

DEMOLITION LOVE

### By Láyla

authorlayla.com
PROLOGUE

1. DEMOLITION

2. CHAINS

3. BOUNDARY

4. TRESPASS

5. PULSE

6. CAVE-IN

7. GRENADE

8. HUSK

9. TWO-FOR-ONE

10. PUNISHMENT

11. BEATDOWN

12. SHELTER

13. BULLET

14. RECKONING

15. END

16. DEAL

17. HOOKED

18. GRAYSCALE

19. WRECK

20. CRACK

21. ANNIHILATION

22. GUTS

23. SMEAR

24. SCAR

25. BOMB

26. EXPLOSION

27. STING

28. FAULT-LINE

29. RHYTHM

30. BODYBAG

31. TRAINING

32. CAPTURE

33. ANARCHIST

34. STAND

35. BEEKEEPER

36. LOVE
Copyright © 2016 by Layla Holguin-Messner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed "Attention: Rights Dept," at the link below.

authorlayla.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Danica Schloss (danicaschloss.carbonmade.com)

Author photo by Shinobi

Smashwords Edition

For Graham

PROLOGUE

Aidan—

No place in D-town to escape the sound of The Dance, and I'm glad. The techno beat gives something to latch onto as the anarchist's fist crashes into my stomach like it will tear through and shatter my spine.

Oomph. I double over.

Awareness narrows to brilliant agony and the boom of the bass. If only my meditations were half this focused. A timeless moment later, I can breathe again, but not for long because—

Oomph. Another punch, followed by aching stillness.

Boom-boom-boom. The beat carries me, red flashes of pain pulsing in time, and I lose track of everything else until the blows stop. I am lying on the ground with my right eye swollen shut. I open my left a little and meet the glazed blue eye of the A who's been beating me. I cower back before realizing he's sprawled on his side, too. Blood drools out of his mouth onto the broken concrete between us.

Tattooed fingers grab the A's shirt, flipping him onto his back, and a black denim knee thunks to the ground by my lips. The new guy's fist smashes into the A's round face, splitting the skin over the cheekbone. The knuckles land again, widening the gash.

Again. The nose this time, connecting with a crunch. The A's head jerks to the side, and a warm spray of blood mists my face. Bile rises in my throat. I close my eyes, turning away.

"You going to live?"

I've been counting my breaths, and it takes a second to realize the sounds of impact have stopped and the question is for me. I nod, then crack open my good eye. The new guy crouches in front of me, one hand extended. His knuckles dominate my field of vision. Black letters tattoo the backs of his fingers.

R-E-A-L

D-E-A-L

A black anarchy symbol is inked at the base of his thumb, the A's blood smeared over it. The same symbol marks the A's shirt, spattered with my blood, and even though they're not the same tribe, the similarity is too much. I cringe away. The movement shoots through me, sharp and hot, and air hisses between my teeth.

The Real Dealer stands up. His fingers curl and uncurl in front of him, like they have somewhere else to be. He shifts his feet and drags his palms down the dirty thighs of his jeans. I force myself to look up, not so far as his eyes, but to a clean-shaven chin and clenched jaw. The ends of messy brown hair curl around cheeks lightly dusted with freckles. He's looking down at me, I feel it, and my tongue sneaks out across my split lip.

He bends down and again I flinch back. I managed to stay silent the whole time the A beat me, but now a whimper escapes. A tiny, broken sound like from a terrified animal. The Real Dealer freezes, then straightens one vertebra at a time. Brawny muscles shift under his t-shirt—the body of a guy, not an in-between like me—and before I can stop myself I've looked up, all the way to his eyes.

Light filters through the smog behind him, casting his face in shadow, and I can't tell if I've hurt his feelings, or if he's just disgusted with me. I can't decide how to feel about him, either.

He's an atheist. An anarchist. A militant. And he probably just saved my life.

I lie there, curled in on myself...waiting. To get used to the agony? For him to leave? For one of my tribe to find me?

"Idiot Bee," he finally mutters. "You're going to end up dead. Defend yourself next time."

I won't, though. He has to know that as he dusts his hands on his jeans one more time and walks away, leaving me sprawled in the grit next to my unconscious attacker.

1. DEMOLITION

Tonight, I will talk to him.

Of course I tell myself that almost every night and I never do. Sometimes, it's because he's not here. Most times, he is here but surrounded by tribe. Real Dealers form a wall around him three-people thick, as impregnable to someone like me as the glass edifices of Three Street. They're chatting, drinking, laughing, and hanging, and I'm standing at the bar with Kylie, or Sam, or Kylie and Sam, pretending to chat, pretending to laugh, pretending I'm drinking something other than flat soda pop.

I tell myself I'm waiting for my moment to catch him alone, but the chance never comes.

I just want to say thank you. And ask his name because, in my head, I've started referring to him as That Guy, like he's something more than human, and that's just ridiculous. He's a Real Dealer, that's all, not a bodhavista. He certainly hasn't given up the temptations of the flesh, because while some nights he's away from The Dance, and most nights he's surrounded by tribe, other times, like tonight, he's with someone.

In The Dance, where the crowd packs in so tight it's one moving mass of bodies, dancing with someone means so close the denim of your jeans tries to fuse together, and sweat-damp shirts become little more than an extra layer of skin keeping you apart. So it's hard for me to tell the shape of the in-between pressed up on him.

We in-betweens are hard to tell in general, but in a situation like this? Nearly impossible. And, anyway, everybody knows that an in-between is an in-between. So it shouldn't matter.

But then everyone also knows that most people, whether they go for in-betweens or guys or femmes, have a preference for tits or dicks. So I'm staring through the sweat-drenched haze of The Dance, craning my neck for a clear sightline, when That Guy catches me looking.

He smiles and does something with the hand that's wedged between his hips and those of the in-between pressed against him. Something I can't see, but the movement of his bicep betrays it. Something that inspires his partner to press lips to the skin of his shoulder, maybe muffling a moan, maybe giving him a hickey. I'm leaning against the wall, one foot propped up, trying to seem relaxed, aloof, removed.

I swallow hard.

He lowers his face to meet the lips in front of him, and my hand drops to the waistband of my jeans. Why not? I wouldn't be the only one doing it. Just a couple meters down the wall, a Love Child femme has her long skirt pulled up all the way for better access. She catches my eye and gives me a lazy smile.

"You know you want to," she mouths before her lids drift down again.

I try to focus on the metal strut of the wall digging into my back. I wouldn't be the only one doing it, true, but I would be the only Bee, and...without thinking, I'm staring again. At him. At them. Still trying to make out the subtle swell of breasts or something extra in the jeans.

Like if the in-between has the same parts I do it makes my obsession more sensible. Like That Guy is a fellow Bee or at least from a friendly tribe. A Cross Bearer, perhaps. Someone whose hands I haven't seen covered in blood, whether in my defense or otherwise.

Because, knowing what those hands are capable of, why would I want them touching me? A traitorous inner-voice whispers that hands aren't the only parts of him that could touch parts of me and I push the thought away, shove away from the wall, thrust myself into the moving bodies, becoming one with the dance, with the other D-towners—friends and enemies alike—and, by extension, with That Guy, and I tell myself that's close enough. As close as I'll ever get. That, in fact, it's as close as I truly want to be.

For the remaining hours til dawn, the pounding rhythm and the hot press of D-towner shoulders and hips and thighs almost make me believe it.

I wake on the filthy cement dance floor with my head on Sam's stomach. Sam lies curled against Kylie's thigh, while an in-between I don't know sleeps with my shoe for a pillow. I move my foot, and the stranger's head lolls to the floor. That one sits in a rush, displaying a bleached out shirt with a red anarchy symbol, the uniform of the A.

The A glances at me and looks away because in a few minutes we'll all be outside, and if that one is not alone, and if Kylie and Sam and I don't run, me and mine will be up against the shoes and fists of the A and friends. That's just the way it's done in D-town.

I get my feet under me and turn to rouse Sam, but a commotion at the door does it for me. Sam sits, rubbing eyes, and nudges Kylie.

Kylie could sleep through The Dance being taken over by a metal band jamming through an earthquake, but somehow always wakes at the softest touch from her younger sibling. We three dust each other off and go see what's happening.

D-towners crowd the entrance, talking at one another.

"The GeeGee can't do that."

"Yeah, right. We don't even exist to them."

"When? Does it say when?"

"Bloody G-spots."

G-spot has to be the stupidest dirty word ever, but voices are rising in pitch, smashing over each other. Beneath the louder voices, and the never-stopping boom of The Dance, quieter conversations buzz. Swears and insults for the Global Government flow freely as Kylie, Sam, and I weave through the snarl forming in the doorway.

Kylie and I are stick thin. She and I slip to the center of the group to stand in front of the thing that's caught everyone's attention.

It's a sign. A round sign, of course. Everything the GeeGee makes, from signs to houses—to school notebooks, probably—if it can be round, it's round. They do it to represent the never-ending circle of life, or some such crap. Crap because this sign, in all its glossy green perfection, doesn't serve life at all, not our lives.

DEMOLITION.

In smaller print below, the message continues.

THIS BUILDING HAS BEEN SCHEDULED FOR DEMOLITION. PLEASE REMEMBER THAT ENTERING A CONDEMNED BUILDING IS A CRIMINAL ACT. THIS IS FOR YOUR SAFETY.

The sign has been attached to the building in such a way that it blocks half the door, so we have to go out of our way to slip around it. But it doesn't stop traffic completely. The door isn't boarded over. Because they know we'd tear that shit down, make fun of it in any way we can.

There was a round sign here in the beginning of D-town. It said CONDEMNED. We pulled it down and, after rolling it around town for a few months, someone stashed it in the back of The Dance. On those rare occasions when tribes can get along for long enough to take it out and prop it up on makeshift legs, we use it as our Council table.

"Well, let's stop them." The voice issuing the challenge is rich, confident. And familiar. That Guy stands a few feet back.

Sometimes when I'm dancing or just leaning against the bar, I think I catch him watching me. I tell myself I'm imagining it. There's no telling myself that now, though, because he stares right at me.

"Aidan," he says. "Would you be willing to facilitate a discussion?"

I have only one thought, which to my utter humiliation, my mouth opens and shares with everybody. "You asked someone my name."

2. CHAINS

Actually, That Guy facilitates. I sit as speaker for the Bees and, when it's my turn, give example after example of the success of peaceful demonstration, from Gandhi to Starhawk. These Kylie furnishes me in a soft whisper, leaning close like she's feeding me bites of dinner, because the moment the speaker for the As sat down and suggested using nail bombs, my mind fled the discussion. Went back before the GeeGee, before D-town, before the Bees, all the way back to the night my parents died.

"Nail bombs sure are a bitch," I whisper out of turn, remembering.

"Exactly!" The speaker for the As fills out his white t-shirt with muscle, and a strip of denim holds his dark hair in a short tail. I don't know him by name, but I've seen him around Council enough to suspect he's one of the A higher-ups. He slaps the condemned-sign-turned-round-table and points at me like the impossible has happened and we agree. "Those bitches get the job done."

Kylie reaches from behind to touch my arm, making me realize my hand is fisting on the table. Calm flows into me with the contact, and I unclench my fingers, shooting her a grateful look.

"I don't think that's what Aidan meant," That Guy says.

He smiles at me, and it's like a rare blue-sky morning, when the early sun reflects off the Three Street windows. My breath catches.

"The Bees stand against nail bombs," I tell him, chest tight.

The A leans over the table, watching me like a wolf might watch a straggling reindeer, waiting for it to drop just enough behind the others.

"But can the Bees stand up to nail bombs?" he asks.

"Take it outside," That Guy snaps.

"Oh, I will," the A promises, leaning back with a smirk. "Because the GeeGee could capture that one. They could cut it wide open, stick a bomb in its internal organs, patch it up and send it back to us."

By it, he means me.

Their eyes lock in a silent but still obvious challenge. That Guy stares back impassively, except for the flutter in his throat when he swallows.

The A looks away first. "We stand for nail bombs. And anything else that works."

"Including peaceful demonstration?" My voice quavers a little.

"Maybe." The A waggles his eyebrows at me. "What's your stand on virgin sacrifice?"

It's not flirting; flirting doesn't make the recipient sick to the stomach.

"Are you volunteering?" That Guy asks the A, with real-sounding interest, then makes a note on his paper. "I didn't think so. Nail bombs and peaceful demonstration are on the table."

"And anything else that works," the A repeats.

That Guy talks over him. "What else?"

"Magic." The High Priest and speaker for the Witches is a burly redheaded guy with skin so fair his sunburn never quite heals. His midsection needs exercise, and his beard could use some fertilizer, but he carries himself well.

His co-leader, Crow, stands behind his chair with her hands on his shoulders. Her braids, woven with tattered feathers, mingle with his long hair.

"Magic has been raised. Any objections?" That Guy asks.

"Objection." Gina is all sweetness as she faces down the speaker from her rival tribe. "This goes against Jesus Christ, our Lord. The Cross Bearers raise prayer instead."

"Consensus minus one for magic," says That Guy. He flips the sheet and writes something at the top of a new page. "Magic passes Council. Prayer is raised. Any objections?" Frustration leaches into his voice.

I know why. He wants action. Nail bombs, to the Real Dealer soul, are better than prayer, better than nothing. But, since he's facilitating, he has no say. I make up my mind not to raise meditation. The Bees will meditate regardless. Witches and Love Childs will do creative visualizations. The Cross Bearers and Turbans will pray, which is close enough.

"The Logic won't block consensus, but we present that prayer and magic are a waste of time." Tara, speaker for the Logic, has rich cola-colored skin and black braids. Most tribes rotate speaker duties, but not the Logic. Tara, their Leader, sits every time. They consider her smartest, and in the Logic brains count for everything.

"Noted." Dutifully, That Guy makes another note. "And prayer stands. What else?"

Hours later, we've only come to consensus in favor of a fact-finding mission.

We know the meeting is over when ever-rational Tara slams her hand on the table and shouts, "This is why direct democracy never stood a chance against totalitarianism!"

She shoves back her chair and storms out of The Dance. One by one, the rest of the speakers leave the roundtable and slip out into the early evening. When the meeting started The Dance was half-full, but most spectators have long since moved on, convinced once again that Council is useless.

Kylie, Sam, and I linger, lifting the CONDEMNED sign off its base of broken bricks and rolling it back behind the bar. That Guy remains as well, conferring with a handful of Real Dealers. We push the bricks off to the side, but I remain hyper-aware of That Guy. Kylie, Sam, and I stack the chairs, but eventually we're out of excuses to put off the trip back to the Ashram.

We exchange glances, then crowd close together and squeeze past the DEMOLITION sign. We walk three abreast down the broken street, me in the middle. Our unspoken understanding is that I'm the most fragile of our little group.

Samantha is an in-between like me but, unlike my bird-thin boniness, that one's body is soft and indistinct. More padding, Sam always says.

Kylie is a femme, but her body type is more like mine than her sibling's, so it's hard to say what makes her a femme instead of an in-between, even though it's something everyone knows just by looking at her. The ruffles on her shirt help, but I'm pretty sure her femme-ness would be just as obvious naked as clothed. It's partly the way her hips sway when she walks, but the rest is just that mysterious something that makes a femme a femme.

Like all Bees, Sam and I included, Kylie has a shaved head.

The sound of running feet brings us up short, and before our pursuer rounds the corner behind us we've formed a triangle, back-to-back, with me facing forward. I hate that position, even though with a threat from behind it means I'll be hit last. I hate not seeing the A coming.

I wrench my head to look past Kylie's shoulder just as That Guy rounds the corner. His cheeks are flushed like he's been running flat out. When he sees us a smile breaks over his face, and his headlong rush slows. It seems the look on his face is one of relief, but I must be mistaken, because why would he care about us? His whole appearance is...pure, like a farm boy from one of Kylie's old-world novels. I interpose the image of his knuckles covered in blood to remind myself of the truth.

"Hey," he calls. "Mind if I walk with you?" He joins us with the long, sure strides of someone not used to argument.

But then, which of us would object?

"Sure," I say.

That Guy falls in beside Sam. Kylie glances at me from under her eyelashes, touching my arm with two fingers, as though to lend moral support against the river of temptation.

Temptation is definitely winning. He keeps speeding up and slowing down, trying to look beyond Sam. He might be trying to keep an eye on Kylie. Real Dealer guys are notoriously protective of their femmes, but that vigilance doesn't even extend to their in-betweens, let alone members of another tribe. Of course, Real Dealer in-betweens can take care of themselves, but then, so can their femmes.

I suppose he might be an exception to the rule and have come to look after Kylie. Real Dealers don't usually jump into others tribes's fights either, but he did come to my defense a few weeks ago, so he's obviously a little unconventional. Or confrontational.

My mind is yammering.

That Guy circles around so he's walking backward in front of us—okay, in front of me—with his hands in his pockets.

"I'm Lawson." He pulls out one hand and extends his arm a bit, then seems to realize the awkwardness of trying to shake hands while walking. "Thanks for your contributions back there."

"Um, yeah," I say.

"It is our duty," Kylie says in her clear, firm voice.

Lawson and I nod. It's one of those moments where we watch each other a little too long. Then he looks to Kylie.

"Sorry it wasn't a more productive use of your time."

"Not your fault," I say. "It's impressive that you kept them from each other's throats as long as you did." By each other's throats, I mean our throats.

He knows that but doesn't comment.

"This is you, then." He's right; we have arrived at The Ashram, and we stop walking. "Kylie," he says, and shakes her hand. "Sam. Aidan."

His grip is firm, the pads of his fingers callused, and when he says my name, I can't see anything—anyone—but him. I pull away just a little too quickly, disconcerted and embarrassed to be such a poor example of a Bee.

Lawson lets his hand drop to the leg of his jeans. "See you at the next Council."

Then he's jogging off, back toward The Dance. As soon as he's out of sight, Kylie whistles for our doorman.

Tanner, the Bee on ladder duty this evening, sticks his thick shoulders and clean-shaven head out of the hole in the wall two stories up. He gives us a grin when he sees we're all Bees and ducks back out of sight. Moments later, the end of a ladder pokes out of the hole and descends toward us. Ladder keeps coming—three ladders, tied together—until the feet of the bottom one grind against the ground.

The Ashram is the second floor of what was once an upscale department store. All the merchandise has long been looted, and broken light bulbs decorate the water-stained ceiling. I climb up first, into a jagged patch of fading light from the entry. The speckled floor is as clean as acid-infected rainwater will make it, but deeper inside the cleanliness becomes less obvious. Light is hard to come by, and mostly we go without.

Tanner hauls up the ladders once we're all up. With the entry at our back, we stand on the right side of the Ashram, in the area reserved for all social functions—group meditation, sleeping, eating, and just hanging. Farthest to the left is for unscheduled sitting meditation. The space between is dedicated to moving meditation, including yoga. Across from us, stacked bedrolls lean against the wall. Kylie's needs mending, but someone lost our last needle. Time to steal a new set.

There's ongoing discussion about the ethics of this, but it doesn't matter; in D-town, to live is to steal. In the wild, a human who doesn't want to kill to live can drink only water and eat only fruit, but here they would starve.

The only thing that grows in D-town is mold.

Everything outside of D-town belongs to the GeeGee, and the one and only thing all D-towners agree on is that the GeeGee is the enemy. Even Bees don't feel too bad about stealing from them.

"What in the name of His Holiness was that?" Sam asks me, as we toe out of our sneakers.

I consider pretending not to understand, but discard the idea. Lying is beneath me.

"I need to meditate," I say instead, and walk left, feeling the way between the moving bodies of my fellow Bees.

They are practicing yoga, ecstatic dance, and other forms of moving meditation in the central area of the Ashram.

"Aidan will find that one's own way," Kylie says to Sam as I leave.

I mean to go all the way left and sit, but I stop in the middle section instead and let my feet find their firmness on the floor. I keep my eyes open, with soft focus, and the Ashram dissolves into blurring shadows. The Dance booms beyond the wall, giving me an anchor.

My hearth is clenching hard. My breaths don't go all the way out or in but tumble by halves, as though in a rush.

His Holiness taught that we shouldn't worry about past or future, so I try to let the worrisome thoughts go, but they are stubborn. What will happen to us without The Dance? Without that boom-boom-boom, there will be nothing to protect us against the sonic pulses the GeeGee uses to control emotions.

Worse, there will be nothing to hold the tribes of D-town together.

Boom-boom-boom.

"You're looking for him again." Sam is warm and pillowy next to me as we stand in The Dance later, backs against the bar.

To the other side, my elbow bumps against Kylie's. My breath has taken up residence in the top one third of my lungs, and my palm sweats against the roughened plastic of the cup in my hand.

"Thanks." I take a swig, then stare into my cola.

Kylie nudges me. "Don't fight so hard for detachment, Aidan. Peace can't be achieved through struggle. Observe. Notice what you're feeling, breathe, let it go."

I nod and let out a breath.

"It's okay, hon. Happens to everyone." She leans on the bar to see past me to Sam. "The hard time you're giving this one"—she indicates me with her head—"is just a mirror of the way you treat yourself."

Kylie is one of the only ones who really gets what we Bees are trying to do, what we're trying to be. I notice that my gaze is back to roving the room and force my attention to my drink again.

"We need something to chain ourselves inside The Dance," I say to distract myself.

"Consensus hasn't been reached on that," Sam says.

"In the end, the tribes will act independently," I say.

The other two turn toward me, bringing our heads closer together, keeping the conversation private.

"Yes, but it sets a poor example if we don't even give consensus a chance," Kylie says.

"They don't have to know we didn't have the chains already. Don't you think the A are already making nail bombs?"

"They probably keep a stash of them," Kylie acknowledges.

Sam runs a thick finger along the scarred wood of the bar. "Guess I was thinking that if we come to consensus, the Bees won't have to be the ones to go out and get the chains."

"It should be us who finds them," I say. "We have to stand for what we believe in, don't you think?"

"We should present it to the Lama," Sam says.

Kylie nods. "We will. Maybe that one will know where we might easily get some chains."

I purse my lips. "I might know where to find some."

"What? Speak up, Aidan," Kylie says.

I swallow, then try again, fighting to be heard over the beat and the shouting that has broken out on one side of The Dance. "I think I know where to find some."

"Let's go." Kylie sets down her glass and grabs my hand. She pushes away from the bar, tugging me along. "Come on."

We navigate through the crowd with a chorus of "Xuse me" and "Sorry," until we're out in the night. Kylie steps to the side of the door and leans against the edge of the DEMOLITION sign. Everyone, I suppose, has decided it's not their job to get rid of it.

"We should take this down," I say.

Sam gives a headshake. "Nah. It keeps people paying attention, reminds everyone that we need to work together. Besides, who knows what the G-spot'll do if we take it down."

"You think you know where chains are?" Kylie reminds me.

I nod. "My parents had some, and there were more in the FOLM supply house."

The group my parents belonged to called itself the Freedom of Lifestyle Movement (F.O.L.M.). Back then, the GeeGee went by the Global Empowerment Movement (G.E.M.). Maybe it should have been obvious, just by that, who the winners would be. In a battle of acronyms, FOLM was the clear loser.

Kylie touches my arm. "Don't you think that, maybe, those aren't there anymore. It's been years, Aidan. They could have been used or moved or taken."

"Yes," I say, "but they could still be there too. We just need to check."

"If your house is still there," Sam says.

"Yes," I say. "And the supply house too."

3. BOUNDARY

When we arrive back at the Ashram, Lama Karen is sitting cross-legged on the bare floor in the center of the social area. That one smiles when we enter—a smile that lends beauty to a plain face.

"We have a proposal, in regards to stopping the Demolition." Kylie is last up the ladder. Usually, she waits for stillness before saying a word, but now she starts speaking as soon as she sticks her first spindly leg inside.

She must be keen on the idea.

I explain about my parents and FOLM and the stockpile of supplies, including chains. We already debriefed Karen about the demolition sign after the failed council.

"I must meditate on this," the Lama says.

My shoulders tense. If Karen starts meditating now, there's no telling how long it will take that one to reach a decision. The Lama takes two steps toward the meditation area and stops.

"On second thought, go ahead. We've got to do something about the GeeGee!"

The outburst is startling, and Karen lapses into silence. We all know Kylie would make a much better Lama.

Sam grabs two bedrolls—enough for the three of us to share—and rolls them up with a big jug of water and a half-squished packet of crackers in the center. Tanner checks outside, then lowers the ladder. Kylie, Sam, and I descend to the dark street.

We head toward the Boundary, and I mentally rehearse the route to my old house. We'll have to get through the uptown district of Three Street, and then down a big hill on what was once a major highway, to the neighborhood at the bottom. There are a limited number of cars now, and the GeeGee only approves emergency travel at night, so there won't be many people to see and report us. "Smart" roads pose the biggest threat to missions like this. The roads tell the cars how to navigate, and no one really knows how much the roads "know." They might record if people walk on them, for example, and pass that data to the GeeGee. But that's a problem for later.

Before we can even get to Three Street, we have to traverse D-town. D-town isn't five miles across—an easy journey if not for the A. Kylie, Sam, and I creep past a main intersection, and glass crunches under our feet.

"Should have grabbed a first-aid pack," Sam mutters.

As though invited by her words, a cadre of guys and in-betweens steps into the road. Red anarchy symbols stand out on their once white shirts.

Kylie grabs my hand. Her fingers bite into my flesh, shaking a little. She's scared. So am I. I squeeze back. Sam switches the blankets to the front and wraps arms around them to protect our water.

"Going somewhere?" The A in the front is painfully familiar.

My gaze flies between his fists and his steel-toe black boots, unable to go to his round face. My stomach starts aching, though there's no reason for that—yet.

"Well," another voice says. "Look who was stupid enough to leave the safety of The Dance. We'll give you a three second head start. One-two-three."

The round-faced A, the guy Lawson beat to protect me, grabs me by the back of the neck and drops to one knee. He's much stronger and heavier than I am. I bend at the waist as the muscles of my lower back fight a brief losing battle to keep me upright. Buckled pavement expands in front of me. My eyes squeeze shut before my face turns to pain. At least there's no glass right here.

"Where's your guyfriend, now?" The A's lips move obscenely close to my ear. I can smell his breath—he's been eating dead animal flesh with onions.

I think the meat might have gone bad but then, by the time it gets to D-town, most meat has.

"Not my...guy...friend," I manage. Blood flows over my upper lip, into my mouth, and I hope it's all mine. Pretty sure it is—no reason for the A to be bleeding. "He's not...mine," I say again. I don't know why it's important to me to say this. Usually I don't speak to my attackers at all. It's better that way.

Kylie has a different approach. "Look at me," she says to her assailant. "I'm just like—ooof—just like you."

I wince in sympathy as she takes the hit and wipe at my face with my hand. It's a reflex, even though I should know the A is watching for it. He swats my hand so it bounces back against my damaged nose. I swallow a cry, along with a mouthful of congealing blood.

"Relax," he taunts. Pale strands of hair flutter against his cheeks in the breeze as he crouches down, reaching for me. "We just want to check you over for scars, make sure you didn't let the GeeGee fill you up with bombs."

He wants me to argue that GeeGee medicine doesn't leave scars, to at least defend myself with words. If I don't fight, he can't win.

"You Bees are just like them," he says, goading me.

I stare at the cement.

He shoves me away and stands. My left hand falls to the cement for balance, and he stomps on the fingers. I bite down on my shriek, but a muffled sound passes my teeth. I've broken my silence, and the A's face splits into a grin of triumph. He kicks me in the stomach.

He keeps changing his technique, and I can't find the rhythm, can't seem to hold myself apart from events. That's what happens when there's something you want. I have to get those chains.

"We're going—" I cough.

He grabs my ear, yanks me partway to my feet, and kicks me again. In the side this time.

I fall to my knees, gagging and swaying, and have to start again. "Chains. To stop the GeeGee."

He moves.

I cringe. "To save The Dance."

"You're going to save The Dance? Huh." He holds out one finger and pushes me.

I sway.

He laughs.

"Stop!" The command, spoken by more than one voice, cracks like a gunshot.

The A stops; I would have as well. Shoes crunch on cement shards, and a ring of kids dressed in black and various shades of red step out of the shadows to surround us. I wipe my face again, looking for That Guy, forgetting I know his name because this can't be happening. The Real Deal doesn't interfere between the A and the Bees; Real Dealers rarely do anything as a group.

My gaze finds him, feet planted, hands in his pockets. He barely glances at me, then looks away again. Irrational anger bubbles up, drowning out pain for a second, and I stagger to my feet. Why is he just standing there?

A Real Dealer femme steps forward. She has spiked hair dyed a bright red, thick black eyeliner, and a ring in her nose.

"I'm not the leader," she says. "Anarchists have no leader. But I will speak."

I'm pretty sure the anarchist comment is a dig against the hierarchical A tribe, because the lip of the guy who's been hitting me curls up. He shoves my shoulder, knocking me back on my ass, before turning to face the femme.

"What's up?" he asks.

I pull my knees to my chest with a wince and wrap a battered arm around them. With the other hand, I pinch my nostrils, pressing up against the bone and tipping my head forward. I breathe rhythmically through my mouth. The Real Deal might move on any minute, and the violence will start again. I'm pretty sure I can't bleed to death through the nose—if I could, it would have already happened—but it's better to not be bleeding when the next beating starts.

In my peripheral vision, I see Kylie curl into a similar posture. Sam stays sprawled on the ground.

Shit.

"Who speaks for the Bees?" the Real Dealer femme asks.

"I'm eldest," Kylie says.

In D-town, age is more than a matter of years. Real Age accounts for things like what you've survived, what you've seen, and the strength of your personality—what you're capable of surviving. Age is not something we calculate or decide. You just know, looking in someone's eyes, whether they're older, younger, or the same age.

Kylie is older than Sam or I because she's calmer. I'm older than Sam because that one is softer. I'm older than the round-faced A because I've seen more. Lawson is older than me, even though he's seen less, because his personality is stronger than mine.

All in the eyes.

Kylie rises to her feet without using her hands and limps, one arm wrapped tight around her middle, to stand in the center of the road with the other two speakers. She stands no closer to the Real Dealer than to the A, and doesn't flinch when he waves a hand stained in my blood. She looks him in the eye when she speaks to him, and her face doesn't twist with hatred. I doubt I will ever be able to do that.

I look to Lawson and find him staring at me, so I close my eyes and go back to my breathing exercise, heart pounding faster than it was just a moment ago.

Steps approach after a few minutes. My eyes fly open, and I flinch back, but it's just Kylie. The A have gone, taking our water, snacks, and bedding with them.

"We can go," Kylie says. "Two Real Dealers are going to help us get the chains, on the condition that if there are any weapons in either your parents's stash or the one at the FOLM headquarters, they get first pick. The A get the other half." Kylie holds up a hand, stopping my protest with a tilt of her head toward her sibling, who lies still on the ground. "Sam gets safe passage back to the Ashram; the Real Deal will provide an escort. And when you and I get back, the A will meet us at the Boundary to finish this"—she indicates the road—"and the Real Deal won't interfere."

Kylie touches my shoulder and continues. "I'm sorry, Aidan. It was the best I could do. My head hurts. I can't think. The A just wanted the location of the headquarters, so they could go without us. I gave everything else to stop that from happening. And to get Sam home safe. Come on, Ai, you knew as soon as you opened your mouth about saving The Dance that they'd get weapons out of us somehow."

My cheeks go hot. She's right; I should have known that, but it never occurred to me. I just wanted to make the pain stop.

Pain is a problem for later. I let go of my nose and inhale experimentally. Blood doesn't start gushing again, so I guess I'm okay.

"You did good, Ky. Who's coming with?"

"Lin, that's the Real Dealer speaker, and"—she gives me a look—"Lawson."

Lawson is yelling at Lin now. "—no right to agree to that!"

Maybe he's upset about sharing the weapons or about being selected to accompany Kylie and me. He stalks toward us, flushed with anger. He has a bag sewn onto his belt. This he opens and pulls out some strips of once-white cloth. He reaches toward me with one. When I flinch, he presses his teeth together, causing a muscle in his jaw to jump, and tosses me the scrap instead. I'm not a very good catch, and it falls on the ground.

"Sorry," we say at the same time.

I bend for it and grimace. His hand shoots down and snatches it. As he passes it to me, his skin brushes mine, making me tingle. I wipe my face with the cloth, and Lawson turns to Kylie and sets to wrapping another strip around her bleeding knuckles. I have a disconcerting image of her hitting an A in the teeth before I realize she must have broken a fall by putting her fist down in glass.

I'm just standing there with the bloody cloth. I tuck it in my pocket to be boiled later. There's a cut on my left arm, courtesy of the glass, but it seems like a waste of the strips. Lawson is busy tending to Kylie, so I tuck the clean cloths in an empty pocket and try to breathe evenly.

Kylie and Lawson get Sam up off the ground, get Sam to count—incorrectly, no matter how many times Kylie asks—how many fingers they are holding up. Sam hobbles off into the darkness supported by the remaining Real Dealers, and Lawson, Lin, Kylie, and I turn toward the Boundary.

Lin falls in beside Kylie, while Lawson's long strides carry him out in front. I'm caught in-between, like what I am, and against my better judgment, I hobble as fast as I can to catch up with Lawson.

"Were you—you were going to just let them beat us." My voice should not sound so bitter. He's not tribe. And what am I saying, that I want him to do violence?

He stops walking and rounds on me. "I could have gotten beaten too! Would that have made you feel better?"

I flinch back, and this time I'm pretty sure the look that comes and goes on his face is hurt.

"You had tribe there," I mutter, though I know better. I wasn't thinking before. Real Dealers don't act together. Rarely act together. Tonight they did, because of the weapons, but if Lawson had stepped into the fight it would have been just him against all the As.

He's opening his mouth, raising his hands to gesture in frustration.

I forestall him. "No, it wouldn't have. Made me feel better."

He nods. He stares straight ahead as he walks, one hand in a fist, the other closed over it, rubbing at his knuckles. Would it have made him feel better?

"So where are we going?"

"I'll show you the way."

"You still don't trust me." It's not an accusation.

"You might leave me behind," I say. Us. I should have said, you might leave us behind. My head really isn't on straight tonight. Maybe all the beatings from the As have knocked it off kilter.

"Why would I do that?" he asks. "More people will make this easier."

I nod, and we walk in silence. We pass a few clusters of kids—no more As—and every time we do, conversations stop and people stare. Kylie and I, with our shaven heads and high-necked shirts, can't be anything but Bees, even though the Om tattoos on the back of our skulls aren't visible in the dark. Lawson and Lin are in Real Deal uniform—funny that they, who don't have leaders and don't act together, have a uniform. We belong together about as well as Martin Luther King, Jr. and Crazy Horse. D-towners whisper and point, but no one asks what we're up to.

We're still two streets back from the Boundary when Lawson grabs my arm and yanks me against the side of an abandoned building—truly abandoned, not just GeeGee abandoned. D-towners don't live this far away from The Dance. Lawson's hand clamps over my mouth, heedless of the flecks of blood that are probably still around my nose, and my heart batters against my ribs.

"War—oo—ing?" I ask, lips moving against his palm. After years of training myself not to fight back, my fingers don't even wrap around his wrist.

"Shh!" he hisses in my ear and points toward the Boundary.

A figure stands at the crossing, on the GeeGee side of the tracks. A tall figure. A grown-up, with a pole, no, a sonic blaster sticking up over its shoulder.

I go cold. Shit. Oh, shit. What do we do, what do we do, what—

Lawson waves over his shoulder, and Lin and Kylie join us.

"GeeGee," Lin whispers, soft as flower petals falling to the ground.

"Patrolling the Boundary," Lawson agrees, laying a hand on her arm.

"Shit," I say. Not very helpful, but that's still my only thought. I can't look away from Lawson's tanned fingers on Lin's ivory skin.

"You giving up, Bee?" Lawson asks.

I wet my lips. "Do you think we can get out?"

"We have to," he whispers. "Without The Dance, everything will fall apart!"

I nod—it's the same thought I had earlier—but he's not finished.

"We can't let D-town fall," he hisses. "For our parents!"

Because that's the one thing all D-towners have in common, regardless of tribe. The thing that makes us D-towners instead of normal kids, living green, round, sonic-pulse-controlled lives under the GeeGee. Our parents fought to give us a future of freedom. They kept us out of hospitals and away from schools—anywhere that might keep records—and when they died and there was no one to register us in the great Census in the first year of the New Era, we became the Children Who Do Not Exist. Over time, we gathered here, in D-town.

D-town is the last surviving civilization of the old world. If D-town falls, the GeeGee wins. They must know that too because, having mopped up all resistance elsewhere, and organized their schools and their farms-in-a-building and their "rehabilitation centers," now they are coming for us. For our heart. For The Dance.

"Let's do this," I say and march into the street.

4. TRESPASS

Lawson drags me back with an arm around my waist.

"Do you ever think before you act?" he asks, still in that carefully pitched whisper. "That's not an A. The guard's not going to beat on you for a while and then just go away!"

I stumble into the shadows and bump against Kylie. Her eyes are wide, whites showing all around in the darkness. She wraps her arms around me.

"I don't want to leave Sam," she confides into my neck.

Something expands, a big feeling, filling my chest. Maybe this is what bravery feels like.

"You don't have to," I whisper. "You stay here."

"Here?" She looks around.

"No, I mean, go back to the Ashram. We can take it from here."

Lawson and Lin are talking in the shadows, not paying us any attention. They probably don't expect our help with stuff like this anyway. After a couple minutes, Lin waves us over. When we don't move, they come to us.

"What's going on?" Lin asks, glancing between Kylie and me.

"Kylie needs to stay. She hit her head and she can't see straight." I shoot my friend a look, urging her to play along.

Kylie nods. "Aidan's right. I'll slow the mission down."

"You can't go back alone." Lawson frowns as he glances between Lin, Kylie, and me, obviously feeling it's his job to protect us all. If he offers to take Kylie home, he leaves Lin and me to face the GeeGee guard and the world beyond.

Lin sighs. "I'll take her." She wraps a hand around Lawson's bicep and taps her fingers on his skin. "You just make sure you get those weapons!"

The two Real Dealers embrace, and Lin and Kylie start off. A few steps out Kylie stops. She turns, scurries back, and throws her arms around me again.

"I'm sorry, Aidan! Be careful, okay?"

"Go back to Sam," I say. "I'll be back." I'm not really sure of that last, but I manage to sound pretty convincing.

Kylie nods, wiping at the corner of her eye, and resolutely turns away to rejoin Lin. They've made it only a few more steps when Lin looks over her shoulder.

"And don't interfere!" she whisper-shouts.

It takes me a second to realize she's reminding Lawson not to interfere with the A, when they beat on me, when we get back. I hadn't realized Lawson's noninvolvement was up for contention.

"It's okay," I assure him, when the two femmes have gone. "You have to keep the agreement."

D-town only works because inter-tribe agreements are always honored. Without that, The Dance would cease to be a safe zone, and there would be nothing to bind us together. We might all kill each other. The Bees would be the first to go.

"I know," Lawson snaps.

A single train track runs through Urban Center 63, dividing the Three Street financial district from, well, us. It wasn't planned that way—the track was laid long before D-town sprung up—but that's how it turned out.

Sometime after the tracks were laid—decades later, I think—seven teens were run over in half as many months. Accidents or suicides, no one knew. Fearing litigation, the railroad corporation walled in the tracks. Each wall is almost four meters high, brick topped by chain-link and barbwire. On both sides of the tracks, there are NO TRESPASSING signs every few feet.

D-towners call the whole affair—wall, track, wall—the Boundary, and I think it's why D-town ended up here, instead of any of a dozen other quadrants of the city. It lends a feeling of security second only to prison walls. That goes both ways; they feel safe from us, we feel safe from them. At least, that was how it worked before the DEMOLITION sign.

In the five-block stretch where D-town borders uptown, there is only one crossing. When I was a child it had flashing red and white lights, an electronic bell, and arms that lowered when trains passed, but all the trappings are long gone. Now there's just cracked concrete and bare metal rails.

And, as of today, the GeeGee guard pacing in front of the crossing. On our side. With a sonic blaster.

"How are we going to get across?" I whisper to Lawson.

He looks at me for a long moment, then slips a hand behind his back. His shirt hitches, flashing a triangle of pale skin, taut over firm stomach, and for a second I don't see the object in his hand. Then my scalp goes cold, and I lose my breath. I grab his arm, the arm not attached to the hand holding the handgun.

Bloody shit. He has a gun. How did he get a gun?

Even before, guns were nearly impossible to get. My parents didn't even have one at home. My godfather did; he taught me to shoot it. One of the many things about the man I try to forget.

"You can't," I say, voice rising in desperation.

"Shut up," Lawson hisses, face close to mine. "Are you trying to get us killed? Or worse? Don't worry. I'll do it." His lip curls. "You can keep your lily-white soul clean."

"Are you insane? You can't kill one of them—"

"I'll just wound it, then."

"—shoot one of them at all, you idiot!" I duck around his shoulder, size up the guard, and duck back. "It'd take, what, five of its friends with those blasters to come here and kill us all!"

