," I yelled again, scowling at her avoidance. This wasn't like her. Something was wrong. Proving my point, the painted glares of scorn and disappointment from Christine's parents told me exactly what they thought of me. I sighed, feeling a pang of responsibility for my friend's pain.

Was it really my fault, though? I hadn't found the tower; that was Christine. I hadn't said anything to anyone, but she obviously had. I didn't do anything wrong, and yet no matter how I tried to justify it, I couldn't escape the guilt. Deserved or not, it was there.

Retracing my steps, I took my normal place at the end of the line, ignoring Mrs. Booker's narrowed eyelids and the tight line of her lips. She was trying to determine just how much trouble I had caused this time. If Mrs. Booker knew even half of my escapades, her expression would have been much worse. Memories of transgressions flickered through my mind, and a smile grew on my lips. It had a price, but being an orphan gave me a certain amount of freedom, too.

The line quieted as the first set of bells rang.

In the silence of the line, the wind howled sending a shiver down my spine. Crossing my arms to block the chill, goosebumps grew through the scratchy fabric of my shirt. The worn burlap did little to block the force of the wind, and morning mist slid through the wide threads of my shirt. Behind me, teeth chattered.

"Eli, why didn't you grab your jacket?" I asked, pulling the young boy to my side, ruffling his mop of dark curls.

He shrugged and looked up at me with a goofy grin, sticking his tongue out between his missing two front teeth.

"You think so?" I asked, narrowing my eyes playfully at him.

He wiggled out of my grasp and ran to join the other kids from the cabin. Rosey, the only red-headed girl in camp, giggled when he rushed past her and ducked down out of sight. Freckles danced on her cheeks with each laugh as her glances darted between me and the little boy.

"Watch it," an annoyed voice called out from behind them. "You almost ruined it!"

Eli had scooted too far behind Rosey, tripping over Sarah, one of the oldest orphans besides myself. She blew her bangs out of her face and pointed a broken plank she had been drawing with at the two six-year olds. With each wag of her hand as she spoke, dust fluttered off the end.

Mrs. Booker glared at me, certain I had something to do with the outburst in line. I shrugged and raised my hands in innocence.

Deep down I smiled. Sarah, despite her protests got exactly what she wanted—two new workers she could boss around. Being two years older than them gave her an unearned feeling of superiority. I had rescued those kids and a handful of the other young ones from her unreasonable demands many times before.

"You're doing it wrong—not like that—Eli, no!" Her voice escalated to a shrill squeak.

I cleared my throat and raised my eyebrow at her, pointing to the ground. She glanced over at me, her eyes quickly darting away guiltily.

"Fine," she mumbled, shoulders sagging in defeat as she sat down next to Rosey. Dust plumed over them with the rough shuffling of her stick across the ground, creating a clean drawing surface. She looked back at me and waved her hand like she had done me a favor. I sighed and turned away, hiding my smile at the first strokes of her stick: long lines intersecting across a circle. A delicate web.

All of us orphans obsessed over webs, trying to find connections where there were none. But no matter how elaborately drawn, they never caught anything. Our webs always remained empty.

My head popped up at the sound of the guards marching, approaching from the other side of camp near the factory. The slow tapping grew into a rhythmic boom. The guards walked in unison, their impeccably pressed uniforms as harsh as their smiles. Colorful patches and insignias lined the shoulders of the uniforms, and black leather straps secured their guns and ammunition. The air tightened as the line of men passed.

Above their measured pace, a choked sob escalated to muffled screams. I looked away from the marching men to Rosey, squirming in Mrs. Booker's arms. She threw her head from side to side in a fit.

"No," she cried, her squeals amplified in the silence.

I ran to her side and grabbed the screaming child, pressing her head to my chest. "What's wrong?" I asked in a whisper, wiping tears off the child's cheeks.

She smeared her snotty nose over a torn sleeve and pointed to the dusty imprints where she had been drawing.

"Oh my sweet Rose, don't worry. It's all Mrs. Booker's fault," I said, smirking at the old woman. "She should have shown you where to draw. Here, draw with me." As soon as the guards passed, we dropped to our knees and traced our fingers through the gritty dirt. I was rewarded with a ragged smile from the girl and a shake of disapproval from Mrs. Booker.

With the kids back to drawing, I squinted toward the guards, following the trail of dust to the main gates. Even the line of dust seemed to be displaced with precision. The guards marched to the gates and stood on either side of the main doorway, creating a tunnel of armed men. A round red light crowned the doorway, dormant until the doors opened. Faded letters blended into the thick steel studded doors, its earlier designation forgotten. With only a few surviving camps around the country, it didn't matter who took care of us, just that we were taken care of. We were protected.

The thought soured in my mind. Protected—restricted—it was all the same.

The red light flashed with the opening of the door. The hinges creaked, threatening to buckle under the repetitive strain.

Dust surrounded the incoming trucks. Covered in studded armor, camouflaged paint, and metal spikes, they were faint shadows of their original design. The trucks maneuvered slowly, filling the silence with a thunder of exhaust. An armored guard peeked through a small opening in the top, automatic gun slung over his shoulder. Large tan goggles and a domed hat monopolized his face. The caravan rounded its way through the gates and into the circular path of the marketplace, covering the line of people with a layer of grime that clung under the mist.

The Colonel stepped out, as foreboding as ever. The first steps of his boots hitting the ground synchronized with the ringing of the second bell. Years of the same routine made the process seamless. Seamless, but not painless. The older I got, the more I noticed the palpable disgust on the Colonel and transit guard's faces. The smirks of our guards seemed genial compared to the sneers and nose twitches as we passed the others.

The line crawled forward, and we approached the line of armored vehicles in another programmed routine. Transit guards bordered both sides of the path, forcing us to pass through an armored tunnel to reach the Colonel. The guard's blank eyes stared through me on either side until I reached the end, where another uninterested guard held out a small cloth bag. Past the guards, the rigid-backed Colonel stood, dark eyes hidden behind the shadows of his hat's brim. Black-gloved fingers strangled a pen as he marked off our numbers, mutely searching our clothing for confirmation. Even after years, he showed no signs of recognition.

"Thanks," I mumbled, clutching it to my chest as I walked away.

A sweet fragrance wafted up from the bag, hitting my nose like a suckerpunch. The emptiness of my stomach, aggravated from the sleepless nights, rumbled in protest. That gnawing ache grew with every step I took away from the guards making my way back across the main street. I knew better, but the anticipation stirred within, and my mouth watered before I made it to my normal spot across from the general market. I climbed on top of a row of rotten posts leaning against each other haphazardly, hooking my legs around the lower part for balance.

I shook out my fists, white knuckled from clenching the bag, and said a quick wish before peeking inside. The sweet scent hit me first.

_Lucky this time_ ; I grinned, welcoming the sight of the jerky strip, roll, and a sprinkling of dried berries squished along the side of the bag. Rations changed daily, and I never knew what would be inside my bag. Some days there was enough to save some for another day; others meant a simple roll; and sometimes, they ran out before me.

The berries melted on my tongue, a surprising blend of sweet and tanginess, unlike the tart salmonberries or sweet blackberries I picked in the forest. Popping a few more in my mouth, I watched the caravan retreat under the flashing red light, disappearing as quickly as they appeared.

Balancing a berry on the top of my thumb nail, I flicked it up into the air, catching it on one clean swoop. I demolished half of them and almost choked on another when I saw Christine.

She hesitated mid-street, glancing between me and then behind herself, toward her parents, who were deep in conversation with Mr. Lindle.

"Hey you," I called out, catching Christine off guard. Her face paled and she forced a small smile before glancing behind her. She took a step backwards toward her parents. "Where are you going? The third bell hasn't rung yet," I asked, jumping off the post, making her stop mid-step.

Christine slowed, but wouldn't meet my eyes. Hidden inside her stretched out sweater, she looked so frail today, so small. It was the same cranberry sweater she had worn in the woods, but the fabric had stretched beyond repair with multiple washes. Even after its tortured cleaning, small specks of yellow stained the thick yarn.

"Let me share my rations with you," I offered, holding out a handful of berries.

Christine looked at the offering warily. "That's a first," she said, jumping onto the post next to me.

I smirked and closed my hand at her insult.

"No take backs," she said, prying my hand open.

I feigned a pout and pulled out the strip of jerky, tearing off a chunk of the overly-salted meat. "Your sweater looks nice," I said.

Christine raised her eyebrows. "It should look good. I've spent the last three days scrubbing it, trying to get the paint out."

"I thought it looked pretty clean," I said. Christine's eyes strayed back to the ground. My smile disappeared at the stalled conversation. "What happened?" I finally asked.

"I got in trouble," she mumbled softly.

"I can see that." I brushed a strand of Christine's auburn hair away from her eyes. A purple and green welt streaked across her cheekbone. "I didn't think they'd ever hit you. What happened?"

Christine twisted her fingers, refusing to meet my eyes. "They haven't before. It was scary. When I told them about the tower, you should've seen my mom's eyes. I've never seen them that mad."

"And they did this to you, all because of the tower?" I asked incredulously.

"They said it was a warning." She brushed her hair forward, covering the bruise. "That I got off easy. That if I ever went back, it'd be worse. Like I'd ever go back there."

"I don't understand. They hit you over a stupid tower?" I asked, appalled. "Geez, I thought they'd be madder that you were skipping class or something. Why'd you tell them, anyways?"

"Don't give me that look. I didn't tell them much, just the obvious. I had to explain the paint, and why we were in the woods instead of class," she defended. "I'm not like you. I can't do things and not have to answer questions about it. They hold me accountable for everything, and now..." her voice trailed off.

"And now what?" I prompted, trying to keep my anger from rising. Sometimes she saw my circumstances as easier than hers.

She met my eyes and scoffed. "And now, with the factory coming up, they expect more of me. They said I needed to start following the rules, for my own good...and they warned me to stay away from...certain things," she added reluctantly.

"The tower?" I asked.

"You."

I nodded and looked back at my rations. I picked through the few remaining berries in silence. "I could say the same thing about them. I'd never hurt you."

"This," she said pointing to her cheek, "was a mistake. The true wounds don't show."

I scrunched my forehead and reached for her hand. I knew more about that than she thought.

"You should have seen them, Simone. They were livid. More than I've ever seen them before. When I mentioned the tower, they lost it. I mean, really lost it," she said.

I relaxed feeling the distance between us shrink. "I can imagine."

"What do you think they told me first?" she asked with a wink.

"Oh boy, probably something blaming it on me," I answered with a slight laugh, digging my nails into the post at my side.

"You're right. At first, it was all about you. What a bad influence you are, how you're always thinking of yourself, how I shouldn't see you anymore," she chuckled, oblivious to my discomfort. "That sort of thing."

"Ah, there's nothing new there. They've told you that from the beginning. It wouldn't do for a 28 to be seen with a 677." I hid the sting with a joking tone.

"It's not about our numbers," Christine said, hiding the cuff of her sleeve under her palm. "It has nothing to do with that. It's about the rules. I've broken too many recently...they're afraid."

"We've been breaking them our whole lives. I don't know what's different now."

"We're getting older, Simone. It's no longer just skipping out of class or taking someone else's rations. We're almost old enough for the factory, and that means things are about to get serious. We need to follow the rules. They're here for a reason."

"What sort of reason?" I rolled my eyes. "To glorify submission? To numb our lives into routine?"

"Shhh, lower your voice," Christine said, nudging me with her elbow. "This is what my parents were talking about. You can't say stuff like that. The rules are here to protect us. It might be a life of routine and rules, but it's still a life. We're the lucky ones; you should remember that. You know our history just as well as I do, or did you sleep through those classes?"

"I'm about to fall asleep now."

"Stop it. You know the truth. You can't deny the stories of failing crops, violence, and anarchy. They've given me nightmares."

"Mr. Lindle gives you nightmares." We both looked over at the mayor, stroking his moustache flat against his jaw, and giggled.

"You can't blame me; look at him. He's scary. Just look at that golden tooth and his wide grin. I can't tell if he likes me or wants to eat me."

"Probably both," I said with a wink, popping the last berry into my mouth.

"Stop it—be serious."

"Never."

"So you're just going to ignore all this? My parents' warnings—"

"Come on. What do you want me to do? No one disputes our past, but yeah, I'm not going to dwell on it. Bad stuff happened...move on. That's what this camp is for, right? To protect us... no need to worry."

"But, my parents—"

"Worry too much. They'd keep you on a leash if these walls weren't here."

"That's not fair."

"Nothing's fair here. Get used to it. I have."

She looked at me intently, slightly wrinkling her nose and upper lip, like she wanted to say something Instead, she stuck out her tongue.

I choked back my laughter and repositioned myself on the post, brushing chunks of dried moss off of the bottom. "Just leave the past behind. It's better that way," I said.