"I'd think there'd be some people in D-town you wouldn't be too sad to lose." Lawson crosses his arms.

"That's not my call to make. And besides..." I trail off, not really knowing what I meant to say, if I had anything in mind at all.

"If you had to choose between that"—he points at the guard—"and me, who would you choose?" There's color in his cheeks, and his eyes are wide.

"That's not my call to make," I repeat weakly.

"You're such a bloody—never mind!" He throws up his hands and paces away. He whirls and strides back, until he's right up in my face again.

I cower back.

"Tell anyone I have this—" He sticks the gun in my face. Not the barrel, but still my stomach drops out of me like I might lose control of my bowels. "—and I'll..." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in sweaty spikes.

"You'll what?" My voice quavers. "Beat me until I wish I'd never been born? Like I haven't heard that one before."

He lowers the gun and opens his mouth. I think he wants to say that he'd never do that, but his teeth click closed with a snap.

"I have a sister," he says. "This gun is our life." He waves it again and I step back. "If anyone knew we had it... Promise me, you won't tell anyone, Aidan, no matter what."

"I promise I won't tell anyone, no matter what."

He swallows and nods. "Thank you." He tucks the weapon back where he had it hidden before, then looks me over. "Hey, I wasn't, I didn't mean..."

A gust of wind drives dust at us, and he holds up a hand to shelter his face. I nod, even though he can't see me, and walk a few steps on, hoping he'll think I'm rubbing my eyes because of wind and dust.

"So, what's the plan?" he asks, catching up.

"I'll climb over this wall and make noise from the tracks. When the guard's distracted, you slip through the crossing." Simple. Like I've climbed the walls before, haven't broken most of the major bones in my body at least once, and I don't hurt all over from the recent beating.

"That's just dumb," he says. "First, there's not only one wall. Even if I boost you over the first one, and you manage to get down the other side without bleeding or breaking anything, how are you going to get over the second one? Can you even climb? What if you can't get out before the next train comes? The space is too narrow. You'll die on the tracks. I can climb. I'll go over the walls. You go through the crossing."

I shake my head. "I have to be the one to go."

"Why?"

"Because I won't let you use the gun."

"You won't let me? What are you going to do? Step in front of the—no, never mind, don't answer that. Look, I should be the one to go. I'm the one with a gun."

"That makes no sense. You can't shoot a train."

He grimaces. "Okay, fine, race you to the top." We've been walking back and forth along the Boundary for most of this conversation, and he must have been looking over the path in front of him, because a second later, he has a handhold, and a toe hold, and—

"That's not fair!" I hiss.

He keeps going, his whisper echoing down to me. "Why not?"

"Because you know you'll win."

He lands on flexed knees back on the ground in front of me. "True. But I'm not sending you over. You'll get stuck, Aidan."

Without thinking, I grab his hand. The skin on top is warm and soft. "Together," I say.

He gives my hand a squeeze and doesn't let go. My whole body goes hot.

"Together," he agrees.

It takes the better part of...a very long time to get over the first wall. My clothes and skin are torn from the barbwire, and I'm surprised the sky isn't warming with dawn by the time Lawson catches me at the bottom. He misses a little, and I go to one knee in the gravel beside the tracks, gouging myself.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispers.

I've had so much worse, I just shrug. "Do you think the guard heard me?"

He cocks his head. "Naw. We're too far on. I don't hear it walking, do you?"

"Maybe..." I lower my voice to ghost story pitch. "...it's because it's not walking anymore."

Lawson gives me a look. Then shoves me back against the wall and pulls out the gun.

5. PULSE

Lawson—

There's barely enough of Aidan to hold back the chill of the wall, but heat still seeps into me through our threadbare shirts. This is so not the time to be enjoying body contact. Not with Aidan so fragile, the wall so rough, and a gun in my hand. But damn if the peace Aidan radiates doesn't make me want to slip inside that one and share skin.

There's no calm like that in my world, not since arriving in D-town. No, never. Aidan feels like shelter, which makes no sense. Aidan can't protect anyone, can't protect self, won't be able to protect me if my plans go awry. But even still.

"Not even funn—"

"Shh." My elbow hits Aidan's throat, too hard.

Aidan chokes. I've cut off air as well as words, probably bruised that one's windpipe. I ease up, turning my head to press my teeth into the meat of my arm, hiding my wince and getting a clear sightline on the figure poised in the center of the tracks. A tremor moves through me.

"Hey, you!" The GG commander's uniform makes her a darker shape cut out of the night. She lifts an ultrasonic blaster over her shoulder.

It's so surreal that I just stand there as the muzzle angles toward us.

"Move!" I follow up my order by darting across the tracks and rushing the second wall. Halfway up, I glance back to make sure Aidan is following.

Nope. Aidan remains frozen, gaze locked on the blaster.

My heart rate kicks up a few notches. If she were to hit that trigger, pressure would build in Aidan's eardrums. Then there'd be the roiling nausea, lungs in agony and, finally, complete nervous system break down.

My feet hit the gravel between the tracks and the wall; I've jumped back down. I take off running toward them. If she presses the trigger, it's got to be me she hits.

"Stop right there." But she's not focused on me as she pulls an old-world semi-automatic from her belt and aims it at Aidan.

My vision swims. My mouth dries out. I cover the last of the distance and get in the way.

A spray of bullets goes off, pop pop pop with a silencer. Gravel shoots up into the air and falls around us as I grab Aidan's hand and practically drag that one up the second wall. Turns out the little Bee can climb with the right motivation. We're over and down the other side in minutes.

"Hey!" The Commander calls again as our sneakers pound the pavement, but she doesn't pursue.

No more shots are fired, and high-intensity sound does not blast into us from behind. She knows we'll be back. What are we going to do, run for the wilderness? We'd just get picked up by one of the military patrols and dragged back for rehabilitation, if we were lucky. If toxic groundwater and genetically modified predators didn't get us first.

We run bent at the waist. I follow a zigzagging course, avoiding the busier streets of Urban Center 63. It's not until we reach the first abandoned housing district that the uneven rasp of Aidan's breath breaks through my focus. I've set easy pace, for me, but Aidan has been running full out this whole time.

Not that Aidan would even think of complaining. Obviously, I'm the only one who cares about that one's well-being. It's down to me to take care of us both, so I slow to a stop in the deeper shadows of a porch.

An old swing hangs on two remaining chains, half the seat drooping to the porch. Strong gusts of wind drag it back and forth with a scriiitch, screeech. Aidan sits down next to the low end of the swing and wheezes along with the noise.

I slouch against the nearest pillar of the porch and, instead of staring at Aidan, squint at the stamp on the door. The green paint is so bright it practically glows in the dark. This house is scheduled for demolition on DECEMBER 26. But the weather's so weird, I've lost track of what month we're in.

"Any idea where we are?" Aidan asks.

"I grew up here," I lie, out of habit. A habit that's never bothered me before.

"Here?" Aidan indicates the porch swing with a tip of the shoulder.

"No, not right here. In this neighborhood." I wave vaguely beyond the houses across the street and focus on not shifting my feet. "Over there."

I never tell anyone where I really grew up. I've never wanted to. Not until a second ago, and now it's too late.

Aidan leans chin on knees. "Are we going to your house first, then?"

"No! No, I'm never going back there." I fold my arms, but truth slips past my gritted teeth, as if it can wash away the lies. "My father died there. In the quake."

Aidan only nods in understanding and doesn't pry. We're D-towners. We come from disaster, trauma, and loss. We all have things we don't want to talk about.

Like when, in the next moment, I ask, "So...where are we going?"

And Aidan blurts an address, then looks anywhere but at me, I get it. Aidan didn't mean to tell me that secret. Not yet.

But all I say is, "Tough neighborhood."

"This too."

I give Aidan a hand up. Those thin fingers feel brittle in mine, like if I hold on they'll snap in my grip, but if I let go someone else will break them. Aidan pulls away.

I set a walking pace this time, listening to Aidan's breath to make sure I'm not going too fast. We both step softly, creeping though no one's around.

The street is empty of cars, toys, everything. There aren't even any fallen leaves. None of those in D-town either, but that's because there are no trees there. These trees have trunks too big to wrap our arms around, and tall, with thick roots that buckle the cement.

I catch myself dry-washing the hand Aidan held, and I stick my hands in my pockets to keep them still. My fingers brush a lump of putty in my left pocket.

Underneath our quiet footsteps and quieter exhales waits a hungry silence. A void, empty of The Dance, waiting to be filled by the next sonic pulse. Usually when I leave D-town my ears strain for that fading beat, the ball of nerves in my stomach tangling and growing with each step. Then between one stride and the next the bass disappears, and I stand as if naked and waiting to be touched.

This time, silence snuck up on me.

I glance over my shoulder, as if the pulse isn't invisible, inevitable. Like I can see it coming. My palms begin to sweat, and I scrub them on my jeans again. I pull the lump of putty out of my jeans and hold it out to Aidan.

"Earplugs?" I offer.

Aidan gives a head-shake. Not surprising, since no one has ever taken me up on the offer. No D-towner likes the idea of being snuck up on. I stick the putty back in my pocket.

"We'd better hurry," I say.

Aidan breaks into a run, and I lope after. We've barely reached the top of the big hill when the sky begins to lighten. I swear softly, scanning the expansive roadway and the weed-choked hillside.

We absolutely cannot stay where we are. It's the middle of nowhere, shelter-wise. Citizens may not drive to work anymore, but there are always people with reasons to travel. I can't let us be seen on the road. We need to go down the hill itself, which means bushwhacking. The plants might provide some cover, but only if we want to meet the spiders and such that live down among the stalks.

"We can make it," Aidan says.

"Nature doesn't hold to your morals, you know."

Thanks to genetic-modification, there are insects out there that were never meant to exist at all. I swallow to settle my stomach.

"We can make it." Aidan points to the thick clouds in the east. "There won't be a visible sunrise and it'll take a while to get light."

"And if we run down the road we'll make it," I insist.

"That's reckless."

Looking at Aidan fills my stomach, my chest, my throat with shards of pain. Bruises color that one's face and other visible skin, a watercolor painting of layered brown and yellow-green, purple and vivid red. Dried blood forms a dark crust under one nostril.

It makes me brave.

"Love is reckless," I blurt.

Or maybe not so brave. I take off running before Aidan can reply.

Just off the bottom of the road, a patch of scraggly wildflowers grows from parched soil. I stop there, chest heaving. On the petals of a purple flower crawls a lone honeybee, escaped from some bee farm. Aidan careens after me, arms windmilling.

"Put that thing away," Aidan snaps, joining me.

We both flinch at the tone. I glance down at my hand. When did I pull my gun?

"Had to cover you," I say. It might be true. My reflexes are pretty ingrained, and being exposed on the road like that did put Aidan at risk. But the next part is definitely a lie. "That's why I went ahead."

I ran because...

Because I'm...

It makes no sense.

I'm terrified of you.

"Never wondered," Aidan gasps, breath all kinds of out of control.

"What's wrong?" I demand.

"Pulse."

My brows pinch in confusion.

"Pulse," Aidan repeats, barely even a whisper. "That's why you..."

I risk a step closer. "Why I what?"

"You know..." Aidan waves a hand back up the hill.

And that's what I get for being a liar.

"Aidan, what do you feel right now?"

"Huh?"

"How do you feel? Peaceful yet energized? Excited about the day?"

Aidan's chin moves a centimeter back and forth. No.

"Then there was no pulse, okay?" I lean in. "And whatever it is you think I did—"

Wild sound wraps around me as our eyes meet. The mingling rasps of our breaths. The chitter of insect legs rubbing together. The call of a frog hidden in the weeds. Wind rushing down the avenue.

My knee hits the cement with a pinprick sting of pain. Air rushes out of my lungs. Tears wet my cheeks as warmth fills my chest. All the little tensions in my body unknot. I reach out blindly, gasping for breath. Aidan is a blur standing above me, haloed by the sunrise, as I throw back my head and laugh and laugh. I search that one's face, looking to share the moment.

Aidan gazes back serenely.

"Come on." Just the hint of a smile plays around Aidan's mouth. "That was the pulse. We need to keep moving."

Aidan was able to pinpoint the exact moment of the pulse? Aidan is amazing. I can never do that. Wait... How can Aidan do that?

I flatten my palm against the ground for leverage and my pinky touches silky softness, distracting me. I glance down and blink, the destruction in front of me out of sync with the way I feel inside. I've knelt on the purple flower, smashed it against the earth.

The bee lies still beside it. It must have stung me and died. I stroke the tiny body. Then I smooth out the broken blossom and lay the bee to rest on the soft petals.

"Well, here we are," Aidan announces.

We've jogged down a bit of gravel, I've helped Aidan over a low fence, and we've passed under a bridge only to find...this. Aidan starts laughing.

"So..." I press my lips together but can't stop my answering smile. "You grew up in a field of corn?"

"I guess they bulldozed the whole neighborhood." Aidan wipes away tears of mirth, but that one's eyes keep crinkling with the beginnings of another laughing fit.

Yup, the entire thing—every house, every corner store, every pawnshop—would have been cleared away, leftovers burned, and the ground re-planted. Damn inconvenient, those GG.

"And I don't suppose," I ask, "that the chains were hidden somewhere where we might dig them up?"

"Well...they were in our basement." Aidan bursts into laughter again.

But after an hour spent shoving and itching our way between rows of corn, while stomping on the ground hoping for a hollow sound, Aidan has to admit to not remembering exactly, or even approximately, where their house used to be.

"Sorry," Aidan says, crouching to scratch at insect bites.

I catch that one's hands. "Stop that. You're making your ankles bleed."

Aidan freezes. "Sorry, again."

I let my hands fall and step back. An apology from Aidan seems wrong, like the world tilts out of balance. So many people owe Aidan. That one should never say sorry for anything.

And I probably should have thought about the First Consensus, but I didn't.

"Don't worry about it. Look, was the headquarters in this neighborhood too?"

"No." Aidan waves a hand toward the outline of mountains in the distance, indicating that we have to go even farther from D-town. "We can go home, if you want."

"Not on your life, little Bee. But we have to get to—"

Whop, whop, whop.

"Get down!" Aidan grabs my hand and yanks.

I let myself sprawl on top of Aidan as the helicopter passes overhead. It feels like falling. It feels like I've been waiting for this all day.

Warmth. Heartbeats pressed together. Aidan's parted lips, glistening with moisture.

The whop-whop fades too quickly. I should get up. Instead I lie there braced on my hands. Aidan's hipbones press against me, closer than dancing at The Dance. We're not doing that, but my body doesn't seem to know.

Aidan scrambles out from under me, and I jump to my feet, angling my hips away.

"It's gone. I know where we can hide out." I stride back toward the bridge without waiting for a response.

What did I just do?

When I step onto the asphalt of a GG neighborhood, Aidan pulls up short, and so do I. It's confusing, seeing Aidan's D-town clothes among round houses built in patterns of overlapping circles. The dwellings here are made of pale brown recycled amalgam. The geometric gardens have curving earthen benches, and painted intersections lend a festive atmosphere. Aidan's feet are planted firmly in rich, black soil.

Dammit.

"We left tracks," I say. "Take off your shirt. Come on, hurry."

Aidan stares. "You first."

It's a dare, or a promise. I've never taken off my shirt so fast.

Aidan licks lips, then nods decisively. That one moves awkwardly, pulling both arms into the shirt before struggling out of it like a butterfly fighting free of a cocoon. Aidan's shyness turns the simple act of undressing into torture for me. The breeze soothes the hot, prickling skin of my chest, shoulders, back. It does nothing for what's happening below my waist—again.

I should look away. I should. I—

Skin, darker than mine, comes slowly into the light. The sight hits me like a bucketful of ice water, only shrinkage below my waist now. I should have expected this, prepared myself. Air hisses between my teeth.

That tawny skin, finally bare from the waist up and, bloody shit. I make fists, squeezing until my arms ache. I know what D-town is like for Bees, but... I'm shaking. So many bruises and scars. There are marks all over Aidan.

I turn away, jogging, almost running the way I came. Don't cry!

I stop at the edge of the corn and walk backward hunched over, rubbing out my tracks with my t-shirt. Aidan falls in beside me and does the same.

No pity. Don't act like it's unattractive.

It's not. It's just that I can't live in a world where that happens, but I have no choice. What can I say? Aidan lets that happen.

When we step back on the street, I grunt. "Not perfect, but at least they don't know how many of us there are."

"Looks like someone dragged a dead body," Aidan jokes.

I keep staring straight ahead. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen."

"Well, if one of us dies, it better be me. Because there's no way I can carry you."

I round on Aidan. "That's enough."

"Don't you think going in there is a good way for one of us to end up dead?" Aidan indicates the neighborhood with a thumb. "Or worse?"

6. CAVE-IN

Aidan—

We stick to the asphalt on our way into the GeeGee neighborhood, careful not to leave more tracks. I've put my shirt back on, and even Lawson's bare shoulders can't compete with the gardens for my attention. Each time we pass close enough, I reach out to stroke the vibrant green leaves. Everything is so alive.

Lawson turns his head this way and that, searching for threats in the morning light, as he leads the way up the walk to one of the round houses. He taps the door with his knuckles, and we wait.

The door opens on an elderly woman. She looks lost.

"Lawson," Lawson prompts. "Zack's son. Hi, Nana."

"Lawson? My stars. You look just like—get in here." Her gaze lights on me, stutters back. "Both of you."

We step inside, and I wiggle out of my shoes and put them neatly to the side out of habit, while Lawson looks around. We're standing in a half-circle-shaped living area. The taupe walls are hung with fabrics. Across the room is an open doorway to the kitchen. The couch looks softer than anything I've sat on in years.

"Where's Grandpa?" Lawson asks.

She looks confused and like she's trying to remember. "Oh, he passed away years ago, dear. The earthquake, you know. Can I get you"—again she stumbles over her words—"two anything?"

"Uh. I could use a toilet, if you've got one. I mean, not for you to get me, but to, uh, use." I put my hands in my pockets and scuff my torn sock on the welcome mat, feeling more dirty than welcome. The thought lasts for only a second before the pulse-induced warmth in my chest washes it away.

"Well, there's the community toilets, out there." She gestures back the way we came. "But we do have a small electric potty for emergencies. Just through the kitchen."

"Thank you." I wander that way.

"So," Lawson's grandmother says behind me, "what's your friend's name?"

I pause in front of the fridge, waiting for Lawson to explain about how we're not friends because we have nothing in common.

But all he says is, "Aidan."

"Oh. Well, tell me about...your friend." She hasn't seen her grandson since the earthquake and she's asking about me? I realize she can't tell if I'm male or female, and this bothers her enough to hold her attention.

I shake my head with a smile. The GeeGee claims their civilization is so advanced, but they can't even figure out—

I lose the idea as something on the front of the refrigerator catches my eye. A glossy flyer, held to the outside of the fridge door by a government-issued Positive Affirmation Magnet. I almost miss Lawson's response as my calm takes on focus.

I must stop the GeeGee. I can.

"Brave. Tough." Lawson says from the other room. "And stupid. Aidan needs to learn to fight back."

I slip the flyer out from under the magnets and carry it with me to the toilet room. I fold up the flyer and stash it in the waistband of my jeans—not the most secure location, but I just need to get it out of the house. I run water over my hands and dry them on my pant legs on the way back to the living room.

I can hear them talking. "Nana" is trying to get Lawson to tell her about his life, but he keeps responding with questions about what she's been up to. I catch his eye, trying to convey that I want to go, but either he doesn't understand or the effects of the pulse won't let him worry about it.

"We have to go," I say after a few seconds.

"You just got here," Nana points out.

"Yeah, I...sorry. We..." I give Lawson a pleading look.

He nods. "Okay, yeah. Aidan has to get back, or that one's family will worry."

"Oh, you still have family," the old woman says. "That's good. I thought—do you live with...Aidan's family too, Lawson?"

I open my mouth in denial, but Lawson talks over me.

"Yeah." He's backing toward the door. "Yeah, thanks, Nana. I'll come see you soon."

"Are you sure you can't stay for lunch?" Nana's eyes say, please don't go.

"Soon," he says again, like lying twice will make it truer.

"Stay," she pleads.

We're already backing down the walkway.

"It's not like your father thought it would be, Lawson," she calls softly, gaze fixed on me.

Lawson keeps moving, following after me.

"What was that?" he asks, as soon as the door closes behind his grandmother. "We were safe there."

My gaze lights on the community toilets, and I pull him across the intersection—this one decorated with a bright yellow sun—and into one of the small buildings. Then I stick my hand in the waistband of my jeans. I have a moment—while I unzip my pants and search around inside, thinking I've dropped the flyer—when frantic feelings almost break through, but the flyer's just lodged into the top of one of my socks. I hand it to Lawson. His eyes are already a little wide, and they open further as he takes in the images.

The picture of The Dance is taken from above, like from a helicopter, and there are no D-towners around it. How long must they have waited to get an image with no kids? Underneath that photo, it says, BEFORE.

In the AFTER image, the building has been altered. Rounded curves, no windows, and a large round sign on the front with the universal symbol for recycling and the words CENTRAL URBAN RECYCLING CENTER 4. Parts of two surrounding buildings are visible in the drawing, as well. Both have been converted to the round farms-in-a-building the GeeGee is so fond of. In the distance, the Arena is just visible. The glass dome has been repaired, and there's a giant picture of a honeybee painted on one side.

"It's not just The Dance," I say. "They plan to get rid of D-town."

The "community toilets" are glorified outhouses. Much more glorified than the sewage situation in D-town, but still. Crammed inside one is not the best place for a conversation. It smells like composting crap, as might be expected. Even the stench doesn't dent my pulse-induced joy.

"Okay, okay." Lawson turns in the small area, like he means to pace. He comes up against me instead, knocking me onto the toilet with a crash. He looks down at me. "I still think we could have waited the day out at Nana's, don't you?"

I balance myself on the seat. "Yeah, sorry."

He leans against the door. "We always knew they'd come for us someday."

I blink, because I never thought that at all. We leave the GeeGee alone, they leave us alone, I thought. As though they were all Bees.

I try to get comfortable but, with my narrow hips, I feel kind of like I'm going to slip and end up stuck in the toilet. There's no room to stand, though.

In the outhouse to the right, feet step, and a seat clinks. We lapse into silence. Lawson's fingers tap the wall.

"Shh," I whisper.

"Sorry."

After a minute or two of Lawson's fidgeting, the other door opens and closes again, and footsteps retreat. Lawson turns and leans his forehead against the wall.

"Okay," he says. "Let's find a place to hole up. A place that doesn't stink."

He's turning his head to look at me when the door opens and smacks the side of his face. A young femme stands there. She's much younger than us in D-town Age—she's never seen much of anything—but in calendar years the difference is probably not more than a couple of years.

She takes in Lawson's appearance—I don't think she sees me at all—his worn, stained jeans, his scuffed boots, the dirt-covered shirt hanging from his belt loop. For all I know the butt of his gun might show above his waistband. Her eyes open wide.

"Gangs!" Her shout is sharp and fearful, evidence that enough adrenaline is running through her to temporarily swamp all the happiness hormones from the pulses. "There are gangs in the toilet!"

I stare at her.

"Quiet," Lawson hisses. He reaches for her, but she's already out of his reach. He grabs my arm, yanks me off the toilet, and propels me out. "Run!"

I'm going for the cornfield, but he keeps hold of my wrist, changing my course with a jolt to my shoulder, and then we're running side-by-side back to Nana's. He crashes through the door and drags me inside, shutting it behind us.

"What?" Nana steps out of the kitchen. "Lawson?"

"Nothing!" he shouts, like she's accused him of something.

She cringes back, and he runs a hand through his hair.

"A little femme saw us in the bathroom is all. A girl," he says, responding to her confused look. "Do you have a car?"

She shakes her head. "No. For car use, you have to—"

"Yeah, yeah." He waves her to silence. "Look, we can't stay here. We have to get... Aidan's family lives a ways away. Do you have anything?"

They exchange a long look.

She sighs. "I have what you need."

She leads us down into a cellar stocked with root vegetables, food canned in glass jars, and a sleek little motorbike.

"This was your father's. It should hold you." She keeps her back to me, shoulders up near her ears, and the way she deliberately ignores me is louder than words.

If Lawson notices, he gives no sign. He pushes the motorcycle up the packed dirt incline into the house proper, and I trail after Nana, who follows close behind him, giving instructions.

"I have a permit, so no one will question it being on the road," she says. "But keep your speed to something an old lady would do. When you have a chance to bring it back, you can leave it out front with the keys in the ignition. I really would love for you to come for lunch, though."

By then, we are out the front door, on the walkway, and sirens wail in the distance, almost certainly on their way here. Lawson puts his shirt back on. He throws a leg over the bike, centers it between his thighs, and holds it steady while I climb on. I wrap my arms around his waist, and we're off, momentum plastering me against his back.

Lawson does not keep to granny speeds. The last time I rode in a moving vehicle was before the earthquake—where would we get biofuel in D-town?—and when narrowed to motorbikes that figure drops to never. The sight and feel of the road rushing by holds me between nausea and freedom, especially when the bike teeters on straightaways and threatens to topple on curves. But for someone who can't have had a chance to learn to drive, Lawson's doing pretty well. Sure, I swallow a bug every mile or so, but I'm pressed tight against his solid warmth, and I don't have to pull away because there's nowhere to go but splat on the highway.

I finally give him the address Mom and Dad made me memorize so long ago, the location of the local FOLM headquarters—my godfather Pete's house, where I lived after my parents died. Until the quake.

Lawson pulls off the highway into a neighborhood that hasn't been replaced by cornfields or round houses. This community is instead surrounded by CAUTION tape.

Once we dismount and duck under the barrier, bike in tow, it's easy to see why. The whole place hangs suspended. Houses sit half caved in, some have folded from center out, others right to left, or front to back. Chunks of roof balance on less wall than seems necessary to hold their weight.

The earthquake had Her way here. Oh, yes, She did.

"Which one is it?" Lawson asks.

I point to a house with faded purple paint and white shingles. We're at a higher elevation than the headquarters. The view from here shows that the walls still stand, but the roof is caving in the center, as though the house is poised over a sinkhole. Not ideal, since what we need was stored in the basement.

I wonder whether the destruction makes it more or less likely that the chains and other supplies remain. Depends on whether the GeeGee sent anyone in to clean out the bodies. I send out a fervent wish that the chains be here and the weapons be gone, and then head down the hill with Lawson following.

We pause just before the porch, as though by silent consensus, and turn to face each other.

"We might die in there," Lawson says. And then he kisses me.

My awareness fragments into pieces.

The soft, forgiving warmth of Lawson's lips contrasts with the calluses on his fingers when he cups my cheeks in his hands / I must have expected him to be rough / How odd that I would assume that, since he's rarely been anything but gentle with me / My lips are chapped, I probably have bad breath, and I haven't bathed in more than a day...

Desperate to drown out the rest, a mental voice chants, Don't waste this; don't waste this; don't waste this.

7. GRENADE

We break apart. Standing there, in a bowl in the earth, surrounded by the broken remnants of the old world, I feel more at home than I ever have, anywhere—The Dance, the Ashram, with my parents before D-town. At the same time, there's an ache, because here among the uninhabited wreckage is the only place Lawson and I can ever be friends, or anything more.

And besides, with the latest pulse still affecting my brain chemistry, how can I know if anything I'm feeling is real?

A moment of silence and then, as one, we surge toward the purple house. Lawson hits the door with his shoulder, and it grinds back, carving a divot into wood flooring that's still polished under the thick layer of dust. A gust of wind follows us in, stirring the dust, and I break into a sneezing fit.

"You okay?" Lawson asks.

I nod, eyes watering. As I lead the way, I'm overcome by an eerie sense of déjà vu, as though my five-year-old self walks in step with me. The echoes of memory grow too loud to ignore.

I sat on a hard wooden stool, and a woman with salt and pepper hair leaned toward me. Her wrinkled-up forehead seemed to take up the whole world. Jane, my godmother.

"You're going to stay with us from now on," she was saying. "Okay, Aidan?"

"I want to go home." I hadn't said anything else for days.

My godfather, Pete, slammed his hand on the table, causing me to jump and startling tears to my eyes. I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked hard.

"I want to go home." I crossed my arms, hating how my voice quavered, the way my lower lip jutted out and trembled like a baby's.

"You can't go home!" Pete roared, rising to his feet.

Jane, my protector, rose and turned so her back was against me. She wrapped her arms behind herself, and I jumped onto her back. Without a word, she carried me from the room.

Something warm around my wrist. Lawson's hand. He yanks me back, just as a large object crashes to the ground in front of me, so close I feel the air of its passing. I stumble back against him.

"Pay attention, hey," Lawson says.

We've passed through the living room and kitchen into the hall behind. I nod and step around the broken beam puncturing the floor right where my next step would have landed.

"I don't think this house likes being disturbed," Lawson says, skirting the beam as well.

"Missing your pointy hat?" I tease. The Witch tribe is known for being superstitious; Real Dealers usually aren't.

He chuckles.

We're almost to the basement. Two more steps, and my hand closes around a brass door handle. If the house were sentient, I'd say it wants us to go down there, because the door swings open without even a squeak. The dark stairwell stretches before us, remarkably free of dust. I step down, wishing hopelessly for a flashlight. Lawson stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

"This is where the weapons were kept?" he asks.

"Yup."

"Careful, then." He steps around me and leads the way, holding an arm out to keep me behind him as we descend into darkness.

"I'm supposed to be the self-sacrificing one, remember?" I whisper.

"That's why I'm going first. I'm not in the mood for a sacrifice. Let's leave that to the Wit—oomph." Lawson's shadow stumbles.

My heart hammers, and I reach for him, but my fingers close on air. I take another step. "What happened?"

"Hit my head, no biggie. Duck a bit there."

I duck. "Jeeze, don't scare me like that."

"Jeeze?" His voice holds a smirk. "Is that the best you can do?"

"Shut up."

He fumbles along the wall, and light comes on, flickers, flickers, holds.

"Bang," I say. "It's a bloody miracle."

Lawson waves me to silence as he turns, taking in the stacks of boxes, neatly labeled. Guns. Ammunition. Explosives. Bio-weapons. Chains.

Chains that are so not worth it. What have I done? My stomach tries to sink, but the effects of the pulse keep it buoyant.

"No way I can carry all this," he says, but a grin lights his face anyway.

I've given the Real Deal and the A what they need to start a war with the GeeGee, that's what I've done, and it's clear from Lawson's expression that he thinks they can win. I reassess my assumption about our respective Real Ages. I know I've just signed the death warrant for a bunch of kids, the guy I love included, while at the same time I understand that I'll never convince him to leave the weapons here. I'm pretty sure that kind of acceptance makes me older.

I sink to the floor. Lawson, unaware of what is going on with me, walks from box to box, opening them and making noises of satisfaction at each find, like a child getting presents. I wrap my arms around my torso and rock back and forth to self-soothe.

Gangs! the little GeeGee femme shouted earlier. Gangs in the toilet!

That's what we are to them, to the citizens as well as the government. Dangerous. They will put us down like feral dogs, and it will be my fault, unless...yes. Yes, it will lose me the chains, and Lawson—

Pain spikes, somewhere deep and far away, unable to penetrate the high levels of serotonin my brain began manufacturing at the command of the pulse.

—But a Real Dealer could never have been mine anyway. I use that thought to steady myself as we sort the supplies. If not for the pulse, Lawson would trust me less, realize the fact that I'm helping means something is wrong. Instead, he teases and smiles like we're spending quality time. Where guilt should fill me there is only gratitude, like I'm wrapped in emotional gauze. I still have to pee, but I can't afford to go upstairs and have Lawson follow. Not yet, not until it's time.

Dad's voice chants in my mind as we work. The ends don't justify the means. The ends don't justify the means.

This one time, I hope he's wrong.

Lawson was right; there's too much for us to carry. A smorgasbord of destructive possibility, and he paces back and forth, muttering to himself about what to take and what to leave. I watch, getting a sense for his rhythm. About fourteen steps each way.

He walks to me, turns. On his third step with his back to me, I filch a grenade. I jam it into the top of my left sock and pull my loose pant leg back down to conceal it.

The FOLM stash includes a pile of worn backpacking-style rucksacks. Lawson loads up one huge pack and a second, smaller one. I don't ask how he plans to carry both. Doesn't matter. He fills the little pack with a few guns and a bunch of ammo. The big pack he reserves for explosives—including a selection of nail bombs. The sight of those steadies my hands. I won't be responsible for those being used against living beings, even GeeGee. I shove a couple chains, all that fit, into the pack I've chosen. The load is too heavy for me, but that doesn't matter either. I tighten the cord and stand.

Lawson closes his second bag and smiles. "Guess we'll just wait for dark."

"I have to pee," I blurt.

"Bang, me too."

I leave the pack and head for the stairs, trying not to knock my other ankle against the grenade as I walk. I hold my breath until Lawson's steps clomp up the stairs after me.

"It's just this way. Follow me." Is that high, thin voice really mine?

Lawson marches along behind.

I shove into the bathroom. Chunks of drywall litter the room, and the sink is halfway through the floor, but I get to the toilet well enough. I wipe my hands on my pants after and stare into a shard of broken mirror. One dark eye stares back. Dusty black eyelashes blink-blink. I squeeze my hands into fists, count to three, and open the door. Lawson steps past, and it's only then that I notice he's wearing the small pack. The larger one rests on the ground in the hall.

He doesn't trust me completely despite the pulse. For some reason, that makes what I'm about to do seem almost okay.

I step all the way into the hall, and he pulls the bathroom door closed behind him. I roll up my pant leg and pull out the grenade, hands shaking—hurry, hurry, hurry—as urine tinkles into the toilet beyond the door. Hopefully Lawson took off the second pack and put it down. I undo the clip and place the end of the grenade between my teeth—stupid, stupid—so I can heft Lawson's big pack. My arm muscles strain, and I swallow a grunt as I heave the bag back down the stairs.

Clomp! Bang! Crash!

"What was that?"

"Something fell," I call. "Don't worry."

He's stopped peeing. The zip of his fly breaks the fresh silence. I yank out the pin of the grenade, keeping a grip on the safety.

The bathroom door flies open.

"Aidan, wha—" Lawson's eyes widen, and he lunges to stop me.

Not fast enough. My arm rocks back, I let go, and the grenade sails into the basement.

"Run!" I scream.

He swears. But he runs, grabbing the back of my shirt and propelling me in front of him, stepping on my heels. We fly out the front door at the same time as the grenade goes off. The explosion throws us over the steps and onto broken ground. I land face down, hear a crack, feel the pain a second later. My arm.

Or maybe my heart breaking.

I raise my head, blinking as my vision spins. Lawson sprawls a few feet away, lying on his little pack; so he never took that off. He struggles to his knees, and looks at me.

I swallow and glance away, wanting to sink through the cement.

He crawls away from the burning building. As best I can, on two knees and one hand, I follow his blurry shoes, blinking stinging eyes. The effects of the pulse must be wearing down, which means it won't be long until the next one.

When we reach a safe distance, Lawson sits back. His elbows rest on his knees, hands hanging loose. I still can't bring myself to look at his face. I don't know why; I'm not ashamed of destroying the weapons. I just wish I got rid of his small backpack as well. I stare at his knuckles. Black dirt ground into the cracks of his skin makes the tattoos look smudged. He stares back and barks a harsh laugh. He flows to standing, shouldering his pack. Flames crackle from the burning house as Lawson watches my struggle to get my feet under me.

I make the mistake of letting a little weight fall onto my right arm, and it goes out, pitching me forward. My cheek hits cracked cement. Lawson's boots move a few steps away and then return, blurring in and out. His pack plunks down, and he crouches at my side to feel along my forearm. I cry out and jerk away, but he holds tight.

"I have to see if it's broken." His motions remain economical, removed.

Not rough; I just didn't know how tender he was being until he's not anymore.

"I don't think it's broken," he says. "Or if it is, it's just a hairline fracture. You can walk, can't you? We have to get away from here. The GeeGee's going to be on this place like flies on spilled pop in a minute." He grabs me by the left bicep and hoists me to my feet, then dusts himself off.

I nod, swallowing hard, holding my arm to my chest as I sway. He picks up his pack and starts walking, and I stumble after. When he halts a few steps later, I nearly walk into his back. I follow his line of sight. The flames from the burning house have spread to the bike.

That was his dad's.

"Sorry," I whisper.

"Don't," he bites out. "We're not tribe."

As if I don't know that.

My gaze follows as he lifts one arm. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. It's not conscious, I don't think—that would be too petty for him—but I get it. He's wiped off our kiss.

8. HUSK

Through two more abandoned neighborhoods and up a rise to a third, Lawson prowls behind me. He's so bloody distant that I hold my newly-wounded arm close for comfort. I alternate between the urge to give apologies I don't mean and I know won't be accepted, and the desire to point out that it's all his fault for refusing to leave the weapons. Halfway up the hill, I realize I never asked him to leave them, and I spend the rest of the hike wondering how things might have gone if I had.

At the crest of the rise, I blurt his name.

Silence.

The houses here have been left to bleach out under sunlight and acid rain. I cross a faded lawn to a washed out pink house and pick the locks, while Lawson stands guard. He keeps a white-knuckled grip on his backpack strap. His other hand hitches his shirt to rub the butt of the gun hidden in his jeans. I keep having to start over on the lock-picking.

Inside, a charred banister hugs the stairway to the upper floor. The fire seems to have started at an electrical socket. He stops, staring at the black smudges on the wall around the outlet, so I pass him.

On the way upstairs I learn that it's possible to miss someone who's following close behind me. Body heat radiates from Lawson, but I have to set my teeth so they won't chatter.

Just shy of the top, he warns, "Watch the glass! You don't want it poking through the holes in your shoes."

True enough, splinters of blown-out light bulbs shimmer under the thick carpet of dust ahead. I glance over my shoulder, to see if he still cares. Lawson stands almost against my back, so near I can't make out the whole picture of his face. I get an eyeful of pale pink mouth, pulled flat at the corner. One startled hazel eye. His lids drop like shutters.

"I'm trying to avoid your blood."

The tension in his voice stops me from turning away. That's what A guys sound like when they don't want to hit me anymore but can't seem to stop. It's a macho tone.

Lawson is trying to hurt my feelings.

But why? He can't be with me. I get that. Maybe he thought he could, but now he knows better. I will always stand in the way of violence and so will always be in his way. He hates that, but does he have to hate me?

Lawson shoulders past. When he speaks from the other room his voice is bland, like nothing at all just happened, ever happened between us.

"This looks like a good enough place to wait."

I follow and blink in the dim light of what used to be a child's bedroom. Blank photo frames sit on the dresser, batteries long dead. Dust-soaked clothes lie here and there like discarded husks of old-world kids. Broken glass glimmers in the unmade bed, deadly and beautiful in the sheets. Then the silence spills over.

Sound without sound rushes into my heart like warm honey and overflows to cascade down my limbs.

Once, after an overseas trip to the yearly FOLM gathering, Mom and Dad had jet-lag. The three of us played video games all night in our candlelit living room. We crowded together on the couch under one blanket, me in the middle. An Aidan sandwich, Dad called it.

When the pulse hits, it's like my parents are alive and they'll come through that door any minute now. It's that kind of glow—buttered popcorn, hot chocolate, and togetherness.

Except my parents are still dead. But that's okay, because they're in a better place. Tension flows out of my muscles. My injuries hurt less and less and then not at all.

This bliss isn't mine. I didn't earn it. It changes me all the same.

Lawson stands, looking like someone watching the most beautiful sunset imaginable, but with his eyes closed. I feel my face from the inside. My eyes stretch wide. My jaw hangs slack. Then it calms. I'm still full of honeyed happiness, but the rush of wellbeing has stopped. I can move, can entertain a thought. Like how Lawson's hair has gold highlights. He opens his eyes and smiles.

That grin isn't real either, and that's okay too.

I step around him, open the closet door, and set to work rummaging through moldering laundry. The room seems to have belonged to someone shorter and wider than I. None of the clothes will begin to fit Lawson, but I find a few polyester shirts that will do for me and step into the closet to change. It takes a bit longer because of my hurt arm and when I come back out, with the extra shirts tied around my waist, he's gone.

There's a row of sneakers lined up in front of the closet. Those weren't there before. And his backpack slumps in the corner. He pops back through the door minutes later with an armload of socks.

"Here you go. All the pairs that might fit you." He's obviously pleased with himself.

"Thanks." I smile, imagining him hurrying through the house on a sock-finding mission, even though I have no intention of hiking all the way back to D-town with my arms full. Two or three pairs of socks are plenty.

"I do have an ulterior motive," he announces as I untie the first shoe.

I glance at the single bed. I can't help it.

"Yup." Sunlight sparks the amber in his eyes as a boyish grin takes over his face. "I want to jump on this bed with you."

So after I pick the best pair of sneakers, we carefully untuck the sheets and lift them, keeping the glass in the center. He sets the bundle aside, and we climb up onto the bare mattress and start to bounce.