Christine smoothed out her hair and grabbed a sweet cake loaded with icing from her rations bag. "I guess you're right. None of that really matters anyway. In a couple weeks, we'll be too busy with the factory to worry about anything else."

I bit my lower lip and looked over my shoulder to the oppressive building at the edge of my vision. "Has your mom told you anything about it yet?"

Christine shook her head, and frowned. "Not really. It's like she pretends that part of the day doesn't exist. She never mentions it, and I don't bring it up. It can't be too bad, though. A stitch here, a stitch there. It'll be fine—something new for you to complain about."

"Complain?" I feigned shock. "Never. I always make the best of a situation. Speaking of...what do you say we skip out and take advantage of the sunshine? I bet we could find it again," I said, with the side of my mouth turning up mischievously.

"Drop it, Simone." Christine's voice hardened. "We can't go back there. I'm not going back there," she said more definitely.

"Why not?" I begged. "I have to see it again. It's killing me."

"I can't...it's too...it's bad. Let's leave it at that."

"What aren't you saying?" My stomach knotted. "Tell me."

"I can't. I promised."

"Promised who?"

She gave me that look, and I knew. "Come on. Camp honor, I won't tell."

She rolled her eyes but leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Okay, but this is serious. It's bad stuff, Simone. They say the tower brings death and disaster to anyone who goes there. Everyone that's gone near it in the past has come back contaminated, scarred, or dead."

We locked eyes, and a new shiver ran through me. "Oooooh, scary," I said, trying to diffuse the prickles on my neck.

"Stop it. I'm serious. Even your mom." Christine's voice quivered.

"My mom?" I choked out, sobering instantly. "No, Mrs. Booker told me...she was sick."

"She was, but it was from contaminants, not just a cold or something. About ten years ago, there was a rations shortage. People were starving to death in the streets. At some point, people got fed up and a group went out; searching for extra food, animals, anything really, but instead, they found the tower. The guards saved some, but even they didn't come back unscathed. The others, like you mom...they weren't so lucky. That tower. It's not good."

"Whoa, a tower can't do that," I protested.

Christine shrugged. "My parents wouldn't lie."

I looked past her to where Maxwell and Justine Decker stood. Uptight, overbearing wimps—I could call them a lot of things. But not liars. Just like Christine, they prided themselves on their integrity.

"Why I haven't I heard about this?"

Christine looked at me. "You were only six. It's not the sort of thing someone would tell you."

"No, I don't believe it. I would've known. Mrs. Booker would've told me." But even I knew it wasn't true. She'd never told me anything, let alone something that would require her actual attention.

Christine raised her eyebrows and gave me a knowing look. "You don't have to take my word for it. Tomorrow morning. Look closer at Mr. Lindle, or Hawthorne's dad. They were in that group and made it back safely. Look at their hands next time we line up. They're marked. It doesn't matter what you believe or what you've been told. I'm not going back. I don't want to risk it. The world out there's still bad."

"You really believe that?"

"How could you not? People are still dying from contaminants, others go missing, and the guards are still here. If everything was fixed, none of that would be happening, right?"

I regarded her carefully. Naivety covered her, head to toes. There would be no changing her mind, and maybe I didn't want to. Maybe her conviction was enough to give me the unreasonable hope that I was wrong. I packed the rest of my rations into the steel container at my hip. "You're right. You always are. It's just that when I saw the tower, something inside me changed. When I saw it, I don't know," I sighed. "It just made me feel."

"Made you feel what?"

I gave her a sad smile and shrugged. "It just made me feel."

We both jerked at the sound of the third bell.

"What do you want to do today, then? Steal more supplies, climb the old buildings?" I asked while she folded her rations into her side pouch, handing me an extra two slices of jerky that wouldn't fit.

"I'm going to class today," Christine said, jumping off the post. "Maybe tomorrow."

I watched her run down the path to catch up with Mrs. Hutchings and the other kids. When they turned the corner after the meeting hall, I jumped off the post and followed, leaving a trail of dust behind me.

* * *

The rest of the day settled into a blur. While I drifted in and out of sleep, Christine's hand jumped with every answer, as if excelling today would forgive yesterday's transgressions. People compensated in different ways. I tried not to judge, but mine seemed easier. I folded my arms on my desk and leaned over, closing my eyes, listening to Mrs. Hutching's voice as she listed off the tragedies of the outside world.

* * *

That night proved no better than the previous few. I woke from another nightmare in a puddle of sweat, clutching at my heart, prepared to rip it out to make it stop sharing more memories. The pitch-black room calmed the bite of the nightmare. The darkness provided a strange solace. Cloaked by shadows, the realization of my fears and memories remained hidden. I'd battled many demons over the years, found peace with most of them...but not all. Some nights, the ones that lingered ganged up on me, reminding me that freedom couldn't even be found in dreams. One image in particular refused to leave, no matter how I pleaded or ignored: my mom.

I swatted at the ground next to the bed, feeling for the unevenly melted candle near the edge of my mattress. The cool wax relaxed me. I sat up and found the hidden matchbook and grasped the cool brass locket tucked up between the compressed springs. Carefully lighting the candle, I placed it flat on the ground next to my bed. I curved my palm around the flame, blocking the light and looked around to make sure no one else was awake.

Small crevices between the boards shared everything. Privacy was an illusion. Maybe that was why these midnight hours consoled me. At any other time, if they ignored my cries, it would be from avoiding my pain, not ignorance. Assured of privacy, I moved my palm away from the candle and settled my gaze on the dancing flame.

I closed my mind, summoning back the visions of my dream, less fearful when I deliberately sought them. The images of my mom left me hysterical only when I wasn't prepared. I pressed my nail along the outer edge of the locket, holding my breath until the slight click of the latch sounded and opened my eyes. My eyes stung with unshed tears. The woman staring back at me blurred.

"Hi Mom," I whispered. A tear broke through me defenses and slid down my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. My mom didn't answer; she never did. But in her silence, her eyes spoke to me, offering unspoken promises—dreams of a future free of walls and overcrowded, lonely cabins. Fierce and full of energy, even the matte paper couldn't dull the passion in her eyes—a trait not passed down to me. I could never look at them for long.

Wisps of blonde hair fell over her face, and her hands touched the tips, moving them away. Even trapped in a photo, warmth radiated through her. A warmth I didn't remember, yet also couldn't forget, drifting at the edge of memory. Though it was a gift, the photo haunted me.

"I wish you were here." I traced her square jaw and pressed my fingers to her lips, imaging her response, usually some rendition of our old bedtime routine.

She sat on the bed beside me, the mattress dipping to her weight. I rolled into her, hugging her legs. With a quick pull, the blankets reached up over my chin, and her deft fingers tucked the edges under the sides of my small body.

" _I'm afraid of the dark mama," I'd cry, a poor attempt to keep her by my side for longer._

She smiled knowingly. "Be like the flame sweetie," she whispered, lighting the candle and placing it on the side table next to me. "Darkness only lasts for a little while."

I heard it in my dreams, I heard it in my heart. I just never truly understood what she meant and wondered if she saw me now, would her bedtime message be the same? I doubted it. My fears were much bigger now, and the darkness seemed to last longer. I pressed the sides of the locket together and tucked it under the mattress, poking it through a small hole into a void in the straw filling.

The flame danced on a short wick. Small beads of hot wax bubbled along the edge. I licked my thumb and finger, extinguishing the flame with a sizzle, relishing the quick burst of pain.

I leaned back against the bed, folding the pillow in half, staring at the wisps of smoke spiraling up from the wick. Darkness didn't hide everything.

Even though my eyes were closed, I didn't sleep. Thoughts plagued me. Visions of my mom, Christine's bruised face, and the tower filtered in uninvited, monopolizing my mind. Things needed to change. It was more than the lack of sleep or increase in nightmares. The persistent pull of the tower wouldn't be ignored. It demanded an answer. One way or another, I had to see it again.

Morning didn't come fast enough. I stared out the window, watching the slow transition of the stars fading and turning into streaks of dust and grime speckled along the outside of the window, shadowed by a lightening gray sky as the morning sun rose. When the first rays of light breached the window sill, I flipped the edge of my thin sheet over the pillow and tip-toed over to the side of the room. Sidestepping squeaky floorboards, I lifted the window, slipping out of the cabin. I waited, half expecting Mrs. Booker to come out wooden spoon in hand. But no one stirred.

The gravel crunched under me and poked through the hole in the bottom of my boots as I walked down the path backwards, watching the cabin for movement. Not that I couldn't justify my actions, but getting away with it was more satisfying.

The cabin shrank into a blob of darkness in the distance, fading into the shadows of the forest. We called it a cabin, but 'forgotten shanty' seemed more fitting; it looked like something from the back of Mrs. Hutching's history books.

I wrapped my arms inside the sleeves of my shirt and walked toward the center of camp. The morning air numbed me, already showing signs of winter's advance. My teeth chattered and breath clouded my view, forcing me to pull the collar of my shirt up over my chin. I hated to do it, almost nothing was worse than the red rash from where the burlap scratched my skin. Almost. The cold had always been my weakness. And this morning, I felt especially weak, which fueled the decision I had already made. Now I just needed to find a way to convince Christine.

With my mind focused on strategy, I barely noticed when the gravel road turned to broken stones and piles of debris sorted into supplies and merchandise. The rustling of the flag above announced my arrival at the center of camp. The walk usually took ten minutes, but in this cold, I made it there in five.

Without the hordes of people crowded in for rations, center camp seemed relatively peaceful. Stores lined the sides of the main road. Simple stone buildings used for housing the general goods, with barely enough room for the monthly camp meetings. At the edge of the road's loop, stood out community garden. Forgotten and overgrown with weeds, it wrapped our flag in a wreath of neglect.

Flickering in the wind, a frayed flag marked the center of camp. Torn from the wind's abuse, the separation between its original colored lines blended as threads waved independently, a last reminder of the time before.

Rusted farm equipment lined the wall along the side of the meeting hall. On the other side, monopolizing the storefront, wooden boxes stacked high, covering the dusty windows.

From what we were told about the others, this camp was relatively small, but the one thousand acre compound fooled enough of us into complacency. Not me, though. Claustrophobia hit me every time I walked to center camp, the feeling of the tall grey walls crushing me. And that was nothing compared to the certain doom that paused my heart every time I walked past the factory or greenhouses in the field. Spacious or not, it suffocated. There was only one place I had ever felt free: in the forest behind the cabin. And now, even that was threatened.

The wind burst through, smacking the flag forcefully. I curved my hand over my eyes for a clearer view, then glanced beyond the faded stripes to the barbs and trained gunmen guarding the main gates. As the eyes of one of the guards bore down on me, goosebumps rose along the back of my neck. But just as quickly, he turned his attention back to paperwork. I sped across the street to my spot in line, an indiscriminate spot along the dusty road, and slumped to the ground, waiting for the line to fill in.

I drug my fingers through my hair, wincing at the tangles, and pulled the mess back into a ponytail. Soft wisps escaped their intended confinement and framed my face. I tugged on the longer pieces and tucked them behind an ear, careful to keep my eyes down. My head pounded and vision blurred as exhaustion finally hit. I cradled my head in one hand while the other found a discarded stick and traced designs. When I was done, I sat back and threw my drawing stick—it was another empty web.

Before long, people filtered in. The single digits lined up first. Mr. Lindle stretched out in an old chair, legs raised on wooden pallets. The checkers picked through the items in the top box of new deliveries. Hands flung through the air in excitement. Christine and her family showed up shortly after the first deck filled. Her dad shook Mr. Lindle's hand before finding their spot just off the second deck. They were all smiles today, yesterday's tension forgotten.

I cracked my neck and tightened my ponytail. Perhaps my plan would be easier than I thought.

"Whatcha looking at?" A small voice piped up from behind me.

I jumped and then smiled at Eli, messing up the mop of dark curls that sprung off the young boy's head. "Nothing much, little guy. What'd I miss for breakfast?"

Eli stuck out his tongue and pointed a finger down his throat. "Mrs. B's breakfast mush. Whatcha think?"

"I like to think she treats you better when I'm not around."

Eli wormed his way under my arm, snuggling into the curve of my collar bone. "I hope you're always around."

I smiled half-heartedly, glancing back at my earlier web design. "I have nowhere to go." He nuzzled closer, his dark curls tickling my lips. "What'd you do to get here so early?" I asked, noticing none of the other kids had arrived.

"Charlie tripped," he said.

I nodded, thinking about the youngest boy in the cabin, a two-year-old who hit the corner of every table with his forehead. He was another reason I couldn't sleep some nights.

Eli scooted away from me and returned with a drawing stick to start his own design.

A deep laugh rang out. I tore my eyes away from Eli and met Hawthorne's gaze briefly. A chance glance; his gaze drifted off without recognition. He walked up from the farm communes with his family. I forced my gaze away from his bright smile and where a dimple creased his right cheek into an equally treacherous zone, where his hand hooked the front pocket of his pants, accentuating the strong muscles along his forearms and thighs.