Our bodies brush and bump together. The room catches and holds our giggles, the hitches in our breaths. It's our own private world, where dancing dust motes and broken glass almost pass for glitter, until I land on Lawson's booted foot. I lose my balance, reach out, and catch a handful of him in the front of his jeans. His pained sound makes me let go.

"You okay?" I'm exquisitely aware of the pads of my fingers, how he was soft and squishy at first and then—then I let go.

"Yeah, sure—I—uh, steel-toes." He scrambles back, and we go down on the mattress, feet tangled and his hand on my hip.

We land—oomph—with me in his lap. Lawson makes the strangled sound again.

"I'll just—" My skin burns as I scoot up to the head of the bed. I lean against the headboard and wrap my arms around my knees.

His warmth spreads all down my side as he settles beside me. The back of his skull hits the headboard with a dull thud. His shallow, erratic breaths even out a few moments later. I've always meditated on my own breathing, but now all I can hear is the tide of air rushing in and out of his lungs. Maybe it doesn't matter what I focus on just so long as I focus on something?

Choppers and emergency vehicles come and go with their whop-whop and their sirens as waves of calm joy wash through me at random-seeming intervals. The daylight coming through the window fades, and my chin drops to my chest. My breaths go soft and quiet—perfect deep meditation.

Oh, crap!

Lawson falls over onto my wounded—ow—arm, almost knocking me off the bed. That helps me wake up.

"Lawson!" I maneuver to support his head. "Don't sleep!"

He shifts, snuggling against my side. The sleep pulse has definitely hit. I almost missed it, almost got sucked under without Kylie here to wake me. Cringing inside—but what else can I do?—I dig my fingers into a knot in Lawson's shoulder muscle and call his name.

He mumbles noncommittally, so I shake him, then drag my nails down his arm. He still doesn't wake. His shirt has shifted to the side and my fingertips brush his hipbone.

"Mmm," he sighs.

Tell me about it...Oh! That's how I'll wake him.

I fumble with his shirt and reach for the waistband of his jeans, feeling around to the small of his back until my fingers brush his most precious possession. For a breath I touch the butt of Lawson's gun. Then I'm on the floor with the full length of his body on top of mine. His strong hand crushes my wrist against the dusty carpet and glass pokes through my shirt.

Even though this reaction is what I aimed for, a shocked breath puffs out of me. Lawson scrambles off. A moment ago he moved with deadly precision. Now he can't seem to find solid footing as he stumbles backward.

"Adrenaline," he gasps. "Good call."

My shirt is askew. I pull it down with halting movements. He turns his back and folds his arms.

"How long til the next pulse?" I mumble once I'm on my feet. I shake the hem of my shirt to loosen stubborn particles of glass.

"I don't know!"

"Okay, it's okay. Neither do I. Let's just go then."

We feel our way through the house. I stub my toe on a doorjamb and back into Lawson. He knocks something over and curses. We step out into the still night, and he plants himself in front of me.

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Stay awake through the sleep pulse. No one does that."

I shrug. "I was meditating."

I pull the door shut behind us, and we stand on the walk, as if we live here, together. Lawson does a few unsteady jumping jacks. I hover, arms half-open in case he needs catching, until he glares at my hovering hands like they offend him.

"When we first left D-town, looking for the weapons, you knew exactly when the pulse hit. Were you meditating then too?"

I blink, remembering. "No, not exactly. I was just being mindful, I guess."

"Mindful?"

"Observing my inner state. It's, like, a side effect of meditation..." I trail off because Lawson's whole body has gone rigid.

His eyes narrow with predatory focus. "Can all Bees do that? When you leave D-town with other people do they react the same way?"

"I guess so." I roll my shoulders and regret it when pain lances down my arm. "Kylie is better at it than me."

"I doubt that," Lawson mutters. "What if GeeGee citizens were immune to the pulses like that?"

I frown. "I don't think I'm immune, really. I just don't take it too seriously."

Lawson shakes his head like he knows something I don't.

"Nah," I say. "I doubt any of the GeeGee really know how to meditate. Why would they bother, when the pulses take away all their bad feelings? And besides, what would they meditate through?"

He rocks back and bites out, "You mean like you meditate through the pain of getting beaten?"

"Through the pain of living," I correct.

He looks away. The boundary between us snaps back into place, more impassable than the brick and barbwire separating D-town from civilization.

We slog back home and Lawson speaks only when necessary to coordinate our route. I put one foot in front of the other, hugging my aching arm and biting my lip.

He kissed me. Did it mean anything? That moment is gone, shattered and scattered like glass. I'm the one who broke it. I would destroy the weapons again, but I can't bear the thought that he wants to take back the kiss.

"Lawson?" I begin.

His steps barely falter. "Let's just get this over with."

9. TWO-FOR-ONE

I've forgotten all about the guard at the Boundary, until we're right up on the financial district and Lawson points at my feet—the soles of my new sneakers are dragging—and holds a finger to his lips. He repositions his pack, switching it to the front, and continues walking. We come up beside a little car with the GeeGee logo, two Gs in a circle, on the side. No guard in sight.

"Shh," Lawson whispers. "Hear that?"

Snores rumble from the vehicle.

"Napping," he breathes. "Let's go."

He runs crouched over, pack in his arms, and I follow, making myself as small, quiet, and quick as possible as we take to the open street and cross the tracks. I duck around to the D-town side of the inner wall and lean against it, breathing hard.

"We made it," I whisper, forgetting for a second that everything is different, worse, and smiling at Lawson.

"Yeah." The pack slides off his shoulders and he hefts its weight with one hand before letting it fall to the ground. "I hope it was worth it."

"Our turn," a guy's voice intrudes, from the shadows.

I jump, heart slamming against my sternum, my body recognizing danger before my mind does. Lawson whirls, putting himself between the voice and me, and hoisting his pack onto his back at the same time. He stands there for a moment before stepping aside. Glancing over at me, he shoves his hair back. The rising sun illuminates the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"We need to go a few blocks in," he snaps. "There's a guard here."

I've forgotten all about my scheduled beating.

"Where are the others?" The A steps into the light. His tightly coiled black hair sticks up in all directions.

Not the round-faced, blond guy this time, and for that I'm glad. Kylie and Sam are supposed to be here, but it's just me—another thing to be grateful for. Lawson is angry with me; hopefully that will make this easier on him. I rack up the blessings in my mind, try to focus on them instead of what's to come.

Lawson strides ahead, vibrating with tension, and I jog to keep up, but slow my pace when an A shouts after me.

"Run, and we'll chase you."

Lawson turns and waits, arms crossed. "What?"

"Listen," I say, panting a little. "I deserve this, right? For what I did back there."

"This has nothing to do with that."

"I know, but can't you let it balance the scales?" I've faced so many beatings in my life, but enduring one now, with Lawson standing just feet away, hating me? I think I might break. "Lawson, please."

"No." The word seems thick, too big to fit in his mouth. "No, I won't have anything to do with this disgusting display."

Defeated, I stay where I am and let him put some distance between us. The patch of cement under my feet is relatively flat and unbroken, with no glass. A good place for a beating, as far as these things go. But Lawson turns back and catches my injured arm. He lets go when I wince.

"Please fight back. Please, Aidan."

"I can't, I can't. If I fight back, they win."

He groans and scrubs his hands across his face. "Your pride is going to be the death of you. Why can't you see that?"

It's so close to what I wanted to say to him about the weapons.

"It's not my pride," I say, stepping back. He doesn't understand. Never will.

Lawson's face washes of expression. That's the only warning before the first blow hits my lower back, just off the kidney. My teeth slam down on my tongue, blood fills my mouth, and I grunt. I squeeze my fists, determined not to make another sound.

"Sorry," The A taunts, stepping around beside me and grinning at Lawson. "The date is over."

Lawson spits on the ground at the A's feet. "Does it make you feel like a real guy, hitting someone who won't fight you?" Then he stalks across the street and turns his back.

I squeeze my eyes shut in gratitude. This will be easier if he doesn't watch.

Gravel crunches, more As stepping out of the shadows. Someone's boot stomps on my foot, and I swallow the blood in my mouth, keeping it to myself, refusing to break the First Consensus by spitting it at my attackers.

Meditation requires a point of focus, and Lawson becomes my anchor as I open my eyes. The ends of his sandy hair do a half swirl in the dip behind his neck. I imagine running my fingers—

Someone hits me in the sternum, and I double over trying to breathe, then trying not to try as pain burns through my middle. I keep my chin up, gaze focused on that swirl of hair. The strands have begun to shiver. So I imagine Lawson is shaking because I'm kissing him, just there, on the soft swirl of hair at the back of his neck.

A fist hits my temple; I go down, hear my skull connect with the cement. The pain of impact comes like an echo. The world has begun to tremble and roar like a train rushing past my head. I push, and with a whoosh, I'm out of my body. It's the coward's way out, but I watch from above.

Somehow, my scrawny body is back on its feet. It stumbles from side to side, like trying to stand through an earthquake as three A guys and one A in-between shove me back and forth between them. The news shirts have fallen from my waist and lie scattered underfoot. My head, covered in black stubble, bobs on my spindly neck, tipping forward to display my tattoo of the Om symbol, then back to show dark brown eyes, open and glazed. Bruises, scrapes, and dirt layer my tan skin. The hem of my faded jeans catches under the heel of my sneaker, and one of the As grabs my injured arm to keep me upright, but I feel nothing.

The As barely look at me; instead they watch Lawson. Two for the price of one. His hands clench and unclench. They're torturing him by hurting me. Using me as a weapon. Sickness rolls over me, finding no place to settle. There's no way to purge the ill feeling up here, where I have no stomach to empty.

My attackers take turns. One pummels me, while two others hold me up. Knucklebones try to break through skin and muscle to pulverize my guts. The laughter of the As bounces off abandoned buildings. The scene dims as I float higher.

Lawson whirls. "Stop it!" he roars. "You'll kill that one!"

No, no, no.

I claw at the air, trying to get back. I can't let Lawson break the Second Consensus. Pain should have forced me back to my body by now, but instead I float up and up and up, while the three D-town consensuses fade from my thoughts.

Keep your blood to yourself.

Agreements between tribes are binding.

The Dance is safe space.

Lawson comes at the As like one of the Cross Bearers's avenging angels, shoving them back, punching, kicking. His skillful strikes flow into each other. There are only four As, the others no doubt too busy sleeping or banging to be bothered. Opportunities to beat Bees come their way everyday, after all. They had no way to know Lawson would get involved. No way to know that he loves me. I float higher.

He actually loves me.

Whoosh. I open my eyes.

"Aidan? Aidan! Oh, thank God." Time has passed because Lawson is on his knees.

My head is in his lap. The As are...I don't know where the As are. Not here.

"I thought—" Lawson looks away, swallows hard. "—thought I waited too long."

I shake my head and smile. Or try to. My head barely turns, and I grimace instead.

"No," I croak. "Almost. You shou—" Coughs jerk my body, sending stabbing pain through my middle.

"Shh," he whispers.

Oh my brave, brave guy you shouldn't have done that. We'll both pay.

10. PUNISHMENT

The Ashram smells like nine parts dirty feet and one part all the other smells of Bee life—BO, bleach, rice, and canned-vegetable-of-the-week. Mushroom, at present. I inhale, then crack open my eyes.

"Ai?" Kylie leans over me, her eyes red and puffy.

"L—yuck." My tongue tastes like blood, sludge, and something bitter.

She grimaces back. "I feel your pain. We had to pour one of the Chinese medicine vials down your gullet."

Shit. Those are hard to come by.

I run my tongue over my front teeth, fighting the urge to spit, and try again. "Lawson?"

"Not here, sweetie. He went home. They're waiting to punish him until you're up. Tell me this is a good thing."

My eyes close.

"Oh, Ai. What did you two do?"

"Loved," I whisper. "Loved me."

She touches my cheek. "He made love to you?"

"No." Warmth crawls up my neck toward her fingers. "Not yet."

Her hands slip under my shoulders, tucking the blanket up to my chin. "Did you get the chains, at least?"

I move my chin back and forth a little. "S-sorry."

"Don't be silly. What happened?"

Sleep wants me back. I drift, sigh. The answer floats out on a breath. "Blew them up."

Kylie's hands draw away. "You what? Why? How?"

"Grenade." Exhaustion seeps up through my bedroll, wraps around my limbs, weighing me down. "At the FOLM. Too many weapons, guard at the Boundary, couldn't let him..."

"Couldn't let him what, Ai?" Kylie asks.

I guess I've been silent for a while. "Go," I say. "Couldn't let him go."

The waking world releases its grip, and I spiral away.

D-town gathers at dusk. Kids stream out of The Dance, plastic cups in hand, wearing laughter for lipstick and anticipation for blush. The wide street has been cleared, and teens jostle for a spot with a good view of the square, where the "action" will take place. My stomach clenches.

It's a witch burning. This is how the inquisition happened.

Here even the Witches gather to watch.

I stand in front of The Dance, makeshift crutch digging into my left armpit. Kylie and Sam flank me.

Across the street, Real Dealers surround Lawson. Lin has his back, while an in-between with black hair and broad features clings to his arm. There's no family resemblance, but the way Lawson stands, like it's the most natural thing to have that one hanging on him, reminds me of Kylie with Sam. I frown. Lawson said he had a sister, not a sibling, but there's no question that one is an in-between.

There's also something odd, too innocent, about Lawson's sibling's face. That one is nearly my height, but can't have a Real Age of more than four or five.

Lawson takes his sibling's hands, and their lips move as they speak to one another. The young one gives repeated headshakes, tossing shaggy black hair. It stands out in a sharp, irrelevant way that the only thing they have in common appearance-wise is hairstyle, as if the same person cuts their hair. Does Lawson do that? Do those strong hands, so comfortable with weapons, also wield scissors?

Lawson pulls his shirt over his head, rolls it up into a ball, and extends it to his sibling. That one shoves it back. They push the bundle back and forth a few times before that one wraps arms around it and runs off in the direction of the Barracks. Lawson gives a subtle hand gesture, and a beanpole of a Real Dealer guy jogs after.

Lawson dusts his hands on his pants in a gesture I've come to recognize as nerves before looking my way. He checks me over, then finally meets my eyes. We stare at each other, and I sense he's trying to tell me something with his gaze.

"Thank you," I mouth.

His brow furrows, so we must be too far apart for lip-reading. He turns to Lin, waving his hands. Muscles shift under the suntanned skin of his bare back.

"Hey." Kylie touches my arm. "You're staring, hon."

"So?"

"Okay. It's okay." Dark circles shadow Kylie's eyes, and her usually tidy slacks and long-sleeved shirt have dirt ground into them. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye.

I raise an eyebrow.

"You really mean to pursue that, then?" She inclines her head toward Lawson. "It's not the Bee way."

I pivot on my crutch and speak low and fierce. "I just want to—just once. Is that too much to ask? Then I'll never do it again. I'll give him up. But I can't, without, without...if he still wants me after this."

"If he's still alive after this, you mean." Sam stands to my other side, resting on two crutches, injured ankle wrapped in several layers of old fabric. Sprained, or broken? No one dares look too closely; there's no way to make a cast.

"Shut up!" I snap.

Several Bees turned to stare in disapproval. No doubt, in their eyes, I'm the cause of this violence. I agree completely.

"Sorry," I tell Sam. "I can't stand this."

"This is not your fault, Aidan," Kylie says. "You were dissolving your karma. Lawson should not have intervened the way he did, spreading violence."

"What's wrong with you? They were killing me!" I pull up short, eyes widening. How much like him I sound.

Kylie stares at me until understanding dawns.

"Then it was my time," I say.

She touches my arm in approval and turns back to face front as an A and a Real Dealer step to the center of the street. The two anarchists are remarkably similar-looking—both tall, broad shouldered guys. The Real Dealer wears black overalls and a faded red t-shirt. The A wears blue denim and an almost white shirt with a red A painted on the front. The Real Dealer has his tattoos. Both boast heavy boots, worn at the toe to show steel. The Real Dealer clears his throat.

"There is a matter to be resolved between the Real Deal and the A." The Real Dealer's words carry.

"The Second Consensus was broken," the A says. "The Real Deal owes us a debt they must pay."

"Our tribesman comes of his own free will," continues the Real Deal speaker.

Lawson steps into the street between them, head held high.

"I will pay," he says, in that clear strong voice.

My stomach aches, like that last beating tore something in my gut, spilling fluids into my body cavity.

More As step into the street, forming a ring around Lawson. I count them. Ten. Too many. I promised myself I wouldn't move, but I step forward. Lawson gives me a frantic look and shakes his head.

"Hold back," the Real Deal speaker shouts.

Kylie grabs my hand, and the rest of the Bees close around me, forming a cage of limbs, and I realize the Real Dealer meant hold me back. He lifts a battered watch, fusses with it for a moment, and raises his arm.

"Three, two..." His arm drops. "Go."

11. BEATDOWN

Lawson—

I've fought multiple opponents before. I should be ready for the speed of the attack, to be struck over and over and from every direction. I'm not ready for the pain, for the shame of being hit by people who resent me, who want to see me suffer, instead of by friends.

This is nothing like sparring. This is for my life.

CAUTION. The word flashes in my brain.

The first time I saw caution tape I was young enough that Mama towered into the sky, overshadowing Dad, overshadowing everything. We walked past an old building that was undergoing major renovations. It was the weekend, no contractor or workers in sight. Just a whole playground of fresh plywood, flaking paint, and shadows.

Mama grasped my hand too tightly. Her whole fist wrapped around mine, holding me back from the neon tape that seemed made to duck under.

"Ow," I said.

She looked at me in surprise.

"Let him go, Sally." Dad got down in front of me, one hand braced flat on new cement, blue eyes level with mine. "It's not safe in there, Lawson. Do you understand me?"

I nodded.

"And do you still want to go in?"

I nodded again. Dad looked up at Mama. He had glasses, loafers, and an untucked button-down shirt, but Mama was military precision, muscles highlighted by her black sleeveless top. With Dad on his knees in front of her, he and I seemed of one perspective, two kids at the feet of a force of nature.

"You see?" he said. "Inquiring minds need to learn for themselves. Let him make mistakes while his messes are small enough that they won't get him killed. You're going to stunt his growth, make him too easily controlled—or a rebel without a cause. You're too protective."

Mama's grip tightened around my hand. "He's just a boy."

"And you're just a woman." Dad hopped to his feet and dusted his hands on his slacks. "But we never let that stop us."

I'm pretty sure Mama never let go of anything so fast as she let go of my hand right then.

I miss her now, while fists hit me like two-by-fours. Ten attackers means too many to keep track of. No time to line up and anticipate as kicks jackhammer in from behind. Adrenaline offers no help, only makes my heart flutter and my vision waver.

The pain from separate blows blends across time and space—a punch to the side melds with a boot to the shin; head strikes minutes apart bleed together. Flavors of agony overlap like countries with no clear borders. I've got a stinging split lip, throbbing jaw, headache.

I close my eyes, dizzied, and when I open them again the red anarchy symbols on the As dirty white t-shirts are crisp like when the sun comes out after a spring rain. My skin feels like one cohesive canvas, holding all sensations at once.

Amazing to realize some parts of my body don't hurt. My right thigh, my left bicep, both heels.

My field of vision widens. My muscles relax. I stop trying to anticipate and just move.

So this is the secret to how Lin fights. Just stop thinking. My body senses the blows coming before I do. I duck, spin, block. Each of my strikes lands with precision. The As are too slow, too disorganized, too incautious. For a blank space of time the phrase on top of the world makes sense.

Power thrums through my veins. My body, muscle and bone and sinew, is pure perfection. Then someone hits me. I miss one punch coming into my kidney and I go down, palm then cheek on the cement.

It's only one blow. It shouldn't matter. It almost doesn't.

A boot touches down on the side of my neck, just resting there, just hard enough to grind tiny pieces of gravel into my face, just enough pressure to let me know how easily my neck can break.

I've still got one foot planted for leverage, but I can't even squirm as another boot slides up my thigh and steel-toes my groin. My stomach clenches, and sweat breaks out under my arms. A whimper catches on my locked teeth.

Then they let me up. That's what does it. They all step back to give me breathing room, while understanding sinks razor-sharp claws into my belly. We aren't fighting for my life, after all. The As don't want my life. They want something a whole lot more precious.

They want my pride. And I'm already on one knee in front of them.

People have been shouting, cheering and jeering, but as the As pull back there's a collective intake of breath filled only by The Dance.

Boom—boom—boom.

My heart probably keeps that tempo, after all this time, probably will forever.

Aidan's voice, shrill and desperate as I've never heard it, screams the most unhelpful advice possible.

"Don't fight!"

Clear as if someone wired our brains together, I get the message. I'm on one knee now, but it's just starting. I'm going to be on both knees in a moment. Before too long, I'll be on the ground, face covered in blood and snot and tears that I'm powerless to prevent.

They're going to hurt me, and I'm not going to be able to stop them.

I'm going to be just like Aidan.

I must have thought they'd let me get all the way to my feet, because the next blow—a straight up punch in the nose—shocks my head backward and leaves me scrambling for balance instead of fighting back. Hot blood gushes into my mouth.

I have an image of myself, superimposed over this experience like two pictures that won't line up, of me fighting off all Aidan's attackers the other morning. The other morning when Aidan refused to fight back, and I...I just stood there. And Aidan almost died.

Unforgiving sunlight hits the concrete bones of the old world and the dirty faces of the lost children. A leering face snaps into focus. He was there.

My priorities shift. No matter what they do to me, they can't make me stop fighting. Or maybe they can. Maybe they can break me. Maybe they can even make me beg. Probably not in an hour.

Please, not in an hour.

But that guy? He's going down.

He's got russet skin and dust-dulled black hair and, for a moment, widening dark eyes as I lunge at him. I go for the collarbone, easy to break and slow to heal, and am rewarded with a snap. They yank me back, but not before he stumbles away, clutching his shoulder. My lips pull back from my teeth in a feral grin. At least one A retreats, in addition to the one I just injured.

Then they attack again, because they're As, and that's how they deal with insecurity.

They hit me harder this time, crowding closer, stepping on each other's feet. Now they've seen I can do damage, they're serious, less concerned with teaching me a lesson. It's time to get on with hurting me.

For a minute, I almost meet them, but I'm out of sync like a beginner dropped into the advanced class. One of my ankles turns over, stinging all the way to my hip joint. There's no choice but to transfer all my weight to the other foot. Dammit. Better to lose the use of an arm than a leg, but it's not like the guy in the middle gets a say. Just when I think I'm muddling through, someone calls, "Change!"

Like this is a sport's match or something. The As turn and walk off. All I can do is brace my hands on my knees and gasp for breath, grateful for the break, as ten new fighters step into place around me.

They crash through my weakening defenses. Fists batter at my midsection. The whole expanse of my stomach softens. Muscles seem hard but in the face of steel-toe boots aren't hard enough. My lower back—I should have been working out harder. I am constantly winded. My head pounds and spins. The insides of my thighs cramp up, all those sensitive places that make my stomach tense when caressed.

Someone finally kicks me in the groin, an explosion of red that folds me in and over. The pavement rushes toward my face like déjà vu—falling again, hasn't this already happened? Things are being done to my body that might never be put right.

The earth seems to quiver, but it's only me, caught in my own personal quake.

It's not like bedbugs or dirty hands, this violence. Pain is not a minor discomfort. No matter how much agony I'm already in, every new body part can still suffer, and then can be made to hurt even more.

There is no limit to pain. But there's a limit to how much pain you can take. That's not fair.

Aidan can take more than I can. That one's whole body is injured, almost broken. And yet each new bruise and cut only makes that one seem more indomitable. That is the paradox of Aidan.

Eyes and grins surround me. Rows and rows of teenagers, all skin colors and tribal marks and uniforms, every one of them watching, no one helping.

Ring around the bleeding guy. Kick him. Hit him. Make him cry.

Laughter rings out, a wash of noise that seems separate from the closed mouths and hollow eyes around me. I've lost track of where the strikes are coming from, which agonies are new and which old. Blood splashes the road and my feet. I should be worried. I stopped counting the hits to my head at seven. Too many. No sleeping tonight.

Knuckles strike my temple. The temple is a sweet spot; that's what Mama called it when she taught me to fight. What would Aidan think of that? But it's true, so tender the pain is almost sweet, spreading through my head like water.

I fall into a new territory inside myself where I am small and alone and at everyone's mercy. I land on my back with a view of upside-down sky. Someone should rush over and ask if I'm okay. Instead, boots crash into my sides, my stomach.

I can still see Aidan lying in the street that first night, not too far from here, jerking with the rhythm of an A's kicks. It wasn't the worst beating I'd happened upon in D-town, but my steps still stuttered.

Don't get distracted.

My fingers knotted as my feet dragged. Another kick landed.

Damn, damn, damn.

My nails pierced the skin of my palms. Don't interfere. I pulled back into the shadows, wiping my hands on my clothes. I turned my face and pressed my cheek against the rough wall. Wet sounds of impact blended with the beat from The Dance. I should have left, but I couldn't.

Thud. I cringed inside, steeling myself against the cry to follow.

No cry came.

The one on the ground wasn't making a sound. My pores prickled with alarm, pulse throbbing against the base of my throat. Was the Bee already dead? Unconscious didn't seem likely. The As liked to cause pain. Unconsciousness dulled suffering, so they tried to avoid knocking out their victims.

I strained for the rasp of a breath, the thud of a heartbeat. Boom-boom-boom went The Dance. I cat-stepped closer, risking exposure. But what would that matter, really? I might get a reputation for liking to watch, but the Real Deal didn't strictly forbid voyeurism. We didn't forbid much.

But at least we didn't beat people for fun.

I crept around the pair for a view of the in-between's face. I didn't know then that I'd see those bruises and cuts for weeks, every time I closed my eyes. The Bee's eyes didn't open, nor did they squeeze tighter. That one didn't even wince as the blows landed. The in-between looked so peaceful, like one asleep, or...

I have to do something. I gathered myself, ready to launch forward.

A light pink tongue slipped out to moisten dry lips, and I exhaled in relief. Alive. That one must have detached from the pain.

Another blow, and the crease in the forehead deepened, then smoothed out. More love on that bruised face with the swollen eye than I'd ever seen. My lungs burned. The back of my throat stung. I surged forward—

"Hey, Law! Was the little Bee worth it?"

At the shout from the crowd, the image shrinks like a punctured balloon. The As are just stamping and kicking now, smashing me into the ground. They have to keep me down, down, down. They want to crush me through the cement, make me feel like nothing. Because they're used to making the Bees feel like nothing, and I got in their way.

A vice grips my throat. Not humiliation, not yet. It's that soft look Aidan gets in the face of attackers. Aidan's automatic response to hurt is love.

It's the weirdest, most screwed up, most frustrating thing.

It's worth more than my pride.

I let my eyes fall shut—so tired—and reach again for the image of Aidan's compassionate face. That picture just won't reform. Instead my adopted sister stares back from behind my closed eyelids.

You promised! Tab accuses.

I'm on the edge of consciousness already, and it's the easiest thing to slip back into memory. Back in my early days in D-town, I needed a place to hide my supplies, so I snuck out every morning before dawn. I kept getting lost. I'd walk in circles in the rising light, trying to pinpoint the source of the techno beat that seemed to come from all directions.

One morning, my nose caught on a burned smell, and my feet itched to flee. So instead I followed it.

The scent led me to a burned out restaurant tucked away on a side-street just inside the Boundary. A restaurant was exactly what I needed. An old-world eating establishment meant an airtight, industrial-sized fridge. Inside, I fished my flashlight out of my pocket and swept the beam over destroyed tables and chairs, charred walls...a pale human face.

I swung the light back and, yup, there was someone there. A...an in-between. There in the dark I had my first experience of not being able to tell a boy from a girl. The face was round, with flattened features and too-young eyes.

I stared, and it stared back.

"Boo!" said the face.

It took a while, but I talked the ghost out into the light. She was just a girl, adolescent in body at least. And alive, if barely. Her name was Tabitha.

She had been surviving from the very same fridge in which I wanted to hide my supplies. She rationed the food, combined it with D-town scraps, and tricked any wanderers into thinking this restaurant was haunted. Or so she believed. Probably the truth was that no one wanted to bother with her.

I tempted her home with promises of nourishment and warmth. When we stepped into D-town proper, her fingers bit into mine with odd strength, nails digging in like claws, and she shook her head. I just draped an arm around her shoulders.

"You're okay," I said. "I'll always protect you."

Tab's grown so much since then, but those watery eyes haven't gotten any older. Whether due to genetics or trauma, Tab stopped maturing before we met. Tab's D-town age never changes, never will change.

I am all she has in the world, and I promised protection.

So I flip over and make it as far as my side. My knees draw up to shield my stomach, but I force them straight. I have to get up, because Tab is too young to understand broken promises.

I just have to keep on getting up.

12. SHELTER

Aidan—

Lawson fights. That makes it worse—watching him go from strong and swift to a retching, bleeding ball on the ground. At least when you start that way, nothing is lost. He won't stay down. He lies there, longer each time, then struggles up again. This time he makes it only as far as one knee. His fist moves out, wobbly, too slow, off target. His clenched fingers waver in the air. Then an A guy lands a kick to Lawson's stomach, and he falls forward onto his knuckles.

"How long?" My hoarse voice makes me realize I've been shouting for a while, the words I thought I'd held trapped in my mind. "Fighting only makes it worse!"

For me, this is an old lesson, what my godmother used to say when her husband got hold of me.

"Twenty-five minutes," Kylie says.

"To go?"

"So far."

It's only a difference of ten minutes. I don't know why it pushes me over the edge, but the next second I'm shoving free of my tribe. I don't punch or kick or smack anyone with my crutch, but I make too much use of that and my elbows to be strictly non-violent.

"What are you going to do?" Kylie pleads. "You can't fight them off."

I can lay my body over his, act as a buffer. I keep wriggling.

"If he saved your life, this is poor repayment," she says. "They'll kill you, Aidan. If not now, when they ask for retribution for this. You can't break consensus."

I waver.

For too long, because then Lin is there, her slender form filling the space in front of me. Bees scurry out of her way, and in a second she has my arm behind my back. My shoulder joint threatens to dislocate as she muscles me back through the crowd, away from my tribe.

"Stop it," I sob. "Don't you care?"

"Don't I care?" She shakes me. "He's enduring this for you."

"That's why I need to help him!"

"If you want to help, let him do this. We're not like you. He can handle this because he knows you're safe. He needs to be able to protect you. Don't take that from him, not right now."

"Why is the world like this?" I whisper, ceasing my struggle.

"I don't know."

She loosens her grip, and I maneuver for a view of the street. I can't stand watching, but I have to be Lawson's witness. I owe him that.

He's down again, his prone form visible in the gaps between the feet of the As. These are not the same ten that started, but a fresh wave. His fingers flutter, the only evidence that he's alive as they kick him. Blood fills my vision, coating Lawson's chin, running out of his nose, dripping across his chest, smearing on the As, spattering the street. Not all of it Lawson's, but most.

"How long?" I ask.

"About halfway."

"He's not going to make it. We have to do something."

"They respect Lawson. They won't kill him."

"Respected him before, you mean, before he protected me. The As hate Bees."

She frowns. I stare into her eyes and, after a long minute during which I wince at the smacking sounds coming from the center of the street, she nods and grabs my hand.

The crutch slows me down. Lin moves ahead, stretching my right arm between us, her fingers digging into mine as she pushes through the crowd. Any second now her shoving will draw attention. Lawson is out of sight, hidden by the mob. As Lin pulls me along, I get face-fulls of hair—multicolored spikes, dreadlocks threaded with concrete beads, windblown tresses. Tattooed scalps loom before me.

But we pass unnoticed to the left of the Bee huddle. Their collective attention rests on the commotion in the street. Right now their hearts will be filled with compassion, no more so for Lawson than for the As who beat him. I should feel the same, but I don't. My gaze pauses on Kylie and Sam. I shouldn't care more for my friends than I do about the rest of my tribe, either, but today I'm a poor excuse for a Bee.

I'm about to put us all in harms way for a militant atheist.

No, for a living being.

I hobble by, course set for Lawson. My body belongs sheltering his body. It seems I have always been under the fists and feet of the A, but today, for the first time, I will endure for a purpose. To protect the one I love.

The one. And to Naraka with loving everyone the same.

The crowd packs more closely nearer to the street, slowing Lin's advance, and I catch up. Real Dealers in red and black stand here and there. Some wait at ease, while others, Lawson's friends, I presume, visibly chafe at having to stay out of the fight. The beanpole guy who followed Lawson's sibling to the Barracks has returned and stands just ahead, shifting from foot to foot. We come even with him, and Lin extends her free hand to touch the back of his wrist. A moment later, I sense that he's fallen in behind us.

Lin reaches the front line of spectators. The beanpole guy's breath is hot on the top of my skull. Lin drops my hand, grabs the shoulders of the last two people in her way and shoves. The High Priestess and Priest of the Witches stumble aside, and Lin half falls through the sudden gap into the street with me at her back.

Together we step forward to start a gang war.

13. BULLET

No one seems to notice us.

The As continue to batter Lawson, taunting him when he moves or cries out. More As heckle from the sidelines. For half a breath I stand in the space Lin just vacated, while my arm loosens its hold on the crutch, preparing to toss it aside.

A bullet slams into the street in front of us, just beside the combatants, tearing up asphalt. My eyes close on reflex.

Finally.

Relief floods me like cool water on a sweltering day. For as long as it takes to blink, I know Lawson broke down and pulled his gun, and I'm glad, and I don't know what my gladness means about who I am becoming. Then my eyes open and, aside from the broken cement, the scene in the street hasn't changed. Lawson is still shielding his head with empty hands.

"Stop." The command reverberates over the crowd.

Everyone freezes, even the A with a foot drawn back ready to drive into Lawson's stomach. Because it's a grown-up voice, augmented by megaphone, and there are neither megaphones nor grownups in D-town.

We all turn to face the GeeGee guard stepping out of the shadows at the base of the Cross Bearer tribal house, to the left of The Dance. I recognize the guard from the Boundary, dressed all in black. She holds the megaphone in her left hand and an old-world gun in her right, the weapon trained on the A with a foot in the air. She also carries a sonic blaster slung over her shoulder, but blasters are no good in close quarters.

"Stop," she says again, not bothering with the megaphone this time.

The A holds up hands and slowly lowers the foot.

But Lawson uncurls and slides across the ground like a backward worm—ass scoot, feet to ass, repeat—away from the guard, toward the A. The guard strides after him.

"Don't move." It's not a command like earlier; she's holstering her gun.

The guard leans over Lawson, and he recoils, like I must have the night he first bent over me. She drops to a knee beside him and feels along his spine. She's talking to him, too softly to be heard from where I stand, and he shakes his head. He tries to push her away, and she bats his hand aside like his strength counts for nothing. That's the A's fault. On a good day, she'd be toast.

"Leave me alone," Lawson says louder. "This isn't your fight." He grits his teeth and tries to rise.

She does something—I think maybe just shove his shoulder and then catch him as he goes down—and the next moment he's on his back on the pavement, and she's patting him down. They converse some more, and whatever she says gets him to flip over onto his front. I hold my breath when her hands reach his waistband, but if there's a weapon hidden there, she doesn't advertise it.

Restless shifting ripples through the crowd, starting with the Real Dealers, but it's the Cross Bearer leader who steps forward.

"You have—" The Bishop clears his throat and when he speaks again his voice has lost the uncharacteristic squeak. "You have no authority here."

The guard's lips twitch, and the Bishop smoothes his shirt buttons.

"Stand down," he orders.

Another bullet hits the ground, at the Bishop's feet this time, and he jumps back with a squeal.

My head swivels as I take in the new threat. The first guard is not alone; they have us surrounded. The rest of the guards wear various shades of gray, perfect for blending with an urban landscape. Ninety percent of them are guys—men—and one hundred percent hold semi-automatic handguns, with blasters over their shoulders for backup. No machine guns. Small consolation.

"Get me a stretcher," the first guard says, drawing my gaze back to her and Lawson.

I must have missed something, because she's got him in handcuffs. He wriggles on the ground. The sight makes my vision narrow and my scalp burn. Hasn't he been through enough humiliation for the day?

Two of the men trot off.

"Captain," another man calls. "Our orders were to not interfere, Ma'am."

"It's on me," the woman at Lawson's side, the Captain, says. "I'm taking this boy to the hospital. He's just a kid, O'Leary."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Lin is no longer with me. I glance around and spot her a little ways off, with a group of Real Dealers. Tribes have been edging closer together, forming clusters. My stomach sinks. The division will make us look weak.

Kylie and Sam edge away from the other Bees, toward me. They stare at the ground, shoulders curled forward, seemingly harmless, which I suppose they are.

I coax my fingers into unclenching. Okay, okay, I need to help Lawson. Step one, stop panicking. Step two...no idea. Lawson is still struggling ineffectually with the Captain. My hands ball right back up.

"We thought you were going to do something stupid," Sam says, coming up beside me.

"I didn't." It's not clear whether Kylie didn't think I was going to take action, or whether she disagrees that action would have been stupid.

"We have to do something," I say. "We can't let them take him."

"He's not tribe," Sam snaps.

"So what?" I demand. "He's a living being, isn't he? I thought we stood for living beings."

Kylie sighs. "You're speaking from your lust."

"Oh, right. I just want to keep him here so we can bang!"

"Keep it down." Sam's eyes are wide. "They're looking."

Running footsteps echo, and then the two men jog back into view with an orange plastic stretcher between them. The contraption is obviously a carryover from the old world, not yet replaced with a "positive" color like green or pink. The two guards bring the stretcher and lay it beside Lawson, who now lies facedown in the street with the Captain's knee on his back. Some way to treat an injured person.

I look around for the Real Dealers. They have to be up to something, right? Maybe I can lend my aid.

Yeah, Aidan. You'll be a huge help. You can act as a decoy, and get shot... I will! If that's what it takes.

Most of the guards watch the large cluster of As in the street. I would too; the A seem like the biggest threat, especially since they were engaged in violence when the GeeGee arrived. So when a roar goes up from the As and they charge out in all directions, the guards close ranks, letting the kids at the fringe slip through.

The As crash through the clustered D-towners, shouting and pushing. Not doing anything but causing chaos as the other tribes either scramble out of the way or shove back. While the guards hesitate, exchanging confused glances, the Real Dealers rush in from behind.

Between them, the two anarchist tribes manage to knock down and disarm a handful of guards, and the street descends into chaos.

GeeGee orders must include not shooting us, because it's all hand-to-hand combat. Bees drop to squats, protecting their heads with their arms, all except for me. I duck through the bedlam, once more aiming for Lawson. The rest of the tribes switch into street fighting mode. Numbers are heavy on our side, and D-towners have been scrapping our whole lives, but the guards are professionally trained.

Warm, moist skin brushes my right hand, and I look down at the grubby fingers that wrap around my index finger. I tug to get away, but the grip tightens. I turn to meet the dark eyes of Lawson's odd sibling.

"You shouldn't be here," I say. "Lawson wanted you to be safe."

That one nods solemnly, but keeps holding on to my finger.

I'm battered, dependent on a crutch, and running out of time, but I can't leave Lawson's sibling in the middle of the brawl. I twine our fingers and tow that one along. We slip through untouched and break into the open space surrounding Lawson just as the Captain and the two men lift the stretcher with him strapped to it. The Captain supports the left shoulder, one of the men hoists the right, and the second man holds the foot of the stretcher. Lawson catches my eye, straining to lift his head, and gives me a wild look.

"Stop." It's amazing how steady my voice is. "You can't take him."

The Captain looks over her shoulder. The six of us almost seem alone, an island of stillness in the roiling battle. The GeeGee's guns are holstered, and their hands are full of stretcher; they can't shoot me. Lawson isn't light, so when I do something they'll have to drop him if they want to use their guns. Falling could injure him worse, but Lawson doesn't seem to mind taking chances. So I'll risk it, just as soon as I figure out what to do.

"I'm taking him," the Captain says. Then, like she cares about him, about me, she adds, "He'll be better off. Trust me."

I wet my mouth. "That's what the Cross Bearers say about heaven." My hands are trembling, so I stick them behind my back and fold them together.

"We're not going to kill him, I promise. Just get him the medical help that he needs."

"And then he can come back?"

"Sure."

Yeah, right. They start walking, taking That Guy away.

"Stop!" I scream.

Cold metal touches my hand, and my fingers close around Lawson's gun as his sibling shoves it into my grip. I whip it from behind me and point it at the Captain's back. My hands shake so hard I'm sure it'll slip out of them to the ground.

The GeeGee glance back at my shout.

"Easy now," one of the men says. "You know you won't hurt us."

"The Buddha forbids it." The Captain's gaze seems to see through me.

Down to my undisciplined, impassioned, poor-excuse-for-a-Bee soul.

My godfather introduced me to guns, and my hands remember. My thump finds the hammer, pulls it back. The GeeGee freeze for a second, but then the Captain nods, and they resume walking away. She's so sure she knows Bees. All I have to do now is shoot the ground. It'll be no different from tossing the grenade. But what if I miss?

Big hands surround mine, and a heavy finger covers mine on the trigger. A net of ice closes over my scalp as the finger squeezes.

Bang. The extra pair of hands absorbs some of the recoil.

Click goes the hammer, without my participation.

Bang. Like I'm the ghost of five-year-old Aidan, with my dead godfather's hands trapping mine against the gun.

The second bullet hits the guard supporting Lawson's right side. The guard's shoulder jerks, and his burden slips from his grip as he topples backward. The stretcher is falling, tossing Lawson onto his face. Beanpole guy—those are his big hands on mine—takes the gun as I pitch forward.

I grasp my knees, vomit burning up my throat to spew all over my new shoes. Then I droop there, heaving.

The shot guard doesn't die. Of course not. Bulletproof vests. He just fumbles for his gun with his free hand. Like a signal has been given, all the D-towners hit the ground, just as the GeeGee open fire.

14. RECKONING

The body count is in. 22 D-towners dead. Zero GeeGee. Four Bees. One Kylie.

Kylie's death shouldn't mean more than the other twenty-one, especially since I caused them all, but to me it does. It's because I'm human. That's what Kylie would have said.

The Ashram wall blurs in front of my face. I sit cross-legged, breathing in, breathing out, in ragged fashion. For as long as I can remember, there's been a crater in my chest where my parents used to be. Even though it wasn't always there, it colors everything, so when I look back on times before their death, the emptiness is in the memory.

The crater must be round, like all other things created by the GeeGee.

Kylie's death cuts across the old wound in a ragged tear. I feel like I'm spilling out to ooze down my stomach and pool in the bowl of my crossed legs. I'm supposed to be focusing on my breath.

But like Kylie's death meaning more, like threatening the guard with the gun—threats with a gun are not non-violent, whether you plan to pull the trigger or not—the fact that I can't focus on my breath is just one more bit of proof that I'm a poor Bee. I allow my emotions to control me. I surrender to what's expedient over what's right. I can't maintain stillness for any length of time. My desires are too strong. They eat me up from the inside, chewing their way free to wreak havoc in the world with me as their servant.

I might find peace with this, find my right place in the world, except if I don't belong with the Bees, there is no place for me. I can't fight; I won't. I believe in non-violence. More so today than ever.

But in the oppressive loneliness of grief, it's not the close companionship of my fellow Bees that I want, curled together like a pile of puppies. I miss being with Lawson. I wish to fall asleep on his...whatever Real Dealers sleep on. Bedrolls, probably, no matter how tough they seem. I ache to have him spooned around my back, his heat soaking into me. And I need more.

My breath gets my attention, coming faster, and Kylie should be here to tell me to stay still or to say I'm only human and make it okay for me to go to him.

Kylie's gone. Sam won't speak to me. The hard, cold floor is making my butt ache.

I drop into my body and breathe, and breathe, into all the little hurts. Beside the grief digging out my middle, all other pains are small.

"Aidan? Aidan!"

I straighten my spine and wipe drool off my chin. I long ago learned to fall asleep in slumped lotus position. Not a good quality in a Bee. Knowing how to stay awake would be better.

"Huh?" I wipe my hand on the knee of my jeans.

"Aidan, when did you eat last?" Lama Karen crouches beside me.

"I don know." I'm still half asleep. "Whatsit matter? Fastin's a long history for Bee—Buddhists."

"Yeah, well, so's eating." Karen grabs my hurt arm—not very non-violent, or maybe the Lama doesn't know the extent of my injuries—and drags me out of the meditation area.

I stumble along, blinking in the entryway's bright light. It was barely dusk when I went back there, right after Karen told me about the upcoming vote to decide if I am still a Bee. I don't get a say; Sam gets ten. How long have I been meditating? I must ask the question aloud, because Karen answers.

"Almost two days."

"Slept some," I mutter.

"Of course you did! Eat this." Karen shoves a hot bowl of soup into my shivering hands. "Slowly, slowly." The Lama grabs the bowl and pulls it back when I start to gulp.

I groan. Karen rubs my back and croons while I swallow tiny sips of salty liquid.

"Where'd you get miso?" I whisper. My jaw trembles like my teeth want to chatter.

"Donation."

Sip, swallow. Sip, swallow. Sip.

"From the Real Deal," Karen adds.

Pause. Swallow. Sip. Swallow. I hand the empty bowl to the Lama. "More."

"In a minute...He's outside. The Real Dealer guy. I promised to tell you."

I crawl toward the bedrolls. Karen helps me unroll one—mine, not mine, I don't care—and pulls back the top layer for me to slip under.

"What do you want me to tell him?" Karen asks.

My heart wrings itself out. "Tell him to go away and never come back and...thank him for the soup."

"Can I tell him why?"

I shake my head, pressing my face into blankets that smell of Kylie. "He knows why."

Karen's bare feet scuff the floor then pause. My shoulder muscles tense. Another scuff.

Just go, already!

I inhale, let go of the thought. Exhale. My shoulder muscles unknot as I breathe. I extend beyond my skin and click into place, like I have serrated edges that match, puzzle-perfect, with the edges of everything else. My breaths deepen into a tide that flows in and out of wide-open lungs. My eyeballs feel too big for their sockets, and the pain of grief peaks and valleys like waves of fire. My last day as a Bee, and I'm finally meditating properly.

The vote must not be complete, yet, but there's only one way it can go. Inhale. Exhale. I release all thought.

Fabric rustles as someone sits beside me. Breaths sync with mine; that's how I know it's Sam. My eyes shoot open, but words hover out of reach. My breathing changes, though, and that's enough for Sam.

"Sorry to disturb you," Sam says. "The vote's over."

I wait.

"We voted to keep you."

I thought I was free from tension, but the rest dissolves now, flowing out on a long breath. Then confusion twists my stomach.

"But...why?" I turn my head.

Sam faces straight ahead. "We—they forgive you your humanity. It's—" The words stumble again, and Sam's voice thickens. "—what Kylie would have wanted. I voted for you, all ten of my votes. No one thinks you would have pulled the trigger. We agree you were just trying to protect the Real Dealer, like he protected you."

"But—"

Sam interrupts. "It wasn't the right way. But an alliance with the Real Deal, lots of us think that's a good idea. I don't, but many do. Your staying, it's not unconditional. I voted for the condition. I'm sorry but I feel like it's best, you know, for you."

"Spit it out, Sam."

"Lama Karen, she says you told the Real Dealer to go away?"

I nod. "They're not going to make me negotiate with him for this new alliance, are they? Because I really don't think—"

Sam exhales. "Okay good, so Karen, the Lama, was right then. No, don't worry. You just can't be with him. I mean, you can talk to him at Council of course, or in The Dance, to be polite if you have to, but nothing can happen. You can't even be friends." Sam gulps a breath. "I'm sorry, but we really don't think you have enough self-control."

"I don't."

"He's been sitting outside the Ashram, but Karen told him, and he went away."

My chin jerks up. "He's been sitting out there all this time?"

Sam's eyes widen, and that one looks away. "I think he slept out there. Let it go, okay. I don't want to lose you too."

Even though you don't forgive me.

Council gathers. D-towners crowd The Dance, but for some reason—probably because I'm to blame for the recent deaths—I have a place at the table. Not as speaker for the Bees. Instead I'm just...there. I'm staring at my folded hands when someone pulls out the seat beside me.

I glance up and meet Lawson's hazel eyes. He pauses, one arm wrapped around his ribs, the other hand on the back of the chair for support. His half-smile falters, then drops as he searches my face. I clench my jaw and look away.

He sits down and leans closer. "What's going on?"

Tanner, today's speaker for the Bees, sits by my other side. He seems to understand my desperate look and we change seats.

"Aidan—sorry, man," Lawson says to Tanner, but leans across him anyway. "Aidan, I need to talk to you."

I shake my head, refusing to look at him.

"Coward," Lawson whispers.

Tanner bumps my shoulder—a show of support or a warning?—and whispers to Lawson, "Aidan was allowed to stay in the Bees on the condition of breaking up with you. Please understand, Aidan volunteered to do this."

A chair scrapes back, feet clomp around the table, and Lawson settles gingerly into the spot right across from me. He rests against the back of the chair and crosses his arms. I become very acquainted with the scuffed texture of the sign-turned-tabletop, but his gaze calls to me. I bite down on my lip and find something else to look at.

Today's facilitator is a Logic. He wears eyeglasses too small for his face; they're probably the pair he came to D-town with as a child. His dark hair is hacked off and sticks up in messy clumps, but the Logic, of all the tribes, cannot be judged by appearance.

"Tara will present the evidence we gathered," he says.

The Logic leader shakes out her coal-colored dreadlocks and looks down at her notes.

"The GeeGee appeared to be under orders not to interfere with us and not to use force unless attacked," she says. "That's where we went wrong. It's possible that if we had let them take Real Dealer Lawson peaceably, they would have left the rest of us alone. However, guards were stationed at the Boundary concurrent with the installation of the Demolition sign. They clearly infiltrated D-town itself sometime after that. The A and the Real Deal searched The Dance before Council, so it is unlikely there are any guards in here now, but it is a possibility we must bear in mind. What is more likely is that they have planted listening and video devices to monitor our activities. We must consider that these devices have been in place for a long time, possibly since the beginning.

"We believe that the GeeGee is ready to make its move against D-town. We believe that this move was coming regardless, but that this week's shooting moved up the timetable. We believe they mean to kill us or absorb us into their society. We agree that both alternatives are unacceptable. We support stopping them by any means necessary." Tara steeples her hands and sighs. "But we also agree that this is stupid. The odds are against us, and logic suggests we should come up with a plan for acceptable surrender. The Logic is prepared to draft such a plan for Council approval if the other tribes move not to fight."

A hush falls over the table.

Then the speaker for the A leaps to his feet and opens his mouth. His face grows redder by the moment, but he catches himself in time to frown at the facilitator, who waves a hand in permission.

"Odds aren't the only thing that matter," the A exclaims. "This is our city, the only place we have left. Let's show them they can have it over our dead bodies!"

"That's exactly how it will happen," Tanner mutters. He flicks his fingers, asking for the floor.

But Lawson already has the speaker's attention. Lawson rises laboriously, and the A nods and sits back down. "The Real Deal concurs with both the Logic and the A. We must fight whether we can win or not. Honor demands it."

Smooth, how he did that. Making it seem like the Logic and the A said the same thing when they didn't. Hopefully Tanner noticed.

"The Real Deal is unanimous in favor of fighting back," Lawson continues. "We have already supplied both our tribe and the A with weapons."

A murmur rises in the room.

Lawson ignores it. "There aren't many, but they'll help some."

"What kind of weapons?" the facilitator asks.

Lawson frowns, obviously not wanting to answer. "Guns."

"Do you yield the floor?"

Lawson sits carefully and, at another nod from the facilitator, Tanner rises.

"The Bees oppose violence, even in defense of D-town. We believe violence begets violence. See what happened here." He gestures between Lawson and me.

Muttering grows louder, and the facilitator makes a shushing motion.

"That Bee blew up the rest of the weapons," someone hollers from the gathered crowd.

"The speaker for the Bees has the floor," the facilitator says. "Hold your peace."

"We believe we should occupy The Dance," Tanner says. "Chain or tie ourselves together and refuse to move, no matter what."

Yeah, but I blew up the chains.

"And when they shoot at us?" someone calls.

"We haven't voted on it, but I think putting together a surrender plan is a good backup. Maybe we can get D-town to be declared its own city, kind of like the old Native American reservations."

A Love Child waves her hand, but speaks before being called on. "Those treaties were a joke."

The A speaker shoots to his feet at the same time and roars, "Never plan for surrender!"

"Our own city," the facilitator scoffs. "You fools can't even handle Council." He stomps away from the table in frustration.

At that point, the Witch and Cross Bearer speakers start shouting at one another, arguing about "An ye harm none" and "Turn the other cheek" and why they don't apply. They seem to agree but, since they're Witches and Cross Bearers, it turns into an argument anyway. Clamor rises as chaos takes over, and the crowd absorbs the rest of the tribal speakers.

I duck outside for some air.

15. END

I glance around for As, but I'm alone. Or at least, that's the illusion. If there are guards, I don't see them. I take a few steps to the right and lean against the wall. The door of The Dance opens, closes, and someone stomps toward me. Without looking, I know it's him.

That Guy.

Life would be better for everyone if I never learned his name. Kylie would still be alive. Lawson settles next to me, not touching but near enough that his warmth creeps into me. Too close; not close enough.

"Don't make this harder," I say.

"You've made it hard enough, don't you think?" He shifts beside me. "Why would you agree to that? Why can't you fight for what you want?"

"Who says I want you?"

He takes my wrist between two fingers, like he knows how much I've been manhandled and doesn't want to add to it.

"Tell me you don't." The sentence starts as an order, ends in a plea.

"You bring out the worst in me," I say.

He deserves to have me look him in the eye; I do. He's already facing me, leaning against the wall, closer than I thought.

"Who says it's the worst?" He draws a finger down my face starting where the peak of my hair would be, trailing over my nose, so slowly over my lips.

I'm hardly breathing. My heart slams against my ribs.

He taps my chin. "Maybe it's the best."

"I got Kylie killed."

"That wasn't your fault!"

I stumble back at the outburst, and he scrubs his hands on his pants, almost violently. When he's angry everything he does seems violent.

"The victim's not to blame," he says in a more moderate tone. "That's pretending you have control of things you don't."

"This is who I am. You don't accept that. You never have. I don't think you can, and that's okay. You don't have to." I ball up my hands and squeeze until my nails dig into my palms. "But you do have to leave me alone. This is what I want. Please respect it, okay?"

"You don't have to choose between me and being a Bee. You should never have let them leave you with that choice."

"I do have to choose. You just don't get it. It's not only about being allowed in the tribe. It's about what it means to be a Bee. Bees are celibate."

Silence, and then, "But I want you. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"It means a lot."

Just not enough. The thought hangs between us.

"Aidan, please."

His chest is right there, hitch-hitch-hitching with his breaths. When did we close the distance between us? My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, playing with the top one, slipping it out, then buttoning it again. My fingers don't have my permission to do that.

"Stop that." Lawson's hands close over mine.

"Sorry."

"I didn't actually want you to stop."

"I know, but that's what I—"

"Well, isn't this touching?" The round-faced A guy who beat me the night I met Lawson—the first time Lawson saved me—stands a few feet away.

I didn't hear the door open, but then I was a little distracted. Who knows how long the A's been standing there, listening. The idea turns my stomach. Lawson's hands fall away from mine, and he pushes from the wall, dropping his arms to his side in an easy pose we all know is a lie; he's not in fighting shape. The A smirks.

"Your little romance has cost D-town enough, don't you think?" He's talking to Lawson, not to me.

As don't talk to Bees like we're real people.

Lawson could tell the A it's over between him and me, avoid a fight, but of course he doesn't. If I say it, Lawson will lose face, so I hold my peace and try to loosen the contracted muscles in my stomach. The layered bruises on Lawson's face and arms don't help me relax.

Lawson motions for me to precede him back toward the door of The Dance, and I force myself to walk right by the A instead of swinging wide to stay out of his reach. The A lunges when I come even with him, and I flinch.

He laughs. "Just joshing."

I keep moving, unable to stop my steps from speeding up, my heart pounding with adrenaline as I reach for the door and yank it open. Once secure in the doorway, I turn back.

Lawson is just passing the A. "Touch that one, and I'll kill you in your sleep," he says.

Despite Lawson's injuries, the A backpedals into the street.

Lawson looks my way, and my grateful smile drops the moment I realize it's there. Hopefully my parting look conveys, See what I mean? You really do bring out the worst in me. I retreat deeper into The Dance, looking for Sam.

When I give up on not turning around, Lawson is gone.

The night advances, and post-Council arguments give way to dancing. Hundreds of bodies pack into The Dance, undulating like one being, while I lean against the bar. I search for Lawson among the dancers, especially those moving in pairs up against the back wall, steeling myself against the possibility of seeing him with someone else, but he doesn't return. The sun moves around the backside of the earth, and a sick feeling grows in my stomach.

"I think there's something wrong," I finally blurt.

Sam looks at me from under heavy eyelids. "With him, you mean? Let it go, Aidan."

"I'm going for a walk."

Sam catches my arm. "Are you crazy?"

I yank away. "I'm going for a bloody walk, Sam. What use is freedom if you can't even walk at night?" I stomp off.

"Sorry," Sam calls after me. Meaning, Sorry, but I'm not coming. I don't have a death wish.

Well neither do I, but I can't keep still. I wind through the crowd, looking for Lin or beanpole guy or anyone who can tell me Lawson is safe. I just need to know he's okay. That has to be okay with the Bees, right, especially since I don't even have to talk to him? I'm a Bee, and I say it's fine. Which is a good thing, because even if it weren't, I'd keep going.

Luck is on my side for once. Lin passes me a moment later, going the opposite direction, with a Witch femme hanging all over her.

"Lin," I call, trying to ignore the fondling that's going on.

"Aidan." She shoves my shoulder, obviously her idea of friendliness.

I try not to wince when she hits a bruise.

"I thought you had to stay away from us bad influences." She grins, her teeth flashing white in the dim space.

"Um, no, not all of you. Just Lawson."

"That's all, eh? Okay, so what do you want?"

"I'm looking for Lawson."

She raises a brow.

"I mean, have you seen him? It's dumb, but I have this bad feeling."

"I haven't seen him since he followed you out of Council."

"Yeah, me either and I...I said...we talked..."

"And he left unhappy?" she supplies.

I nod.

"And he's reckless when he's unhappy."

I nod again.

Lin sighs and drops a kiss on the Witch's cheek. "I'll make this up to you, babe," she promises, then to me, "Come on. Let's go get him."

Which is how I find myself walking out of The Dance arm-in-arm with a Real Dealer. There's a cluster of Bees by the door, and they all turn to watch Lin and me leave.

"Not what you think," I say as I pass.

We stumble into the night—Lin is stumbling, bumping me. I wrote off the flushed skin and expanded pupils to the fondling, but...Oh, bother.

"You're a rebel." She giggles.

"And you're drunk."

She pats my cheek. "Don't worry. I can still fight. I won't even need this." She raises her shirt a bit to show the butt of a gun sticking out of the top of the leather miniskirt she's got on over skinny jeans.

Involving Lin is starting to look like a really bad idea when we come around the side of The Dance, and a ragged moan shivers through the air. My eyes widen—usually trysts keep to the inside of the building—and my gaze drops from the couple making out against the wall, giving them privacy, but not before the image imprints itself on the back of my eyelids. A guy with his back to us, pressed up against a femme who's against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist. My quick glance in the dark is not enough to tell tribe, just that he's kissing her neck or her ear.

But Lin doesn't move. "Lawson?"

I look again, just as he turns his head. Our eyes meet, and for a second I stand rooted in place as my stomach tries to fall out of me.

"Ai," Lawson says.

My nickname, spoken in his voice, cuts through the shock. I whirl and stride back the way I came. Okay, so maybe I jog. It's all I can do not to run. My injuries don't even twinge. Of all the ugly human emotions, jealousy is worst, like claws rending me from the inside out.

You told him to move on.

Why, why, why did I do that? I can't bear this. I can't. I—

You know, he might be doing this anyway.

My steps falter, then speed faster. It's true, and I feel even sicker. Just since we met, I've seen him with several people. There's nothing to suggest that he's monogamous. This should make me feel better, but it has the opposite effect.

I've never seen him with a femme before, though. That doesn't mean he's never been with one, but—

Running steps behind me.

No, no, no.

An arm around my waist. Let it be an A. Punch me in the face, anything but this.

"I didn't do that to get to you. I didn't mean for you to see it," Lawson says, pulling me to a stop.

So that's why they were outside. He's fever-hot against my back. I can't quite make myself pull away.

"I just wanted you to know that," he says, retreating when I don't speak, cool night air replacing heat. "I'm not trying to manipulate you."

Somehow, I manage to move my head, to nod. "N-no, this is best. This is what I w-wanted."

"Okay, then." A pause, then his steps crunch away down the alley. He stops and calls back to me, "You're, um, you're still...celibate, right?"

I nod again.

"Good, cause, I think...right. I really don't think..." He's moving closer again. "If it were you, I think I might kill—not literally. Forgot who I'm talking to. Jeeze. Them, not you, but not literally."

From the tremor in his voice, I think maybe he does mean it literally. Therein lies the ugliness of jealousy. So why do my insides suddenly feel all cozy and fizzy?

"I don't mean that," he says, right behind me now. "You should do what you want. I'm not threatening you. That's not what I'm trying to do."

I turn to face him. "I know, thanks, but yes, I am celibate. I don't think I could, anyway, with anybody else—"

His lips on mine cut me off.

There's no gentleness to this kiss. His mouth threatens to tear open my split lip, while his callused fingertips map my cheeks, forehead, chin, raising goosebumps on my skin. He backs me up against one of the brick walls lining the alley, and I grasp his belt loops to keep my hands from wandering to his face. I don't want to press against the bruises there, even though I sense he wouldn't mind, might not even notice.

"I tried," he gasps against my cheek, when we have to break apart for air. "I tried, but I couldn't either." His mouth finds mine again.

I stop him with a hand on his chest. "Seems like you were doing just fine to me."

He collapses against the wall beside me, breaths ragged. "Just going through the motions."

"I can't, right after—" I gesture back the way we came. "—I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." His mouth twists. "I'm really going to kick myself for that if this is the last chance I ever get to touch you."

"Well, if it hadn't been for that, the kiss wouldn't have even happened, so be grateful instead."

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "I notice you didn't say it won't be my last chance."

My ribs contract, and that's almost enough to have me all over him again, but I can't erase the image of the femme grinding up on him. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, only realizing what I've done when Lawson folds his arms over his sternum and asks, "Can I walk you back?"

"Better not." I grimace. "I can't be seen with you."

"I'm not worth it?"

"It's not that. It's...I have nowhere else to go."

We walk side-by-side. After a bit he says, "You could be one of us, you know."

"Come on, be serious. Can you see me as a Real Dealer?"

"I can see you loving one."

I do, I did.

"I can't," I say.

16. DEAL

Lawson—

The door to The Dance falls shut behind Aidan. Sound can't possibly carry to where I stand at the end of the street, but that thud still echoes in my cells. One last resounding slam. The constant throbbing bass barely registers. I'm alone, and isolation feels like emptiness feels like silence.

Silence, it turns out, hurts like shit. Stings worse than the bruises and aches left over from my fight with the A. Worse than the blows themselves. Worse than the shame of getting beat down, unable to fight off my attackers.

The only thing more unendurable was Aidan giving way to fists and boots, while I just stood there. But at least that night I had something to punch.

Now my skin seems to peel away in the night air. Breeze hits with the shock of ice or fire. Clothes offer no protection. There's no one to fight, no way to make it stop.

I've lost Aidan.

My vision turns grainy. I reach out, needing walls to hold me up. Pockmarked brick abrades my palm as I stumble down the uneven sidewalk. My feet take me home.

I pass blindly through the main hall of the Barracks. My knees and abdomen twinge as I run upstairs; parting gifts from the A, reminders of what Aidan suffers every single day. I press my bruised knuckles against the smooth marble wall. I would have given anything, absolutely everything, to take all that pain and make it mine instead.

In our tiny room, Tab sits on a sleeping bag, eating a handful of puffed rice by lantern light. She's put on weight since I found her. She's taller than Lin now and fills out one of my old t-shirts, but jeans never seem to fit right on her pear-shaped body. Her ankles show between sneakers and frayed pant legs. She's poking at a second red t-shirt with a threaded needle.

I force words past the tightness in my throat. "I thought you were sleeping."

"Nope. Xavier taught me to sew," Tab announces. Beads of blood form on her— No, that one's. Get it right. Crimson pinpricks stand out on that one's fingertips.

"I can see that. What are you making?" I ask.

"A death shirt."

Sight sharpens. The sheen of the sleeping bags. The gloss of Tab's black hair. The needle. "A what?"

"A death shirt. It's for you, to let Death know it's not your turn."

"Oh, honey." I sink onto my sleeping bag and reach for the puffed rice to have something to do with my hands. "Is this because of what happened in the square? The A weren't trying to kill me. It was just..." I crush kernels to powder between my fingers. Words, which usually come so easily, suddenly have no meaning. "Sometimes there just aren't any good options, honey, and you have to choose. I made a choice to protect Aidan, just like I look after you. I knew what the price was going to be, but I didn't mind because I could live with the temporary pain of getting beat up, but I couldn't live with—" I swallow and still can't say it. Bloody shit. "I'll never let anything bad happen to either of you, okay?"

But that's not enough. I need to be able to promise that I'll never let anything happen to me, and I can't. Not anymore.

"Okay." Tab fiddles with the shirt, bottom lip quivering.

Obviously I mangled that explanation. I dust the crumbs into the puffed rice bag and reach out. I wrap a hand around the back of Tab's neck and pull that one closer for a hug. Tab falls against my side, warm and heavy as the promise of failure.

Another person leaning on me.

I have to pull myself together; it's clear what I must do. My hands tremble at the thought. I've fought the urge for so long, haven't even wanted to consider it, but I have a responsibility. I need to be at my best, for Tab and Aidan and all the rest. So I tuck Tab in and then head out for a run.

I jog out to the Boundary, then sprint back through the abandoned streets on the outer edge of D-town. Each time I stop to do pushups I look around, checking—always checking—for nonexistent pursuers.

Outside the building where I found Tab, I fill my lungs with relatively clean air. Then I crawl through the busted window into what's left of the restaurant. Night bugs skitter and crunch underfoot as I cross the pitch-dark dining room. In the kitchen, dizziness forces me to inhale. Dust clogs my nostrils, making me sneeze.

Soot coats the charred metal handle and sticks to my fingers when I open the door of the walk-in fridge. I stand back to avoid that first blast of stench. Tab long ago ate the last of the rotten old-world food, but the air in the fridge remains stagnant. My empty stomach shifts restlessly as I prop open the door. I run my fingers along the floor until I find my flashlight. Click. The beam slides over my neatly stacked supplies.

Threadbare clothes and patched-up backpacks. Superfoods. Ammo, grenades, guns, bombs. If Aidan knew...

I stride into the fridge, stepping carefully to avoid the corpses of roaches that must have snuck in last time I opened the door. Stupid insects. Why didn't they realize they'd suffocate?

I grab a protein bar and force myself to chew and swallow. Aidan never has to know. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe that one can remember me well at the end.

My hands twitch toward the ammunition, but I force myself to unwrap a second protein bar and stash it in my pocket for Tab. I hide both wrappers in my airtight trash container, and only then do I let myself reach for the stacked boxes of ammo. I shift them aside. My hands shake as I tear open the lid to the last box.

Then I'm staring dry mouthed at the little drawstring bag inside. Stacked bullets peek from underneath the hemp sack. That seems fitting. It's tantamount to treason to have this bag in D-town. Even the Real Deal wouldn't condone it. Perhaps especially the Real Deal.

I lift the pouch and rub the fabric between my fingers. I touch each of the small cloth-covered objects inside the bag. One-two-three. One for me, one for Tab, one for...

I swallow. It's been over a year since I touched this bag. Dependence—on anything—is a handicap I can't afford.

Just this once.

I tear at the drawstring, broken nails catching on the coarse fibers. I lift one earbud and weigh it in my open palm. The circular logo on the dial catches the glow from the flashlight.

GG

I set aside the pouch. My fingers clench, but I slacken my grip before I crush the tiny miracle of technology. With a twist of this dial, I can feel anything I want. I can be happy, like before I met Aidan. The flashlight beam jerks as I tremble, illuminating my fist like a strobe. The tattoos on the backs of my fingers spell out an order.

DEAL

I jam my knuckles against my teeth and taste dirt. I bow my head, shoulders curling, muscles tensing as sobs tear from my throat.

There, in the fetid air, I heave and gasp and choke for an embarrassing length of time.

When it's over, I look down at the earbud and jerk in horror, fingers closing, hiding the GG technology.

Not today.

I can't afford to lose my edge, the aura of violence that draws D-towners like flies to honey. Tab and Lin—and Aidan, even if that one doesn't know it—need me to be dangerous. Real Dealer Lawson. D-town Lawson. Violent Lawson.

I drop the earbud back into the pouch and, after a second, slide the whole thing into my pocket. Just in case.

I return to the Barracks to find Lin and Dart sparring in the dimly-lit common area. I pause in the doorway, holding open the beaded curtain. The scene is so normal that the ache in my chest eases slightly. It might just be heartbreak, the kind of thing people survive every day.

The Barracks used to be a bank. Now snores echo in the vaulted space. Here and there, adopted siblings whisper around a stove, but most bedrolls lie empty. The Dance is the place to be this time of night, especially for couples.

My hands flex. Don't think of Aidan.

Lin is in the middle of a spinning kick. She's a tad drunk, but so is her opponent. She lands a glancing blow to Dart's hip. Tall and skinny, he sways like a tree in high winds, dancing backward to keep his balance. Then he shifts weight to his back foot and flows into a perfect roundhouse.

"Lawson," Lin calls out, ducking.

There's a flurry of blows that ends with Dart on his back and Lin standing over him. She doesn't like to talk about her past—who does?—but word gets around. Lin's father was some kind of martial arts master. She learned to fight while learning to walk. She must have walked early, because he died when she was four.

She brawls with the kind of messy instinct I could only wish for. Dart, on the other hand, fights like he learned from a textbook. We three are some of the top fighters in D-town.

Xavier, leaning against the wall, ripped chest and arms bare under black denim overalls, is better than any of us. If Real Dealers were pack animals like the A, he would be our leader—and I like to think I'd be second-in-command. Apparently Xavier's been waiting for a turn to spar, because he grins as Dart climbs to his feet.

Dart moves to dust off his pants, checks himself, and gives Lin a mock bow instead. She blows him a kiss, then beckons to Xavier.

I wind my way through the camps to join Dart on the outskirts of the sparring area. Bedding and camp kitchens have been pushed aside with no regard for who owns what. It doesn't matter; Real Dealers never forget what belongs to us. I find Lin's rain bucket and pour some water into a rusted can. Dart is watching from the corner of his eye, so I force something like a smile, lips pulling back from my teeth, and he looks back to the combatants.

"Hey, Xavier," I call. "Thanks for the Death Shirt."

"Huh?" His gaze flicks away from Lin for just an instant and then back. "What are the stakes?" he asks her as they square off.

I plop down on the scrunched sleeping bag, holding the can.

Lin rolls her shoulders. She's got a short skirt over her denim leggings, and it's hitched up to give her legs room to move. The leather doesn't cover much. "I thought we were fighting for your pride."

Xavier says, "If I win I get to kiss you."

Lin's expression doesn't change. "Sure, but if I win I get to cut off your balls." She pauses. "Care to change the stakes?"

It says something for the value we place on agreements in D-town that Xavier answers in a faint voice. "Uhh...we fight for an item of choice from each other's supplies, as usual?"

Lin nods and raises her fists, then grins slowly. "You know, if you'd have taken that bet, I would've let you do a lot more than kiss me. Any guy willing to take a risk like that deserves to put his balls to good use."

Xavier chokes, then chokes again when she kicks him in the crotch. I wince in sympathy even while giving a toast with my full can. Tab chooses that moment to settle onto the sleeping bag next to me, clutching the red t-shirt.

"But why does Xavier mind if Lin plays with his balls?" Tab asks.

I'd taken a gulp from my water can, so it's my turn to choke. Bloody acid rain. I double over coughing, which gives me an extra minute to come up with a really good reply.

I manage, "I thought you were sleeping."

"Nope. I finished your shirt."

"Oh...thank you." I accept the balled up t-shirt, and it unrolls onto my lap. My fingers clutch at the fabric. My throat convulses, like swallowing a mouthful of cut glass.

Tab has stitched, in black thread, a perfect replica of Aidan's tattoo.

17. HOOKED

Aidan—

D-town is rapidly becoming short for Demolition-town. A circular sign, new this morning, glimmers in the filtered sunlight below the entry to the Ashram as if to say, You have one attachment left, Aidan, and we're here to take it from you. My throat convulses, trying to swallow the lump that's been there since the night I ended things with Lawson. No sooner did I cut him out of my life because I need to belong somewhere than this shows up. It's not just the DEMOLITION sign, either. Next to it, the GeeGee have installed a rubber rack with propaganda pamphlets. I grab the whole stack and just stand there, choking on irony, until I realize if I don't call out no one will know I'm back from my mission.

After Lawson's threat to kill the round-faced guy in his sleep, I expected some sort of backlash from the As, but they've left me alone. They're still harassing the rest of my tribe though, so Karen's been giving me the recon jobs, while the rest of the Bees keep mostly to the Ashram.

Once inside, I hand the recycled papers to Karen.

"The GeeGee's back." I force the words through my tight throat, directing them to the room at large.

Conversations hush as I report what I saw—a guard on every corner, decked out with weapons, and next to the guard a GeeGee teenager dressed in flowing bamboo clothing, a handful of pamphlets at the ready. Sonic earbuds peeking out of kempt hair make obvious how the kids are keeping it together in range of The Dance, cut off from the pulses that govern their emotional lives.

"How are the other tribes reacting?" Karen asks.

"Just like you'd think." When the Lama keeps looking at me, I force out more words—As and Real Dealers ripping up the pamphlets, Logic debating with the GeeGee teens, Love Childs inviting the invading kids to hang out...

The whole time I speak, no matter how I plant my feet, my weight keeps shifting forward, in the direction of the Barracks, like there's a metal hook in my chest, tugging just hard enough to make a point. It has the power to rip out my heart.

Karen turns the pamphlet over and over without reading it, then stands to pass the stack around. That one's eyes, shadowed with dark circles, meet mine.

"Read and meditate," the Lama says, once everyone has a copy. "You each need to make your own decision. A week from today, I'll meet with those who decide to stay in D-town."

The sun sinks in washes of pollution-vivid magenta, tangerine, and lilac. My unread pamphlet crinkles in my grip as I stand on the roof where I come to think. Leftovers of the old world litter the asbestos, things that will never decompose—a juice box, the rubber sole of a shoe. The bent pamphlet quivers against my thigh from the tremor running through me. What if I'm too weak? What if the propaganda gets to me and I leave D-town? What if I abandon Sam and Karen and the rest of the Bees and—heart collides with breastbone, and I sway toward the Barracks again.

But it's Kylie's face that takes shape in my inner vision. Not the way I should remember her, not the way I want to. Her shaven head rests on cracked cement, blood running from a cut on her scalp to pool in one open, staring eye. The cut is from when she fell. She fell because the bullet hit her stomach. The bullet hit her because I let myself get attached to That Guy.

Paper crumples in my fist, and I pace to the edge of the roof. I'm about to pivot when something moves in the alley below.

I drop to a crouch. Leftover pain from a past beating stabs through my right knee as I peer over the edge, half-expecting to see a GeeGee guard with a blaster pointed at me. Instead, a handful of D-towners stand crowded together at the foot of the wall.

Tanner is there, along with the beanpole Real Dealer guy, Cross Bearer Gina whom I know from Council, a Logic in-between I've seen around but don't know by name, and a Love Child femme who seems oddly familiar...I blink in confusion. What is this? A new, secret Council? One Karen is deliberately keeping from me because of my attachment to Lawson?

Or have these kids come together without the blessing of their tribal leaders, to make their own plan?

My gaze traces the Love Child's profile. Where have I seen her? Somewhere recent. She reaches into her shoulder bag, takes out a small cloth sack, pours a bunch of little somethings into her palm, and passes them around. Tanner sticks the object in his ear, while the other kids push aside their hair and do the same.

Sonic earbuds!

I reel back. Where could she have found five of those? A GeeGee teen might have dropped one—might even have given it to her—but five? No way. The GeeGee monitor electronics too closely for that. And besides, what would five D-towners want with earbuds programmed with mood-regulating tones? The whole reason D-town exists is as a bulwark against emotional control. Why would five teens from different tribes meet together, anyway? How would they know each other well enough, let alone trust each other that much? Unless...

How long has it been since kids stopped trickling in? Years. They would have had to have been here for a couple years at least, with only rare trips back into GeeGee territory.

The mismatched group stands shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes closed as they take in the tones. An expression of ecstasy rearranges the Love Child's narrow features, and memory snaps into place.

Lawson's back was to me. He faced a femme, pressed up against her, as she leaned against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist...

A wrenching in my chest. Now that Lawson knows it's over between us, how long until he starts seeing her again? I tried but I couldn't, he said, but I'm not naïve enough to think he means forever.

Focus!

Right. The gathering in the alley below, the future of D-town, that's what's important. I crab-walk a few feet back before standing. I pause for a second, heart hammering, then I'm scrambling across the roof.

I need a second opinion, another witness. Now, before the group breaks up. And it's got to be him, because he's familiar with at least two of the people in the alley. I scramble down the fire escape, back through the window, descend six flights of stairs in a minute and stagger into the road, thighs burning, breath sawing in and out.

I sprint slash limp around the corner to the Barracks and shove at the door. It swings wide, almost dumping me onto the floor, but no one is waiting to laugh. The Real Deal headquarters is unlocked and unguarded. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Who do Real Dealers have to fear?

"Lawson?" I wheeze, voice echoing in the empty lobby of what used to be a bank. I rush down a strip of threadbare carpet and duck through a beaded curtain into a cavernous space with soaring ceilings and marble floors.

Sleeping bags are laid out or rolled up in clusters around little camping stoves. An in-between with red curls washes sheets in a big metal bucket. A few younger guys play a game involving sticks and a crumpled can. Other Real Dealers scarf down food, chat, or nap. As they begin to notice me, they halt their activities to stare. I cast around desperately until a hand closes on my bicep.

"You shouldn't be here," Lin hisses into my ear. She keeps hold of me and shouts at the top of her voice, "Lawson!"

"What?"

That familiar voice, carrying through the Barracks, sends a shiver through me.

A door opens and closes on the second floor, and then Lawson leans over the banister above us. His eyes meet mine, and for a second he looks like someone's smacked him in the face with a board, and not just because of the yellowed bruises patterning his skin.

"Visitor," Lin calls.

"Be right down." He ducks out of sight and, a handful of heartbeats later, bursts through a doorway across from where I wait.

"Hey," he breathes as he comes to a stop in front of us.

Lawson's gaze is all for me. I definitely don't have time to stand silent, while his hazel eyes search my face and he drags his palms down the front of his jeans and then tucks his hands under his biceps, trapping them against his sides. He takes a step, shaving away some of the distance between us.

"My room's just—" He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, back the way he came.

I shake my head, and my cheeks, already warm from exertion, burn hotter. "That's—that's not why I'm here. Outside...there's something...I have to..."

He gives me a puzzled look and motions for me to lead the way. His heavy steps lend comfort as he follows me outside and around the corner, up the stairs, through the window to the fire escape, across the roof. Just shy of the edge, my intuition screams a silent warning. I grab onto his arm, using my weight to hold him back.

"Promise me, no matter what you see, you won't kill anyone," I murmur.

It's the wrong thing to say. He yanks out of my grip and takes the last step. I follow. Beanpole guy, Gina, and the Love Child are still at the foot of the building, ears empty, but the other two are nowhere in sight. I relax a little; Lawson won't see Tanner, won't hurt him. I glance at his face as he stares over the edge with an impassive expression.

"—shooting people!" The harsh words carry to where we stand, claiming my attention.

Gina faces away, arms crossed, but she must have been the one to whisper-shout, because the Love Child makes a shushing motion at her, then gestures to beanpole guy. He slouches away to check the mouth of the alley.

Lawson and I both stay silent as the Love Child pulls her tattered sweater close. I lean forward as if doing so will help me hear better, but there's no need. Her words come out louder than they should, as if she learned to speak to a crowd and doesn't know how to moderate her voice.

"That was the military, not us. Violence is contagious, you know that. That's why we have to get rid of D-town. And we need you to integrate the Cross Bearers. Unless Jesus himself shows up, you're the only one they'll listen to."

They make such an odd group. The Love Child in her rags, apparently charismatic enough to convince someone that if Jesus of Nazareth showed up in D-town he'd vote GeeGee. Gina, in her modest if stained blouse, looking like someone from the old world who just got lost here. Beanpole guy, at the mouth of the alley, the kind of guy who wouldn't know what to do without a back to guard.

He's the only one showing anything like his true face. He's a soldier. They all are.

"I've got to go. Chad will start freaking." The Love Child strides away, dreadlocks a brown mass unmoved by the wind. Despite the urgency of her words, her steps slow at the alley mouth. Love Childs never rush.

She leaves the other two behind. After a beat, Dart closes the distance and wraps Gina in a hug. Her arms come up under his so she can hold on for a fierce moment. A simple gesture of friendship I've never seen between D-towners of different tribes, not even in The Dance.

Not until Lawson and I.

"You scared me," Lawson says as soon as the last two leave. "Thought someone had my sister or something."