"Research," I mumbled, wiping hair off my forehead. "This is all for research." Just not on him. I sighed and turned my focus behind him, where his parents approached. Standing up, I brushed dirt off my leggings, motioning for Eli to keep drawing. The fact that Mrs. Booker was late worked to my advantage.

I smiled despite the trepidation rising inside. I had no time for feelings. If what Christine said was true, Hawthorne's dad might hold the answers to my questions. I had two options. The first was to check out citizen number one—just the thought turned my stomach. I made fun of Christine, but I agreed—he was scary. My other option was almost as gut-wrenching.

This was my only chance to see if what Christine had said was true. Not that I didn't believe her, but her parents...they were different. They'd say anything to keep her away.

The Wentmires joined the line and melted into the crowd. A part of me hoped I could see what I needed from across the street, but that though was dashed immediately. A wide-brimmed hat concealed Mr. Wentmire's face, and his hand hid within his wife's grip. Even worse, their bodies blurred under my tired eyes, I wouldn't see anything from here.

I swore under my breath, hearing Christine's words taunt me from my mind. I had to get closer. No one broke the daily routine, and yet here I was, walking along the line, checking out hands. It was absurd. But I was committed. If I could prove her parents wrong, my plan was guaranteed. If they were right—I didn't want to think about that. I bit on the inside of my upper lip and rolled my palms together. The first step came hardest, and I felt the burning focus of everyone's eyes on my back.

I avoided their gaze, focusing on the shoes in line. The transitions between numbers became obvious. Scrappy boots, no sturdier than strips of worn leather and corroded buckles made way to flat, sensible shoes for the factory. Worn holes, patched with mismatched fabric and tight cross-stitching. At the first pair of scuffed boots, I glanced up, hoping it looked casual. Mr. Wisener didn't notice. His hands hooked his front pocket, but besides the abundance of freckles, his hands were clear. I looked to the next person in line, but Mr. Steen's were clear as well.

A sickening feeling climbed from my stomach to my chest. What was I doing? Was I really risking rations or worse over a story Christine's mom had told her?

I shook my head, and then stopped mid-step. On my left, Mr. Wentmire's right hand rested on his thigh pocket. Tortured skin peeked out from beneath his marked cuff. Splotches in a variety of shades twisted together, as if the skin itself rejected the idea of healing.

My heart raced. If Christine was right about this, what else was true? What did that mean about my mom? Ideas jumbled together, melting into the fog of my mind. I looked up and met his gaze. The wide-brimmed hat concealed his face from far away, but up close I looked him in the eyes. He smiled warmly, tipping his hat slightly and whispered something to his wife. She stared at me with a tight smile.

I exhaled sharply, hoping to hide the gasp under loud breathing. Sweat beaded up on my forehead and the line seemed to sway. This was too much to handle on a normal basis, let alone when I was exhausted.

"Sorry, I..." I mumbled, stumbling backwards.

"Simone?" I stopped at the familiar drawl of my name. I knew that voice, and even now, it made my knees go weak. "Simone?" Hawthorne asked again. One hand tilted his hat forward, hiding his eyes so that the only part of him I saw was his cooked smile and devilish dimple. I felt my face pale even more and my heart catapult to my throat, blocking any coherent thoughts or words.

"Hi—er—I," I fumbled, searching desperately for help. The only gaze I found was Christine's, and her eyes were larger than mine.

The bell rang and I turned, running back across the road. Never in my life had those bells sounded so beautiful. The line tightened under the chimes, and I ran back into place before the daily routine began.

Mrs. Booker raised her brows. "Now kids, that's another example of what not to do." Mrs. Booker's gravelly voice said as I fell back into position. I cringed at her words, but couldn't deny it. I didn't want them to end up like me either.

Dragging my feet, I stumbled forward until my eyes settled on the polished black boots and pressed trousers. Unable to stop the progression, my eyes continued up to the Colonel's face. My breath caught in my chest as our eyes connected. Under the structured cap, a hint of madness gleamed from his dark eyes. A shiver ran down my spine as his eyes lowered from my face to my sleeve. With a curt nod, his gloved hands struck my number off the list.

The guard waved me forward, empty-handed. My stomach protested the rejection, but I walked forward, happily escaping the scrutiny of the guards. I had ways around restricted rations.

The younger kids didn't feel the same. Grumbles and whines echoed behind me. Mrs. Booker ushered the hungry kids across the street into their classroom. The streets quieted, but not the cries of their hunger. I sighed. Hiding the problem was not a solution, no matter how many times they tried.

Over at our normal meeting spot, Christine sat atop the wooden fence post, licking frosting off a sweet cake.

I managed a slight smile as I sat next to her. "So, any extra treats in there for me?" I asked, peeking over Christine's shoulder.

"Don't you ever take anything seriously?" She pulled out an extra sugar cube.

"Not if I can help it," I admitted, popping the sugar cube into my mouth.

"You're absolutely crazy sometimes!" she exclaimed.

I shrugged and let the sugar melt along my tongue.

"Nothing today?" she asked, looking at my empty hands.

"It's the nature of the number," I said, grabbing another cube from Christine's bag. "You get the good food, and I get the trouble."

"That's not all you get. I saw you talking with Hawthorne," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you were done with him."

"Well, yeah. It's nothing," I said, feeling a blush sneak up to my cheeks.

"Nothing?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said with finality. "He made that clear years ago."

"Sometimes things change."

"Not for me. He had his chance and ruined it. Look, I don't want to talk about him, okay?"

She nodded and handed me a handful of rolls and sugar cubes.

I looked at the treats overflowing my hands, then back to her, noticing the way she avoided my gaze and twisted hands in the hem of her shirt.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Me, nothing...but my parents." She scrunched her face together and bit her lower lip. "They may have made arrangements for me."

"Arrangements? Wait, with him? Are you serious?" I asked, shaking off the brief pang in my heart.

She nodded and glanced across the street, where he and his brothers juggled a handful of apples.

"You know how it is. We don't have many options here..." her voice trailed off as she looked around the square and settled on her parents. "Mom thinks he'd be a good match for me. I know they would have preferred one of the official's kids, but no one's near my age. And he is handsome..." she let the words linger, with a sidelong glance at him.

I cocked my head to the side and looked at her. How had I missed that? "I didn't know you felt that way, not after—"

"Nothing's final yet though. Terms can't even be discussed until I'm in the factory," she said quickly, holding out another sugar block.

Terms? I hooked my feet tighter under the post to keep me from falling backwards. I had never thought about that. In all the unfairness of camp, I hadn't thought about the one thing that could take her away. For my entire life, she had been my one constant. The one stability in a world that ripped everything away, and now, I felt it. A small tear between us—something we couldn't share.

"Isn't he too old for you?" I argued.

"Too old," she laughed. "You know he's only a couple years older than us."

I knew, but for some reason I was trying to find an excuse, any excuse.

"And besides, there aren't a lot of choices here, for any of us. You know that too. This will be a good thing for me. Please try and be happy. Simone?" she asked, leaning over to look at me. "You're pale. Are you feeling well?"

I pressed up a small smile and nodded, trying to find words that didn't convey my feelings. "Yeah, of course I'm fine," I said quickly. As the lingering tone of the third bell fell silent, I cast a sideways glance toward Christine. "It's almost gone, you know."

"What?" she asked.

"Your bruise. Maybe we should go back."

Christine's eyes widened, and she touched her cheek like I had slapped her, pulling down a section of hair over half her face. "That's not funny. I thought we talked about that yesterday."

"Well about going back there...but...it's one of our last days. You know we won't get this chance again once we join the factory. Even I can't get us out of there. I'm not going to waste my last few days of freedom. And the woods are so much more fun with you. So..."

I popped a final cube in my mouth and waited. I could see the choices weighing in her mind. Responsibility versus friendship. A simple choice for me, but it tortured her. Her eyes shifted everywhere, shoulders sagged as she rolled her rations bag into her belt pouch. When she finally looked at me, I recognized defeat. "Fine, but just today."

I tried to hide the excitement surging inside as I jumped down from the fence and tightened my tangled ponytail. Today was all I needed.

* * *

Christine shuffled her feet, digging in with resistance.

"Come on," I said. "One last time; you promised."

Her gaze lingered on the edge of the forest, then me, then to the ground, refusing to settle. The shadows stilled her feet.

"I don't know..." she whispered.

I sighed heavily and squished my eyes together in a way to emphasize guilt. "You promised." She didn't know that I had no choice, at the first step inside the forest, the seductive pull of the tower called to me. "You can't leave me now; come on," I urged, playfully pulling her behind me. We had a long way to go, and not nearly enough time. I doubted there would ever be enough time. "School's already started. You'd be in just as much trouble for being late," I reminded her.

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, when they rested on me, the glint of anger unsettled me. But she stepped forward, and that's what I was waiting for. I didn't care; today was about me.

My heart raced in anticipation. I assumed this was what others felt like on their birthdays. This was my gift.

"You better start counting," I said, watching Christine fumble with the metal clasp to the pouch on her belt pulling out a multi-colored bag. She rolled the bag of paint in her palm, the anger in her eyes turning mischievous. A crooked smile rose on her face.

"You'd better start running. It took days to get the yellow out of my sweater. We'll see how long it takes you to get out the blue," she taunted. She was back.

"That's if you can find me," I yelled back, already blending into the greens of the forest. "Don't forget who always wins."

"One, two, three..."

I ran into the woods, feeling the cold air attack my face. The biting chill stretched my cheeks, chapping my lips with their touch. I didn't dare glance back or slow down, knowing that the moment Christine stopped counting, my own time slipped away. My carefully-placed feet moved silently in the underbrush. I balanced on the fallen logs as much as possible, to lessen the disturbance and leave fewer footprints. Christine wasn't as skilled at tracking, but there was no way she didn't know where I was going. No matter how good a liar I was, even I could see through this manipulation.

At the moment the countdown began, I dropped all pretenses of the game. I was going to the tower. While part of me understood Christine's reluctance, another part felt compelled to see it again. That part won.

The air quieted. Only the crunching of leaves and branches, and the occasional fluttering of wings sounded. The forest deepened around me. I passed the rock quarry, the fallen hemlock, the high wall of brambles, and finally, the small river. The compulsion of the tower pulled me. I made quick time through the forest, running until my chest caved with exertion. The miles had never disappeared so quickly. I splashed through the cold water, skipping along faster and faster. The bite of the rocks through the leather diminished with every step.

And then suddenly, I saw it. A layer of grime had settled over the years, shading the outer edges of the brick. Silent steps brought me to the edge of the clearing, where metal thorns peeked through the brambles. The corroded barbs teased me, looking harmless. I grasped the cool metal. A shiver of certainty shook me.

Wind rustled through the branches, sending a shower of golden and carmine leaves down from the overgrown web of branches. They settled around the base of the tower. The visions that haunted my dreams for the past week transformed into reality. My chest ached. That same feeling of fear and curiosity burned through me. I itched to touch the bricks. It was more than that. I needed to feel those bricks, press my head against the soft moss on the edge and run my fingers over the worn mortar. I ignored the whispered warnings at the back of my mind. I couldn't lose this...I wouldn't get another chance.

I breathed deep and closed my eyes, making sure the image in my mind matched the resonance in my heart.

"I told you..." Christine's voice piped in, faint and distant, but close enough. Too close.

Branches swayed at the edge of my vision and birds cawed from above. The forest jumped to life. My time had almost disappeared. Without a thought, or second breath, I gripped tighter along the barbs and threw my legs over, cursing as the teeth tore into my right shin.

Pointed brambles and decomposed leaves broke my fall.

"Simone!" Christine called out louder.

"Crap," I mumbled, tumbling over the pile of debris and underbrush. I slid under the hanging sign and into darkness, resting my back against the cool stone wall. The fortress muffled Christine's calls. I imagined Christine outside, and recalled her horror-stricken face at the original discovery. A pang of regret sunk in and the betrayal. Had I pushed it too far this time? I shook my head. Now was not the time to worry about that. Even if I had the time, I didn't want to. The thoughts simply hurt too much. I put it out of my mind, compartmentalizing it with the other memories I couldn't face in the daytime and focused on the world around me.

The tower enfolded me in its mystery. The containment of the walls quieted the air into deafening silence. Pinpricks of light snuck in through the cracks between uneven stones highlighting small areas, while the rest settled into gray haze. The air felt heavy. A chill settled onto my skin like a damp rag. My leather shoes were quiet on the floor, leaving a small wet imprint on the smooth surface. The spiral steps rose steeper and narrower than I anticipated. I climbed higher, fighting the trepidation that grew with each step.

Charcoal smudges streaked the walls in forgotten insignia and images—the world surrounded by stars, letters forming acronyms, and words unfamiliar to me. I swallowed hard, choking on the lump of fear lodged in my throat. I wiped my hands on my thighs.