"Don't be dumb. I would hardly have just left and gone to get you, or brought you all the way up to the roof instead of straight to the alley. You think I'm a total coward, don't you. Never mind, don't answer that. It doesn't matter. I saw—" I bite off the word, because again my internal warning bell goes off.

Lawson still hasn't promised.

He grabs my shoulders, fingers biting. "What did you see?"

I slump in his grip. "They had earbuds."

He lets go and pats my shoulders. "Sorry, sorry. Sometimes I get so...earbuds?"

"They were listening..."

He's walking back across the roof before I can finish. He doesn't have to say anything for me to know he's come to the same conclusion I have; the tension in his shoulders is enough.

I rush after, pitching my voice low. "Don't do something stupid!"

Still silent, he swings onto the fire escape. I hesitate, then clamber after him, but I can't even begin to keep up. When I finally careen, panting, out of the building for the second time that day, I almost run smack into his chest.

"You're..." I manage. "I thought..."

He grimaces. "I've got to think."

"You can't tell anyone," I gasp out. "Think about it! The rumor will"—inhale—"spread. No one will"—inhale—"trust anyone else. The GeeGee won't have to destroy us. We'll do it ourselves."

"Maybe that's the point."

We stare at each other in a moment of silent understanding, and then he dips his chin. The spies will remain our secret. For now.

18. GRAYSCALE

I step into the gray morning. Gray sky, gray buildings; the figure curled in a ball on the sidewalk in front of The Dance wears clothes so dirty they appear monotone. I know who it is before I get close enough to see the face. The Real Deal is not a forgiving tribe.

The door of The Dance squeaks behind me, and I sway back onto my heels. "Tell me you had nothing to do with this."

"I had nothing to do with this," Lawson agrees, coming to stand beside me.

Beanpole guy curls further in on himself at the sound of Lawson's voice.

"Tell me the truth," I amend.

Silence, and that's almost enough to tear the hook right out of my chest and find out how much of my heart it would leave behind, because these two were friends. Lawson just beat the shit out of the same guy who was going to help Lin and me stop the A from killing him.

My fault—again—for confiding in the wrong person. I feel sick.

"I didn't tell anyone. I didn't kill him. That's what you asked for. But I couldn't let this stand. You know that."

"Just like you knew I wouldn't defend myself next time when you helped me that day in the alley?"

"I guess I thought that you might."

"No, you didn't." I press my fingers over my eyes, massaging hard. "Why do you even—? I'm an affront to everything you believe, and you..." I gesture to the guy on the ground. "We could never have worked."

"So you keep saying. Trying to convince yourself?"

Instead of answering, I stare down at beanpole guy. He's not tribe. He's an anarchist. I don't want to touch him...but I've already touched one anarchist. What's another? Lawson hovers beside me like my own personal Mara, the embodiment of my unholy impulses.

"Go away," I say. "I'm going to help him."

I grab the bottom of my shirt and try to pull the fabric apart. The material refuses to give, and Lawson reaches out to help, but I back away. By the time I slip one arm out of the shirt, Lawson has already shrugged out of his. He tosses it to me and then crosses his arms, mouth twisting as I kneel down to wipe the guy's face.

Beanpole guy's eyes open, and his gaze flicks between Lawson and I. He barks a laugh, which cuts off with a wince. He wraps his arms around his ribs.

"Hey," I whisper. "I'm Aidan. What's your name?"

"D-Dart."

"Okay, Dart. I'm going to clean you up. Hold still, alright?"

I get the blood off his face, careful not to get any on my skin, then cast around for a safe place to put the shirt. Lawson is pacing, so I set the garment aside and begin checking Dart for broken bones. On his next pass, Lawson reaches for the shirt.

"Blood," I exclaim.

Too late. He's already snagged it. For a second he looks alarmed, but then he waves it off. "Think about it. He's from outside. Their blood is clean."

"So we've been told, but he's been here for at least a couple years. He could have easily caught something."

"You're right. I'll just go clean my hands."

As soon as the door swings closed behind Lawson, Dart opens his eyes again. His blood-slick hand grasps mine, and I try to pull away, but he holds tight.

"We all do our best." Like he's used up all his strength, Dart's grip slackens, and his hand droops back to the cement. His cracked lips shape three more words. "Blood is clean." Then he's unconscious.

I stare down at his battered body, remembering Lawson lying in this same spot after being punished by the A. His hazel eyes pleaded with me to not let the GeeGee take him away, enough panic in that look to get me to raise a gun and threaten the Captain with it. But Dart is from outside. He won't feel the same.

"Guard," I whisper, loud as I dare. "GeeGee guard. I know you're out there. I know this is one of yours. Come take him away."

I realize what I've done and sprint for The Dance. The skin between my shoulder blades prickles in anticipation of bullet or blast or whatever death feels like.

That mystery goes unsolved.

Instead Sam meets me just inside the door. "Hurry. Council's starting."

I don't know why my fellow Bees keep choosing me to participate, and I'm about to insist Sam sit instead, until I see who's already at the table. Tanner is facilitating, and Gina sits for the Cross Bearers, while the femme Lawson "tried" to make out with sits for the Love Childs. The knot in my stomach grows, and I rush to the seat beside the Logic Leader, Tara.

"You and I aren't friends right now," I whisper, when Lawson pulls out the seat on my other side.

In answer, he slams the chair back into place and strides around the table to sit beside the Love Child femme.

I swallow. My fault. I lashed out first.

"Council is called to order." Tanner looks around the table. "For real, this time. We need Council to work, or everything falls apart. Today's point of order: pamphlets. Go."

But with three GeeGee kids at the table, Council has already outlived its usefulness, and I can't help but wonder what will get us first. The wrecking ball or civil war?

I may as well be alone in the Ashram. Each day, the cushion of space separating me from the rest of my tribe expands. In the gap: Lawson, his gun, Kylie lying dead, and now this secret.

There are spies in D-town.

My fellow Bees have been looking at me from the corners of their eyes, but now I peer at them too. Suspicion drives me out into the streets, to talk to the teens with the pamphlets, to figure out how to identify a spy. I invite Sam, without mentioning my mission, but that one stays behind, still sallow-eyed and grieving, afraid of everything now.

The trip is useless, every time. The GeeGee kids are just two-dozen faces of always happy. Not one of them has a unique thing to say. D-towners aren't like that, not even the spies. And my respite from the A can't last forever. Eventually, they will get bored, especially since its obvious Lawson isn't looking out for me anymore.

I round the corner and—

Like a punch in the sternum while looking down from a dizzying height, there he is at the end of the street. Same messy hair, as if someone combed through it with wild fingers of shadow and light. He walks toward me with Lin hovering at his side, his head bent to hers, whispering secrets. He hasn't spotted me yet or pretends not to.

His steps are still tender from what the A did to him, what they did to him because of me. He's still suffering for what we shared. Almost shared.

Everything about Lawson and me is almost. It's almost impossible to stay away from him. But then I think of Kylie. D-town is almost big enough to lose myself in and never see him again. Then he turns up on some random side-street. I almost wish I'd never met him, never loved him, never learned his name.

Just like it's almost possible to wish I was dead instead of Kylie. Almost possible not to hold tight to life. What is it about this ugly-beautiful world that makes us cling to it with the bleeding fingernails of hope?

Lawson turns his head. Our gazes touch, like a collision in the air. That's how it feels to me, anyway. Lawson looks how he always looks, shoulders bunched like he's about to punch something.

I still want to touch him everywhere, to drag my palms down the solid planes of his chest and kiss everything better. I can already taste the dirt and the tears.

He draws even with me. His throat moves, very obvious because I'm staring right at it; Lawson swallows. He looks away.

My eyes keep scanning his neck, checking for hickeys. Shameful, but I can't help it. Fading bruises and smears cover his tanned skin like camouflage. Impossible to tell if he's in love with someone else yet.

For a second, I can almost see a different future. Me caring for him when age has turned his face porcelain white. When blue veins cover his skin, and my darker hands look younger and more resilient, even if they ache in the winter from all the times my fingers have been broken, even if my bones stick out in odd ways. Later, when the bruises have faded and the other people he's made out with don't matter anymore, after all this time, because for just about as long as we can remember it's been us.

Air bruises the inside of my lungs when I try to inhale.

That's is the most dangerous fantasy of all—imagining any of us will live that long.

So I smile at Lawson, even though it's too late, even though he already turned away. I should have smiled all along. Life's too short for anything less than compassion and universal love. That's what Kylie would have said.

Days pass, grayscale, until one morning the GeeGee teenagers with the propaganda pamphlets just don't show up on their corners. That night, the Ashram empties out at dusk. I stand in the entry, watching a clump of Bees shuffle down the street. They stick close together for protection, but for once that's unnecessary. A group of As troops by without even yelling one insult. Everyone's in a rush to get to The Dance and drink and hump in celebration.

Lawson is sure to be there.

I stay behind with Sam and Karen. Sam has been acting as door-person more and more often. Apparently I'm not the only one who sees a problem with this.

"You know," Karen says into the darkening room when we've all been sitting in silence for some time. I'd like to call what we've been doing meditation, but brooding is more like it. "I am perfectly capable of lowering a ladder."

"Yes. Of course," says Sam, a soft smile in the words. That one knows what the Lama is really saying. "But there are three ladders. Three might strain your spine."

This is a new Sam, humorous and self-aware. Maybe that one is recovering better than I thought.

Karen chuckles. "I'm not going to make you leave, Sam, but I think it would do you good to get outside."

Sam glances at me, and I nod encouragement.

"I'll walk you over and then come back and help the Lama with the ladders."

"You go too, Aidan," Karen says. "I know what you're doing in here, and you're no better at it than Sam. You can't heal grief this way. You have to be able to face the world." The Lama's voice softens. "Face him."

But you don't understand. It's not that I can't face him. It's that if I come close enough to touch him, I will wrap my arms around him and never be able to let go.

I wet my mouth, but the decision to go has already settled in my stomach. This is my chance to see Lawson. To feast my eyes on the way his hair curls around his cheeks. That jaw. Those shoulders. His trim hips. My opportunity to stare across The Dance and torture myself if he's with someone else.

Maybe Lawson has a point. Maybe I do like to suffer.

My mind chews on this until Sam stops me a couple blocks from The Dance.

"I only agreed to go because I want to talk to you," Sam says. "Alone."

We have the dark street to ourselves. Everyone else is already at The Dance. The nerves in my stomach pull tighter as Sam struggles for words.

"I don't—I don't know how to—"

My hands ball up, and I hide them behind my back before Sam sees.

"I just want you to know that I—you stayed away from the Real Dealer so I—forgive you."

My throat convulses. Relief should flood through me now. I stand waiting for a weight to lift, but instead my stomach sinks further.

"That's great, Sam, thanks," I mumble, sounding like a G-spot as I reach out and give a halfhearted hug.

The ragged fingernails tear loose from a hope I didn't realize I still sustained, that someday Lawson and I could... That impossible wish falls away, leaving me with nothing but Sam's conditional forgiveness.

I start off down the street, trying to seem normal but really just stumbling along at Sam's pace until we're inside The Dance. The hot air, reeking of B.O. and vomit, pulls me out of my stupor enough to press my sleeve over my nose as we line up at the bar.

Someone has stolen buckets of beer. Or maybe "mead"? Either way, the stream of kids staggering outside to puke makes me glad Bees don't drink. I'll stick with soda.

In the shifting crowd, Sam and I get separated. I end up lodged between a Love Child and an A too intent on making out to notice that I'm in the way. I try to slip around him—he's in front—but he shoves me back.

"No cutting!"

I let her go ahead so they can be together without me in the middle and, because good deeds are never rewarded, I end up back to back with Lawson. He's facing Lin. All I can see of her over his shoulder are the shocking red spikes of her hair. I whip my head back around before she can catch me looking.

There's nowhere to go in the press of bodies. Which is lucky, because I'd look like an idiot standing pressed against Lawson's back in the middle of an empty room, and there's no way I can move. Not with his sweat soaking into my shirt. It doesn't matter that a minute ago I was too hot. It doesn't matter that Sam could happen by any moment and un-forgive me.

Well, it matters. Just not enough apparently. Air gathers in my throat, wanting to escape in a sob of relief as Lawson's back moves against mine with the gentle rhythm of his breath. My stomach flips each time he shifts his feet. Has he turned? Does he know it's me? My only salvation is facing front, pretending I haven't noticed.

"You're no fun anymore," Lin's voice shouts above the noise.

When Lawson speaks, he sounds lost in thought. His body vibrates with the rumble of his words. "Remember when I got to D-town? You told me you were an Anarchist. Do you remember that?" Maybe Lin speaks; maybe she doesn't. Even The Dance fades from my awareness. All that matters is the catch in Lawson's voice. "I said I was that too, and you—you promised I wouldn't be sorry."

He sounds sorry now.

"Oh, sweetie. You have to stop moping." Something brushes the back of my skull; she must have wrapped her arms around his neck. She says, "You're so warm."

"Yeah, sorry about the sweat."

Don't be.

The line in front of me moves, but I can't break that last decadent bit of contact I never dreamed I'd have again.

"Come dance with me," Lin says.

"I can't stay long. I have an appointment. Check on Tab later?"

Appointment? This is D-town, not Three Street. We don't have appointments.

There's movement behind me. I glance to the side, and there he is again, doing a double-take as our eyes meet. His lips part—to speak or breathe—but Lin has hold of his hand. She pulls him away, swaying her hips to the beat. Her black jeans and red tank cling to curves and muscle, the body of a Real Dealer femme, so unlike mine. Some guy gropes her, and Lawson whirls like he has a sixth sense for that sort of thing.

Not that Lin needs help.

The guy is already backing off, hands up. "Woah! Take it easy."

I turn and flee for the door, hardly noticing when people grumble at me for skipping in line. They're too nauseated to make an issue of it, and The Dance is safe space. I burst outside and collapse against the wall, gulping night air and wiping sweat off my face.

My foot slides toward the door, but I yank it back. I'm standing where I told Lawson it was over between us, so I shift to the other side of the door. A moment later, two people burst out of The Dance and collapse over there, puking. I avert my gaze and squint out at the misshapen shadows.

An unfamiliar dark shape looms over the square. A giant arm reaches into the sky, holding up a black moon. The wet cotton plastered to my chest chills in sudden recognition.

A wrecking ball.

The first thing I do is check for guards but, besides the upchucking kids, the night is unbroken by movement. I walk across the pavement to the crane, reach for the door handle, and pause when no one tries to stop me. Odd, so odd.

Again, I waver in shock when the door turns out to be unlocked. Something is off about this, but I can't stop now. It's a giant hop to get up inside the cab. No interior light. I feel around, ignoring dust and grit and personal possessions.

In the dirty space behind the seat, I find new hope. A bag of handcuffs—meant to hold us, no doubt—and four sets of emergency snow chains.

19. WRECK

The chain reaches its limit, and the handcuff skims down my forearm. Metal drags against skin, sending shooting pain into my fingers. The manacle hits the top of my hand with bruising force. The GeeGee guard's shoulder digs into my stomach, but he can't pull me any further. The chain binds me to the door of The Dance, which is itself chained shut, and to Sam, who is attached to the rest of the Bees. I get a grip on the steel links and cling, trying to take some of the pressure off my joints.

"Unlock it!" the guard roars. "Or do you want to be crushed when this building comes down?"

More guards surround The Dance and the wrecking ball crane parked in the street.

Just keep your center. If I stay peaceful, I win, regardless of outcome. That's what I tell myself, but sweat slicks my palms, and moths seem to flutter in my stomach. I try to make myself heavy, like the ancient yogis knew how to do, but without success. My sneakered feet barely brush the cement.

Sam, more grounded or just bigger-boned, holds strong beside me, sitting cross-legged.

I force a full breath into my tight lungs, then exhale all the way. "I don't have the key."

"Who does?"

"It's not here." It's hard to focus around the pain in my wrist and the intrusive hands hoisting me off the ground.

A guard jams her hand into Sam's pocket, searching. Down the lines of Bees, other guards move to do the same.

"It's not here," I shout, before that can go any further. "We gave it to someone who gave it to someone—we don't know who!—who gave it to someone else, and so on. Right now, only two people know who has the key, and we don't know who those two people are, just that they've been ordered not to come back here."

The Captain chuckles from where she leans on the cab of the crane. "Well, no one can tell us they're not smart." She stalks over, motions for the guard to set me down, and crouches in front of me. "What's your name?"

I lift my gaze to hers, rummaging through rage and terror and worry about Lawson until I find compassion. Just a trickle; that's the best I can do.

"We are all one," I say. "Please don't do this."

"We are all one. Please don't do this. We are all one. Please don't do this." The chorus goes up around me.

"O'Leary," says the Captain. "Get me the torch."

"Yes, ma'am."

My guard returns with a handheld blowtorch and hands it to the Captain. I squeeze my eyes shut, turning my face away. The chant wavers, then picks up again, in time with The Dance. The torch whooshes on; chain jangles. A few moments later heat starts up next to my left wrist.

"You're going to want to hold very still."

I tense, shivering a little as the metal manacle grows too hot against my skin, and my eyes water. We can't win; we really can't win.

By the end of it, when the shackle clunks to the cement, I'm gasping in agony. The commander rises, steps to the left and starts on Sam. And I do what I know I'm meant to do—sprint for the Ashram to find Sandra and beg her to tell me to whom she passed the key, and so on. Hopefully, Sandra will hold strong; everything depends on that.

I'm halfway home when the explosion shakes D-town. A ripple of wind stirs dirt and flutters GeeGee pamphlets down the street.

Sam!

The stinging itch of my burned wrist fades as I reverse directions. The street ends in a T-intersection, dumping me into the open square in front of The Dance, and my steps waver.

The Logic clearly had no part in this fiasco.

D-towners and GeeGee lie bleeding side-by-side. Shouts and moans mingle in the air. Directly in my path, Cross Bearer Gina—spy Gina—shoves the limp body of a GeeGee guard off of her and climbs to unsteady feet. Metal dust falls around her, glimmering under the heavy clouds. She's got road burn on one cheek and blood oozing from a gash on her arm. Her blouse hangs in tatters. She glances around until she spots the Bishop kneeling next to a fallen D-towner, presumably a Cross Bearer, and hurries toward them, yelling, "Live by the sword, die by the sword!"

Nearby, Tara stands stunned, dirt invisible on her dark skin, untouched in the middle of a circle of fallen Logic. The spy from her tribe joins her, looking over the wreckage like over an experiment gone wrong, and Tara seems relieved.

Guards, so bloody efficient, already march a grid, stopping to tend to their wounded and ignoring ours. But the wrecking ball truck has been reduced to scrap metal. Chunks rest here and there.

Victory, the anarchists would have called it, if not for the fact that the wrecking ball fell too. And landed on The Dance, took down a section of the roof and most of the front wall, door included. More D-towners stand in the gouge, looking around like they expect the arrival of alien spacecraft, or something equally unlikely. The roof groans. I don't know how everyone doesn't hear, but maybe I am the only one in a position to notice.

"Out! Get everyone out!" But my shout is too late.

The building shudders, then folds, section by section. The bass gives one last, resounding thud.

Then, silence.

My ears crowd with imaginary sounds, things I've heard before. Voices mostly, indistinct and unpleasant like when Council falls apart. For a moment, we all stand motionless. Then the stillness shatters as people rush to their fallen friends or home to find something to shove in their ears before the GeeGee pulses hit.

I look for Sam, shaken that it's taken me this long to start searching, while at the same time aware that D-town will go on without one more person—it went on without Kylie, after all—but without The Dance...

The first person I see is Lawson. Maybe I was looking for him all along. He leans against a nearby building, his sibling wrapped around him like he'd need a pry bar to get free. He faces away from the destruction, one hand braced against the wall. As I watch, he wipes his eyes with the other hand. I feel a disgusting surge of I-told-you-so, and maybe-now-you'll-admit-I'm-right. My skin goes hot and my heart pounds. He did this. Whenever something bad happens, Lawson is at the heart of it.

I turn my back on him and march out among the victims, searching the bloody, black-smudged faces. It seems everywhere I look, the Love Child from the alley is there. Leaning down to pat this shoulder. Kneeling to whisper in that ear.

I pass right next to an A guy lying on top of an A in-between. They were a couple; I've seen them in The Dance. They've beaten me more than once, together, like a game.

I stoop and close their eyes. When I straighten, Sandra is waiting with somber brown eyes. She takes my hand and leads me past the discarded chains into a nearby huddle of Bees. Tanner is among them. I ignore him as my tribe moves aside so I can stare down into Sam's moon-shaped face.

My friend is too still, a rounded pile that seems boneless and has no breath. I drop to my knees and begin CPR. Listen, share breath, pump, pump, pump. Swipe at my eyes and nose—no time for that. If the GeeGee came with a stretcher now, I'd let them take Sam, but they don't, and it's not working.

It's the same all around, butchery and despair. Right beside us, Crow bends over the High Priest.

"On your feet. My will be done!" she screams.

He stays down.

A shoulder knocks me aside. I struggle back up, but Lawson has taken over. He moves with the same sure economy with which he does everything, from landing a punch to kissing. The other Bees are already melting into the crowd, wary of Lawson. Tanner goes last, studying me as he backs away.

I wrap my dirty arms around my knees. I notice I'm holding my breath, like if I ration air there'll be plenty left for Sam.

Drops of black water plop onto the High Priest's freckled cheeks like rain from Crow's eyes, tears mixed with the ash she uses for eyeliner, until Lawson sits back on his heels. Sweat coats his forehead.

"I can't get it, Aidan. I'm sorry." Then again, "I'm sorry. Over here!" he calls, waving an arm at the GeeGee military leader.

The Captain jogs over and looks at Sam. "Didn't anyone think to check her for injuries?"

I glance down. "That one."

"What?" the Captain asks, distracted.

"That one, not her."

"That one bled out on the ground, while you tried to perform CPR." The Captain points to a dark pool spreading from under Sam, dripping into a storm drain.

A cry takes shape in my throat and gets lodged there as the Captain folds Sam's arms over the torso and stoops to lift the heavy form. I shoot to my feet and lunge forward, throwing my body over Sam's. The Captain tries to push me aside.

I hold on. "No, no, no. You can't take the body! Sam was a D-towner. D-towners are buried in D-town."

Lawson's just standing there. Why is he just standing there?

The sound rips from me, roar slash wail, aimed at Lawson. I can't make it form words, but there's a question at the end of it.

"You always tell me not to fight," he answers, like he's being reasonable and I'm the one who's lost my mind.

"This isn't fighting. It's resisting!" I argue, fending off the Captain with my feet when she tries again to pull me away.

Lawson rolls his shoulders and surges forward to wrestle the Captain back, his arms trapping hers to her sides. She elbows him in the stomach and gets free, but she doesn't come after me again.

"There's no facilities for corpse disposal here," she says.

"We're doing fine."

"Sure. Fine and dandy. Except for the spread of blood-borne diseases."

"What are you going to do about it, round us all up and nuke us like the Gestapo did to the Jews? Just leave us alone! This is our city." I'm still shouting, still clutching Sam's still form.

Lawson is between the Captain and me. His red t-shirt bulges slightly in the small of his back where his gun is hidden.

"Well, it's in ours," the Captain says.

"Says who? You took this city out of the dead hands of our parents. You killed them!"

The Captain tilts her head. "Aidan Khalil. Your parents killed themselves, I believe. With a nail bomb, isn't that right?"

"Get out!" I roar, surging up to stand over Sam. "Get out of our city!" I'm hot and shaky as I take two steps forward, yank up Lawson's shirt to reveal the military holster he must have stolen somewhere, and close my hand around the gun grip.

He spins, locks out my elbow and disarms me before I even get the safety switched off. "Whoa, Aidan."

The Captain draws her weapon. Lawson has me bent at the waist with my arm twisted back, but he still manages to turn us so that he's the one in the line of fire.

"This is the last time," the Captain says, waving her gun at me, to Lawson, and back again for emphasis. Then she stalks off, leaving Sam's body.

When it's clear she's not returning, Lawson eases up the pressure on my arm, allowing me to straighten. He keeps hold of my hand, stroking it with his thumb. "Didn't want you to go off and shoot someone back there and have to live with your regret."

"Yeah well, I have a lot of regrets in life." I take back my arm and rub my elbow. "Starting with loving you. I can't deal with you right now." I take a step toward Sam's body and stop, unable to face that either.

Lawson puts himself in my way. "Did you just say you love me?"

I throw up my hands. "So what if I did? What does it matter?"

His hands slide into his pockets. "It matters."

"Why? To who?"

"It matters to me."

I clear my throat and spit on the ground. "Nothing matters to you, except winning your stupid battle."

Lawson doesn't even sidestep my spittle. "My stupid battle? The one you were ready to shoot someone over, you mean?"

"Wasn't over the battle," I mutter. "It was about Sam's body. Sorry I spit on your shoes."

But he keeps talking over me. "You think you know me. You don't know a single bloody thing..."

"Maybe I don't."

"...so just don't talk about something you don't understand!" He turns away, shoulders heaving.

"Make me understand. I want to understand." I walk around him as I speak, until we face each other again. "Because, hey, you're right, I don't understand a single thing. Look at this mess." I wave my arm at Sam, at the ruins of The Dance. "What's it all for?"

"You tell me."

"Freedom, right? Tell me it's for freedom." I grab his shoulders and shake, but he's too solid; I can't really move him. "Tell me it's our freedom! Tell me it's worth it. Please."

"Aidan..."

"Tell me!"

He cups my face in his hands. "It's for freedom, baby. It's worth it. Sam died for D-town, for us. So we can continue to live the way we want."

"Sam died because of you—" I yank away. "—and your stupid bomb."

Lawson recoils. "You always assume the worst, you know that? But the thing is, it's not with everyone. It's just with me. You know what else, it hurts, and it's not fair. You're not better than me. Sam wasn't better than me. I'm doing what I think is best for D-town, for everyone, just like everybody else! I didn't know the ball was going to fall on The Dance, okay. Maybe I should have thought about it, but I didn't. Don't you think I feel like shit about it? Don't you think I just about want to die? Do you think you're helping? I thought you were supposed to be compassionate."

I stand there, squeezing my fists. "You're right, I'm a dirty bloody excuse for a Bee. But at least—"

"Stop it with that feeling sorry for yourself crap. Oh, poor me, I'm not a good—"

"But at least my greatest failing is that sometimes I judge people. I can't resist temptation well enough. But I don't kill people."

"In one ear and out—doesn't matter. There's no room up on that dais with you, anyway." Lawson pulls one hand out of his pocket and shoves a little malleable ball—some kind of putty?—into my hands. "Put this in your ears" he snaps, before striding away.

"Wait. Hey, Lawson, wait, aren't you going to help me with...?"

But he doesn't return. Sam's empty green eyes stare up at me, so I swallow hard and get down on one knee to close them.

"Don't worry, honey," I whisper. "It's just the end of the world."

20. CRACK

Lawson—

A jagged scar runs down the center of the street. Blacktop crumbles into the gap, mixing with dust and a few green sprouts. I march along the crack, planting each foot just so. Heel-toe-heel.

In direct line of my next step a dandelion fights up through the road. It doesn't grow in the crack, doesn't take the easy way. Instead it struggles free just to the left, refusing to admit it's not safe to grow up here. Blacktop buckles around it.

I divert my foot.

It's a mistake, out of line with who I'm supposed to be. The rubber sole of my boot crashes down beside the flower, shearing a few leaves from the stem, crushing them to green mush against the concrete.

In memory, I keep rounding the corner to see Aidan chained to the front of The Dance. That first stinging wash of alarm rushes repeatedly through my body, like falling headfirst through ice over and over again. I can't stop reliving that moment of being stuck with no good options.

Do I rush to dismantle the bomb? Explain to the guards that I hid it? Help the Captain drag Aidan away before the wrecking ball hits?

Or do I let the bomb go off, watch the shards of the truck explode all over the Bees, risk killing Aidan?

I just stood there, torn, and never looked up. What kind of fool sets a bomb and doesn't look to see how the wreckage will fall?

In all my time in D-town, I've never messed up like this. I'm the careful one. I keep my earbuds in the bottom of my sleeping bag, for goodness sake; I don't use them. I make sure I'm always at my best. How could I not look up?

It could have been Aidan.

I don't even have the luxury to stumble at the thought. I must keep my spine firm, in case anyone's watching. I kick at the broken concrete, though. My big toe, bare through a hole in my sock, knocks against the inside of my boot. With the speakers off and putty in my ears, the impact reverberates in my skull. I take off running.

I don't know where I'm going until I dash into the empty Arena, all the way to the middle of the overgrown field. Here, among the weeds, is where murderers get put to death in D-town. An artificial hush fills my head, like the world has been wrapped in cotton. I've always prided myself on taking responsibility for the weapons I brought in, but apparently I've been lying to myself.

I've been playacting for so long all I have are imaginary selves. The person I used to be. The role I play. And the real me—the one who does whatever I must to survive, to fit in, to earn the respect of my peers.

All for the greater good, right?

But there are only two people whose good opinions matter to me, and now it's clear; I can have the approval of one or the other, but not both.

Pressure builds behind my eyes, and my ribs ache. The empty seats watch me like silent judges, as if they know about last night. There are some truths even Aidan can't forgive.

Last night, I sprinted up the fire escape of the deserted office building in the pitch dark. Eight flights of stairs in under a minute because I was running late. I burst into the corridor like I'd narrowly escaped being buried alive. Sweat tickled into my ears.

Emergency lighting flickered along the floor, just enough to confirm the hall was empty. I pushed open the door to the meeting room and halted, sucking in a breath. The familiar figure, outlined by lantern glow in front of the window, did not belong to Sergeant Hansen, my usual handler. I planted my feet hip width to keep from rushing around the desk.

"What are you doing here?" I asked carefully.

She didn't turn, just continued staring out the window with her hands folded behind her back. It was "at ease" posture, but she didn't look relaxed. Her biceps, almost as thick as mine, were knotted under the black knit top. A bulletproof vest lent extra bulk.

"You missed your last three check-ins, soldier," she said in a gruff voice.

"You tried to pull me out without my consent!" With an effort, I moderated my tone and added, "Captain."

She whipped around. "You were bleeding all over an intersection!" She was breathing like she just ran twenty laps at the training center.

So was I.

"Lawson—"

"I'm sorry," I blurted because I couldn't tell the truth—that I skipped check-ins because I wanted to protect her from the bruises all over me. I didn't want her to feel the clawing powerlessness that came whenever I looked at Aidan. I didn't want her to feel like a failure.

And I couldn't let her pull me out of D-town, couldn't lose Aidan any more than I already had.

I looked down at my scuffed boots. "Things have been...tense. No one wants to leave while you're guarding the Boundary. If I'd snuck out too soon, people would have been suspicious, especially after the way you treated me in the square."

Her eyebrow quirked. "You came tonight."

I rolled my shoulders. "I figured I'd put it off as long as I could. I'll need some supplies as a cover."

She nodded like that was expected and then advanced on me. Her eyes narrowed as she skirted the desk. "You never did tell me what happened. Everything was going so well, and then—" She gestured. Her voice dropped. "It's because of that skinny Bee, isn't it? What did you do?"

"Um...I may have broken the Second Consensus."

"Lawson!"

"The A—"

"We've talked about this before. That's why you're in there, so we can bring them all home and the weak ones will be safe, but in the meantime you can't interfere. You know that. You have to fit in. They need to trust you now, so they'll follow where you lead when—"

"I know, I know, I know." I scrubbed my hands through my hair. She could never find out Aidan had seen the spies. I could never tell her my biggest regret was that I had a chance to tell Aidan the truth, and I didn't take it. "I just thought it would be good if I appeared to have a lover. And Bees are celibate, so I wouldn't have to, you know, and I can't just let my lover get beaten down."

Please, please, buy it.

She seemed to. She stepped close and squeezed up and down my arms, checking for broken bones. I gritted my teeth when she hit a particularly tender spot, but it didn't hurt nearly as bad as talking about Aidan.

"What about that girl, Lin?" she asked abruptly.

"What?" I sputtered. "We're friends." And she's not my type. "I told you that before. Besides, going with a Bee challenges tribal boundaries. It'll help with the integration."

She gave my shoulder one last squeeze. "Just hang in there. It's almost time. Are you ready?"

I forced myself to meet her eyes. Not like a psychopath. Blink normally.

"Honestly, I don't think the time is quite right. My reputation isn't the best just now. I didn't know you were going to move in so soon. I could use a little more time. I don't think people will listen to me, quite as well as they could. I—I promised to bring in some weapons a while ago, and it didn't go quite the way I planned." I was rambling. She surely knew all this. I'd told Hansen most of it at our last check-in.

"Don't worry," she said, waving away my concerns. "I have the perfect solution for your reputation, and mine. I'm in a bit of a bind, because I put up that DEMOLITION sign, and now the leaders decided we can't waste the resources." She grimaced. "They say refurbish the building, don't knock it down. My guards are bringing in a wrecking ball as we speak, but I no longer have authorization to use it. I'll need you to blow it up tomorrow. You'll be a hero again, and everyone will know I always follow through on my threats. I'll give you a bomb and leave the crane unguarded."

I didn't need to use that bomb, though. By the time I got back, a mixed group of Real Dealers and A were already installing one of the A's nail bombs.

I convinced them to wait until the next day. "That way we can knock down some guards too."

Kitty was the one who placed the explosive deep into the guts of the machine, getting engine grease on her white t-shirt, but I set the timer. I set that timer and felt nothing but relief.

I'm no hero.

Why can't I be the person who showed up in Aidan's eyes when Aidan looked at me with love? A protector of the weak. The guy who, even if he doesn't believe the same things as Aidan, is still worthy of that one's love.

Of course, no one is worthy of Aidan's love. Love like that can't be earned, only given.

21. ANNIHILATION

Aidan—

The GeeGee leave our wounded and what's left of the crane. They take our dead.

All I can do is follow the vehicle bearing Sam's remains to the Boundary. The adrenaline I had while facing the Captain is gone, replaced by common sense. Non-violent resistance would just get me captured, and Sam would still be dead. As the GeeGee truck rumbles across the tracks, I raise a hand in farewell.

It seems one end of my intestine is tied to Sam's body; as the truck drives away, my guts slide out, unwinding, stretching between us until the vehicle is out of sight and I'm empty.

First my parents. Then Kylie. Now Sam.

Who's next?

I return to the Ashram and find the ladder down, unattended. Inside, injured Bees recuperate on bedrolls, while the rest of my tribe sits in meditation. They shift restlessly, ears stuffed with cotton, deprived of the beat. I collapse into a cross-legged position next to Karen and wait for the pulse, to see if the makeshift earplugs will hold.

Someone nudges me, and I open my eyes to find a sweaty Love Child in-between crouched next to me in the fading light. Stillness has done me good; I can take a full breath without wanting to stop existing. The intruder touches my ear, and I pull out an earplug.

"We got speakers!" the Love Child shouts, making me wince.

Together we rouse the others. Karen stays behind with the incapacitated, while the rest of us climb out into the rain and join the kids streaming up the road under the overcast sky.

Most of D-town is already crowded into the common room of the Haven. Love Childs move stacks of blankets, cracked Tupperware full of grains, and other day-to-day supplies into smaller rooms that branch off a long hallway. I rush to help, followed by the rest of the Bees. The Cross-Bearers and Witches, then the Logic and Real Dealers join in.

A few minutes later, I'm hauling one end of a broken beam that serves who-knows-what purpose, a Witch named Riana carrying the other end, and I pass the round-faced A going the opposite way with a bucketful of water.

That's when I know D-town is forever. The GeeGee can never beat us, because The Dance isn't confined to one building. D-town isn't restricted to this one area of the city. They've driven us here, back behind the railway tracks, and we've made this our home. We could do it again, somewhere else. If we have to, we will.

A smile creeps over my face, and I share it with Riana. Her features adjust, first with shock, but then her lips curl up, the expression in contrast to her drastic eye makeup. I glance left, still beaming, and an A femme almost drops the broom she's holding.

When I look back, Lawson stands next to Riana. My fragile optimism hits the bottom of my empty stomach and shatters. A bitter taste coats my tongue.

"Sam's gone." I speak without meaning to, then bite down like I've made a sound during a beating.

Lawson flinches and wipes his hands on his jeans.

"I'll just..." The Witch shoves her end of the beam into his hands like the wood is about to catch fire, and makes herself scarce.

Can't blame her. My heart pounds with the need to escape this conversation.

"Where to?" Lawson hefts his end of the beam.

"Anywhere, I guess. Just clearing out the room." I can't meet his eyes.

So I don't see when he takes a step forward. Wood hits my sternum, air rushes out of my mouth, and I stagger.

"Sorry!" He scrambles to back up and ends up tugging me forward.

We make lurching progress across the room toward the hall, bumping into people as we go.

"Your idea?" Lawson's voice sounds strained, and I doubt it's from the effort of carrying the beam. He indicates a Logic and Love Child with their heads bent together over the open back of one of the "new" speakers, hands deep in the wiring.

I shake my head.

"Oh," he says.

I squeeze hard enough to feel the grain of the wood against my fingertips as we cross the last few meters into the otherwise empty hallway. Lawson is trying; I should try too, but loving him is like being addicted to a weapon. Every time I touch him, somebody dies. And I may as well be tied to him with barbed wire. Attachment scratches and slices and tears, but it doesn't matter if I had a way to cut myself free; I'd never use it.

"You think too well of me," I say.

My foot slides another step back along the floor, and I almost lose my hold on the beam because Lawson has stopped walking.

"You have no idea what you look like to me, and you should," he says. "You're like...you're like this angel I could never live up to."

"Thought you were an atheist," I mutter, staring at the beam.

The wood shivers in my grip, trembling from his hands. Or mine. Maybe we're both shaking.

"I think I believe in angels. Anyone who knows you would have to." His voice is rough when he says, "I thought it was going to be you."

It should have been. That would only have been fair.

"It wasn't your fault," he says.

How does he know me so well?

"It's my fault," he continues. "And I'm so sorry. I tried to call it off, I swear. I was crazy. But I—we'd already..." His brows draw down, giving him a pained squint. "Everything made sense, before."

I don't have to ask, Before what? He means before me.

I swallow. "Same."

"And now I feel so..." His shoulders rise and fall in a helpless shrug.

"Torn," I whisper. "Lost?"

He nods and finger-combs his hair. The fine strands fall back into place. "Like I'm being ripped down the middle."

We stand in silence for a moment and then start moving again, carrying the beam deeper into the hall. Smooth progress now.

"I thought it was going to be you," he blurts again after a few more steps. "And I just, I just promised myself—can we put this down now, please?"

I nod. We lower the beam to the floor and shove it against a wall. Lawson skirts the wood, closing on me. I stiffen, and he stops, holding up his hands.

"I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I didn't mean...for Sam...I didn't..."

"I know. You were just being you."

"But?"

I take a breath. "But I don't know."

"I would do anything to protect you, you know that, right? Anything."

"I know that."

He's closing the distance between us again, and I have nowhere left to go, wouldn't even if I did.

"I know, and I like it," I confess. "No one's ever wanted to protect me before, but I hate that I like it."

"Why?" He takes that last step, up into my personal space. "What are you afraid of?"

"Whatever you do, whoever you hurt, it's my fault, and what if...?" I can't even articulate.

But he gets it. "You're worth it."

I shake my head. I can't be. No one is.

"You are. You're perfect." And he sound so sure. "That first night I saw you...."

I remember. From his face, he's remembering too.

"I mean, I'd seen you before but that was the first time I really noticed." His voice deepens. "Aidan, you were amazing. You don't see it, but you're different from the other Bees. I have never seen someone just be so...so...completely oblivious. No, I mean that in a good way. You didn't try to hold yourself still. You just let it happen. I told myself that you weren't there, that you'd risen out of it somehow, but then I saw your face. You were there, you were feeling all of it, and I—I just, I just had to—"

He exhales, like surrender. Our lips are so close his breath is on my tongue. It tastes like the inside of his mouth. I lick my lips.

"But you feared me. You thought I was like him. I needed to prove to you, and to myself, that I wasn't. It was like, seeing you...I'd never known someone who deserved to be protected so much, and I wanted to be the person to do it. I decided right then that that was who I was, who I wanted to be. So I guess what I'm saying is, I know I said you don't know me, but I was wrong. No matter what, you know the real me. I became the real me because of you."

I shake my head. "That's a bunch of—"

He lays a finger across my mouth. "It's the truth."

Sam is gone. Kylie is gone. Just like my parents. My heartbeat fills my head as my lips part. Maybe this is how the ego wins. Loss and death and one thing left to savor.

Who's next? It had better be me.

I suck his finger into my mouth. Salt and metal and Lawson's rough skin on my tongue as I wrap my hand around his wrist. He pulls back with a gasp. I grab the back of his neck and pull his face down to meet mine. His lips are soft tonight, like he's found cocoa butter somewhere.

"I want you more than enlightenment. I always have."

I tread all over the beam, trying to find a comfortable place to stand, while his tongue wraps around mine and my fingers twist in his shirt to pull him closer. His big hands massage my back, and lower. His biceps flex under my hands.

When the kiss ends, he lays his face on my shoulder, buries his nose in my neck, and inhales. His mouth opens, and teeth graze my skin. My fingers dip into his hair, running back and forth across his scalp, holding him there. His hair feels so soft and clean.

"Get a room," someone grumps. "There are plenty of them around." Whoever it is squeezes by and carries on down the hall.

Lawson's hand moves to my stomach, tugging at the top of my jeans, then pulls back again, making my breath catch. I lean my head back, letting it hit the wall.

B-b-boom. Boom. The new speakers stutter to life, and the bass reverberates through the building. Ba-boom. Boom.

A cheer goes up. Lawson pounds on the wall with one hand, still holding me with the other. I let out a whoop, and he joins in with a yipping howl. Others take up the cry.

D-town throws back its collective head and screams in triumph. Our feet pound the floor in time with the boom—boom—boom, and The Dance is reborn.

The lamps have been extinguished. Sight comes through flesh and breath. I know which body is Lawson's the way I know North and can point to it from anywhere. That way, up over the Boundary to Three Street. The moving crowd has a rhythm, a tide, and Lawson and I float on it like an island of four hands and two mouths. He is all over me with only a few points of contact that burn brighter than any light.

"What are you doing?" Lawson asks, when I reach for the fly of his jeans.

In answer, I undo a button.

His hand closes over mine, and he sounds short on breath when he asks, "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm ready."

"We could go somewhere more private." His lips move against my scalp.

"If you want." I don't stop on the buttons, though.

"I don't mind if you don't."

I leave my task for only a moment, to guide his hand where I want it. "Come here."

"I'm here." He kisses me again.

Sometime later, I'm leaning against the wall, palms splayed on the solid surface. Rubber touches the bare skin of my inner thigh—he's got it on, finally—and then one of Lawson's hands grips my hip, tilting my pelvis. My heart pounds as he adjusts my stance.

"That's it, just relax. That's it," he coaches, lips brushing my ear.

I brace my hands on the wall and try to loosen my muscles. He moves slowly, coaching me with words that turn short and sharp like he's clenching his teeth—a way of speaking I've always before associated with pain or anger, but now I feel dizzy with this, with what's happening between us. There's a twinge as he pushes deeper, but in the scale of my life's discomforts this barely registers as pain. Not when other, stronger, and much more pleasant sensations dominate.

"Oh, baby," Lawson groans.

And I am annihilated. Meditation has nothing on this.

22. GUTS

I wake on the floor of the Haven and reach out. Lawson no longer curls around my back, and my open hand meets air, then floor. Where is he? I sit in a rush.

There's a puppy pile to my left, and I scan the sleeping faces for Kylie and Sam. Until I remember.

The kids in the snuggle puddle have dark bruises under their eyes, gaunt cheeks, stringy hair. I was wrong last night; this is not The Dance, just a room in an abandoned building where gang members crash. My insides feel stripped bare, my outsides grimy. I rub my cheeks with my fingers, feeling less like I just made love for the first time and more like I banged in a crowded room amidst dirty, swirling bodies, some of them belonging to people who want to beat me, have beaten me, will beat me. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.

When I lower my arms, Lawson is walking toward me with two plastic cups. He raises one in a half-wave, half-salute, and his cheeks flush pink. Answering warmth rises in my face as the night rushes back.

"Heh—" I breathe.

"Hey, yourself. A little out of breath there?"

I take the cup he hands me and swirl the muddy brown liquid. "Yeah."

"Me too."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he says, and it's more than a word; it sounds like a promise.

My lips curve up, and I sniff the contents of my cup. Lukewarm coffee with a hint of mold. I tip back my head and down the whole thing. "Good."

"So...?" Lawson asks. "What do you say to a supply run?"

Something should have gone wrong by now. Lawson and I get to the top of the first Boundary wall with no trouble. As he helps me over the barbwire, the favorite saying of my godfather Pete repeats in my mind.

Thank luck, and quit while you're ahead.

But with guards on the Boundary, everyone's running out of everything. And staying would mean facing Karen and the rest of the Bees. That thought curdles the coffee in my stomach. I need a little time to breathe, to think about what Lawson and I shared last night and what it means, to decide what I'll do if my tribe kicks me out.

I reach the bottom of that first wall ahead of Lawson, step onto the tracks, and stop. No, it's not the coffee. Nor fear of trying to survive in D-town without a tribe. Unease has been swelling with every step, and I've been ignoring it.

"Something's wrong," I mutter.

Lawson, just starting down the chain-link behind me, is too far away to hear the words. A soft humming rises in the air, vibrating my sneakers.

He hears that. "Go! Go!"

He should be climbing back over the way he came. He probably has time. My weight shifts—toward the second wall, back to the first. I'm right in the middle. And Lawson keeps advancing.

"Go back!" I shout, frozen between the rails.

Wind rides out ahead of the train, blowing leaves and dust. I turn for the second wall a moment before Lawson hits my back, smashing me against it. He must have jumped from quite high.

"Up, up, up," he pants.

The hum and the wind join into a rushing sound.

"Too late!" My lips move, but I can't hear my own shout.

We both hit the ground, on our bellies on the narrow strip of gravel between wall and track. All I can see of him are the soles of his boots. Then the train is rushing by, the air pressure trying to suck me toward the wheels. I dig my fingers into the throbbing earth even though, with my body weight spread out, the increased pressure of the moving air around the train probably can't lift me. It feels like it can.

I have the peculiar sense of watching myself from outside—from nowhere in particular, just apart. I could reach out and brush the train with my fingers. The temptation to do so is almost irresistible. Just to find out what it would be like.

Instead I press my chin into the grit, focusing on Lawson's boot soles.

By the time the final car rumbles past, I'm soaked with sweat and shivering. I suck in what feels like my first inhale since stepping onto the tracks. It takes a few more measured breaths to convince myself its safe to get up.

"Well." Lawson rolls onto his back. His eyebrows have climbed to his hairline. "Maybe we should go back now. I don't care to do that again."

"Yeah, me either. But someone's got to go, right? And we're halfway there."

I offer him a hand up, which he ignores, climbing to his feet unaided and dusting himself off. He nods his agreement, but as we start up the second wall I notice I'm still queasy.

We're almost to Three Street when Lawson motions me into an alley. "Wait here."

"What for?"

"I'm going to get us some different clothes."

"What? From where?"

He hitches his shirt, flashing the gun.

"Are you serious?"

He makes a lower-your-voice motion.

"No guns!" I whisper. "It hardly matters, anyway. I'm never going to pass." I duck my head around the corner.

There are a few passersby on Three Street, all wearing multi-colored hemp tunics, leggings woven from bamboo fiber, stuff like that.

"Hmm. Good point," Lawson says. "I'll get you a hat."

"Doesn't matter. I'll still look like an in-between."

"Don't worry about that." He pats my shoulder. "They've got a word for you here too. It's just not a very nice one. I'll be right back." He strides away before I can argue.

I lean against the wall and try to look like a GeeGee waiting for...I don't know what. A cleaner change of clothes? And not like a skulking genderless gang member from D-town. After a few minutes, a pulse hits, stealing my tension.

Lawson jogs back looking completely different—and just the same. He's ditched Real Dealer black and red in favor of GeeGee-wear. The farm boy demeanor I noticed when he first introduced himself is back full force. Even stronger than usual, actually. He could almost be on his way home from volunteering at a gardening center. His hands are dirty enough, but his clothes are too clean.

A pastel blue tank top displays his powerful shoulders. The light fabric, probably bamboo, hugs the planes of his chest. The fresh scratches on his arms from the barbwire look out of place.

He catches me staring and shifts his feet, then stretches his arms over his head, muscles cording. The shirt rides up, exposing the tanned skin between his hipbones. Gray drawstring pants hang low on his narrow hips. My fingers flutter in the air, remembering the way his abs flexed when I unbuttoned his jeans.

He smiles and walks to the corner to keep watch, pulling on a pair of gloves as he goes. I scramble out of my torn clothes and into the slacks, top, and knit cap he stole for me. The outfit makes me look like I'm headed to a Three Street yoga class, but at least I'm not bleeding too badly from the barbwire. My skin feels filthy, but oh well. I look good—and that's the pulse talking. I mop my face once more with the rag of my old shirt before stuffing it and my jeans into the crack between two walls.

"My ass is on full display in these pants," I say. "Is that why you picked them?"

Lawson twists his hips to show me that his are as tight and raises a brow.

I smirk. "In that case, lead the way. Where to now? You gonna steal us those little cars?"

"No cars. We're taking the bus." Lawson links his arm through mine and tugs me out of the alley.

We merge into the sparse foot traffic on the sidewalk.

"With what?"

"Got these too." He palms me a transit pass.

I pocket it, and we stroll along, our feet stepping in sync.

The bus door jerks open, and frigid air blasts in. Clouds have descended during the ride, and I shiver as I follow Lawson down the steps. He's different than usual, sliding among the enemy like a shark in dolphin's clothing, and I almost miss the violent, on-edge guy I'm familiar with. Must be the pulse again, disconnecting me from my emotional center, making the bad seem better.

Just like Mara. Just like Lawson.

A handful of GeeGee disembark with us, chattering among themselves about the latest in hydroponic-at-home-veggie-gardens and low-maintenance-compost-systems. Lawson and I hang back, letting them get ahead.

The houses here are green retrofits. Old-world-style mansions turned community homes. There hasn't been a moment of privacy since the alley for me to ask Lawson his plan, but now that we're here I'm sure I don't want to know. But I don't want to argue, either, not after last night.

I stamp my feet to warm them. "Looks like snow."

"Yeah. I wish the guards on the Boundary would freeze out."

"It never sticks."

"I know." Lawson's muscles are tensed against the cold, making them visible even as the GeeGee fabrics make him seem softer.

We start down the sidewalk. The buildings loom, full of peace-loving GeeGee citizens, not guards, and words press against the back of my teeth. No guns. No threats.

"No violence," I blurt.

Lawson's steps falter, one hand checking the small of his back even as he says, "Don't worry, I never need violence out here."

Tension flows away. I smile; he smiles.

The next thing I know, we're kissing. His hands slip into my back pockets; mine twist in the hair at the base of his skull. My whole body remembers last night, wants it to happen again, and who cares about the weather or the clothing in the way. Our hips dip and circle, building friction, seeking an escape from the cold. Until the snarl that was in my stomach all morning, muted by the effects of the pulse, pops back to the surface of my awareness.

I stiffen.

"Okay?" Lawson asks after a second, more of a movement of his lips against mine than a spoken word.

I nod, trying to pin down what's bothering me. Lawson eases back, and we stand sharing breath. The calm from the pulse is like a fluffy purple cloud, obscuring the feeling twisting beneath it, but it's something like...

"Don't take me for granted," I murmur.

"Huh?"

"I don't know. I just...I don't know. It's like, for me, life isn't great. I mean, it's up to me to make the best of it, but—" I pluck at his shirt. "—things come so easy to you. It's like, for me you're this amazing blessing, and for you I'm just one more good thing."

"It's not like that." Again that look, like he's promising...what?

"You...two want to come inside?" a femme voice intrudes.

Lawson and I jump apart, adjusting our stolen clothes. I half expect the grownup to panic like the kid at the outhouse, but she just smiles. Like inviting strangers inside is normal. Here, it probably is.

There's a twinge in my chest. Wouldn't it be nice to live in a world like this, where everyone is a friend? The A guy's voice filters back to me. You're just like them.

But I'm not. I know the difference between the way things seem to be and the way they are.

"I have hot cocoa." The stranger's blue eyes say she's old in D-town years; she's seen more than her unlined face would suggest. She wears a colorful scarf and a knit hat like the one Lawson got me. "My name is Bekah."

"Blessings of the cycle," Lawson says.

The GeeGee greeting takes me by surprise, coming out of his mouth, and my foot slips on the frosty sidewalk.

He catches my hand, steadying me. His gloved fingers warm mine. "Your hospitality is most welcome, Bekah. I'm Lawson and this—" He lifts our linked hands. "—is Aidan."

"Well met." She looks at me for a second, then turns up the walkway. "Come on."

"What are we doing?" I whisper to Lawson.

"Supply run."

I dig in my heels. "Lawson, no."

But he's already striding forward, leaving me with the choice of releasing his hand or keeping up. I hold tight.

"Blessings of the cycle, and welcome to my home." Bekah ushers us into a tidy coatroom, shuts the door and unwinds the scarf from her neck. "Phew. What were you doing outside?" She rubs her arms. Like most GeeGee, when confronted by someone like me who doesn't fit into their yin-yang, Bekah focuses on Lawson, angling her shoulders away from me like she's trying to block me out.

Or maybe it's just that Lawson, loose-shouldered and smiling, seems friendlier than I do with my arms plastered to my sides. I try to relax.

"Well, we were going to go camping." Lawson pulls a face. "I know, the cold snap, but we've been planning it for weeks. But this one's little brother—" He bumps me with his shoulder, then his eyes widen as he realizes what he's said, but he's good at this; he keeps talking. "—got into our supplies and you know how kids are. All our camping rations, out of their wrappers. It was just a mess. We decided to take a car, head to the supply depot, but all ours are out. I guess someone knew about the weather. Anyway, we went for the bus. We live just over there—" He gestures southeast. "—but everything took so long, and it was getting cold, and well, then you found us."

"Are you sure you still want to go camping?"

"Oh yes," Lawson says. "We have a really good tent."

She nods. "What all do you need?"

"Pardon me?" he asks.

"For your camping trip. What do you need?"

No. It cannot possibly be that easy. No!

But apparently it is that easy, at least for Lawson, because Bekah's already ducking through the beaded curtain at the far side of the coatroom, beckoning.

"The cellar's just this way."

"I figured it out," I say as Lawson and I walk back to the bus stop, carrying canvas sacks full of lightweight, high-nutrition food. I've fallen a few steps behind. "They want to kill us with kindness."

I've got one bag of supplies and he's lugging two, but still we barely put a dent in Bekah's cellar. That place was crammed with non-perishable food as if in preparation for complete civilization meltdown. I've never been inside a community house before, but the stash seemed excessive.

I guess the quake left a mark on GeeGee minds and hearts too, even if they feel like everything's fine.

"Who?" Lawson asks.

"The GeeGee kids with the pamphlets."

Lawson stops walking in front of me, blocking the sidewalk. "How so?"

"They're hoping we'll learn the error of our ways and join them."

"And have you? Learned the error of your ways?"

I'm looking at his back, so I don't know what he's thinking.

"I won't," I say. "You?"

He sets out again with a long stride, and I still can't see his face as I follow.

"I'm with you," he says.

Then we're off for D-town, the shadow of the Boundary looming in my mind. I wish we could skip it and just be home, but the A have a saying for that.

If wishes were guns, we'd rule the world.

The first thing Lawson does when we reach the Boundary is yank off his gloves. He drops them and reaches for me, crushing our lips together. We stumble against the wall. It's different now that we've gone all the way. A steeper slope, a faster fall. There's no memory of dropping my supplies, but that must have happened because I squeeze his ass with both hands, kissing along his jaw. After this morning's close call with the train, being back at the tracks makes me frantic. I slip my hand down Lawson's pants, and he gasps.

"Cold!"

"Oops." I tuck my chill fingers against my neck to warm them.

"Not here...now. I can't look out for us."

"Right." I step back and try to get myself together, focusing on the faint beat from the New Dance. "I'll go up first, and you can hand me the food?"

"Yup."

That one word fills me up, and my skin breaks out in gooseflesh. He trusts me with his food.

Lawson spots me while I scramble up, then passes me the sacks one by one. I hold onto the chain-link with one hand, the weight of all the supplies dragging on my other arm, while he scurries up, over the barbwire, and down to the tracks. Then I lower each bag into his outstretched hands, and he catches and sets it aside.

He spots me again, while I climb down. I'm getting better at this, and for fun I drop the last few feet, letting him catch me around the waist. The first snowflakes I notice in the fading light are the ones clinging to his eyelashes as the wind rises.

I look both ways, but there are no trains, yet. Just the incoming storm.

The flakes fall harder as we repeat the process on the second wall. The bricks shelter the lower portion, but at the chain-link the wind slants in, driving wet snow. My fingers and the soles of my shoes slide repeatedly off slick metal and my hands cramp with cold.

At the top, Lawson stops and reaches for my bag. "It's getting dark. You go ahead."

"Come on," I say. "Hurry up."

He lifts the bag from my aching fingers and, not wanting to waste more time, I go ahead and let him help me over into D-town. He's lowering the last sack to me when the hum starts.

"Hurry!" I yell.

He looks painfully exposed up there, balanced above the tracks, clinging to wet metal. He lets go of the food, but I miss the catch, too busy focusing on him as he swings a leg up to the top of the chain-link. The canvas sack hits beside me, spilling its contents over my feet as barbwire catches the leg of his jeans.

He panics, yanking at it. I try to calculate whether his body weight and the air pressure around the speeding train will combine to break his grip on the slippery chain-link. I don't know the math for that. All I know is how it felt to lie beside the tracks, the bone deep sense that if I moved I might be swept away.

And Lawson hates being out of control even more than I do.

"Don't worry, just hang on." Of course, I sound petrified.

He continues to struggle. With a last downward jerk of his leg, his jeans tear free of the barbwire.

He's used too much force. He falls toward the tracks.

"Lawson!"

An audible smack, followed by a groan. I've backed up to see him above me, and now I rush the wall.

"Lawson!" I fly up the wall until my fingers twist in the chain-link, and my chin tops the bricks.

He's lying on his back on the tracks, a paler shadow against the rails and gravel.

I grasp the links in front of me. "Get up!"

But he doesn't. He must not be able to. It's too dark to tell if he's even trying to get away. Too dark to lock eyes, but it still feels like we do as the hum of the oncoming train turns to wind and Lawson shouts his death cry.

"Mama!"

23. SMEAR

A metallic shriek fills the air. My head turns toward the sound. That first glimpse is of nothing but shadow play, a yellow light outlining a sprinting shadow. Someone trying to outrun the sun.

Then images snap into focus. The blinding headlight of the train barreling forward. A person running out in front, legs and arms pumping, blaster protruding over one shoulder; the unmistakable outline of a GeeGee guard sprinting from the railway crossing.

In the glare, the guard's uniform looks commander-black. So I imagine it's the Captain racing toward Lawson, risking life and limb to yank him off the tracks. A silent explosion goes off in the center of my chest, like my heart breaking all the way open, violently.

Heat floods outward from my heart to my limbs as the brakes squeal, metal on metal. The engineer has spotted the guard, is trying to stop the train. From up here the outcome is already clear. It's too late.

The Captain is fast, so fast, but it looks like she runs in slow motion as the train closes in. The whistle screams again and again. The overwhelming brightness of the headlight eclipses her and, an instant later, Lawson, erasing them from sight.

My throat closes.

One last note on the whistle, then the train is rushing by like floodwater.

In the next cruel, windy minutes, there's time to pretend that Lawson dragged himself up and out of the way, that he escaped both the train and the GeeGee.

Please, please, please.

I squint into the lightening-fast spaces between train cars, hoping for a glimpse of him sprawled in the gravel beside the tracks. It's like trying to notice the gaps between my breaths. Impossible. I catch glimpses of motion beyond the train only to be sure I imagined them.

I press my forehead to the metal links, and I don't care about the future. Whether Lawson is mine. Whether the Bees kick me out. If the GeeGee tears down the New Dance. If D-town falls, and we're all assimilated.

Just let him be alive.

The train passes on, leaving me teetering on the edge of an emotional cliff. Don't look down.

I do, and there are no bodies on the tracks. Conflicting sensations boil through me, blurring my vision and weakening my grip on the chain-link.

What happened to him?

I hate the night because it won't let me see if there's a smear of gore on the tracks. Not that I want to, but I need the finality. I have to know if Lawson and the Captain are both dead. If she survived and took his body. Or if she managed to pull him from the tracks in time to save him.

I slide back to the ground and sit against the Boundary with my arms around my knees all through the dark. When the sun rises, casting a pink, then orange glow over the broken edifices of D-town, I begin to climb.

I've seen blood. People beaten to a pulp. Death. Even guts—my last memory of Jane surfaces, from just after the earthquake, right before I ran. The toes of my wet sneakers slip from a notch between the bricks, and my numb fingertips lose their grip on the wall, leaving skin behind. I can't do this without Lawson to boost me.

But I have no choice. I attack the Boundary again. It's slow going and peels more skin off my fingers, but I reach the links and pull my head above the top layer of bricks.

The veil of dawn lifts, exposing the tracks. No smear.

My heart pounds. The train didn't get him.

So the Captain did.

I tremble, fingers weaving through the chain-link as I gaze across the Boundary to Three Street. No one talks about it, but we all know. You get older and older and then one day you go on a supply run and never come back. D-towners don't grow up; we go missing.

We don't even leave a smear behind.

I picture how it must have happened for Lawson. The Captain, expression grim, yanked him off the tracks at the last moment. Instead of sheltering with him in the gravel, she slung him over her shoulder in a fireman's lift, trusting GeeGee medicine to heal his broken back. She must have ignored her own fear, if she felt any, as she carried him beside the speeding train. She wanted that badly to capture him alive.

She must plan to torture him for information.

I half climb, half fall down the wall, and my feet run away with me, toward the opening in the Boundary.

"Hey!" I shout. "GeeGee! Hey! Take me, instead."

No answer.

I make the opening, turn into it and skid to a stop on my side of the tracks, filling my lungs to yell again.

Someone beats me to it. "You!"

I turn and find myself facing a group of Real Dealers and A. Black jeans; blue denim. White shirts; red shirts. Tattooed knuckles; red anarchy symbols. Side-by-side, like in the early days, before the anarchist tribe split in two.

The round-faced A stands out front, next to the brawny Real Dealer who introduced Lawson to be punished for breaking the Second Consensus. Xavier—the Real Dealer's name floats up from somewhere. And for some reason in that moment it hits me that my stolen clothes are damp, and my jaw aches from clenching, and snow dusts the ground.

And I probably have hypothermia, because I don't give a shit.

"Where's Lawson?" Xavier demands.

I shake my head. That Guy's name brings shards of ice to my throat. I couldn't speak even if I wanted to.

The anarchists crowd closer, enveloping me. They're warm, so warm. I all but cuddle Xavier, trying to soak up his body heat, and my eyelids droop.

"Where's Lawson?" he asks again. "Is he one of them?"

"One of who?" I mumble.

"The traitors."

That rouses me. They know.

Somehow news of the spies has spread. Something went down while Lawson and I were away. I clench my teeth, blocking my tongue before it can flick out over my lips. Now would be a very bad time to look nervous.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

Either that's the wrong thing to say or I never had a hope. With the A here, it's probably door number two. The round-faced guy jabs his fist into my middle, rolls back casually on his heel, and strikes me in the mouth.

"Traitor!"

The word pains me more than the blows to my already-numb body. Faces swim as I drag air into lungs like lead balloons. A foot stomps on the back of my knee, and I drift to concrete.

I've been knocked out enough times that I never wake wondering where I am. I always assume I'm lying in the street in so much of my own blood that even my fellow Bees won't touch me. So if I wake in my own bed at the Ashram, or in a pile of kids at The Dance, it's a pleasant surprise.

This isn't.

The wet plants under my cheek, so much softer than concrete, mean I'm in the worst part of D-town. The Arena is the only place where anything grows. It's also the only place where D-towners kill each other on purpose. Here, where Old-worlders once played sports, D-towners punish the worst criminals. Like rapists and, apparently, traitors.

My lungs shrink. Each sip of air gets spit right back out, until my vision turns grainy. I'm not a traitor. I don't want to die a traitor's death.

Someone screams.

Again, rather. Someone screams again, because it was a cry that woke me. I remember now. I struggle to sit, blinking blurry eyes, but it's like moving through sludge, and my hands won't cooperate.

Manacles bite into my wrists, pinning them together behind my back. The chains holding me are Bee chains because, a few feet in front, connected to me by metal links, rests the shackle the GeeGee cut off of me two days ago. The sun is up full force. Yesterday's cold snap—was that just yesterday?—could have been a figment. If only....

No! I can't think about That Guy right now.

I tune in to my body. Sweat slicks my skin, and mud sticks to that. I itch, but I'm not going to die of hypothermia. Unfortunately. Hypothermia would be a better way to go.

Stop. Whatever you do, do not think about the last time you were in the Arena.

So of course memory bubbles up to splatter across my inner eye.

Everyone younger. Sam clung to Kylie, beside me in the stands. The Real Dealers and A were still one tribe, the Anarchists. Xavier's pit bull terrier, never quite right after the earthquake, stood in the field, jowls dripping blood.

Stop!

I wrestle my mind back to the present and lift my head. The retractable glass roof remains stuck partway open, letting in precipitation, while still creating a mini greenhouse effect. No wonder the GeeGee wants to fix the dome and turn this into a massive bee farm. It's even round already.

Across the expanse of greenery and garbage, a good chunk of the population of D-town crowds into the stadium seats with the best view of...Bloody shit.

Lawson's sibling.

I know this scene all too well—a kid in the middle, tormentors all around—but usually it's me or another Bee at the mercy of the A. This time, Real Dealers surround Lawson's sibling. There are no Bees in the stands at all. Of course not, Bees don't watch stuff like this for entertainment. Another anguished wail, and somehow I'm on my feet, lunging to the limit of the chain.

"Stop!" My voice croaks. "No."

A shadow moves in the weeds. Click, a gun hammer draws back. Sun-heated metal presses into the hollow below my left ear.

"G-spot," a familiar voice accuses.

My eyes cut to the left, giving me a glimpse of red and black. "Lin?"

"Tell me who the other traitors are, and we'll let Tab go."

As if in emphasis, Tab screams again. I can't help it; I try to separate my hands. Metal cuts into my skin. The bitch of it is that I know who the spies are. I could put a stop to this right now. Lawson would, without hesitation, to spare me. But then I'd be responsible for the suffering, probably death, of four more people. I have to try to find another way.

"What's going on? Why do you think I'm a traitor?"

Lin presses the gun harder. "Not think. Know. We found your stash."

Huh?

"Don't play games."

"Lin, I really have no idea what you're talking about." I flinch at the sounds coming from the other side of the field. "Please let Tab go, and we'll talk."

"We're talking now."

"Fine, okay. What stash?"

The gun eases back from my jaw, and I flinch, expecting a blow to the side of the face, but instead Lin jerks my bound wrists, spinning me to face the other way.

Bloody shit.

There in the grass rests a mound of GeeGee military issue weaponry. Blasters, handguns, knives, and various explosives. Three anti-blaster vests. A little bag just like the sack of earbuds the Love Child femme had that day in the alley.

My scalp prickles. Lawson must have taken that from her the night he beat up Dart. Did he hurt her? Threaten her? Make out with her again? I really need to get my priorities in order if I'm worrying about that right now.

"See," Lin says. "We know. You, the kid, Lawson—all traitors." The bitterness with which she speaks his name says it all.

She doesn't give a shit about me, but Lawson being a traitor? She can't live with that. If she thought about it calmly for half a second, she'd realize how Lawson it is to have all this stuff. He's magnetic, things practically fall into his lap, but he trusts himself a thousand times more than he trusts anyone else. He feels secure having all this, but he'd never just pass it around without some control over its use. His sense of responsibility is too strong for that. And now he's just screwed us over.

Because there's a chance I can get Lin to stop and think, but the kids in the bleachers, bouncing in their seats and waving arms as they jeer, are hot for blood. The Real Dealers terrorizing Tab are just as obviously beyond reason. They can't bear the idea of Lawson's betrayal any more than Lin can.

There's only one thing I can say right now to help Tab. The one thing they'll all want to believe, because it means Lawson is innocent, explains our romance, and still leaves them with a target.

I wet my mouth and enjoy how relatively good my body feels in this moment, then I speak. "It's mine."

The muzzle of the gun presses against my temple, daring me to say it again.

I fill my lungs. "It's all mine," I holler, so I'll be heard across the Arena. "I'm the spy!"

It's almost too easy. The Real Dealers turn, Tab all but forgotten. That one can't be much sport, anyway—all that screaming, without even having to work for it.

Lawson's tribe heads toward me.

"I know what you're doing," Lin hisses.

"What else was I supposed to do? You know Lawson's not a spy!"

Her eyes widen. "Where is he?"

But it's too late. The Real Dealers are almost here, and the rest of D-town pours out of the bleachers. The Love Child femme hangs back, and our gazes lock across the field. I think in that moment she knows that I know she's a spy.

"Protect Tab," I whisper to Lin.

Lin nods, shoves her hands in her pockets and stares at me, then turns away.

After a step, she turns back, yanks something out of her jeans, and leans close to drop the object into my pocket. Not that I can get at whatever it is with my hands bound, and she must realize this, because she grimaces as she jogs away.

The advancing D-towners part around her. Then they're on me.

Pain blossoms everywhere, catapulting me out of sensation into thought. The thing with beatings is that if they get too angry, too many blows land too fast, and it's over "too soon." So most attackers prefer to hold back a little, to stretch the beating out.

But this is a mob. Mobs don't savor; they rampage.

24. SCAR

Lawson—

The softness of the bed gives it away; D-town is gone. Like a dream of too-thin fingers on my fly and Aidan's voice. They're trying to kill us with kindness. My confession so ready on my lips, Aidan must taste it in that last desperate kiss outside the Boundary. I belong out here; you could belong here with me. Waking up falling into no-man's land between the fences. The instant between error and impact leaving room for only one thought: this is good-bye, a voiceless plunge with too many things left unsaid.

Not a dream after all. A nightmare.

I'm awake now. D-town was harsh and wild and in my face, but never kind like bamboo sheets sliding against my skin as I roll over, or try to. The pressure of a hand between my shoulder blades holds me pinned facedown to the bed.

The only softness in D-town was Aidan. Nothing has ever been clearer as GG tenderness envelops me again. I may have gone in gentle, but I came back hardened. I haven't had a good night's sleep since I crossed the tracks. It seems that if I move, the world of my childhood will catch on my jagged edges and tear wide open.

That won't be a risk for long. A headset already provides my very own continuous stream of calm and happy. The fact that I'm thinking like this means I'm seriously injured, and my body is directing all available joy hormones toward pain reduction. For now.

I slowly turn my head, nearly dislodging one of the earphones against the fluffy pillow.

"No, don't. Your spine is healing." She's there, standing over my hospital bed, in her usual black fatigues and thermal shirt with the bulletproof vest over top. She still wears her hair like I used to wear mine. Too neat, no personality. In the last couple years the worry lines around her mouth have deepened enough to hold shadows. Under-eye circles dark as shiners say I'm not the only one who hasn't been sleeping.

Captain Mom hasn't been getting much rest either, but then she sleeps in a room insulated from the pulses. All the military commanders do. The Soldier's Sacrifice, they call it.

There's a red mark over her cheekbone. Not quite a bruise, not yet, but it will be. I did that, when she brought me in and the healers tried to put the earphones on me. I fought; that hardly makes sense now.

The lead healer murmured about the parasympathetic nervous system and gene activation and lowering inflammation, while Mama shouted about vertebra until her voice grew shrill. She finally wrenched my arm behind my back—"You may not value your spine, Lawson, but I do."—and sat on my legs while the healers got the big, pillowy headphones over my ears. Then everything went blank.

After that there must have been medical tests, but blessedly I slept through those. Too bad I can't sleep through the reunion with my mother. I let my eyes fall closed anyway.

"Thanks, Captain," I croak.

"Don't—don't you ever—"

The pressure on my back lifts away and hot breath puffs against my cheek. She's obviously not going to let me rest until I face her, so I open my eyes in a squint. She's leaning close. I could be staring into my own hazel eyes, narrowed against me.

My gaze jumps to my mother's hands. Her grip on the bedrail mottles her thick knuckles white and red. My right arm trails IV lines as I wriggle my hand up to the side of my face. No doubt I'm being pumped full of amino acids and anti-inflammatory enzymes.

"You seem a little tense." I lift the headset away from one ear. "Want to share my earphones?"

Mama's hand closes around my wrist, pushing it back down. The pads of her fingers are at least as callused as mine. "Don't."

I let my arm sink back to the pillow, our fingers brushing as my hand falls. She folds her arms over the bedrail and collapses forward for a minute.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I wish I'd never sent you in. But you're done, Law. You did your job. We're bringing them in."

I blink up at her square-jawed face. She doesn't look sorry; she looks like my mother. Mama used to be the hardest thing in my world, but that was before D-town.

Through the gap between bedrail and green sheets, there's a view of cork floor and even greener wall, curving inward. The headset cord spans the gap between bed and wall to plug into a rubberized box. Mama's hand is edging that way.

I push up onto my elbows. "Wait—"

But she's already twisting the dial on the box. My abdominal muscles go slack, and my hips drop to the bed. Pain lances through my spine. My face hits the pillow. I groan, eyes squeezing shut as sweat breaks over my skin.

"No, don't. Please."

Her fingers pause on the dial. "You're asking me to sit here and watch my only son suffer?"

I inhale and exhale through my nose. "Yes." Then stronger, "Yes, that's what I'm asking, and I actually know what that's like."

She hesitates, then twists the dial hard.

"Well I'm sorry, but I can't do that." She sinks back down to the chair by the bed. A moment later her fingers stroke down my spine. "I know you're hiding something, and I need to know what it is. Tell me, Lawson."

The scent of lavender mixes with the thrum from the headset. My eyes close. Skin and muscle and bone melt away until I am mist floating on a cloud. I must have a mouth though, because words fall out of it.

"I'm having doubts," I say.

She sucks in a breath. "Tell me."

"I think we should leave them alone." I pause to breathe. Air whispers in and out of my nose. "And I think—I feel like you can't win them over."

"There are a lot of things you would be feeling, if not for those earphones," she mutters, and when I shift against the bed, "Shh. You're okay. Go on."

"You might have to kill them all to bring them in. And if not...if not..." Words are slippery things. There's a sense, so beautiful it will cut me if I take hold. I let it go. The edge melts away, leaving only a thought I can't quite feel. "If they give up, something precious will be lost."

"Precious." She pauses for an eternity or an instant, while I drift, lost in the safety of soft sheets and closed eyes with no one to protect, until she asks, "Are you really thinking about going back in? After you disappeared like this? They'll tear you to pieces, afraid we've put a bomb inside you or something. You're a monster to them, or have you forgotten?"

A monster? Am I really?

"They won't touch me," I say, picturing the way Aidan cringed back against the blood-spattered concrete, the first time we spoke. "Too many of them owe me too much."

"You don't understand human nature very well." Mama's voice intrudes, dissolving the image of Aidan. I know the Captain well enough to imagine her shaking her head.

"I understand D-town," I say.

"Fine, but do you understand yourself?" There's an edge to her voice now.

My lips curve up, a private joke. "No, but I know there's a reason D-town exists. It's for those who don't belong in our world. There has to be a place for the people who don't belong, or else they'll tear it down, the whole thing, the way we took out the old governments, the way you're destroying their heartbeat."

She lets that sit for a warm while, then asks. "Is that all that's been bothering you?"

"Yes...no...I want to come home. I want to bring Tab, and—and—and Lin. But I'm afraid I won't fit in here anymore."

Mama has been stroking my back this whole time. Now her hand stills. Darkness shifts behind my eyelids.

"You're thinking that way because you imagine D-town is an option. It's not. We're taking it down."

"What if you could stop the plan?" The blackness deepens like the bottom of a hole falling farther and farther away. "What if you had the power?"

"I don't."

"Yeah," I mumble. "Know that. But just pretend."

"Well then I might consider it, for you," she lies, soothingly. Her fingers stroke my spine again. "Now, what else do you need to tell me?"

I snuggle into the sheets, the last bit of tension bleeding away. "They're already evolving beyond us. The Bees...you should see Aidan, so amazing. The Bees can resist pulses, you know. You're not going to be able to co-opt them all."

When she speaks again it jerks me half out of a dream of Aidan's slender fingers on my back, no shirt in the way.

"Can you help me?" asks the Captain. "If I send you back in?"

"Yeah." My lips barely move. "Yeah, I can."

"Okay, I'll send you back. Don't make me regret it," she says, and even darkness fades.

In the dream, I remember. Leaving for D-town the first time should be a major deal, but in the end it's just the Captain and me tucked into an alley a few streets from the train tracks. I can't allow myself to think of her as Mama anymore. As soon as I cross the Boundary she's just a GG, like all the rest, and I'm something, someone different. My stomach swirls with...not butterflies. A more deadly kind of insect. Bees, maybe?

It's like being on the way to meet a person I've heard a lot about—myself. Will we like each other?

The Captain checks me over and wipes extra mud on my shirt. Twice before we left the training center she made me change out of my jeans and into a fresh pair because the rips in the knees weren't "authentic" enough. Now she fingers the tears again.

"This is ridiculous." She's been saying odd things like this all night. "Damn scientists."

"Dad was a scientist," I say, which is a mistake. She glares, until I mutter, "My dad was a scientist."

She attacks my pre-scuffed boots with the piece of sandpaper in her hand and speaks so softly, even though no one's around, that I have to stoop to hear.

"Some last minute orders. First, keep an eye on Laura. If the civil leadership gives side orders and try to leave me out of the loop, you can bet they'll go through her. Both her parents are in the inner circle."

I know. Everybody knows that. Everyone who knows about this project is amazed that Laura was allowed to come at all, even with her own personal bodyguard also joining the Love Childs.

"If anything happens to Laura, the government will pull the plug on this whole operation, and why do I even care?" The Captain scrubs a hand over her face, hopefully not the hand with the sandpaper. "We should end the threat one way or another, not study it. Bloody scientists."

Never has my mother lost control of her tongue in front of me. She's always parceled out information like, well, like a military commander. Now, in her agitation, buried doubts spill out, threatening to infect me. The unfair timing makes me want to cover my ears and shout, Too much information! But I'm caught by the desperation in her voice.

"Damn activists were never meant to lead. There might be a decision that has to be made in a second and they'll gab about it for days. I'm counting on you to watch for any proof that D-town is a threat and tell me right away so I can move things along. Your handler, Hansen, reports directly to me. Do you understand?"

I nod.

"The civil leaders want to save these kids, and they want to make it look good. They want a full-fledged on camera conversion. The FOLM kids realize the error of their parents's ways, blah, blah, blah. Nothing else will do. And the scientists! All they care about is anthropological research. A once in a lifetime opportunity to study an independent society of teenagers. Your dad would have been all over it. We would have argued all night...well maybe not all night." She clears her throat.

"Listen up, soldier. This is why we're really going in—to keep the whole world safe and happy. If we can, we'll bring those kids home. Otherwise..."

When I wake, I'm better. Better than better. I feel delicious. I roll over, stretching. I'm on my back with my arms over my head when I remember the fall. I freeze, then experimentally draw my shoulder blades together and lift my hips off the bed. No pain.

I fell, so I must have landed—that must have hurt—but now I'm better, and I don't want to think about it. Something else happened, though. Mama was here?

"Morning, grumpy face." A man wearing green scrubs leans over me and taps my scrunched up forehead. He's got Love Child eyes with laugh lines around them. "Just past morning," he clarifies. "I bet you're starving. I.V.s don't satisfy the stomach."

He ducks out of sight, the smell of fresh bread wafts over, and then he's back with a triple-decker sandwich in one hand and a machine gun in the other. He holds the weapon by the strap as if it might go off by accident, even though the safety mechanism is quite clearly engaged, and props it against the base of the bed as soon as he possibly can. He shoves the sandwich into my hands at the same time I reach for it.

Stacked veggies with sprouts and sauce. Fresh tomato, cucumber, and salt. I close my eyes as my teeth shear through the layers.

"Hair's–ama?" I ask around the food. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. "I mean, the Captain."

"Back on duty, but she left strict instructions to get you back onto the field immediately. At your request, she said." He sounds doubtful about the sanity of anyone who would make such a request. "Here, look at this."

He reaches for my shirt. I'm still wearing my uptown outfit, now dirty and torn. I've probably been stripped and washed and dressed again, but the clothes haven't changed. Only my handgun is missing. The healer's civilized fingers look out of place against the torn blue fabric as he rolls the shirt up my stomach. My drawstring pants have slid down to show my hipbone. In the hollow next to it, there's a scar as long as my thumb.

"But GG medicine doesn't leave scars," I say.

"Almost never," he agrees. "It's for your cover. Give him a scar, she said. And make it a good one. Let them assume we planted a bomb inside him."

The healer's brows pinch together, but I understand Mama's motives. I asked her to send me back in. She assumes the D-towners will know I've been captured. She realizes at least some of them will get suspicious if I escape.

All it takes is one whisper that I'm GG. One hint and they'll drag me to the Arena.

So we give them a reason why the GG would capture me and then let me go. We give them a scar because, to D-towners, a scar will automatically mean a bomb. They already believe GG medicine is too good to be true.

Undercover 101: Play to people's fears.