The staircase ended at the threshold of an imposing doorway. Similar to the main gates of camp, faded letters stamped the heavy beams, metal studs pierced the worn wood, and a red light sat on top. My fingers rested on the door, feeling the smooth groove of the wooden beams. I pushed the door open, cringing as the creaks echoed throughout the room, and then jumped as it crashed into the back wall.

The air assaulted my senses. An overbearing aroma of cigars and sweat thickened the air. Even with shattered windows, the scent lingered throughout the corners, recycled with the short gusts of wind. My feet and heart raced in opposite directions. Frozen in place, my heart chest hammered. This wasn't right...and yet, I wouldn't leave. The pull of the tower still held me, and I stepped forward, knowing in the pit of my stomach that I was in trouble.

The wind shrieked through the shattered windows, whistling sharply and rustling the papers. Under the broken glass a long desk held two work stations covered with paperwork. Charts and graphs fluttered under the weight of worn bricks. Two swivel chairs banged against the side of the desk, twisting with the wind.

On the wall behind the desk, a set of framed photos hung evenly along the wall. I recognized the first picture immediately. The same picture hung in the meeting hall, and in the cabin; a reminder of the camp's foundation. I had stared at it for hours over the years while ignoring Mrs. Booker, trying to make sense of the blurry images, but the yellowed paper and burned edges made it impossible. In this pristine version, details jumped out. People I knew, and several hundred that I had never seen before posed for the camera. I had always focused on the center where the president shook hands with the farmers, raising the flag at center camp. Even with its torn edges and small burns, the symbol reminded us of what we had survived. I traced the frame and moved to the next.

My heart plummeted and I grabbed the frame from the wall. "That doesn't make sense," I said.

The frame slipped from my grasp, crashing to the floor, shattering on impact. Hundreds of sharp shards covered the ground in a glass mosaic. I knelt down and picked up the frame, shaking out the remaining pieces. A small drop of my blood smeared the president's smirk.

This wasn't the president I knew. Not the same one who protected us from contamination, who proclaimed the world beyond the confines of the few remaining camps to be a desolate waste. The sheen of this photo gleamed, almost as polished and new as the shirts of the men laughing from atop one of the armored ration trucks. Laughing at us. The same symbols as the charcoal etchings at the base of the tower, a globe surrounded with stars, marked the side of the vehicle. I looked quickly back to the first picture and saw our camp flag hanging limp, a shred of its previous glory, trying to put the pieces together. Nothing about it made sense. At least, nothing I wanted to admit. The more I saw though, the more certain I became; something was wrong here.

Before I could give it another thought, a flash of movement caught my attention. Against the far wall, a rectangular cabinet held six monitors. Three of the screens flickered with wavy lines and sporadic images of camp...center camp, the fields...the factory. Curiosity pushed down my uncertainty. Hooked again, I walked closer to the screen, hesitantly tapping the side of the screen for a clearer image.

"Figures," I sniffed, watching Mrs. Hutchings appear on the screen briefly, then shrink as the line of school kids followed her down the street. A tight line of children held each other's hands and disappeared, one-by-one, into the classroom. I couldn't get away from school no matter how hard I tried.

My eyes slowed on the second monitor showing a panorama of the fields and greenhouses, but the face I unknowingly searched for never appeared. The last monitor focused in on the main gates, and the slow march of the guards on top of the wall.

Beneath the monitors, three other screen remained dark. I bit my lower lip and tapped the knob, fighting against the growing knot in my stomach. I knew I shouldn't turn it, but couldn't resist. Curiosity won. I turned the knob, and the screen came to life. I exhaled slowly.

Faces stared at me; familiar, but blank versions of the women from camp. Squeezed together, elbow to elbow, their arms blurred with a frantic pace. Piles of fabric threatened to topple as a steady stream of guards removed the finished projects and handed them new ones.

I anxiously turned the next knob. The dark screen lightened into a dimly lit room. Piles of clothing lined the back wall. Floor to ceiling, velvets, silks, and lace towered in the background. I rolled the hem of my shirt between my fingers and stared at the screen. How could that be?

I hesitated on the final knob. Unease pulsed through me. I closed my eyes and twisted, re-opening them after the click and hum of static. My palm shot up to cover my silent scream. Secured to a chair, a man sat still. Dark welts opened on his chest. A trail of blood led down his body and over his restrained legs. A small pool collected on the ground, rippled by the drops. His head rolled forward, blank eyes staring at the ground. In the background, I saw the stiff pleats of the uniform, and the edge of a knife. The tortured man's chest heaved as his head was yanked back by his hair, and the knife positioned on his throat. My fingers trembled and quickly twisted the knob.

The pieces connected. The bells ringing throughout the day, the Colonel, rations, the factories and farms, the hidden torture. I looked down at my sweater and felt the thick cuff the sleeve where my number was sewn.

With my mind clear, I heard Christine's cries below. I ran to the long desk, knocking a chair to the floor. I didn't care about the loud crash, I needed to get out of there. Christine had been right.

"I'm coming!" I croaked, then coughed to clear my throat.

Standing on top the desk, I saw Christine. Pacing next to the barrier of brambles, my friend's voice echoed as a raspy sob. I bent down to grab one of the bricks and stopped.

The soft edges of the brick wore beneath my fingers, leaving a layer of red dust on top of the paperwork. I looked at the desk and the dust, and swore. The clean desk, the bundled paperwork—the tower wasn't abandoned. I wasn't safe.

I swore again and clambered off the desk, racing for the door. A surge of panic hit me as the red light spun. No longer idle and asleep, the red flashed a warning. Thumping of footsteps grew louder.

Limited options raced before my eyes. It was too high to jump and too open to hide. I had one option left, the least likely—to fight. I crouched against the far wall, shivering in fear, and grabbed the brick from the paperwork.

A man entered the room from under a fog of smoke. I lunged across the room at him, slipping on scattered glass. Instead of smacking his head, the brick brushed off the side of his arm. He grabbed my wrists. A deafening pop sounded, forcing the brick loose. It landed with a soft thud in front of me as he flung me across the room. Pain shot through my shoulder and radiated down my arm to tingling fingertips. I looked up and bared my teeth at the guard. He exhaled, hiding his face behind a cloud of smoke. It didn't hide his cruel smile.

"Why are you doing this?" I yelled, cradling my right shoulder. "You're supposed to protect us. You're here for our own good!"

He came forward, his calm demeanor shaking me to the core. His steps slowed by the framed photos, taking a moment to put the second one back on its nail.

"It is for the good of the people. Our people. We did protect you. We protected you from yourselves. Your country was a mess. You were fighting against each other—poverty, drugs, narcissism, commercialism. You name it, you destroyed it. Here, life is...sustainable. You're regulated, productive, and held accountable. All the previous issues are gone."

"What about our freedom?" I asked.

"There's a cost for everything. It's a new world out there, number 677," he said, nodding to the cuff on my sleeve. He flicked ash to the ground. "It's time you understood the program."

He unbuttoned a pocket behind his colorful insignia, and pulled out a small black case. His thick fingers flicked the end of a syringe until a stream of clear liquid ran out.

I whimpered and dragged myself into the corner under the desk.

"You won't get away with this. I'll tell the others," I said.

He stopped for a moment. Then he laughed and puffed stale smoke in my direction.

"Like they'd believe you. If they wanted to know, they would know. The truth's always been there. You're not the first, and I am sure you won't be the last to figure it out," he said, reaching down to grab my ankle. "In fact, we encourage it. We like playing with our trouble makers. I've been looking for a new toy." He crept closer, his dark eyes gleaming.

"You said there were others; what happened to them?" I asked, dreading the answer.

He tapped the edge of the syringe again. The soft clicking echoed in the small room. "Some handled the medicine better than others. But either way, no one remembers a thing. Now just stay still. This won't hurt a bit." The twinkle in his eyes turned flat. He chuckled as the needle scratched the surface of my skin.

"Not me." I snarled and shoved him back, kicking him between the legs as I raced toward the door.

I only made it two steps before my body smashed to the floor. My palms and cheek struck the floor first, and the air whooshed out forcefully. He pulled on my leg, twisting me around until my bones popped. I bled from the broken glass. A warm, metallic taste pooled in my mouth. The ringing in my ears erased the sounds of my friend's cries.

"No more," I cried, curling into a ball, straining to keep my eyes open.

"You don't make the rules," he said, walking towards me. His black boots kicked chunks of glass across the room, stopping next to me. He leaned over, flicking hot ash onto my face.

"No, no, no!" My cries ended in a scream as the guard pressed his cigar into my right hand. Fire raced through my veins. The putrid smell of burning flesh soured my stomach. My screams echoed through the tower as darkness creeped in from the side of my vision.

His last words echoed in my mind as I drifted off. "Don't worry, my Ivory Princess. I'll take good care of you."

* * *

White light blinded me, straining my barely open eyes. Thunderous pounding exploded in my temples and through my forehead. I raised my hands to the side of my head. My fingers slid over the smooth tape and soft gauze. I jumped up, alarmed.

An onslaught of pain and blinding lights flooded my head. I closed my eyes, willing myself to calm, waiting until the thumping subsided to nothing more than a muted annoyance. Slowly, I reopened them, careful to keep my movements slow.

The ceilings were white, matching the walls, and a netted cloth hung from the ceiling around my bed. A creative ruse designed for comfort under the watchful eyes of the doctors and guards.

Not as successful as intended, I thought, noticing the looks I received from around the room.

The severity of the room softened as I saw my friend scrunched into the seat next to me. The majority of Christine's body lay hidden behind a stack of medical supplies boxes, IV stands, and beeping monitors. I pushed myself up, flinching as flames shot up my right hand, overshadowing the pounding in my head.

"Christine?" I croaked.

My friend's eyes fluttered softly and settled onto me with a sad smile. "You're up, and okay," she said, reaching for my non-bandaged hand. "You scared me." She offered a gentle squeeze.

"What happened?" I asked, fearfully glancing around.

She scooted forward, the chair squeaking under her, and leaned in. "You don't remember anything?"

"It's all foggy," I admitted. "What happened?"

Christine's fingers trembled as she ran them through her hair, and lowered her voice. "It was that tower. I warned you about it; I told you to forget about it, but you couldn't...or didn't." I heard an edge to her voice beneath her concern.

"The tower?" I questioned, feeling haunted at the familiar words. "I don't remember anything about it."

A look of relief washed over Christine, and her eyes softened. "That's probably for the best. We don't need to worry about that now. Anyway, you're just lucky the guards were there to find you in time. Everything else will go back to normal. No one will even notice after a while. And we'll be busy with the factory soon enough."

"The factory..." my voice slowly faded, and my eyes drifted around the room, noticing a small group of people looking over as they walked by. It seemed as if the room slowed, holding its breath to watch me. A crooked smile darkened a guard's mouth as he checked off his paperwork, and nurses slowed as they walked past. Everything seemed to slow, except for Christine. Her words tumbled out faster than my mind could comprehend.

"Wait, no one will notice? Notice what?" I asked, my voice quickening. I grabbed my face, feeling other bandages. "What really happened?" I asked, pointing to the gauze covering my forehead, feeling the tender wounds wrapped beneath bandages on my right palm.

She opened her mouth to answer, but closed it, darting her gaze behind me and then to her lap. I followed her gaze and saw a doctor approaching in a stiff, pleated white lab coat. Blue and gold embroidered patches covered his pockets and collar. He pulled a red pen out from the chest pocket of his lab coat and tapped it against the edge of a clipboard. His eyes twinkled darkly under the florescent lights.

"You gave us a scare, young lady," he said, checking the vitals on the machines. "Care to tell us what you were doing by that tower?"

I glanced over at Christine, but she still looked at her lap, her hands twisted around each other, white knuckled.

"I'm not sure what you mean," I answered quickly.

His red pen marked notes in my chart before he continued. "Your friend and the guards brought you in a week ago. They found you near the abandoned tower in the woods. If she hadn't gotten there in time, there's no telling what might have happened. You were lucky. The contaminate levels in that area are still off the chart. It's a blessing you made it here when you did, and that we still had the old medication."

"Thanks," I mumbled, barely louder than a whisper.

He raised an eyebrow. "If I were you, I would be a bit more grateful. You're lucky the guards were there to protect you, and to protect the rest of us from any contamination. We had to take drastic measures to save you, and your body may be scarred," he said, nodding toward my hand. "But, you're alive. I hope you've learned a lesson. The boundaries are there to protect us; for our own good. It would serve you well in the future to remember that." He looked at me hard before making final marks on the chart.

"For our own good," I whispered, letting what the doctor had said float in my mind.

I looked outside. The frayed tips of the striped flag blew in the wind. When the bell rang its familiar chime, I closed my eyes. My head hit the pillow, and I sighed.