Now, even if they guess the truth, they won't dare hurt me. They'll be too afraid I'll explode. Typical Captain Mom, keeping me safe by turning me into a weapon.

"I packed clay into the cut to create that effect," the healer says. "How do you like it?"

I must frown as I run my thumb over the raised purple line because he jumps to conclusions.

"You—don't like it." He stumbles over don't like, as if he doesn't understand the concept.

"No, it's fine. I guess it's just—" I shrug and roll down my shirt, but my hand lingers. The raised line is obvious even through the fabric. There's something about it... I take another bite of the sandwich and groan. "This—do you have any idea—this is the best bloody sandwich I've ever tasted."

He chuckles. "Well, I didn't make it, but I'll be sure to pass along the compliment. When hospital food's the best, I have to say, your volunteer work must be pretty rough." His gaze rests for a moment on my fingers.

I look down at my knuckles. Aside from a smear of sauce and juice from the tomato—oh, and the tattoos—they're clean. But not for long, because I'm going back. I grin and swallow the last bit of sandwich. "You could say that."

The healer glances around, then leans closer. "I heard some of what you said last night. You're one of the heroes bringing in those gang kids, aren't you?"

An uncomfortably large lump of bread creeps down my esophagus. What did I say last night?

"I'm not at liberty to discuss it." I end the conversation by standing up, bracing myself for a jarring shock in my spine when my heels hit the floor, but my joints and muscles line right up. Blessings, but I've missed GG medicine. The cushioned floors are damn nice too. I wipe my sandwich-smeared hands on the sheets, then grab the machine gun.

The healer visibly draws back.

"Thanks for everything," I say.

"Of course. There's a vehicle outside waiting to return you to...your undercover location."

There is indeed a car outside, a little green auto with the GG logo on the door and Sergeant Hansen at the wheel. He drops me off outside the Boundary, passes me his handgun without a word, and drives away like he's got an appointment with a sonic earbud. As I stick the gun in the top of my pants, my fingers twitch with the need to claw at the new scar.

There are scars like this all over Aidan.

Give him a scar, and make it a good one. It's a good thing I didn't hear my mother say that. It's obscene. And unnecessary in the worse way, because the only one who knows I've been taken is Aidan, who would never willingly endanger anyone. Not even a "spy" like me.

I sling the machine gun onto my back and take a running start at the fence. I'm going back in there, and this time I'm telling Aidan the truth.

25. BOMB

Aidan—

The mob hits in waves. So many kids they push and shove each other almost as often as they strike me. A storm of dirty fists and dirtier shoes attached to bodies belonging to faces I've seen over the Council table. Across The Dance. A few Lawson has made out with. Several I've bartered with. Many have beat me, or Sam, or Kylie.

My survival response kicks in, like it has only a couple times in the past. My heart squeezes, while I freeze, eyes wide, adrenaline ravaging me. I can't breathe, can't move my muscles. The sheer press of their bodies holds me upright.

Awareness narrows to a single point. That point is messy brown hair and hazel eyes. Lawson, always.

There's a gap in my attackers just as he races up from the dugout, and for that first, eternal moment I'm sure he's a mirage. He's dressed just the same as when I last saw him, but dirt-smeared and roughed-up. A machine gun hangs from his grip like an extension of his arm. Our gazes lock, and he stumbles.

He strides forward, grim, raising the gun.

Don't! Just one word, but my body won't let my lips part to shout it.

Lawson reaches centerfield unnoticed by anyone but me; Lin and Tab are nowhere in sight. He fires a spray of bullets into the ground and grit hits my cheek; that's how I know he's real.

Air rushes into my lungs, heat pulses through me, and sensation returns. Bloody shit, it hurts. My legs fold.

"What. The. Bang?" Lawson demands. "That's mine."

He means the supplies; I know he means the supplies, but for a second it sounds like he means me, and a thrill flutters across the physical agony, not lessening it, but making it irrelevant as the mob shifts its attention. D-towners glance back and forth, and Xavier separates himself from the crowd to face Lawson.

"Traitor," Xavier spits.

Lawson aims the gun at him. "Bang you. Prove it and fight me like a guy."

Xavier hesitates, then gestures to the supplies. "You didn't share with your tribe." He doesn't sound nearly as cocky as a second ago.

"So what? We're not bloody Love Childs. Everything that's mine isn't yours." Lawson's gaze cuts to me.

I try for a smile.

He frowns and hefts the gun. "Let my lover go. I've had a really bad day, and I'm not in the mood for this."

The two guys stare at each other for a long minute, gazes locked, weighing.

"That one confessed to being the spy," Xavier says peevishly.

Lawson's eyes narrow. "Aidan lied. I told you, the supplies are mine."

Finally Xavier nods. "We're taking the weapons."

Lawson shrugs. "Whatever, but the vests are mine."

Leave it to Lawson to negotiate at a time like this.

The rest of the crowd, obviously interpreting we to include them, breaks from around me to engulf the supplies, and within a few moments loud squabbles break out. Tribe leaders start shouting for order, and Xavier rushes off, declaring, "Those are Real Dealer supplies!"

I crawl toward Lawson, but in the next second he's in front of me, the gun dropping from his slack grip into the weeds beside us as he sinks to his knees.

"Hey, don't move, baby."

"I'm fine."

"Liar," he chides, wiping my cheek.

My wet cheek; I've been crying. Because of Tab's suffering? From the thrashing? Or is it seeing Lawson, alive and free, when I thought him lost?

His arms hover, open, just out of range. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay," he chants. Like he's trying to convince himself, more so than me.

I sink back on my heels and reach for his hand. "Only you," I croak.

He cradles my fingers.

"Only you could avoid death by train, get captured, and wind up with a machine gun to show for it. I want some of your luck."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. He stares at my face so hard, he must be refusing to look at the rest of me, so I don't glance down either. He releases my hand in order to pull off his GeeGee shirt and shift his handgun around to the front. Wince. I wish he wouldn't wear it there. Then he turns the shirt inside out and presses the fabric against my bleeding nose. I reach to take it from him, but he doesn't let go. We sit for a few minutes with our hands stacked together, while the other kids argue, haggle, and threaten.

Then Lawson asks in a tight voice, "You didn't tell anyone, did you?"

"Course not." With the shirt over my nose, the words come out nasal.

He sucks in a raw breath. His mouth opens, closes. His gaze flicks wildly over my face. His lips part again. Then his shoulders slump.

"Of course not," he echoes. His throat convulses. His eyes close for an instant before he fixes them on mine and leans closer. "They let me go, Aidan. I mean, I broke out, but it's like you said, it was too easy. I have a really bad feeling. I was unconscious for a while in there. They could have put something in me. A tracking chip? A microphone? Except it's not like they don't know where D-town is, and they already have spies." He pulls one hand from under mine and touches a raised scar on his abdomen.

My mind flashes back to the alley where we changed into the stolen clothes. That feels like a lifetime ago, but it was just yesterday. Lawson didn't have a scar then. He didn't even have a cut. Only GeeGee medicine heals that fast, and when he fell he landed on his back. There's no reason for him to have injured his stomach. He was one teenage boy against a whole army, and yet he's standing here alive with a machine gun.

"I have a really bad feeling," he repeats.

So do I.

"A bomb." The idea forms and flies off my tongue. I hear myself speak almost before I realize what I'm thinking, and then I inhale, like I can suck the words back in.

Hazel eyes give one slow blink.

"You're a living bomb," I whisper. "That has to be it."

He stares at me for a moment, then drops his face into his hands. His shoulders shake and I don't know if he's laughing or crying. Maybe both.

"Want me to stay away from you?" he asks, without lifting his head.

"No!" I touch his knee. "Come on. Putting my own safety first? Does that sound like me at all?"

"Not so much."

"Not so much." I reach out and slide a bloody finger under his chin, trying to tilt up his head.

He resists.

"And don't even think what you're thinking right now," I continue.

The flow of blood from my nose has stopped, so I lower the shirt. Without meeting my eyes, Lawson pulls it out of my grip and lays it out on the ground to dry.

"What would that be, then?" he asks.

"That you should stay away from me to keep me safe."

He looks up. "Aidan, if I could stay away from you, don't you think I would have made that choice a long time ago."

My lips part. I'm going to kiss him; just as soon as I convince my aching body to move, I'm going to throw myself at him and knock him back into the weeds. His gaze releases mine, and his eyes rove lower, to my mouth, I think, and down. He squeezes his eyes shut.

"I'm going to kill bloody Xavier." He opens his eyes again, keeping them fixed on mine, and grits his teeth. "Maybe all of them. Where's Tab?"

Oh, crap. He already wants to kill people, and if I tell him what happened...but Tab will tell him, and then he'll be mad at me for keeping it from him...Oh, hell, hopefully he'll have calmed...down...by...then.

My thoughts stutter to a stop because I've looked down at myself. My GeeGee shirt is shredded, sticky with dirt-encrusted blood. My pants aren't in much better condition and wherever skin shows bruises and welts are forming. It looks bad; in a few hours it will look worse, and all I can think is that the beating must have lasted only a minute before Lawson arrived. Time must have slowed for me. That's the only explanation for the fact that nothing is broken. Of course, I might have internal bleeding; can't see that, but—

"Where's Tab?"

Crap, again. I've hesitated too long.

"I asked Lin to take Tab away," I hedge, touching one of the bruises on my thigh. It doesn't feel any different than any other bruise.

"Aidan," Lawson asks, "what aren't you telling me?"

"We'll take those," a deep voice interrupts.

Lawson stumbles to his feet, putting himself between the speaker and me, but there's only one of him and about twenty GeeGee guards fanned out around us with blasters raised and heavy-duty muffs over their ears. They should never have been able to sneak up on us in this wide-open space, but no one was paying attention and this time the guards are wearing GeeGee green. Ironic that they should find us here in the only part of D-town where that color would blend in.

There's a mad scramble for weapons on our side, and the hair on the back of Lawson's head shivers but, miraculously, he remains in front of me while one of the guards steps out of line and plucks the discarded automatic weapon out of the weeds.

"Stop," the lead guard commands. Not the Captain this time, but an unfamiliar guy. He trains his blaster on Xavier.

About half of the kids freeze. A quarter of them drop the weapons they're holding. Xavier and a few others keep methodically loading ammunition into guns. Lawson's body collides with mine, and I cry out as he presses me into the earth. All I can see is his stubbly cheek as the muscles in his body go rigid. The muscle in his jaw stands out under pale skin, and a groan slips between his teeth. Then he relaxes on top of me, gasping.

The hard line of the gun presses against my stomach, where I'd rather feel something else. Hot pain spreads through my guts from the warning blast. If I have internal bleeding, the GeeGee just made it worse. Lawson braces his hands on either side of my head and lifts his weight off me.

"Don't move," a guard orders.

I can't see, but I have a feeling there's still a blaster aimed at Lawson, so I lie absolutely still.

"Back away from the weapons," the lead guard says from farther away. "Slowly."

Sounds of motion ensue.

Lawson's arms begin to shake with the effort of holding himself off me. I ever so slowly lift my hand and rest my fingertips against the taught skin of his stomach, trying to give him strength. His eyes widen.

"What?" I mouth.

"I. Love. You."

"Love you more."

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again there is something in his gaze, something more than tears. Like if a person could cry blood, his would spill down his face.

My hand crawls up to his chest, so his heart beats against the pads of my fingers. "What is it?"

But he just shakes his head.

"This isn't D-town anymore," the lead guard's voice intrudes. "This is Recycling and Reproduction Area 4 of Urban Center 63."

He speaks so self-importantly, like what he says matters, that I almost expect the bomb inside Lawson to go off and kill us all right then, but the guards just gather the weapons and march away.

26. EXPLOSION

Concrete walls glisten with moisture, phosphorescent strains of mold, and graffiti that's tame compared with D-town art. The air in the subway tunnels feels dead, heavy with spores and other things that thrive in deep, wet places. I cough, and the sound echoes, joining the drip-drip-drip and ongoing hisssss of all the leaks down here.

"Shh," Lawson snaps.

I wrap my arms tighter around my aching ribs. He's been tense ever since the Arena. I told myself he was just worried about Tab, but now...

"What's wrong?" I whisper.

"Nothing."

"Are you mad at me?"

Drip, drip, drip. Drip—drip. Hissssss.

Before we left the Arena, he put his shirt back on. It seems that so much of my blood that close to his skin should bring as closer together but apparently not.

"Yes, I'm pissed," he finally says.

"Why?"

He whirls. In the dark, he's a moving shadow, blocking the way. "Because how am I supposed to believe you love me?"

I recoil. "What?"

"Everyone knows someone who can't love themself can't love you, and you obviously don't love yourself, and...Bang." He breaks off, breath rasping.

"Lawson, calm down. What makes you think I don't love myself?"

"You won't protect yourself!"

"G. Spot. It always comes down to that for you, doesn't it? I thought, I don't know, that we'd gotten past all your superiority crap. How dare you say that my religion means I don't love myself? I don't believe in violence. I don't believe in it. Believe me that if I did, you'd be the first to know!"

"It just makes no sense to me, okay?" Now he's the soothing one. "If you don't believe in violence, how can you let violence be done to you?"

"Now, that makes no sense."

"No?"

"No! I'm not responsible for the violence other people do, only what I do."

"Kay, whatever." His hands hover, palms out, in the darkness between us. "You win, okay? I just think you're too damn forgiving."

But I keep shouting; I can't stop. "Want to prove I don't love myself? Take a look at my relationship with you. You're a fundamentally violent person..."

"Relationship?"

"...Sam died as a direct result of your actions, and still all I could think about..." I choke up. "You were gone, and all I could think..."

"Are we in a relationship?"

"...I don't care about any of it, I just want to be with you! So you're right, I am too forgiving. Yes, we're in a bloody relationship!" I stand, chest heaving, hands clenched at my sides.

Lawson lunges, and his hands curl around my biceps. I sway forward, and our mouths collide. He inhales sharply, parting his lips, and my tongue finds his.

"I'm sorry," he gasps against my mouth. "Seeing you like that. I thought...I thought..."

"I know, me too. When you fell...the train...you..." My fingers grasp his hair, holding his face to mine, as a strangled sound rips out of me.

He breaks away. "I can't take this anymore, Aidan. It's too hard."

"What choice do we have?"

"We—" He bites off the word.

"We, what?"

Ka-boom! An explosion rocks our underground world. The concrete walls seem to pulse, like we're inside a drum that has been struck. I stumble, landing hard on one knee. Then Lawson is there, curling protectively over me. A new hisssssss starts up nearby and doesn't stop.

I squeeze his knee. "We gotta hurry."

He pulls me to my feet and hollers, "Tab!"

"Here!" Running footsteps follow the shout.

"Lawey!" someone, presumably Tab, yells.

"Hurry, honey," he calls back. Then to me he says, "They must be taking down The Dance."

"I thought they were retrofitting it."

"Me too."

In the next minute, the others catch up. Lawson grabs Tab's hand in one of his, mine in the other and, towing us along, runs down the abandoned subway track. Lin pulls up the rear. We round the final corner and skid to a stop.

Rubble fills the tunnel, blocking our way out. Far above, dust floats in a beam of sunlight. A section of road has caved in.

"Up and out," Lawson says.

I trace the path to the light, a small mountain of broken concrete, all ragged edges and uncertain footing. Not going to be easy on Tab, or me, after the Arena. I look at Lawson, and the corner of my mouth can't help but twitch as I shake my head. "Will there ever be a trip with you that doesn't involve sketchy climbing?"

He grimaces and pitches his voice for my ears alone. "I wish things were different."

"If wishes were guns..." I whisper back.

Lin is standing a few steps away; Tab is right beside us. He squeezes my hand, then releases me.

Lawson goes first. He always does. He stands for a moment at the top, a far-away figure haloed by light that, from below, seems clean-air bright. My dried blood stands out like war paint on his GeeGee shirt.

He stares at something on street level, then crouches beside the hole. "Hurry."

Lin and I send Tab up, spotting from below, until Lawson pulls his sibling into the safety of his arms. Tab cries out at the contact, and Lawson flinches and looks back down into the hole. The sun behind leaves his face in shadow, but there's no doubt he's in full-on Lawson glare mode.

"What the bang, Lin?" he shouts.

She rolls her shoulders and gestures for me to go on up.

Lawson sits back on his heels. The hand that's not holding onto Tab rests on his knee as he watches my progress, and I climb toward his fingers and the word REAL.

Almost before I know it, those fingers close around my wrist, helping me out into the relatively fresh air of D-town. Sounds of demolition emanate from The Dance, which is just visible one street west, teeming with GeeGee guards and construction workers. The beat from the Haven fights for airspace, while Lawson looks me over, probably to make sure the climb hasn't aggravated my injuries, but I don't feel much worse than before, and he guides my hand to Tab's, folding my fingers around those of his sibling.

"Wait here." He turns as though to descend back into the subway.

Oh, shit. Lin.

"Wait!" I let go of Tab and grab at Lawson, catching his muscular forearm. "The Dance! The rest of the Bees." I gesture in that direction. "I have to go help them."

Lawson glances west, then back down to Lin, up to me, frowning. "Okay, no, you're right. Go. I'll be right behind you."

I'm already backing away, and I nod, then turn and hobble as fast as I can down the street, away from whatever's about to go down between him and Lin, feeling like a coward.

"Be careful," he calls after me.

I round the corner to The Dance, huffing from exertion and pain, and run smack into an army.

27. STING

The outer ring of the army consists of guards with shields, blasters, machine guns, and black sticks meant for hitting people. Overkill—for killing everyone twice. Or just scaring the shit out of us.

And the GeeGee calls us "gangs."

Riot masks give the illusion of robots. The guards have action figure muscles, or maybe their black suits have lots of padding. Either way, I bounce off the line of shields and land on my tailbone in front of them. The impact jars a sound from my lips and my cheeks burn.

D-towners mill around the edges of the square, watching to see what I'll do, but there are no other Bees in sight. That gives me pause—what are they up to?—and it hits me that I've forgotten all about my impending excommunication from my tribe for spending the night with Lawson. But that's a problem for later.

The guards are here now.

I climb to standing again, biting down when the pain at the base of my spine worsens, and cross my arms so my fingers are safe in my armpits. I line myself up with the space between the two guards in front of me and limp forward again.

Careful. Yeah, that's me.

My advance makes about as much progress as if I were trying to walk through a wall. I brace the soles of my new GeeGee sneakers on the broken ground and let my weight fall forward against the guards. They remain unmoved.

"Enough," one of them says after an embarrassingly long while. He moves his shield, kind of a shrug, knocking me back.

I stumble. The second guard I was pushing against, a femme, catches his arm. He frowns at her and gestures to the back of his head.

"Why are you doing this?" I step forward again. "Please, can't you find another place for your recycling center?"

The guy shifts his feet and starts to say something but the femme elbows him in the side.

"We need this place." I focus on the femme guard, the one who seems to care. "It keeps the peace here. You understand, don't you, the need to keep the peace?"

She waits for me to finish, then flips up her visor. The guy elbows her but she holds my gaze. We both know I'm non-violent. And that even if I weren't, taking her out wouldn't win this war.

"I'm sorry no one told you," she says gently. "You can't stay here. None of you can."

My chin tilts up and I stick my hands in my pockets. My left fingers touch metal and flinch away.

"We have host families, for all of you," she continues. "They've been carefully screened. There's group homes, too, for anyone who refuses a family or who is deemed unsafe. But don't worry, you'll get a home for sure." She smiles at me. "I volunteered, actually."

That's odd. Like she knows who I am, has been watching me. My fingers flutter across the metal in my pocket again.

"You'd be more than welcome to come home with my husband and me. Today, if you like. You seem very stubborn. I can appreciate that in a person." She gives the other guard a fond smile; he must be her husband. "We could get you some medical treatment, get those bruises taken care of."

She rambles on, and I just stand there, playing with the knife in my pocket.

"But, it doesn't have to be us, of course..." She finally trails off.

"That's very kind of you." If I ignore the fact that her husband obviously doesn't want me. "But—" I yank the switchblade out of my pocket and let it slip through my fingers to clatter on the ground.

I stoop, as though to grab it, and the femme bends over too. Her hand flashes out, knocking it away from me. The guy lunges out of line, and in those precious seconds I crawl past his legs, and a few extra meters, then scramble to my feet and sprint toward The Dance.

"Hi there. Liaison for D-town," I say, slipping between construction workers. "Just a few things we'd like to keep."

The two guards lumber after me but body armor and sheer size slow them, as does the fact that the workers—smiling away with sonic earbuds in their ears—don't seem to consider me their problem.

I run inside The Dance, then for the back hall, skirting chunks of debris left over from when the wrecking ball fell, toward where the washrooms used to be. I scramble through the middle door, into the supply closet. At the back there's a passage. I slip through the low opening and roll the Council table back into place behind me then crawl through a cubby to come out behind the bar.

I hunker low, listening.

The guy guard has gotten hold of a megaphone and he's sing-songing, "Come out, come out, wherever you are," while his wife pesters him to "stop acting like a kiddy," and boots clomp, clomp here and there, giving away the guards's locations even amidst the bangs of deconstruction.

After a while, one pair of boots draws close.

A comm crackles. "...find it?"

The boots stop. "No, Ma'am." It's the femme guard. She's just on the other side of the counter.

My heart pounds, and I draw deeper into the space under the bar.

More crackling. "...sure...last..."

"Yes." She starts walking again.

"...others...taken..."

I strain to hear, but the comm has gone silent.

"Hansen took care of it," the guard says tightly.

"...leave that one..."

"Yes, Ma'am," she says again, relief in her voice this time, and moves toward the exit.

Her footsteps recede, and I sag back against the wood. The Captain has spared me again. Why? I hug my knees and turn my focus to my breath, but meditation eludes me, so I rock back and forth in the tight space and wait for my chance.

Hopefully by the time my chance comes I'll know what to do with it.

"Aidan!" A distant shout.

I jerk awake in the cramped darkness and hit my head on...Ow. The underside of the bar. I'm folded into the space meant for storing drinks. I stiffen instinctively, but the GeeGee crowbars and saws have gone silent and in their place the baseline from the New Dance pounds on. My head throbs a battling beat, backed up by complaints from the rest of my body. I let my eyes drift shut again.

The GeeGee have gone home for the night—anticlimactic, really—and I should get out from under here, and I will, just as soon as the idea of moving doesn't hurt quite so much.

"Aidan?"

"Law—?" Dehydration has thickened the saliva in my mouth, and I can barely speak. "In here."

Running footsteps, then the sounds of someone tripping over wood and Lawson snarling, "Bang it! G-spot! Bloody—where's here?"

I can't help but smile. It's his voice. I don't care what he's saying; his voice is my favorite sound. "I'm behind the bar."

His boots crunch closer and stop. "It's all clogged up." He rattles something. "How'd you get back there?"

I open my mouth, but suddenly can't think of the word.

"Aidan?"

"I used...thing, you know." I gesture ineffectually.

His booted feet hit the wood on the other side of my head, making me jump.

"I'm—" A grunt of effort. "—coming over."

Fabric rasps across wood and he lands with a thump above me on the bar. His feet swing over to dangle in front of my face. I touch his ankle.

He gasps. "Don't do that! You startled me."

I giggle, an absurd sound, and all of a sudden I'm guffawing. Big gasps explode from my mouth in jarring bursts of laughter. Lawson hops down behind the bar and crouches in front of me.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

It's not funny; there's nothing amusing at all, but I can't stop. My shoulders spasm, air sawing in and out, sending shards of pain through my chest and head.

"Ai?"

"I—don't—I don't—know—" And I burst into tears.

"Sorry. I don't know what that was back there," I say.

We're in the New Dance. We shouldn't be here, shouldn't be near other people because of the bomb in Lawson, but he's holding me close, one hand splayed on my lower back, the other resting between my shoulder blades. We're back in our D-town clothes, his denim chafing against mine as we move to the beat, and I can't seem to make myself remind him.

"Don't," he says. "It was just too much, is all. It would be too much for anyone."

I rub my palms on his shoulders in thanks and we dance for a while more.

"Have you seen any Bees?" I mumble.

He shakes his head, causing his hair to tickle my face.

"You'd think they'd be in a hurry to kick me out," I say.

He's gone stiff in my arms.

So I add, "I'm not going to leave you."

But he doesn't relax.

"What?" I ask.

In response he crushes me to him, presses his nose to my scalp and inhales. Alarm spikes through me.

"What?" I struggle back, peering at him in the dimness. "What!"

At the sound of his swallow, I go cold all over.

"I haven't seen any Bees all day," he whispers. "Have you?"

I shake my head. We're thinking the same thing. My throat— I can't swallow. This is what that was back there. Something being wrong. I felt it then; Lawson senses it now.

No, no, no!

Icy tingles spider over my skin. Yes.

"Have you seen any Bees," I croak. Not loud enough. I tear away from Lawson and fill my lungs and yell, "Has anyone seen any Bees?"

My shout fills the Haven, and the dancing stutters to a stop as kids turn to look at me.

"Has. Anyone. Seen. Any. Bees?" I enunciate, like my voice alone can stop the ground from dropping away, but inside I'm already in free-fall.

With some jostling, a space clears in the center, and a guy with pale hair shoves his way out of the crowd. He raises his chin, revealing familiar features.

"Sevens," Lawson snaps. His arm snakes around my waist, and he pulls me back against his front, offering shelter.

So. The round-faced A has a name. That seems wrong. He doesn't deserve a name. Names are for human beings.

What am I thinking? Of course he's a human being. Where's my compassion? But I don't have time to feel ashamed.

"All gone," Sevens singsongs.

My fingers wrap around Lawson's forearm. "What do you mean gone?"

Lawson's pulse rushes against my fingers. Lama Karen said we each had to make up our own mind about staying in D-town. Has it been a week? It feels like so much longer than that since the pamphlets showed up. Maybe I missed the meeting and they've all gone to join the GeeGee.

"The GeeGee killed them all." Sevens throws the words like punches.

They hit me in the stomach, the chest, the throat, worse than any blows, but I can't break down; I won't, not in front of Sevens. I swallow.

"I saw," he says. "They didn't even fight."

And suddenly I'm not the least bit afraid of this, this...boy. That's what he is, a child, the kind who fries spiders with a magnifying glass for fun.

"You watched? You just stood there and watched while they were slaughtered?" Not cold anymore; sweat breaks out on my skin.

My nails are digging into Lawson's arm, but there's no relaxing my grip as a collective grumble ripples through the New Dance. D-town isn't impressed with Sevens either.

"It wasn't like that." Sevens's voice wavers but turns persuasive on the next part. "And come on, it's not like they would have fought for us." He looks around for support.

And gets some. "Yeah!" a few people echo.

"The anarchists are supposed to be protectors," Lin says, pushing out of the crowd to stand beside Lawson and me.

"Good riddance," someone else calls from back in the room, probably an A, but that's far from guaranteed at this point. "What did the Bees ever contribute to D-town?"

"You stupid, bloody fools." Lawson speaks softly, but instead of drowning him out the crowd goes quiet. He steps into Sevens's personal space, forcing him back. "The Bees are an integral part of D-town." Lawson pauses and looks around. "They're also the only ones who can resist the pulses."

What?

"Could," he corrects himself, the word like silk over steel, soft but deadly.

My skin prickles, each goosebump an individual sting.

"All the meditation allowed them to resist the trance, come out of it sooner, hold their thoughts in better order. They were your best chance of defeating the GeeGee." He lets that hang in the air.

A whisper rustles through the crowd, followed by a heavy hush. Then the impossible happens; Sevens steps around Lawson to come face-to-face with me.

"Sorry," the baby-faced A says, and he extends his hand.

28. FAULT-LINE

Lawson—

Sevens leads the way into the street, Aidan and I following. A good portion of the kids from the Haven straggle after. A few weak stars peek from between drifting clouds.

Strong stars, rather. Only the strongest of lights can cut through this smog. But they look weak from down here.

The emergency speakers don't quite fill the night. Old trash blows past, the flutter of plastic mingling with the crunching of gravel and glass beneath dozens of feet. boom—boom—boom tries the New Dance, the fragile beat of a broken heart.

This street is all messy lines and lonely charcoal alcoves. The guards have gone home for the night, and the kids behind me seem like shadows of people, all worn down and used to grief. Every D-towner has an instinct for danger. That's one of the first things I noticed when I got here. The way, when something is about to go down, every head in the street lifts and turns the same direction.

That internal warning system is a hard-earned gift.

When the first quake hit, no one knew more were coming, that they needed to prepare, that their city might be next. Almost no one. No one had warning, except for us. That's the irony. The weather station was on in the background of our house. Always. Muted. So it took a few minutes for my parents to notice the pictures flickering across the screen like scenes from an action movie that Mama—the soldier—would never have let me watch.

Bridges collapsing. Streets tearing apart.

Then Dad turned. His ears practically perked up like a dog on scent; he too had an instinct for disaster. The television suddenly blasted. He must have seen the word EARTHQUAKE across the bottom of the screen and turned it up, but it felt like the TV coming into sharp focus on an expanse of crumpled homes.

Dad reached out for Mama. They had been at the sink, doing dishes together, him washing, her drying. He was soapy wet to his elbows, and she easily slipped out of his grasp, continuing to dry, until he said her name, gently, like a secret.

"Sally."

She turned, her gaze first going not to the TV but to him, confusion washing over her face to see that, after that intimate tone, he wasn't looking at her at all. Then her gaze followed his.

She dropped the plate.

"It might not be..." She said this like a mother who didn't want her child getting his hopes up.

Dad's face was alight, turned on from the inside. "Watch."

They sat down together at the counter, dishes forgotten. We were one of a handful of families in the world who literally had nothing to do to prepare. Or so my parents thought. I'm screaming into the memory now, like I can turn back time and change the mistake.

Save your work, Dad!

He should have sprinted downstairs to his office and backed up all his files. He should have remembered that just an hour ago he had a breakthrough in his sound research and that Mama called him for dinner before he had a chance to back it up. But he had probably rehearsed this day a thousand times in his mind. In his mental practice, he was ready, everything was saved, so he didn't remember. He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. He only came up for dinner, glowing with celebration, wanting to share his triumph with us. He surely planned to save everything right after the meal, and then to relax, knowing that his life's work was complete. Knowing that he would be there to play a pivotal role in changing the world whenever the world was ready.

I hate myself, that younger me standing there watching the images of destruction flit across the TV, for leaning forward like it's my birthday and I'm about to get a present, even though I didn't know about the files.

When the second quake hit, closer to home but still not very near, Dad looked at Mama. "Go to work, Sally. I'll take care of Lawson."

He said it before her phone rang but only by a beat, and then she was on-duty Mama, out the door with a peck on the top of my head and another on Dad's lips.

"Come here." He patted the counter, and I jumped up to sit next to his portable computer. He brought up a map with little dots and started changing it, altering landscapes with his fingers. His phone rang. He laid a hand on my back, activating his phone earpiece with the other.

"San Francisco, I bet." He laughed and said a high number. "I know, I know. I'll personally design your computer system."

He hung up. Not too long after, a beeping blared from the television. A red band scrolled across the screen, in strange contrast with the normalcy of the kitchen.

"San Francisco!" Dad said again, this time like a jackpot winner. "We need another big one. Come on, give us at least a nine."

I'm not sure what the last words to flash across the screen said, because Dad's eyes widened. His arm went slack around me. Maybe he'd gotten the big quake he hoped for. For sure he somehow knew where the next one was going to hit. He yanked me off the counter and, leaving the computer, dragged me into the garage.

"There goes cell reception," he said and just let his phone fall to the floor.

It shattered—that object that mattered, that he never let me play with—and he walked right over the pieces.

A car I'd never been in was parked in the garage, a tiny little thing with a very full back seat. He strapped me in, ignoring the fact that I'd been putting on my own seatbelt for years, and backed us down the driveway. The exact moment when he remembered is impossible to miss, thinking back. He didn't stop driving, but the whole atmosphere in the car changed. He reached for the black box, the shortwave radio, attached to the dashboard and fiddled with it then picked up the mouthpiece with shaking hands.

"Sally. We're next."

"You're a step behind the military." Mama sounded calm. She was always at her best in a crisis.

Dad actually took the twenty seconds necessary to say, "Am not. We're already out of the house. Sally, keep our son company for a minute, okay."

"Zack—what?"

"I'm going back in. I forgot to back it up."

"Okay, don't panic. You have last night's copy, right? You can make up the gaps—"

"You don't understand! I worked all night. I don't have any of it. I'm going back in."

"Zack!"

"Don't worry about it, we aren't directly on the fault-line."

I was so caught by the interplay, the growing tension in Mama's voice, I didn't process Dad climbing out of the car, until he handed me the radio mic like I knew how to use it. Those were his last words to Mama. We aren't directly on the fault-line.

"What's your dad doing, Lawson?"

"Dad went inside," I said, very clearly, without pressing the button on the mic.

"Lawson?"

"Mama."

"Lawson!...Okay, listen honey, do you have the little square thing attached to the wire?" Eventually, she was able to explain how to operate the radio.

The car tilted like an amusement park ride, and I clung to my seatbelt. When the shaking stopped, flames filled the front windows of my house. Dad had left a larger portable computer on his seat, and images flashed across the screen. Numbers, graphs, and then the machine gave a human cough.

Dad's voice came out of it, muffled. "Lawson, I"—cough—"you. Sent research...car. Tell Mama." Cough. "—kay?"

And that was that. He didn't know—I didn't realize—that I was holding down the button on the mic.

Crack, crackle. The sounds of Mama dropping her radio? Then she too was gone.

I sat in the car in the street until the fire department came. That must have been my mother's doing, that they came to our street with so much of the city burning, flooding, sinking. But they couldn't do much to help—the water pipe to our house had broken along with the gas line.

Something told me to hide Dad's computer under the pile of stuff in the back. Soon after, Dart's mom opened the car door and got into Dad's seat. Her flowing dress was oddly untouched by the chaos.

"I'll take you to your mom," she promised.

Instead she drove the car out of the city to an ecovillage with earthen houses, gardens, and free-range chickens. Frazzled-looking people were putting up tents in every available space. I spent most of the time curled in my tent, waiting for Mama. When she finally came with food, I gave her Dad's computer. She plugged a headset into it and covered my ears with pillowy earphones, and then everything was okay.

It was okay until D-town.

Now, I watch Aidan's blank face as we near the Ashram. I'm already flinching, dreading the corpses waiting for us. I want to pull Aidan back, offer to look instead, but that seems insane. No way can I face death better than Aidan can.

That one walks beside me, as far out of reach as the sun. A light shines from underneath Aidan's skin, a beauty.

I'm not immune to the pain of living, Aidan said. I just don't take it too seriously.

But I do. I know what I have to lose.

29. RHYTHM

Aidan—

The round-faced A leads me to the Ashram, like I need his help to find the place where I've lived for years. He's trying to look good for D-town, pretending to care now so they don't tear him apart. Everyone gathers in the street below the entry while Lawson and the A pick up the fallen ladder and prop it against the building.

I have to say the A's name, have to say it now, to make up for my earlier lapse in compassion before I can face my tribe, before I can witness their deaths.

"—vens," I croak. I did it! Well, sorta, but that will have to be good enough.

Sevens jerks around to stare at me, and I wet my lips. I didn't plan anything else to say. There's only one thing I really want to know.

Deep breath. "Whydoyouhateme?"

Pause. "Who says I hate you?"

"Um, your fists?"

Sevens cocks his head to the side, for all the world like he's actually thinking. One of his pudgy hands rests on the ladder, so close to Lawson's, who stands tense, watching me. The whole thing's surreal.

"You make yourself a target," Sevens says. "It makes me sick. My mom—my dad always said...Well, it wasn't like he hit her himself. The GeeGee killed her."

I risk a step closer. "They killed my parents, too."

"Yeah, join the club." Sevens looks away and makes an unnecessary adjustment to the ladder.

Lawson is staring. I nod to him. Yeah, I know. Something big just about happened there.

My guy tests the ladder then gives the okay for me to climb up. He holds it steady, and a too-short minute later I crawl through the hole in the Ashram wall into a circle of moonlight.

Bee bodies lie on the floor like the discarded dolls of some bored god. No blood. Of course not. The GeeGee wouldn't want to risk contact with our contaminants. There's the inevitable smell of shit but that's not what makes my stomach turn over. What gets me is what's missing. These aren't people, aren't friends; they're just bags of flesh. Gorge rises and I swallow it back, wrapping my arms around my middle.

Karen was in lotus position when it happened and folded forward at the hips, head hitting the floor at the end. Blood still leaks out of that one's ear.

Lawson's boots clang on the ladder. It has to be him, because he'd never let anyone else follow me up.

Sandra's brown eyes are closed; she could be sleeping. The GeeGee will be back to dispose of her in the morning. My vision seems to be pulling back, farther from everything as I scan faces.

Tanner. I'm looking for Tanner. My stomach heaves again and I close my eyes. Tanner is the only one who won't be here, and if he is I don't want to know. This is sick enough already.

The GeeGee used blasters. Blasters to avoid our blood. Blasters mean a slow death as the eardrums, then lungs, then nervous system break down. I turn for the ladder, brushing past Lawson, who has just climbed up, on my way to the exit.

I manage to get my head out the opening just on time to puke the contents of my stomach all over the ladder and the guy standing next to it in the alley.

"Bloody G-spot!" Sevens splutters, scrambling back and ripping off his shirt to mop my vomit from his face.

"I thought he was going to spit the First Consensus at us, for sure," Lawson says, still chortling.

We're back at the Barracks, resting together on his sleeping bag. Lawson's room is a square space with thin walls. A cubicle; the word filters up from memory. He's created a door out of PVC and patched canvas. The door hangs askew, giving us only partial privacy. Lawson leans on his elbows, ankles stacked, while I sit in lotus position by his knees. Tab sleeps curled on a second sleeping bag by his other side, unaware.

I try to smile back—under different circumstances seeing Sevens dance around trying to wipe off my puke would have been pretty funny—but I can't do it.

"Naw," I say. "He knows it'd never hold up in Council. He's had my blood all over his hands."

Lawson's face falls and I realize he was trying to lift my mood. Now the question hangs between us: Is there even a Council anymore?

The New Dance pounds on from across D-town, but it's not loud enough, doesn't quite fill the air like the old Dance used to. Heat presses down. My shirt clings and Lawson is already bare-chested in the flickering lantern light. His once-blue, now blood-stained tank top lies balled up in a corner, and metal peeks from under the balled up t-shirt at the head of the bed. Lawson's gun. How did he escape GeeGee custody with that?

But I don't have to ask to know he doesn't want to talk about it. Not about his time in GeeGee custody. Not about the bomb inside of him. Not right now, at least. And I'm in no mood to hear about it either. I lie back on my elbows, extending my legs so my feet are next to his hips, and the persistent ache in my knees eases a bit.

The GeeGee will be back tomorrow to continue work on the recycling center, and soon they will take down the New Dance as well. It's nothing but a waiting game now, and I'm the last Bee, the only one left to resist the pulses. Assuming Lawson is right and I can.

"I guess that's true," he says.

I blink, having already forgotten what we were talking about. He rubs his fingers through his hair, leaving it messy, then reaches out and runs his hand over my stubbly scalp.

"So, what do you want to do?"

I rest my head in his palm. "Now or in general?"

"Tonight. Let's leave tomorrow for when the sun's up, don't you think?"

I nod and smooth the sleeping bag in front of me. "We could—" It would take my mind off things.

"No. Not when you're hurt."

"But it won't be long now, will it?" I whisper.

"I don't know." But he's lying.

I scrub at the sleeping bag. "We could, I'd like to—if it's okay—I want—" I can't meet his eyes. Why is this so difficult? "Could we just snuggle?"

"Come 'ere." There's a smile in his voice; not a smirk, a real smile.

I force myself to look up, and he's sitting there with arms open wide.

"I'm here," I say and scramble into his embrace.

He falls back to the sleeping bag, pulling me with him, cushioning my fall, so that the top of my head rests under his chin and my ear presses to his collarbone. He kisses my head softly, and then his lips move against my scalp, a silent, wordless promise.

I nod. Me too. He tightens his hold.

I tilt up my chin. Our lips brush together, once, twice. Then I lay my heavy head back down. His heart pounds under my ear, closer than the New Dance and growing louder as I focus. Lawson's rhythm expands, filling my ear, my skull, my chest, filling me, and I fall asleep to that beat.

I struggle to wake. The fingers of sleep hold me down and try to drag me further under, but I strain against them and manage to slit one heavy eyelid. Too-bright light pierces into my brain, and my eye flinches shut.

Noontime sun?

Sitting is usually so simple. Now? I lay palms on the floor. Press down. Lift head. Curl shoulders off sleeping bag. Press harder.

I breathe in, breathe out. Inhale. Exhale. Make it to sitting and sway there, threatening to topple. If I fall, that's it; I won't be able to get back up for a while, not until I've slept some more. The sleeping bag is right there, offering soft oblivion, and I groan but force my eyelids into a squint. First there's just that horrible, piercing light and pain stabbing through my head. After a minute, shapes clarify. Then, finally, colors.