"Yes, it's for our own good."

I stopped counting and opened my eyes. Silence magnified the shuffling of leaves and the harsh caws of the crows.

"Ready or not, here I come," I boomed, assessing the empty forest around me. Nothing stood out in the overgrown underbrush, just shades of greens, splashed with the occasional bright red dots of the salmonberries. After a quick glance down at my olive green leggings, worn thin around the knees, and scratchy burlap tunic, I smiled. I blended into the forest perfectly, a ghost among the neglected trees. With a quick crack of my fingers and a tug on my ponytail, I began.

"You'd better have a good hiding spot this time," I taunted, hobbling away from my starting point. One step in and already Christine had an advantage. I leaned against the nearest tree and shook out my left boot, watching as small pebbles poured out. The tattered shoes matched my flimsy clothes, and I knew that would not be the last advantage my friend would get.

Soft strands of sunlight fell on me through the partially cleared canopy, reminding me of autumn's quick advance. The cold season's bitter winds might wreak havoc on their camp, but here in the forest, scattered leaves painted the floor a mosaic of colors. Leaves discarded by the maple trees crunched beneath me as I began my search. I quickly altered my steps, slipping my toes beneath the curled tips of the leaves, minimizing the noise as I ran.

I had learned small nuances like that over the years. I also knew, looking at the leaves falling around me, that even though fall had just begun, winter would be close behind, restricting us to the camp. Winters were severe here, and nearly as soon as the leaves changed colors and fell, snow trespassed.

Today would be one of our last trips out here.

Maybe that's why I slowed my steps, letting the game play out moments longer than usual. Whenever Christine hid, game over quickly followed. But not today. Not when the brief splashes of sun through the trees still warmed my arms. I wanted to push the limits and extend the game, even if it meant losing a bit of my pride.

It was the only thing I really had, and rarely would I freely give it up. In fact, the only times I did lose were on occasions like this, when something more enticing dangled in front of me. In this case, a fond memory to warm me through the bitter cold months. I would do almost anything for a respite from those long months. Even lose.

Not obviously lose though; no one appreciated pity. Technique was involved. I slowed my steps, pretending to miss the broken branches marking the edges of the game trails, and hid my smile at the blur running away at the edge of my vision. I could lose, but not enough for Christine to sense the deception. That would devastate her, and devastating her would ruin me.

Manipulation was commonplace for me in the orphanage, but I had learned early on that it didn't work on her. She prided herself on honesty and integrity, and expected me to follow suit. In camp we didn't have much but our word, she cautioned. So, I became good at pretending. So good that sometimes Mrs. Booker, the orphanage caretaker, shot strange looks at me in the evenings if I forgot to drop the act. Just like Christine, Mrs. Booker had an ability to sense the manipulation, only she called it bullshit and slapped it out of me if it lasted too long. It had happened so many times that now I referred to them as love taps. And Mrs. Booker sure loved me.

This time I didn't have to fake too much. My scrappy leather boots needed repair, and even though I had already dumped out a pile of pebbles, new sharper rocks took their place, jabbing my feet as I climbed through the woody debris. I pressed on, tucking my hands into the cuffs of my sleeves. The further into the forest I went, the darker and more oppressive the weather turned.

"Come out, come out," I teased, cursing silently that my breath showed in the cold. If Christine saw that, she'd jump out of her hiding spot, common sense getting the better of her. I felt the end of the game encroach. It was the same here as it was in camp—things I had no control over dictated my moves.

That leash of control tightened around my neck like a noose, suffocating me before I even knew what was coming. That noose had a name though, and the closer it came to winter, the more frequently it tugged against me. The camp, the regulations... the factory. The large, oppressive building at the edge of camp where the women disappeared daily, only to be spat out at night, worn and tired. Our age had kept us safe, but now, at sixteen, our time had come. And even though I had become a pro at skipping school, the factory was different. Only a lucky few had been able to escape its clutches. Promoted out, they called it. But even I knew I wasn't the promotion type. I had to enjoy these last gasps of freedom.

I ignored my clouding breath and trudged forward, hoping my enthusiasm would keep Christine from bailing too soon. We had played this game for years, revising it as we went along, upping the stakes. This time, everything was laid on the line, much more than pride or a pouch of paint.

"You can't hide forever," I goaded, my smile reaching through my words. I slid gracefully through the game trails, mimicking the smooth movements of the deer, weaving neatly between brambles, dormant hives, and traps. In my haste, I missed the darker patches of mud and gasped as the cold guck sloshed through the hole in the bottom of my boots, sending shivers down my spine. I jerked my head up at the surprising misstep, and caught her gaze. Fear flashed in her eyes before she turned and became a blur of red at the edge of my vision.

I had caught her. My fingers deftly unclasped the steel container tied to my belt as I kept a watchful eye on the swaying branches in the distance. Carefully pulling out a small bag, I smiled and rolled the coagulated paint in its plastic pouch. I tossed the package between my hands, careful not to squeeze and break it.

Training my ears to the forest, I heard the trampling of bushes, skittering of animals, and a loud thump as she fell. I smiled. Christine had been my friend for years, and despite her natural grace, she lost all delicacy of movement at the first sign of danger.

Slow and deliberate, my steps announced my approach. I couldn't stretch it any longer. The air filled with the crunching of leaves, shuffling of rocks, and cawing of the crows. Then I sped up. Over the rocks and around the trunks, my mind hummed with triumph, my heart beating a tempo for the victory song. The shades of green blurred as I narrowed in on my target.

Belly down on the ground, Christine looked up from beneath a crumpled cranberry sweater covered with broken branches and patches of dirt. A pang of guilt touched me as I lobbed the ball of paint. It didn't last long.

"Got you!" I exclaimed. The bag popped and gold paint coated Christine's back. Her cranberry sweater resembled corroded rust, and small dots of yellow speckled her tangled auburn hair.

I jumped down, half-expecting to be ambushed. Nothing happened. I tilted my head, questioning the silence. "Christine?" I asked, poking her from behind.

Christine slowly twisted around, her blue eyes wide in terror.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I creaked, scanning the forest.

Christine's jaw trembled. Pushing herself up, she pointed back into the woods.

Nothing seemed odd or out of place. I took a quick inventory of our surroundings – the grayish brown bark of the old cedar trees, spindly trunks of the maples, bright berries, and a white trunk. My gaze immediately jumped back to the white. Birch trees didn't grow in our forest.

I looked up slowly, following the white trunk with my eyes until recognition unfurled. "The ivory tower," I breathed.

"We have to go," Christine whispered behind me.

Now it was my turn to freeze. I barely felt the insistent tugging on the cuff of my shirt.

I had never been this close to the edge of camp before. We had run the small stretch of woods in the back of the camp near the orphanage for years, but never ventured to the outer boundaries. I focused on the barbed wire camouflaged into the stacked brambles and woody debris. Rust and moss grew around the sharp teeth of the corroded metal. And beyond it, what I'd taken for a white trunk revealed itself to be the brick base of a tower.

The skillful, tidy stacks of bricks had worn over the years. White paint flecked off the sides. I saw exposed gaps in the dilapidated mortar. At the top, the tower widened. A row of shattered windows looked out behind, toward the camp. Squinting, I glimpsed writing on the dangling threshold marker. Faded charcoal letters described the tower with one word.

"Restricted," I whispered, my breath clouding the air. Christine's cold fingers pulled against my sweater as I moved closer.

"Simone, this isn't safe," she urged, pulling more insistently. "We shouldn't be this close to the edge." Christine's words fell on deaf ears. I was captivated.

She tugged again, drawing me away from the discovery. Twisting around, I shot her an annoyed look and brushed the bangs out of my eyes. "What?" I demanded.

"I want to go," she whined, tears brimming at the edge of her eyes.

I looked at my terrified friend, and back to the tower, searing the image into my mind. A new sensation gripped me, a seductive blend of fear and curiosity. In sixteen years here at camp, I had never felt that rush. I didn't want it to end.

"Simone," she insisted.

I relented with a sigh, feeling the lure of the tower break.

* * *

No matter how much I tried to recall the seductive blend of emotions that seized me when I stared at the tower, it escaped me. The memories were pale imitations of that first surge of excitement, reminding me more of what I was missing than what I had experienced. That longing haunted me, and I had no one to talk to about it.

Christine had disappeared shortly after we made it back to camp. The last thing I remembered was terror in her eyes, like a clawing cat, and the silent scream that stilled her voice. We both knew alarming the camp would only bring pressure down upon us. No one wanted extra notice from the guards. Biting my tongue the past few days waiting for Christine to show up was torture enough.

The days of her absence seemed to stretch into infinity. Images of the tower haunted every moment. When I closed my eyes in bed, visions of a forgotten tower played in my mind. Instead of seeing the rotten wooden planks around my room, I saw rows of dilapidated bricks. The creaks in the floorboards as I walked around the orphanage sounded eerily similar to the swinging of the threshold marker. Even as I waited in line for my daily rations, the wind blew against the frayed remains of our camp's striped flag, reminding me of the red maple leaves that pressed up against the base of the tower, a blend of red and white. The line of men corralling around the general store waiting for the Colonel's arrival mimicked the straight lines and rigid construction of the tower. The monotony of the camp, its desolation, reminded me of the bricks. I couldn't escape it. Everything took my mind back, especially thoughts of Christine.

My gaze drifted back to the empty hole in line where she should have been. I didn't understand what had happened. Being afraid was one thing, but so frightened that she couldn't show up for rations or school was unheard of. A knot formed in my stomach. Something told me that whatever was keeping Christine away had to do with more than just the tower. No one missed rations, especially not anyone from a prestigious family. The risk of losing status and placement always outweighed personal matters.

I shivered, not just from the brisk breeze. Panic punched me, leaving a cold lump in my chest. I clutched my arms, trying to warm the freeze spreading through me. The strange feeling surprised me. I hadn't felt that pain in years, not since I lost my mom.

I clenched my jaw and pressed my nails into the rough fabric along my arms, anything to distract me from those thoughts. Now was not the time to replay history. I had stopped feeling over my mom a long time ago and I wasn't going to start again now. Christine wouldn't leave me like my mom had.

"Christine!" I yelled, waving my hands over my head to grab her attention as she rounded the corner into view. I stepped towards her but stopped when I saw her face.

Walking closely behind her parents, her downcast head explained why I hadn't seen her in days. Hidden beneath a blank expression, dark shadows outlined her eyes, and the remnants of a bruise colored her left cheek. Christine took her place stoically in line, ignoring my outburst.

"Christine," I yelled again, scowling at her avoidance. This wasn't like her. Something was wrong. Proving my point, the looks of scorn and disappointment from Christine's parents told me exactly what they thought of me. I sighed, feeling a pang of responsibility for my friend's pain.

Was it really my fault though? I hadn't found the tower after all, that was Christine. No matter how I tried to justify it though, the tightening knot in my gut told me I couldn't escape the guilt. Deserved or not, it was there.

Retracing my steps, I took my normal place at the end of the line, behind the farmers, factory workers, and Mrs. Booker. The older woman who cared for the orphanage frowned as I passed by her. Her eyes narrowed, and I could tell she was trying to determine just how much trouble I'd caused this time. Memories of transgressions flickered through my mind, and a smile grew on my lips. If Mrs. Booker knew even half of my escapades, her expression would have been much worse. It had a price, but being an orphan left me a certain amount of freedom, too.

The line quieted as the first set of bells rang.

Cold wind and morning mist blew against us, sending a shiver down my spine. Crossing my arms to block the chill, I felt goosebumps grow through the scratchy fabric of my shirt. The worn burlap did little to block the force of the wind, and the only thick spots remaining were the cuffs where they'd sewn my number, 277. That high number kept me apart from the others in more ways than I wanted to admit.

I ushered some of the younger kids in front of me, watching their smiles grow as they bent down to play. Even a number or two higher meant better odds of receiving something. Rations weren't guaranteed for us, at the end of the line. When it came down to it, we couldn't count on much, and when we did, that hope inevitably got trampled. It was easier not to hope than to have it taken away. We all learned that lesson the hard way.

If I could keep one of them from learning that lesson an extra day it was worth the loss of food. I was used to loss. The dry dust shuffled as the smaller kids drew on the ground, oblivious to the tension around them. My smile grew as I recognized the familiar lines and circles in the dust. It seemed growing up together gave us a common thread or appreciation for certain symbols. I didn't know of any besides us orphans that obsessed over spirals and webs. It was like we tried make connections where there were none. It seemed so sad when I thought about it, so I looked away.

My head popped up at the sound of the guards marching. Approaching from behind the factory, their soft tapping grew into a rhythmic boom. The guards walked in unison, their impeccably pressed uniforms as harsh as their smiles. Colorful patches and insignias lined the shoulders of the uniforms, and black leather straps secured their guns and ammunition. The air tightened as the line of men passed. People averted their eyes. When I looked back down, the scribbles had disappeared under boot prints, and disappointment replaced the joy on the children's faces.

"They didn't see your drawings," I said, dropping down to wipe the tears from a cheek. I traced her fingers through the gritty dirt, encouraging their art, and was rewarded with a ragged smile. Mrs. Booker shook her head in disapproval.

With the kids back to drawing, I squinted towards the guards, following the trail of dust to the main gates. Even the line of dust seemed to be displaced by precision. The guards marched to the gates and stood on either side of the doorway, creating a tunnel of armed men. A round red light crowned the doorway, dormant until the doors opened. Faded letters blended into the thick steel-studded doors, their earlier designation forgotten. With only a few surviving camps around the country, it didn't matter who took care of us, just that we were taken care of. We had become dependent on them.

I watched the red light flash as the door opened. The hinges creaked, threatening to buckle.

Dust surrounded the incoming trucks. Covered in studded armor, camouflaged paint, and metal spikes, they were faint shadows of their original design. The trucks maneuvered slowly, filling the silence with the thunder of exhaust. An armored man watched through a small opening in the top, a gun slung over his shoulder. Large tan goggles and a domed hat monopolized his face.

The caravan rounded its way through the gates and into the circular path of the marketplace, covering the line of people with a layer of grime that clung under the fall mist.

The Colonel stepped out, as foreboding as ever. The camp quietly averted their eyes, listening to the synchronization of his boots and the second bell. Years of the same routine made the process seamless.

We approached, received our rations, and waited for the Colonel's inspection. Black-gloved fingers strangled a pen as he marked off our numbers, mutely searching our clothing for confirmation. Even after years, no signs of recognition registered on his face, only distaste. The palatable disgust he held for us became more obvious the older I got.

I kept my eyes lowered as I approached for my rations. A small bag hit my shoulder. I knew better than to reach before it was offered. I had only made that mistake once. Mumbling thanks, I walked away, eager to open the package. My knuckles turned white from clenching it.

The long, sleepless nights wore on me, aggravating the emptiness in my stomach. That pain grew every step I took away from the guards, making my way back across the main street. I knew better, but the anticipation stirred within, and my mouth watered before I made it to my normal spot. I climbed on top of a wooden post fence, hooking my legs around the lower part for balance.

Rations changed daily, and since I was a high number, I never knew what would be inside my bag. Some days there was enough to save some for another day, others yielded a simple roll, and sometimes they ran out before me. I closed my eyes to wish, then briefly peeked inside. Lucky, this time. I grinned, welcoming the sight of the jerky strip, roll, and handful of dried berries.

Popping a few berries in my mouth, I watched the caravan retreat under the flashing red light. The berries caught me by surprise as they melted, a surprising blend of sweet and tanginess settled on my tongue. They weren't like the tart salmonberries or sweet blackberries I picked in the forest.

It summoned a memory of the bedtime stories my mother had told me. I could remember the gentle tug as my mom tucked my hair behind my ears. Her soft voice filled my mind with visions of the berries that grew on her hometown farm. Berries, she said, that melted in your mouth and left a lingering blend of the sweetest flowers and only a hint of sour. Similar stories about life before the camp had lulled me to sleep for years. That was a long time ago, before the natural disasters, and before the worst disaster, my mother's death.

My reverie broke as Christine came into view.

I put the berries back. The memories had to stop. I couldn't think of the past when my now was falling apart.

"Hey you," I called out, catching Christine off guard. "Where are you going? The third bell hasn't rung yet."

Christine slowed but wouldn't meet my eyes. She looked so frail today, so small hidden inside her baggy sweater. It was the same cranberry sweater she had worn in the woods, but the fabric had stretched beyond repair with multiple washes. Even after tortured cleaning, small specks of yellow stained the thick yarn.

"Let me share my rations with you," I offered, holding out a handful of berries. The thought that I could save a friendship and quiet a painful memory at the same time seemed a perfect solution.

Christine looked at the offering and smiled, recognizing the apology. "Thanks," she said, jumping onto the post next to me. "Mmmm, these are good."

I munched on the jerky, savoring the saltiness. "Your sweater looks nice," I said, trying to diffuse the awkwardness.

Christine raised her eyebrows. "It should look good. I've spent the last three days scrubbing it, trying to get the paint out."

"I thought it looked pretty clean," I agreed and smiled. Christine's eyes strayed back to the ground. My smile disappeared at the stalled conversation. "What happened?" I finally asked.

"I got in trouble," she mumbled softly.

"I can see that," I said, brushing a strand of her auburn hair away from her eyes. A purple and green welt streaked across her cheekbone. "I didn't think they ever got mad like that. What happened?"

Christine twisted her fingers, refusing to meet my eyes. "They haven't before. It was scary. When I told them about the tower, you should've seen my mom's eyes. I've never seen them that mad before."

"And they did this to you, all because of the tower?" I asked incredulously.

"They said it was a warning," she brushed her hair forward, covering the bruise. "That there were worse things that could happen from the tower."

"I don't understand. They consider this a warning for what?" I asked, appalled. "What'll they do next time? And what exactly did you tell them?"

"I don't know. They just warned me to stay away from the tower... and from you," she added reluctantly. "They said I needed to start following the rules, for my own good. And don't be mad, I didn't tell them much, just the obvious. I had to explain the paint, and why we were in the woods instead of class," she defended herself. "I'm not like you. I can't do things and not have to answer questions about it. They hold me accountable, for everything, and now..." her voice trailed off.

"And now what?" I prompted, trying to keep my anger from rising. Sometimes she saw my circumstances as easier than hers.

She met my eyes and scoffed. "And now with the factory coming up, they expect more of me."

I ate another bite in silence before pressing the issue again. "Did they say anything though?"

"They said plenty. Not much that I want to repeat," Christine gave a small smile. "They have an image to maintain. This," she said pointing to her cheek, "was a mistake. The real wounds don't show."

I scrunched my forehead and reached for her hand. I knew more about that than she thought.

"You should have seen them, Simone. They were livid. More than I've ever seen them before. When I mentioned the tower, they flipped," she said.

I relaxed, feeling the distance between us shrink. "I can imagine."

"What do you think they told me first?" she asked with a wink.

"Oh boy, probably something blaming it on me," I answered with a slight laugh to hide the pain of that truth.

"You're right. At first they didn't say much, just that I couldn't see you anymore," she chuckled.

"Ah, there's nothing new there. They've told you that from the beginning. It wouldn't do for a 28 to be seen with a 277." I hid the sting with a joking tone. "One of these days they'll realize I'm more than just a high number."

"It's not about our numbers," Christine said, hiding the cuff of her sleeve under her palm. "It has nothing to do with that. It's about the rules. They're tired of seeing me break them."

"We've been breaking them our whole lives. I don't know what's different now."

"We're getting older, Simone. It's no longer just skipping out of last class or taking someone else's rations. We're almost old enough for the factory, and that means we need to follow the rules. They're here for a reason."

"What sort of reason? To numb our lives into a routine of nothing?"

"Shhh, lower your voice," Christine said, pushing herself off the fence. "You can't talk like that. The rules are here to protect us. It might be a life of routine and regulation, but it's still a life. We're the lucky ones, you should remember that. You know our history just as well as I do. Your mom may have fed you bedtime stories of adventure, but mine filled me with the truth. How everything collapsed, the crops failed, the violence, the anarchy. Once the disasters began, life unraveled. People lost more than just their homes and food. They lost their humanity. Camp life may not be the best, but we're still alive, and those guards are protecting us from the evil and contamination beyond the walls."

I didn't have anything to add. Our history had never been disputed. The horrors taught in class were only slightly minimized in family retellings. From everything I knew, we were lucky, as ridiculous as that sounded. We watched the people wait for the third bell in silence.

"None of that really matters anyway. In a couple weeks we'll be too busy with the factory to worry about boredom and rules."

"Has your mom told you anything about the factory yet?"

Christine shook her head and frowned. "No, it's like she pretends that part of the day doesn't exist. She never mentions it, and I don't bring it up. I'm sure it's just tedious. I mean, how much is there to talk about with sewing? A stitch here, a stitch there. I'm sure they've all run out of things to talk about anymore."

"Well, we'll liven up that group when we start. But before we do that," I said, with the side of my mouth turning up mischievously, "what do you say we skip out and take advantage of the sunshine? Do you think we can find it again, the tower?"

"Let it go, Simone." Christine's voice hardened. "We can't go back there. I'm not going back there," she said more definitively.

"What aren't you telling me?" My stomach knotted.

Leaning forward, she looked around before dropping her voice to a whisper. "OK. My mom told me a little more once she calmed down. All she would say was that the tower brought death and disaster for all who went there. It's bad stuff, Simone. Everyone that's gone near it has come back contaminated, scarred, or dead."

We locked eyes, and a new shiver ran through me.

"Even your mother," Christine's voice quivered. "About ten years ago, there was a shortage of rations, and work was getting tough. A group went out, searching for extra food, animals to hunt—anything to lessen the burden in camp. Instead, they found the tower. There were a lucky few that the guards found in time, but even they didn't escape unscathed. Something horrible happened to all of them. Some died, some were scarred, but everyone came back a different person."

"What the... why haven't I heard about this?"

Christine looked at her. "You were only six. It's not the sort of thing someone would tell you. And even now, no one wants to talk about it. A lot don't even remember it, or just pretend it didn't happen."

"How do you even know that it's true, then?"

Christine raised her eyebrows and gave me a knowing look. "Have you ever looked closely at Mr. Lindle, or Jack Wentmire? Look at their hands next time we line up. They are all marked, melted from contaminates. They were on that expedition, and even though they came back, they came back changed. Something out there is bad, something at that tower or nearby it. Everyone that survived refuses to leave the center of camp. It just goes to show what we have been told. The world out there is still bad, and the camp is here to protect us from it."

I packed the rest of my rations into the steel container at my hip. "I know you're right. You always are. It's just that when I saw the tower, something inside me changed. When I saw it, I don't know," I sighed. "It just made me feel."

"Made you feel what?"

I gave her a sad smile and shrugged. "It just made me feel."

Both our heads jerked up at the sound of the third bell.

I hazarded a wink. "What should we do today then?"

"I'm sorry, I'm going to class today," Christine said regretfully, jumping off the post. "Ask me again tomorrow."

I watched her go, feeling the emptiness resonate as the third bell went silent, and then I followed.

The rest of the day settled into a blur. Sitting in the back of the class, I watched Christine's hand jump with every answer, as if excelling today would forgive yesterday's transgressions. If I had learned anything here, it was that people compensated in different ways. Some were healthier than others. I certainly wasn't one to judge.

* * *

That night proved no better than the last few. I woke in a puddle of my own sweat and clutched at my heart, prepared to rip it out if it poured out any more memories. The dark room calmed the bite of the nightmare. It was strange, the solace I found in darkness. On these blackest of nights, alone in my room, I had shed more tears and come to terms with my demons. Most of them anyway, a few still lingered... like tonight.

I swatted at the ground next to the bed, feeling for the unevenly melted candle near the edge of my mattress. The cool wax relaxed me. I sat up and found the hidden matchbook I kept tucked inside my pillowcase, carefully lighting the candle and placing it flat on the ground next to my bed.

I curved my palm around the flame, careful to block the light, and looked around to make sure no one else was awake. Small crevices between the boards shared everything. Privacy was an illusion. Maybe that's why these midnight hours consoled me. At any other time, if they ignored my cries it would be avoidance not ignorance. Assured of the darkness, I moved my palm and settled my gaze on the fire.

I watched the flame dance upon its short wick for what seemed liked hours until small beads of hot wax bubbled along the edge. I licked my thumb and finger, extinguishing the flame with a sizzle. The quick burst of pain eased my torment.

I leaned back against the bed, folding the pillow in half, and stared at the wisps of smoke spiraling up from the wick. Darkness didn't hide everything. Traces remained, like the smoke of the candle and memories of my past.

Plagued by my thoughts, I didn't sleep. Visions of my mom, Christine's bruised face, and the tower filtered in uninvited, monopolizing my mind. Morning did not come fast enough. One thing was certain, after another sleepless night, I had to set things right. I could deal with nightmares; I had done that for years, but the persistent pull of the tower demanded an answer. One way or another, I had to see it again.

I stared at the window, watching the slow transition of the stars fading to gray before the morning sun rose. As soon as light breached the windowsill, I tiptoed out the door, carefully avoiding the squeaky floorboards outside the other rooms.

I wrapped my arms inside the sleeves of my shirt and walked toward the center of camp. The walk from the orphanage usually took ten minutes. Located near the gates, the center of camp housed our store, meeting hall, and general storage buildings. The orphanage, farms and factory were equidistant, fanning out in different directions. This camp was relatively small from what we were told about the others, but the ten thousand-acre compound seemed big enough to fool enough of us into complacency. With rations, work, and community, some people felt complete. Or at least resigned to acceptance. Not me. Claustrophobia hit me every time I walked to center camp. The expanse of the tall grey walls crushed me.

There was only one place I had ever felt free, in the forest behind the orphanage. And now, the thought of the forest lightened my heart. I knew one way or another, I would be beneath its cover today, and hopefully one of my nightmares could be put to rest.

The quiet of the morning cleared my mind, allowing me to focus. My teeth chattered and breath clouded my view, forcing me to pull the collar of my shirt up over my chin. I hated to do it, knowing the burlap left red rash marks where it touched me, but I hated the cold more. Everything pointed to the inevitable—winter would be starting soon. This realization fueled the decision I had already made on the short walk. Now the question remained: How to convince my friend?

With my mind focused on strategy, I made it to the center of camp in no time. The rustling of the flag announced my arrival, grabbing my attention.

Flickering in the wind, a frayed flag marked the center of camp. The separation between colored lines blended together as the threads waved independently, a last reminder of the time before. Come to think of it though, everything in camp seemed a reminder of the past. Rusted farm equipment lined the wall along the side of the meeting hall. On the other side, monopolizing the storefront, wooden boxes were stacked high, covering the dusty windows.

The wind burst through, smacking the flag forcefully. I looked up, and then beyond the faded stripes to the barbs and trained gunmen guarding the main gates. Goosebumps rose along my arm and on the back of my neck as the eyes of one of the guards bore down on me. His appraising gaze sent a wave of apprehension through me. Maybe this early morning walk wasn't such a good idea.

He turned his attention back to paperwork as soon as I sped back across the street. I found my spot, an indiscriminate point along the dusty road, and slumped to the ground, waiting for the line to fill in.

I drug my fingers through my hair, wincing at the tangles, and pulled the mess back into a ponytail. Soft wisps escaped their intended confinement and framed my face. I tugged on the longer pieces and tucked them behind an ear, careful to keep my eyes down. My fingers found a way to the ground, and I traced designs in the dust just as the kids had the day before. Making a web, but what did I hope to catch? Another question I tried to suppress as my heart sped up.

Haunting my dreams, and now my waking moments, it seemed as if more things called to me now than they ever had in the past sixteen years. What did the tower, my mom, and Christine's words have in common? Was there even a common thread, beyond making me crazy?

Christine's warnings floated through my mind. My head pounded and vision blurred as exhaustion finally hit. I cradled my head in my hands and closed my eyes. Maybe the dreams wouldn't haunt me in the daytime.

Before long, people filtered in. The lower numbers lined up first. Christine and her family showed up promptly today, happily engaged with the others around them. Some of the kids from the orphanage arrived, quickly adding their designs to my own, and finally, the family I had been waiting for.

The Wentmires approached from down the street, straight in from the farming communes. The six of them walked together, Jack and Trisha in the lead, with their four sons following. I smiled, despite the trepidation that made my insides crawl. If what Christine said was true, they held the answers to my questions.

They joined the line and melted into the crowd. I peeked around, but Jack Wentmire's wide-brimmed hat concealed his face, and his hands hid within his wife's grip. Their bodies blurred under my tired eyes. I wouldn't see anything from here.

I swore under my breath, hearing Christine's words taunt me in my mind. There was only one way to see if she was right. I bit on the inside of my upper lip and rolled my palms together. The first step came hardest, and I felt the burning focus of Mrs. Booker's eyes on my back.

"Now kids, that's another example of what not to do," her gravelly voice said. I cringed at the older woman's words, but couldn't deny it. I didn't want them to end up like me either. No one would wish that pain on anyone.

I walked further, wishing I didn't know the shocked gasps and startled whispers were about me. No one broke the daily routine, and yet here I was, walking along the line, checking out hands. It seemed absurd when I really thought about it, but I had committed myself now. If there were repercussions for my disturbance, it had to be worth it.

Focusing on the shoes in line, I noticed when I transitioned from the factory women to the farmers and their families. I looked up casually and saw Christine staring at me in shock from behind a wooden post. I rubbed the back of one hand to explain, but she shook her head and then lowered it as her parents shot her a glare.

I saw Mr. Decker, obvious from the abundance of freckles, but no scars appeared. Next in line, I saw Mr. Steen, but his hands were clear as well. A sickening feeling climbed from my stomach to my chest. What was I doing? Was I really risking rations or worse over a story Christine's mom had told her? The next hands were clear and so were the next after those.

It wasn't just a story though. Through my strained eyes, I finally saw Mr. Wentmire's right hand. Tortured skin peeked out from beneath his marked cuff. Splotches in a variety of shades twisted together, as if the skin itself rejected the idea of healing.

My heart raced. If Christine was right about this, what else was true? What did that mean about my mom? Ideas jumbled together, melting into fog in my mind.

The line tightened under the ringing bells, and I ran back into place before the daily routine began. Mrs. Booker raised her brows, but I didn't respond. I kept my face calm despite the racing of my heart and mind.

Dragging my feet, I stumbled forward until my eyes settled on polished black boots and pressed trousers. Unable to stop the progression, my eyes continued up to the Colonel's face. My breath caught in my chest as our eyes connected. Under the structured cap, a hint of madness gleamed from his dark eyes. A shiver ran down my spine as his gaze lowered from my face to my sleeve. With a curt nod, his gloved hands struck off my number from the list.

I bit my lower lip as the guard waved me forward, empty-handed. My stomach protested the rejection. Maybe my actions were reckless. But my stomach turned at more than the hunger, as the questions from the morning continued to run through my mind.

Grumbles started behind me. When I looked, I saw Mrs. Booker usher the other hungry kids out of the street and into their classroom. The streets quieted, but not the cries of their hunger. I sighed. Did everyone really think keeping things out of sight would keep them out of mind?

Over at our normal meeting spot, Christine sat atop the wooden fence post peeking inside her rations.

I managed a slight smile as I sat next to her. "So, did you get any extra treats in your pack today?" I asked, peeking into her bag.

Christine's shoulders relaxed and she smiled. "Do you ever take anything seriously?" She pulled out an extra sugar cube.

"Not if I can help it," I admitted, popping the sugar cube into my mouth.

"I can't believe you!" she exclaimed. "You're absolutely crazy sometimes."

I smiled at the admiration in her voice, and let the sugar melt along my tongue.

"Nothing today?" she asked, looking at my empty hands.

"It's the nature of the number," I said, grabbing another cube from her bag. "You get the good food, and I get the trouble."

"Simone?" she asked, leaning over to look at me. "You're pale. Are you feeling well?"

I managed a small smile and nodded, trying to find words that didn't convey my feelings. "Yes, of course I'm fine," I said, and then turned the conversation away from me. "It's almost gone, you know, your bruise. Maybe we should go back." I held my breath, waiting for her answer. So much now depended on how I could make her change her mind.

Christine's eyes widened and she pulled a section of hair over her cheek. "That's not funny. I thought we talked about that yesterday."

"We did. I was just joking," I lied, rummaging back through her bag. "It's one of our last days, though. We won't get this chance for freedom once we join the factory. Even I can't get us out of there. We're not really supposed to have it now, so we should do something. Unless you want to go back to school today..." I popped a final cube in my mouth and waited. I could see her weighing the choices in her mind. Responsibility and rules versus friendship. It seemed a simple choice to me, but something told me it was harder for her.

As the lingering tone of the third bell fell silent, I cast a sideways glance toward her. "You can feel the chill and you know winter is coming. It would be irresponsible if we didn't take advantage of what we have left before the factory work begins. Are you up for another game?" The manipulation was obvious, but so was the desire in my face. I couldn't hide it.

Christine looked around, watching as the final farmer grabbed a shovel and plow. A long line of brown sweaters formed outside the factory as the women went to work. "OK, one last time," she relented. "But this time, I'm going to find you."

I tried to hide the excitement surging inside as I jumped down from the fence and tightened my tangled ponytail. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

Even though Christine agreed to play, she moved with hesitation, lingering at the edge of the forest. At her insistence, we started the game closer to camp, but as soon as we entered the forest, her eyes refused to settle. The shadows stilled her feet. She didn't know that those same shadows lit my soul. I didn't think I could ever explain to her that with the first step inside the treeline, the seductive pull of the tower called to me.

"Christine, come on," I urged, playfully pulling her behind me. We had a long way to go, and not nearly enough time. I doubted there would ever be enough time. "You promised," I reminded her.

Something about that call to responsibility startled her, and she gave me a hurt look. But she stepped forward, and that was what I was waiting for. I didn't care; I had passed the point of looking after her. Today was about me.

My heart raced in anticipation. I assumed this was what others felt like on their birthdays. This was my gift, sixteen years in waiting.

"You better start counting," I said, watching Christine fumble with the metal clasp to the pouch on her belt. As soon as she rolled the bag of blue paint in her palm, a mischievous smile rose on her face.

"You'd better start hiding. It took me days to get the yellow out of my sweater. We'll see how long it takes you to get out the blue," she taunted. She was back. Maybe this forest didn't just heal me after all.

"That's if you can find me," I yelled back, already blending into the greens of the forest. "Don't forget who always wins."

"One, two, three..."

I ran into the woods, feeling the cold air attack my face. The biting chill stretched my cheeks, chapping my lips with its touch. I didn't dare glance back or slow down, knowing that the moment Christine stopped counting, my time would begin to slip away. My carefully-placed feet were silent in the underbrush. I balanced on the fallen logs as much as possible, to lessen the disturbance and leave fewer footprints. Christine wasn't as skilled at tracking, but I didn't for a moment think she didn't know where I was going. I'm not that great a manipulator.

At the moment the countdown began, I dropped all pretenses of the game. I was going to the tower. While part of me understood Christine's reluctance over the fear of contamination and her parents' beating, the rest of me felt compelled to see it again. That part won.

The air quieted. I heard only the crunching of leaves and branches, and the occasional fluttering of wings as the forest deepened around me. I passed the rock quarry, the fallen hemlock, the high wall of brambles, and finally, the small river. The tower pulled me. I made quick time through the forest, running until my chest heaved with exertion. The miles had never disappeared so quickly. I splashed through the cold water, skipping along faster and faster, in rhythm with my heart. I hardly felt the rocks biting my feet with each step.

And then suddenly, I saw it. A layer of grime had settled over the years, shading the outer edges of the brick. Silent steps brought me to the edge of the clearing. The corroded barbs teased me, looking harmless. I grasped the cool metal. A shiver of certainty shook me.

The wind rustled through the branches. Bright red leaves drifted down, settling around me and at the base of the tower. The visions that had haunted my dreams for the past week transformed into reality. That same feeling of fear and curiosity burned through me; my chest ached. I itched to touch the bricks. But it was more than that. I needed to run my fingers over those worn bricks and press my head against the soft moss along their edge. I ignored the whispered warnings at the back of my mind. I couldn't lose this.

As I waited, the forest jumped to life. My time had almost disappeared. Without a thought or second breath, I gripped tighter along the barbs and threw my legs over, cursing as the teeth of the wire tore into my right shin.

I trampled the brambles and fallen leaves and slid underneath the hanging sign into darkness. Muffled calls rang out behind me. I imagined Christine outside, remembered her horror-stricken face the day we'd first seen the tower. A pang of regret sunk my heart at my betrayal. Had I pushed it too far this time? But I didn't have time to worry about that, or maybe the thoughts simply hurt too much.

I compartmentalized those worries and focused on the world around me. The tower enfolded me in its mystery. The containment of the walls quieted the air. The silence was deafening. Through the dim light, signs written in the same charcoal ink as that on the outer threshold marker lined the walls. Warnings in strange symbols I had never seen before. The world surrounded by stars, letters forming acronyms, and words unfamiliar to me. Fear clenched my heart, dampening my resolve.

Light filtered in sporadically through gaps in the worn bricks, highlighting small areas, while the rest settled into gray haze. The air felt heavy. A chill settled onto my skin like a damp rag. My leather shoes were quiet on the floor, leaving a small wet imprint on the smooth surface. The spiral steps rose steeper and narrower than I'd anticipated. I climbed higher, fighting the trepidation that grew with each step.

The light darkened as I approached the top. I found myself face-to-face with an imposing doorway. Similar to the main gates of the camp, this door was heavy, with thick metal studs, and was topped by a red light. My fingers rested on the door, feeling the weight and the smooth groove of the wooden beams. I pushed the door open, cringing as the creaks echoed throughout the room, and then jumped as it hit the back wall.

The air assaulted my senses. An overbearing aroma of cigars and sweat thickened the air. Despite the shattered windows, the scent lingered at the corners, recycled by short gusts of wind. My steps slowed unconsciously as I walked toward the broken windows.

The wind shrieked through the room, whistling sharply and rustling the papers. Under the windows, the long desk held two work stations. Two straight-backed chairs were tucked underneath the desk, and paperwork fluttered beneath the weight of worn bricks. I walked around, looking at the boxes, charts, and red scribbles on the papers.

On the wall behind the desk, a set of framed photos hung, evenly spread along the wall. The first picture looked familiar. As I crept closer, I recognized it from camp. The same picture hung in the meeting hall and in the orphanage, although ours had crumbled edges and small burned spots. This pristine version jumped out at me, and, for once, I could accurately pick out all the people I knew, and several hundred that I had never seen before. I had always focused on the center, where the president shook hands with the farmers as their flag was first hung in the center of camp. It had torn edges and burns marks, but as a symbol it gave us hope and reminded us of what we had survived. Then I saw her, my mother, standing off to the side, unavoidable, her sad smile speaking to me.

Why had I come up here? Those seductive feelings now seemed like a painful tease, the reward insufficient. I traced the frame and moved to the next.

My heart plummeted. "That doesn't make sense," I said, grabbing the frame from the wall. My stomach turned, and the frame slipped from my grasp. The crash of the breaking glass brought me back to the present. I picked up the frame and shook out the remaining shards. A small drop of my blood smeared the president's face as he smirked back at me.

This couldn't be our president. Not the man who protected us from the contamination, who proclaimed the world to be a desolate waste beyond the confines of the few remaining camps. This photo was recent, and the men wore polished suits, laughing from atop one of the armored ration trucks.

I ran to the next, feeling the pit in my stomach open. I swore as the image burned into my mind. It was the president again, behind his desk. Except this time, waving in the background, a new flag stood, a golden globe surrounded by white stars on a blue background. The same symbol as the charcoal drawings I saw at the base of the tower. I looked back to the first picture and saw our camp flag hanging limp, a shred of its previous glory.

Before I could give the photos another thought, a flash of movement caught my attention. Against the far wall, a rectangular cabinet held six monitors. Three of the screens flickered with fuzzy images of the camp. I knew the guards protected us, but this level of surveillance seemed extreme. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to shake off this new violation, as I watched the movements.

The first monitor showed the interior camp. I watched Mrs. Hutchings walk the school kids down the street, a tight line of children holding each other's hands as they disappeared, one by one, into the classroom. My eyes slowed on the second monitor showing the farmers working shirtless in the fields. I searched the screen for a familiar face but didn't find him. The last monitor focused in on the main gates, showing a still picture of the doorway and the guards.

The other three monitors were dark. Curiosity brought my fingers forward, twisting the dusty knob beneath one of the other screens.

The knob clicked, and the screen came to life. The illuminated monitor showed things I had never seen before, things that didn't make sense. I exhaled. This must be the inside of the factory. I had never actually seen or heard much about it. Most gossip stayed out of the orphanage, and during the short time between bells, most people kept to themselves.

Faces stared at me, familiar but blank versions of the women I'd seen in camp. Squeezed together, elbow to elbow, their arms blurred with their frantic pace. Piles of fabric threatened to topple as a steady stream of guards removed the finished projects and handed them new ones. The fuzzy screen did not hide the fresh stream of tears running down Christine's mom's face or the pain behind her eyes. My heart broke at the undeniable grins on the guards' faces.

I anxiously turned the next knob. The new screen showed another room. Looking at the piles of clothing lining the back wall, I concluded that it seemed to be a storeroom. The piles towered in the background as uniformed guards counted garments and made notes on their clipboards. I looked down at my worn shirt and back to the screens. How could such deprivation exist if there were surplus clothes sitting in a storeroom?

I hesitated on the final knob. I closed my eyes as I twisted it, re-opening them after a click and hum of static. My palm shot up to cover my silent scream. Secured to a chair, a man sat still. Dark welts had opened on his chest. The trail of blood led down his body and over his restrained legs. A small pool collected on the ground, rippled by the drops. His head rolled forward, blank eyes staring at the ground. In the background, I saw the stiff pleats of a uniform and an exposed knife. The tortured man's chest heaved as his head was yanked back by his hair, and the knife positioned on his throat. My fingers trembled and twisted the knob.

The bells ringing throughout the day, the colonel and his rations, the factories and farms, the hidden torture. I looked down at my sweater and felt the thick cuff on its sleeve where my number was sewn. As quick as the picture had shattered, so did the guise of the camp.

With my mind clear, I paid new attention to the muffled yells from below. I ran to the long desk, cringing at the metal squeaking against the floor as I pulled out one of the chairs. Standing on top of the desk, I saw Christine. Pacing next to the barrier of brambles, my friend's voice echoed as a raspy sob. I bent down to grab one of the bricks, and stopped.

The soft edges of the brick wore beneath my finger, leaving a layer of red dust atop the paperwork. I looked at the desk and the dust, and swore. The clean desk, the bundled paperwork— the tower wasn't abandoned. I wasn't safe.

I cursed again and clambered off the desk and toward to the door. A surge of panic hit me as I noticed the red light. No longer idle and asleep, it flashed a warning. The thumping of footsteps grew louder.

The room silenced as my options raced before my eyes. Too high to jump, too open to hide, I settled for the one option left. Grabbing the brick off the paperwork, I crouched against the far wall, feeling my fear turn cold.

The beige domed hat appeared under a fog of cigar smoke as the man entered the room. I lunged across the floor at him, connecting with the side of his arm. My trajectory shortened as my feet slipped on the scattered glass. I heard a crack from my wrists as he grabbed them, forcing the brick loose. It landed with a soft thud as he tossed me across the room. Pain shot through my shoulder. I bared my teeth as he smiled cruelly at me.

I knew him, or had seen him before. His uniform matched the others that surrounded the camp, the rigid pleats now showing a sign of use.

"Why are you doing this?" I yelled, cradling my right shoulder. "You were supposed to protect us. You said it was for our own good!" I sputtered, sobbing.

He came forward; his calm demeanor shook me to the core. His steps slowed as he stopped by the framed photos, putting the second one back on its nail.

"It is for the good of the people, our people. And we did protect you. We protected you from yourselves. Your country was a mess. You were fighting against each other—poverty, drugs, narcissism, commercialism. You name it, you destroyed it. Here, we keep things regulated. Your lives are in line, you are productive and accounted for." His calm demeanor frightened me. How could he say such things?

"This is no way to live," I countered.

"Well, there is a cost for everything. It's a new world out there, number 277," he said, nodding to the cuff on my sleeve. He flicked ash to the ground. "It's time you understood the program."

He opened a pocket behind his colorful insignia, pulling out a small black case. I looked closer at the patches, noticing the new presidential flag. His thick fingers flicked the end of a syringe until a stream of clear liquid spurted out. A whimper escaped my lips, and I pushed myself into the corner of the desk.

"This isn't going to work. I'll tell the others," I said.

He stopped for a moment. Then he laughed and puffed stale smoke in my direction.

"If the others wanted to know, they would know. The truth has always been there, hiding in plain sight for those who wanted to see, and cleverly hidden from those too afraid to believe. You're not the first, and I'm sure you won't be the last to find out," he said, reaching down to grab my ankle. "In fact, we encourage it. We rather like playing with our troublemakers." He crept closer, his dark eyes gleaming.

"What happens to them?" I asked, afraid of his answer.

A soft click sounded as he tapped the edge of the syringe again. "Some handled the medicine better than others." The twinkle in his eyes turned flat. "But either way, no one remembers a thing. Now just stay still, this won't hurt a bit." He chuckled as the needle scratched the surface of my skin.

"Never," I snarled, shoving him back. I kicked him between the legs and raced toward the door.

The air whooshed out of my lungs as my body smashed to the floor. My palms and cheek struck the floor first as he pulled on my leg, twisting me around until my bones popped. The scattered glass on the floor ripped my skin, and I bled. A warm, metallic taste pooled in my mouth as the ringing in my ears erased the sounds of my friend's cries.

The brief moment of shock ended with my scream. Fire raced through my veins. My shrieks echoed through the tower, trailing in my memory as everything faded to darkness. My last memories were the black rubber of his shoes near my face and the putrid smell of burned flesh as the poker pressed into me.

His last words echoed in my mind as I drifted off. "It's for your own good. We'll take care of you."

* * *

White light blinded me, straining my barely open eyes. My fingers shot to my temples as painful pounding threatened to break my skull. I jumped up, alarmed. My fingers slid over the smooth tape and soft gauze on my head.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to calm, waiting until the thumping subsided to nothing more than a muted annoyance. Slowly, I reopened them, careful to keep my movements slow.

The ceilings were white, matching the walls, and a netted cloth was draped over me, attempting to create a screen of privacy in the open room. A creative ruse designed to instill comfort under the watchful eyes of the doctors and guards.

Not as successful as intended, I thought, noticing the looks I received from around the room.

The severity of the room softened as I saw my friend scrunched into the seat next to me. The majority of Christine's body lay hidden behind a stack of medical supply boxes, IV stands, and beeping monitors. I pushed myself up, flinching as flames shot up my right hand, overshadowing the pounding in my head.

"Christine?" I croaked.

My friend's eyes fluttered softly and settled onto me with a smile. "You're up, and OK," she said, reaching for my non-bandaged hand. "You scared me." She offered a gentle squeeze and sad smile.

"What happened? I don't remember anything," I admitted, fearfully glancing around me.

The chair squeaked as she pulled it closer to the bedside, leaning in. "You don't remember anything?" Christine's fingers trembled as she ran them through her hair, and lowered her voice. "It was that tower. I warned you about it, I told you to forget about it, but you couldn't... or didn't." I heard an edge to her voice beneath her concern.

"The tower?" I questioned, feeling haunted at the familiar words. "I don't remember anything about it."

A look of relief washed over Christine, and her eyes softened in an instant. "That's probably for the best. We don't need to worry about that now. We're just lucky the guards were there to find you and take care of you. Everything else will go back to normal. No one will even notice after awhile. And we'll be busy soon enough with the factory."

"The factory..." my voice slowly faded as my eyes drifted around the room, noticing a small group of people looking over at me as they walked by. It seemed as if the room slowed, holding its breath to watch me. A crooked smile darkened the guard's mouth as he checked off his paperwork, and nurses hesitated as they moved past my bed. Everything seemed to slow, except for Christine. Her words tumbled out faster than my mind could comprehend them.

"Wait, no one will notice? Notice what?" My voice quickened as I grabbed her face, feeling other bandages on my hands. "What happened?" I asked, pointing to the gauze covering my forehead, feeling the tender wounds wrapped beneath bandages on my right palm. "Christine? What happened?" I asked again, my voice trembling.

She opened her mouth to answer, but closed it quickly as she looked up. I followed her gaze and saw a doctor approaching in a stiff, pleated white lab coat. He pulled a red pen out from the chest pocket of his lab coat. His eyes twinkled darkly under the florescent lights.

"You gave us a scare, young lady," he said, checking the vitals on the machines. "Care to tell us what you were doing by that tower?"

A quick glance from Christine warned me. "I'm not sure what you mean," I answered.

His red pen marked notes in my chart before he continued, without looking up. "Your friend and the guards brought you in a week ago. They found you near the abandoned tower in the woods. If she hadn't gotten them in time, there's no telling what might have happened. You were lucky. The contaminate levels in that area are still off the chart. It's a blessing you made it here when you did and that we still had the old medication."

His eyebrows lifted at my mumbled words of thanks, barely louder than a whisper.

"If I were you, I would be a bit more grateful. You are lucky the guards were there to protect you, and to protect the rest of us from any contamination. We had to take some drastic measures to save you, and your body may be scarred," he said, nodding toward my hand. "But, you are alive, and lucky. The boundaries are there to protect us. They are for our own good. It would serve you well in the future to remember that." He looked at me hard before making the final marks on the chart.

"For our own good," I agreed, trying to mirror the innocence of my friend. I let his words float in my mind. Something was nagging at the recesses of my consciousness... "If she hadn't gotten them in time"... What would have happened?

I looked outside, watching the frayed tips of the flag blow in the wind. Everything seemed normal. The streets were bare except for the checkers stacking provisions, and the mayor hammering a poster on the outside of the meeting hall. When the bell rang its familiar chime, I closed my eyes.

My head hit the pillow, and I sighed. "Yes, it's for our own good," I repeated the hollow words.

THE END

###

About the Author

Kirstin Pulioff is a storyteller at heart. Born and raised in Southern California, she moved to the Pacific Northwest to follow her dreams and graduated from Oregon State University with a degree in Forest Management. Happily married and a mother of two, she lives in the foothills of Colorado. When she's not writing an adventure, she's busy living one.

Published Works

Middle Grade Fantasy

The Princess Madeline Series

The Escape of Princess Madeline

The Battle for Princess Madeline

Princess Madeline and the Dragon

The Princess Madeline Trilogy (box set)

Short Stories

The Ivory Tower

Boone's Journey

YA Fantasy

Dreamscape: Saving Alex