Lawson lies sprawled beside me, more on the floor than on the sleeping bag, with the dirty red t-shirt under his head. One tanned, muscular arm is flung out over the empty green sleeping bag beside us. I swear I can still hear Lawson's heartbeat, slow and measured. His even breathing seems loud in the silence.

Silence.

Oh crap.

D-town silence is not golden. Where there is quiet, a pulse cannot be far behind.

I jolt into action. My limbs haven't become any lighter; the weight just matters less as I grab Lawson's shoulder and shake him. He flops like a huge, dead fish.

"Lawson!" I shake again.

No reaction.

I was wrong about the pulse—it's not behind at all. It's already come and gone. Something like the midnight signal that drops the GeeGee citizens into deep sleep, but stronger. Because I wasn't awake and meditating when it hit, I couldn't resist. Did they put the entire GeeGee population under all morning or are they using some sort of portable unit? Doesn't matter. First things first—I need to wake Lawson.

My gaze goes to on the t-shirt under his head. Intuitively I know he sleeps like that so no one can take his gun while he's unconscious. Like I did before, I slip my hand into the fabric and find the too-familiar grip of the gun, warm from his body heat. My thumb slides to the safety.

Click.

Another memory rushes back. Lawson lying bloody in the square. Then on the GeeGee stretcher. Tab's wide eyes. The gun in my shaking hand. Dart's fingers closing over mine. The guard falling; the stretcher falling; Lawson falling.

I jump when he grabs my bruised wrist.

"Ai? Wha?" The same headache that pounds in my head is evident behind his pained squint.

"Wake up," I say, letting go of the gun. "There's been a pulse."

His fingers continue to bite into my arm. "Huh?"

"There's been a pulse," I repeat, wincing. "I had to wake you."

"Oh." His hand drops from my wrist. He turns his head slowly, then sits in a rush and grabs onto my shoulders, using his grip on me to stay upright. "Tab?"

Oh shit. "I don't know."

He blinks at me. "Why'm I so tired?"

"Pulse."

"Foot of bag," he orders.

"Huh?"

"In the foot of the sleeping bag. Sack. Get it." He rubs his temples.

I find the zipper on the side of the bedding, wrestle it open under Lawson's weight, and wiggle my hand around inside until my fingers connect with rough fabric. I tug out the small hemp sack and pass it over. Lawson's hands shake, but he manages to open it and pour three sonic earbuds onto the bedding between us.

I eye them. "Where'd those come from?"

"Kept em."

Oh. From the ones the spies had. I shake my head. My guy, collector of all things GeeGee.

He fiddles with the dial on the side of one, slips it into his ear and closes his eyes. After a long moment he opens them again, pockets the second earbud, and deftly adjusts the third.

"My turn to wake you up." He extends it to me. "It's not going to bite you," he adds, when I make no move to take it.

"I'm awake enough."

He fixes me with a one-hundred-percent Real Dealer glare. "So help me, if you do not put this in your ear right now, I'm going to pin you down and do it for you."

I draw away. If this is the effect of the stimulating sounds from the earbud, I like it less by the second.

He frowns. "Sorry, but my sister's out there, you know? I need your help." He holds up the earbud and leans in, eyes wide and glazed. "Just this once, Aidan, please, let's use the GeeGee wea—stuff against them. So Tab doesn't end up like the Bees."

The Bees. I see them again in my inner eye, crumpled on the Ashram floor. Like Sam, Kylie, Mom and Dad after the nail bomb. No life left, just flesh. I can't let that happen to Tab. My fingers fumble for the earbud, and I jam it into my ear, hoping I'm not making a terrible mistake.

30. BODYBAG

We run. We pass a few D-towners sprawled at uncomfortable angles, as though they fell asleep on their feet and crumpled to the ground. I can't help but stoop to touch the neck of each, but they all have strong, slow pulses. My heart squeeze-squeeze-squeezes, trying to keep up with the rhythm in my ear.

Lawson heads for the square, but I tap his wrist and shake my head.

"Arena." My voice sounds far away.

The GeeGee have gone out of their way to knock us out, so something big is going down. The worst things that happen in D-town always happen there.

My injuries don't slow me—this must be an effect of the earbud, something I'll pay for later—but Lawson's body is stronger, and he gains several meters on me by the time we reach the Arena's sub-ground entrance. He shoots into the dugout ahead of me and stops, suspended for a moment on the balls of his toes.

He sprints out of sight and then I reach the dugout. I too stumble to a stop, feeling like someone's rammed a metal rod through my solar plexus. Because Tab hangs like an effigy at the base of the seats, and that one's been, has been... I wrench my gaze away, unwilling to dwell on the injuries to decide how each must have been inflicted. I look to the other bodies that hang there: Tanner, the Love Child femme Lawson made out with, the logic in-between, and Gina; all the kids from the alley, everyone but Dart.

Bloody shit. The GeeGee crucified their own kids. And Tab. Why Tab?

Cold understanding creeps in. The GeeGee means to blame this on us. The press will report that the D-town gangs brutally murdered not only the GeeGee kids who came to help them but also a defenseless, "mentally handicapped" child. There will be pictures of the bodies. The citizens will scream for the end of D-town, and the government will finally have its excuse to make us all disappear.

D-town has just been well and truly demonized.

I stand there and watch Lawson break. He becomes almost like the bodies hanging before us, a shell. Their shells are empty, though, while he is a container for anger. He turns back the way he came.

"Lawson, no."

"Cut her down," he orders as he strides away.

I waver for a moment, then chase after him. Indignity can't harm the dead, but the same can't be said for the living, and whatever he is about to do can't be good.

I find him in the street with a knife in his hand, bending over a fallen Love Child. That's the problem with anarchists. No self-control. Lawson doesn't even try to hide the knife, even though the guy at his feet can hardly fight back in his sleep.

"What are you doing?" I screech.

Lawson looks down at the Love Child. The guy's layered, colorful clothes give the impression of a rag doll. His beaded dreadlocks lie splayed across the cement, forming a starburst pattern around his head, bright with blood.

"Law?" I take a slow step forward. What did you do?

He holds up the knife like he expects to have to defend himself. From me.

I reach out. "You can't bring Tab back this way."

"Blood fertilizes the ground," he whispers. "New things grow." It sounds...familiar. Something a Witch might say.

Or a GeeGee.

One more step and my hand closes around the blade. If he moves now, he'll make me bleed. Hopefully he's not too far gone to care.

"No," I whisper. "Not here. Blood contaminates everything."

He tilts his head, then looks at our hands. "Mine."

Knife. Mine. Right, grief turns humans into cavemen. Well, I may not be a fighter, but I've been hit enough to know which spots give the most bang for the smack. I ball my free hand, wind up, and slam my fist into the divot at the center of Lawson's ribs. His eyes widen with shock as he doubles over. His fingers release and the knife drops into my hand.

I move quickly, switching my grip to the handle and throwing the knife with all my might so it sails through a broken window a couple stories up. Then I grab Lawson's ear and rip out the earbud. I drop and stomp on it, crunching it under my heel against a ridge of cement. By the time I do the same with mine, Lawson is straightening.

"You...hit...me," he splutters.

"Don't get all proud," I mutter, suddenly exhausted. Everything is quiet, now. "I was protecting you."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you." He looks down at the guy at his feet and jerks like I've hit him again. He rests his hands on his knees and lets his head hang. "He was already dead, don't worry. Did you get her down?"

Now that he says that, I see more clearly. The Love Child's blood is already congealing.

I swallow and shake my head. "I was too worried about you, but we can go do that now, if you want."

We lay Tab's body on the dugout bench, and Lawson folds that one's hands and closes the eyelids. Then he paces away and braces against the wall.

His right hand pulls back and slams into the crumbling wall. Crack. Tiny fragments of cement fall to land around his feet. He lowers his hand to the thigh of his jeans, muscles still tense, arm shaking, blood dripping from split knuckles.

"Did that help?" I ask, my voice violating the silence.

"No....a little."

I guess that's why people beat me. The round-faced A, he lost both his parents, just like me. Loss is something we have in common. I walk over and reach out to rub Lawson's back, but he flinches.

"Hey." I move closer and slip my arms around his waist.

He steps forward, to pull away, but I hold tight and let him pull me along, and he gives in.

"I can't do this," he mumbles.

"You can. You have no choice."

"It's my fault."

"Shh, no. What is it you always tell me? You can't blame the victim, right? The GeeGee did this. They put us all out cold, snuck in and took your sibling, and—"

He shoves me away and I gasp as his hands hit my bruised stomach.

"D-towners did this!" he shouts. With Tab's blood all over him, and his damaged hand, he looks deranged.

"Lawson, no. Think about it. Look at the display. When has D-town ever cared about the display?"

"Don't give me your 'all people are essentially good' speech. Not today. I can't handle it." He starts to scrub at his jeans, then flinches and goes still.

He's obviously injured his hand, but fat chance he'll let me look at it now. He's too on edge. I'll have to calm him down, first.

"My what?" I try to keep my tone light. "Come on, now. When have I ever given a speech like that? I don't even believe that."

He glares, chest heaving, but at least he's not yelling. We don't need to draw attention. Who knows if the press has already been here or if they're on their way with guards for backup. We need to get the bodies down and take Tab and go.

"This isn't D-town style," I reason. "We've seen too much death. We don't want to see more of it. You know that. The As don't even kill the Bees, and even with the bad blood between the Witches and Cross Bearers we've never had a war. This is staged, Lawson."

So much for my soothing tone. Lawson begins to hyperventilate.

"She wouldn't," he gasps. "She wouldn't."

"Tab wouldn't what, baby?"

Lawson's face crumples and he takes a step forward to half-fall into my arms. "She wouldn't even be here if not for me," he tells my neck, and then he's sobbing, holding me too tightly.

But I don't care about my injuries as I ease us backward to the bench. He stumbles with me. The backs of my legs hit wood, and I fall onto the bench and pull his head onto my lap. I stroke his back.

"The press will be here soon," I whisper after a while.

"Hmm?" he asks.

But it's so comfy here on this bench. Surely, we can afford to rest for just a little longer, while Lawson grieves for his sibling. There must be enough time for that.

I slump over Lawson's back.

Dad, dressed in black, crouches in front of me on a different street, long ago. The skin of his face and hands, darker than mine, blends with his clothes and the night as he pulls back the Velcro tab on my small shoe and smoothes it closed again.

"Stay here, Aidan," he whispers, coaxing me into the space between the fender and bumper of two parked cars.

The bumper is yellow, a bright enough color to see at night, and I'm not scared. I'm a big kid. I do this all the time. I crawl into the shelter, and Dad takes my hand and places into it his watch. He presses the button that makes the watch face light up.

"We'll be back when the long hand is here." He points to the eight.

I nod vigorously and Dad strides away. I listen to the tick-tick of the watch until Mom's high-heels click-clack-click down the street after him. Her bright hair is covered, but her face stands out like a pale orb floating through the night. She doesn't stop to talk to me, but that's okay; she's pretending not to know I'm here.

Click-clack-click-clack. Click-clack-click-clack. Stop.

"No," someone whispers. Whispers are difficult to tell apart, but I think that one is Dad's.

"We have to do something. The demonstrations aren't getting anywhere."

"There's a line. I won't cross it."

"I respect that, but I will." The speaker—Mom, I think—pauses. "I'm doing this for Aidan."

"The ends don't justify the means, Sheila. We can do this the right way, the moral way."

"We're losing, Eshan. Which house is it?"

"The white one."

The dream jumps ahead. The long hand has passed the eight and points at the five. Too-sweet smoke makes my eyes and nose water. Usually, if Mom and Dad don't come back, I'm to call Pete, but Dad didn't remind me of that tonight, so they must be coming back for sure. I hunker in my hiding spot, while flames flicker on the metal bodies of the cars. Doors slam, and people shout, and a small child cries.

A pair of bare, grownup feet walks toward me across the faded lawn. I tense, pressing the watch against my stomach, trying to hide its ticking. The feet stop at the edge of the grass, and I press my lips together, breathing through my nose like Mom taught me. My eyes feel so wide I'm terrified they'll fall right out on the ground and catch the stranger's notice.

A man and woman start shouting. Not Mom and Dad; these voices are unfamiliar. The roaring in my ears makes it hard to hear but it sounds like the woman is worried about the people who live in the burning house. The man is sure they weren't home. Finally, the feet on the grass walk back the way they came and I roll onto my stomach. I wiggle along under the car until I see the base of the burning house. The paint is white.

It smells bad under here, and I'm afraid the car will fall and crush me.

A siren starts up, first far away, then closer and closer. I wriggle my right arm and, only hitting my head once, get the watch up to my face and press the light button. The long hand is back between the ten and eleven. I shake the watch, then hold it to my ear. Tick, tick, tick.

My heart hammers against the asphalt. My parents are late. They're in trouble; I know it. I have to do something! I scoot back and come out between the cars. I peer up at the people gathered but I have no idea which of them are enemies. Maybe they all are.

White, blue, and red light whirls close and I cower by the tires of the car. The police are not safe. I must not let them find me, must not tell them who my parents are or why we're here.

More lights, more sirens. Men in yellow suits arrive. They unwind hoses from a truck and spray water at the house. A few must go inside because soon they come back out carrying two limp forms. They lay the bodies into black bags on stretchers. Zippp. The bags close.

An angry muttering passes among the neighbors.

"That's not Sam and Jenny."

"Does anybody know who they are?"

"FOLMs. Seen them on the wanted board. Guess justice caught up with them."

The sky grows lighter. I cannot be here when the sun comes up; people will see me. When will my parents get here?

The cars and trucks with the swirling lights drive off.

"Nail bombs sure are a bitch," someone says.

The grownups fade away, leaving me alone again. I check the watch. The long hand is back on the eight. I step from between the cars and look at the smoldering remains of the house.

"Mom? Dad?" My voice seems so small. The next cry rips out of me. "Mommy!"

I stiffen, expecting an army of grownups to avalanche out of the houses, across the lawns, and grab me.

Nothing changes.

There are tears on my face. I scrub them away.

31. TRAINING

Lawson—

The pale canvas walls of the training yurt let in sunlight. A breeze blows through the open door, cooling my sweat and carrying the occasional crash or shouted whoop from the half-empty military compound. I stand with ten other teenagers, facing Captain Mom. My feet shift on a makeshift floor of torn mats and plywood. The black boots on my feet weigh me down. Despite wearing them every day from sunup to rack out, I still can't get used to them.

"Circle up," the Captain says. "Tanner in the middle."

Tanner's thick shoulders hunch as he steps into the center. The rest of us form a ring around him, fists up, ready to prepare him for his job in D-town. He's going to study the pacifist gang from the inside.

A pacifist gang. Imagine that.

Well, better him than me. No way am I going to lie down and let assholes beat on me, even if they were all as adorable as Kitty.

Kitty, across the circle in blond pigtails and coveralls, is perfectly suited to undercover work—tiny, fast, good with every weapon. She's my favorite knife-sparring partner, and a military brat like Darthanial, Chadwick, and me.

"Free-sparring," says Captain Mom. "Half-power. I don't want anyone in the hospital but I don't want to see any dancing around either. Tanner, no violence. Ready?"

"I have a question."

Mama hasn't asked if there are any questions, and Laura doesn't raise her hand.

"What are we fighting for?" She looks purposefully into Mama's eyes, like an equal. Along with me, Laura will be co-leading the integration of the D-town kids, but that doesn't mean she's in command.

Mama's lip curls. "Does it matter? You might be fighting for any number of reasons in D-town. You're all soldiers now. Believing in every battle is a luxury that belongs to teenagers and terrorists."

Those words make it clear the Captain's not like other people, not like us. Sleeping in the pulse-free room has affected her. Some of the other kids draw back but Laura only shakes her head.

"No, Sally, that's not why I asked."

She doesn't call Mama "Captain." She's the only one who doesn't, the only one who's not expected to. Even I'm expected to, ever since training started. But before the GEM became the GG, Laura's parents were heavy-hitting anti-GMO activists. Now her mom and dad are both in the Inner Circle of the government. Rumor has it the real reason they're letting her go to D-town is to groom her to follow in their footsteps as a world leader.

Another rumor says Laura and her bodyguard, Chad, are in love. That, at least, is the truth. Today at lunch she smeared pudding all over his face, claiming it was to prepare him for the sticky-factor of D-town, and he did nothing to stop her. There's still some pudding in his dreadlocks.

He, Laura, and the thin girl beside them look like Love Childs already, complete with medusa hair. That girl—what name is she going by this week?—is practically invisible beside charismatic Laura. Good thing, because she's supposed to pretend to be an in-between so she can study gender, and anyone can see she's just a femme in pants.

I said that to Dart once, and he looked at me funny.

But Laura is explaining. "I ask because I want to know how I'll be fighting. I'll fight differently if it's for my life than if it's, say, for the last chocolate bar."

Gina laughs, then blinks as if startled by the sound. It's strange seeing her without her nose in the Christian Bible; she studies it the way the rest of us practice martial arts. Sometimes a smile takes over her placid face, and she says, The Romans used this religion to take over the world. We need to show respect. She'll be using propaganda to prep the religion-based tribes for integration.

Mama gives Gina a smile then looks over Laura's head, straight into my eyes.

"If you're fighting for your life, I expect you to kill anyone in your way. Any other time, fight like you're fighting for the survival of this society, for peace, and for the lives of your friends. Look to your left or right. If you mess up, if you blow your cover, these are the people you endanger." Her voice drops, and even Laura leans in to listen. "Always protect yourselves and each other and remember that what we're fighting for is bigger than any individual life. Saving many lives is worth hurting a few, killing a few even. If you have to use violence, for your safety or the greatest good, don't hold back. That's what being a soldier means, and you're all soldiers now." She glares at Laura. "Every single one of you are under my command. Until this job is done.

"It's going to be rough out there. You'll have to make hard choices. I won't always be there to guide you. You won't always have access to your handlers or even each other. Just ask yourself what I would do. And remember that if you make a mistake, if you do something you regret, well, that's what your earbuds are for."

We nod along, relaxing. No ones stops to ask, When she says the big picture is worth more than a few lives, does she mean only the lost kids or us, too?

Tanner squares his broad shoulders. "So the ends justify the means?"

"Yes," she says. "Except for you."

She has us crowd close and fight each other. No one has to tell Laura and her posse to work as a team. Laura barely has to defend herself at all with the other two looking after her, which is a shame because she's an elegant fighter, a pleasure to watch. While I'm distracted, Dart lands a ringing blow to the side of my head.

"Wake up, yo."

I pull a punch to his kidney, and we both dive back into the fray.

"Lawson," the Captain calls. "Go for Tanner!"

But I can't hit someone who won't fight back. I pretend not to hear the command and go after Laura instead. I manage to get under Chad's guard just as Mama shouts, "Alex!"

Alex is a scientist's kid and the only actual in-between we have. I have to seriously stare to tell what's going on under Alex's clothes, and no one would know from the back or with a quick sideways glance. That one will be joining the Logic and studying gang politics, probably not fighting at all, but that doesn't stop Alex from attacking now.

Tanner, forbidden to strike out to defend himself, can only turn, duck, block. The kids who plan to join the Witches, a brother and sister with activist parents like Laura, jump in on Alex's side. Tanner goes down.

I disengage from Laura and Chad, starting in that direction, but someone grabs my arm. I spin, striking out with half-power, and Captain Mom easily catches my fist. She twists my arm and wrestles me to the sidelines, speaking so fierce and close that her spittle lands in my ear.

"Stay out of it. This kind of shit happens in D-town all the time. You're going to have to get used to it."

"I'm not going to have to watch," I say, relaxing in her grip.

"You're not going to be able to act like a civilized kid who can't stand violence! You're going to have to stand it." She finally lets me go.

I rub at my arm, wondering if I'll have bruises. "I guess you should have let me watch more violent movies," I mutter.

She ignores that. "You understand why we're doing this, right?" She lowers her voice. "Your dad died to make sure we got the pulses right. D-town is protected from the pulses. Do you see my problem? World peace only works if it's the whole world."

"I know. That's why I volunteered."

She claps me on the back, hard enough to knock me back in time.

"What do you think D-town girls are like?" The voice of my childhood friend, Darthanial, floats up from the bottom bunk.

We're in our beds in the military compound, near the start of training.

"Dirty, I guess," I whisper into the darkness.

"Sure, but we'll be dirty, too."

"We're not supposed to date," I say. "You know that."

"Yeah, but it's not like they can check." He's quiet for a while. "I bet the girls are, don't take this the wrong way, more like your mom. No pulses, you know."

I chuckle. "Bitchy, you mean? My mom's a soldier. The girls aren't going to be like soldiers. The boys either."

"Guys, you mean," Dart says. "Femmes."

"Yeah, and in-betweens." It's my turn to lapse into silence. "Hey, want to look at the photos again?" I dig out the training manual with the poorly printed pictures.

Dart and I have one to share, but he always lets me keep it.

"Naw, you go ahead."

"Why not?" When he doesn't answer, I lean over the edge of my bunk to peer into the shadows between us. "Come on, dude. Why not?"

"Don't take this the wrong way," Dart mutters again. "But I only want to look at the femme pictures, and you—you always look at the in-betweens."

"I don't," I snap, heat crawling up my neck.

If I don't learn to lie better, I'm not gonna last a week in D-town. I can't believe he noticed.

"Whatever, man." He grins, a flash of white teeth in the dark. "More femmes for me."

I throw the manual at him and lie back on my own bed. Our laughter drains the tension out of the moment. At least Dart will be with me in D-town. He always has my back.

I burrow into my blankets, the bed rocks under me, and the scene shifts again.

The Urban Center 63 military compound is too angular and monochrome. The wounds from the quake look even worse here than out in the city. Cracked walls and broken ground. But on one edge of the compound the dome of the rehabilitation center blooms out of the ground like a puff mushroom.

It's still under construction, and Mama lifts the pink CAREFUL tape for me to duck under even though I could have stepped over it no problem. We stop outside to let some construction volunteers by. The crew sings together, with various degrees of talent, while hauling green building supplies.

"I'm a military commander, not a choir conductor," Mama grumbles, but she almost smiles. Her spine goes from wood-pole-straight to metal-rod-straight when the doors swing open.

A loose huddle of adults exits the building. Their earth-toned clothes say they must be the thirteen members of the government's Inner Circle, plus scientist advisors. If Dad was still alive, he'd be one of those, the most respected one.

Voices murmur as they approach us, nodding and gesturing and talking among themselves. A man and woman step out in front, holding hands. The couple is familiar from GEM Meetings; they always argued with Dad. Mama's almost-smile melts away.

A crack opens in the man's bushy facial hair, and words come out. "Very nice, Sally. We have a real opportunity here."

"With the gangs," his wife finishes, arranging her dress with long fingers.

"Opportunity?" Mama asks. "With all due respect—"

"What I want," he says.

"What we want." They are practically one person. "Is to show these FOLM kids that their parents were wrong. The Global Government doesn't force people to submit to our sonic lifestyle. These...D-towners will choose us in the end."

"And if they don't?"

"They will," he says.

"Your ideals," Mama says, "are going to destroy everything we've worked for."

"My ideals? Sally." She steps closer, reaching out to touch Mama's tense shoulder. "Are you thinking about your husband again, honey? I wish you'd take a leave of absence, spend some time in rehabilitation."

"Is that an order?"

"Of course not. We told you. We don't force the pulses on anyone." He glances at someone else in the group. "Which is why we're sending some teenagers into the gangs. We know these D-towners won't listen to us."

She smiles at me, warm. "But they'll listen to our kids."

"First we need to study them," calls a voice from further back in the group.

The bearded man nods. "Yes, Carl, first we're going to study them. Carl's daughter, Gina, has already volunteered."

"And your Laura?" Mama asks.

The woman turns away without answering and the others follow.

"Those two bother me," Mama says, when we're alone.

"Why?" My brows pinch together.

Bothered? It's such a weird concept.

"Because they don't understand." It's not clear if she means about Dad or, like, everything. "And they're lying to themselves. We never gave people a choice. There is a price for peace, and I can pay most of it, but I can't pay their share. We have to keep paying until we're done or it will all be for nothing," she says. "If even one person avoids the pulses, Zack will have died for nothing."

32. CAPTURE

Aidan—

I jerk awake and almost fall off the worn wooden bench. A sliver of sky is visible. The color is wrong, too pink. What—?

My parents!

I sit in a rush, making the dugout spin. Dugout...Arena...D-town. Right, my parents are long dead.

It's Lawson who's missing.

A second ago the sky was blue while Lawson wept, but now I'm alone. He's gone. Tab's body is also gone. I stand on wobbly legs and peer out into the arena. Yeah, the bodies of the spies are missing too. I scratch at my scalp. I really need a shave.

Focus, Aidan.

Focus. Okay. The GeeGee have come and gone and taken Lawson from me. My throat clamps closed and I reject the thought. No, no, I don't need to get ahead of myself. There's always a chance he woke before me and went somewhere else.

Where?

I don't know!

Now my thoughts are arguing with each other. Great.

I wobble out of the dugout and away from the Arena, into D-town proper. My steps weave at first, then gain strength. The slap of my shoes against cement echoes off the empty buildings. I'm halfway to the Barracks before I realize there are no longer any sleeping bodies in the street.

Long lines of dust mark the road, like a giant has swept here. A machine has come through and cleaned up the bodies, just scooped them up like so much trash. And left me behind.

Again. It doesn't make any sense.

"Lawson!" I scream.

"—son—son—son," the echo responds.

I might as well be the only person left in the world.

I run into the Barracks and the pain in my joints no longer slows me. My heart throws itself against my breastbone like it's trying to break free and sprint on ahead. My steps ring out against the marble like gunshots. I leap sleeping bags and camp kitchens and supplies. In one corner, a lit stove has toppled into a warped plastic bin, starting a smoldering fire. That box probably contains precious mementos of someone's childhood, or even more valuable food. It might belong to someone I know, maybe even Lin. But I can't stop to douse the flames. I take the stairs two at a time and skid to a stop outside Lawson's room.

I throw open the makeshift door.

He's not there. The cubicle is empty as the rest of D-town, empty as a world without That Guy. I fall to my knees on the sleeping bag where we held each other last night. My forehead hits the sleek fabric as I fold forward. Lawson was supposed to be here. He had to be here. Where else would he go?

The Dance.

But The Dance is gone. I get my feet under me and flounder for a second before careening out of the cubicle and back downstairs. I forget to close the door behind me and that open door feels like something left undone.

Once I reach the street, my steps slow. I've run all I can. Every straight angle and broken wall of D-town stands out, gray and tarnished and sharp as metal. I head toward the Haven.

Like with my parents, and Kylie and Sam, there's rarely time at the end to say goodbye. I'm old enough to know that. Maybe last night was my final chance to hear Lawson's heartbeat. Maybe I will have to live with that. Maybe I won't get to live at all. But there's time for one farewell.

"Good bye, D-town," I say as I open the door to the Haven.

The main room is empty, of course—no Lawson, no anyone—but the sound equipment remains intact. It takes just a moment to turn it on and crank it up all the way.

Boom. Ba-boom. Boom. The beat rushes out, trying to fill the world, starting with me.

I dust my hands, turn away, and come up short. The Captain fills the doorway, feet planted wide, arms crossed. She carries a machine gun slung over one shoulder and a blaster over the other. The visor on her helmet is up. There's something familiar about her tired expression.

"Captain," I say.

Her mouth twists. "I knew you'd come, and do you know why? You have absolutely no sense of self-preservation. I tried to warn you—I tried and tried—but you just won't take a hint." She lunges for me.

D-town Council took place in a circle; I have no reason to fear the shape. But when, after a long ride in a dark vehicle, the Captain shoves me into a giant domed room filled with round desks and round stools arranged in interlocking circles, I swear I start to suffocate.

Guards stand stationed around the perimeter of the room, and D-towners huddle in tribal groupings between the guards and the desks. It's simple to find Real Dealer red and black, to see that Lawson is missing. There's a constriction in my chest, like steel bands wrapping me and pulling tight.

I need him. I need him to prove that a self can exist in all this "wholeness," in all this GeeGee green, and what if he's not coming? What if there's nothing left of him but empty flesh?

I gasp, trying to swallow the panic, because everyone's staring: The A guys surrounding their femmes; Tara whispering to the rest of the Logic; Love Childs clinging to one another; and Witches holding hands in a tight circle of their own; the few remaining members of the Turbans standing beside the Cross Bearers; and the Real Deal in a loose knot, Xavier and Lin out front, closest to me.

Lin catches my eye and raises her eyebrows in silent question. I shake my head. No, I haven't seen Lawson, either.

"Watch this one," the Captain says, nudging me further into the room before pulling the door shut and going back to wherever she goes when she's not bothering us.

A series of locks snap into place behind me.

I waver, with no place to belong, until Lin waves me over. I weave through the D-towners, noticing wild eyes and wan complexions. They're not all blissed-out and eager, so a pulse hasn't hit. Yet. We need to act now—resist, escape, something—while we still can, but as always D-town stands divided. If Kylie were here, maybe she could get them to form a united front, but I'm the only Bee, and I'm no Kylie.

"We invite you to take a seat." The GeeGee femme is so slim I missed her before. She leans against the far wall in a long lilac skirt and cream-colored blouse. She steps forward now to stand at the front of the room, almost like she was waiting on me, and now that I'm here she can begin. She smiles right at me. Perfect, auburn curls fall around her heart-shaped face. An earbud peeks from amidst her hair.

So that's why she's not shaking in her vegan shoes, surrounded by all us "dangerous" teens.

My hand reaches out, searching for another set of fingers, and connects with Lin's.

"We need to do something." Her words are a rustle of air.

"Nonviolent resistance." I barely move my lips. "It's the only way." Nonviolent action was designed for situations like this, when force cannot possibly win.

Lin tenses.

"We have to find out what they're made of," I continue.

That seems to win her over; she relaxes some.

"We invite you to sit," the GeeGee woman says again.

A few kids move to sit, Love Childs mostly. They shrug apologetically at the rest of us, as if to say, What could it hurt?

"I'd like if you'd mix tribes," the GeeGee femme says.

I press closer to Lin and murmur, "We refuse to sit in the seats."

She nods and leans over to Xavier. "Don't sit. Pass it on."

The whisper passes out of hearing, but it moves in all directions, a ripple in the crowd, and in a few minutes, the kids who sat are all on their feet again. The GeeGee femme frowns.

"Crowd close," I whisper to Lin.

And that happens too.

D-towners gather around us at the back of the room by the door, so we're packed together like in The Dance. Through a shift in the crowd, I see the GeeGee femme, staring into the group with narrowed eyes. I cling to Lin's hand, pressing her bones. The GeeGee will discover the source of the resistance soon, and when she does, I have to make sure it's me she notices and not Lin.

Lin pulls her hand away. We're stuck in the middle and she pushes forward, to the outer layer. I move with her, but she shoves me back.

"You need to stay alive."

"But—"

"Why do you think they got rid of all the other Bees? It was good to know you."

A chill passes through me as she moves out of sight.

I feel close to everyone, closer than I ever was in The Dance, with anyone except Lawson. The GeeGee has accomplished her goal, broken down the boundaries between us, just not in the way she hoped. In a moment, we have become one tribe.

And you're in charge.

I shake off the ego voice, but it comes back stronger. You're the leader.

The D-towners closest to me—Riana, the Witch who helped me in the Haven, and Tara, leader for the Logic—watch me expectantly. Terror curls around my guts. With all the other Bees gone, I am the only one here at all prepared to deal with a situation like this, a situation where someone wants to break down our psychological boundaries and reform us according to their will, and I have no time to teach everyone. All I have is my example. Lin is right; I have to stay alive.

For the first time, I really understand why the Lama willingly stayed inside the Ashram, even though it meant missing out on The Dance.

Lawson's voice comes to me through memory, speaking to his grandmother. That one is a leader, he said.

Okay, Aidan. Time to step up.

I take a deep breath and turn to Tara. "Leaders to the middle," I say. "Pass it on."

Tara does as I ask and the group shifts around me. I strain for another glimpse of the GeeGee femme. She's stopped giving orders disguised as requests and I need to know what she's up to, but my view is blocked.

"I need to know what's going on," I tell Tara, and the ripple of that passes as well.

"Watching." Lin's voice, loud and strong, rings from the outer layer of the crowd.

She's just set herself up as a target. She'll be first to go down now. But that's what Real Dealers do. Another will take her place. Tears prickle my eyes, and I blink around them, sending out a silent thanks.

A touch to my right hand. I turn my head.

"I'm going forward," Riana says, and she too slips away.

Crow, co-leader of the Witches, takes Riana's place at my left side a few moments later. The High Priestess tosses her head, fluttering the feathers in her black braids. She plants her hands on her hips and nods to me. I nod back, then double-check that all the other leaders are with me. They are, except for the anarchists. In typical style, there are no Real Dealers at all—the Real Deal has no leaders—and the A closest to me is a femme with blond pigtails. I raise a brow at her.

"The A femmes stay inside," she says. "That's our orders."

I nod. "Right. Okay. For now, we don't sit in the seats," I tell the leaders. "And we don't fight back."

The A grimaces. "No matter what?"

I really don't understand A femmes. Does she want to be sheltered or does she want to do battle?

"We don't fight back," I repeat. "No matter what. The sitting, that's different. We might have to give that up."

Click, click, click. Locks turn over behind us.

My heart leaps. Lawson? I glance back but can't get a view of the door.

"So we're going to...?" the Bishop asks, but the rest of his sentence is lost in Lin's shout.

"Reinforcements!"

The knowledge of what's about to happen rushes over my skin and it's all I can do not to shove to the outside.

"Get the weak to the middle," I whisper, horrified.

Tara roles her eyes. "Already done."

I look around and it's true, so I take a breath and try to push my worry for Lawson into a corner of my mind so I can concentrate.

Okay. We need something to give us focus, something like the bass of The Dance. The memory of that night—the night That Guy saved me—flows in, and I can hear the beat as if it reaches across time and space. Boom-boom-boom. I stamp my feet in time.

The others take it up.

"Does anyone know a song?" I whisper. "Something simple."

"How about a chant?" Crow replies. "I know a bunch. Does it matter—?"

"Advancing!" Lin shouts.

"We don't want to hurt you." The GeeGee femme's voice carries. "But we will if you give us no choice."

"Just sing something," I hiss.

"D-town is no more," the GeeGee continues. "You are with us now. The quicker you accept that—"

"Backward you can never go-o-o." Crow's beautiful voice fills the dome.

Silence. Even the GeeGee shuts up. Crow glances at me. Sweat is slipping down my back, but I nod, and this time she and I sing together. "Backward you can never go-o-o."

"Backward you can never go," what's left of D-town echoes, and the song continues in call and repeat.

Backward you can never go,

Never mind how hard you row.

Forward only, with the flow.

All behind you, let it go.

33. ANARCHIST

Lawson—

I wake up going for my gun. My blunt nails drag across the skin under the waistband of my jeans, right where my gun should be but isn't. My eyes fly open. Too-white walls tilt in my vision as I pat myself down and discover the knife in my pocket is missing as well. I snag the one from the top of my boot and switch it open as I roll to sitting on the bed. The walls are old-world white, the room seems to bristle with corners, and apparently I've never heard silence before. Not really.

I'm hearing it now, which means one of two things. Either I've been promoted or I've been arrested. I get up and check the door.

It's locked.

The knife slips from my numb fingers to land point-down in the cork floor. The mattress hits the back of my thighs; I've been backing up. My knees bend and drop me onto the bed. All the edges in the room blur, as if viewed through water. Aidan was right.

Mama killed Tab.

And now I'm in a pulse-proof cell. I should pick up that knife. The handle quivers, shimmery light refracting off the blade. Tab is dead, my whole world is a lie, and all I can do is sit while sharp bursts of trembling wrack my body. The very air seems to have nerves that sense pressure and pain. Understanding, clear and cruel as acid, eats through the space around me, demolishing all my beliefs. It doesn't feel like giving up false ideas; it feels like being melted down to nothing.

Reminds me of being small, some GEM meeting at our place. Dad sat on the edge of the sofa, all long legs and bright eyes and neat beard. He had the tidiest beard in the GEM; Mama always said so, but then she was the one who clipped it.

I was playing with an irrelevant toy. A fire engine? Dad's head receded toward the light on the ceiling, his face taking up the whole room, the timbre of his voice filling the world. That voice sang me lullabies before bed and dropped to serious tones only once he thought I was asleep. Those nighttime murmurs didn't matter.

These words mattered; Dad was using his wake-up voice. I widened my eyes and pushed my fire truck a little ways across the carpet and then back again.

"What we really need is a disaster," Dad was saying. "One big enough to set off a chain reaction. If the Cascadia Fault were to go in any major..."

The way he leaned forward, light catching on the orange glints in his beard, made me want to go into the kitchen and get a disaster and bring it out to him. I glanced at Mama, half expecting her to stand up, but she stayed curled deep into the sofa. Once a photographer taking our picture had said, Sally. You're in your husband's light. Mama had drawn back just like this.

She watched Dad the way she watched me when I put away my toys all by myself. One of her hands was dangling off the couch, in my general direction. I reached up and grabbed her finger. Her body jerked, and she looked down like she just remembered she had a son. I smiled and made a soft fire engine noise and pushed my truck another couple centimeters.

She looked back at Dad. So did I. Everyone in our living room did.

"It's just a matter of time," he said, "before the earth breaks apart and grows. We need to be ready for a bigger world."

Later that morning, after all the guests went home, my dad cracked an egg into a bowl. Slime spilled out, yellow and almost clear. I asked, "What's inside the earth?"

"Water," Dad answered, "lots and lots of water."

At the same time as Mama said, "Fire."

The next time I took a bath, I plugged my nose and lay back underwater. My eyes opened on a ceiling of silver, strands of my hair floating past. It felt like I could hold my breath forever.

Shortly, there came a hard lesson. Some things are not in my control. No matter how much I didn't want to breathe in, I was going to.

No matter how much I wanted to breathe water, I was not a merman.

Mama charged into the bathroom when I choked, as if just realizing the sound of a child drowning is silence. She lifted me out of the tub, hands biting into the tender muscles under my arms, and shouted, "What are you doing?"

"Practicing." I crossed my arms and no matter how many times she asked, I refused to tell her for what.

It's clear now; I was practicing for this. My world has broken apart and my parents were both right. The world is full of burning water. Being boiled alive; that's what losing faith in my parents—in myself—feels like.

Like I've stumbled around some D-town corner to find Aidan crouched over Tab's body with a mouthful of flesh and blood. I once thought the world held something pure and beautiful but I was wrong. I was just a child, living according to the beliefs of my parents instead of my own.

Some anarchist.

I squint against the glare bouncing off the harsh white walls. Everything in this room is designed to remind me of what was wrong with the old world. But the GG world, painted in new life green, is no better. Soft lighting and pulses hide its flaws, the central one being that the whole thing is a hoax.

I thought D-town was a make-believe teenage world where everything is harder, scarier, and more painful than it needs to be. But D-town is the real world. Bruised, broken, and still-standing-beautiful. Just like Aidan.

If Aidan still stands.

The thought blooms like an expanding bullet, exploding through my insides with a shock so intense it's beyond pain. My bowels loosen; my skin turns clammy.

Fortunately, D-town gave me lots of practice not thinking. A spy can't afford to have any out-of-character thoughts taking over his face and giving him away. So I mentally grab hold of the character I've played for two and a half years. I wrap D-town Lawson around me like a moth-eaten blanket. He might be full of holes and not much more than a figment, but he has to be enough. Until I learn who I really am, he's all I have.

What would that Lawson do?

My arms have wrapped around my middle. I force my spine straight and stop hugging myself. Can't show vulnerability; the GeeGee might have wasted a precious camera to keep tabs—

Don't think. Don't think. Don't think.

So...here I am. One D-towner still free of the pulses. One Real Dealer, and we work best alone anyway. This war isn't lost yet.

I look down at my steel toes and then at the locked door. No, boots and fists won't cut it this time. But I've never relied on violence anyway. I've always been ninety percent charm and favors and lies.

That may be nothing to be proud of but then neither is brutality. I don't need pride; I only need to be free.

There has to be a reason I'm in here instead of a rehabilitation cell with continuous pulses piped in. The reason doesn't matter right now. What matters is that soon someone will come through that door, probably Captain Mom. I flinch. Well, whether it's the Captain or some other GeeGee, one thing is certain; the GeeGee want something from me. I'll use that leverage, and every acting skill she taught me, to get access to the other D-towners.

We'll find a way to talk—or fight—our way out of here.

Later, Aidan can teach us all to meditate. The GeeGee will no longer have the power to make us happy or to make things easy or to turn us into sheep. I'll just need to convince the rest of the D-towners to believe in Aidan as much as I do. That shouldn't be too hard. After all, I was trained to talk them into joining the GeeGee. I was going to guarantee them a pain-free life.

New plan. I can't offer a painless life, no one can, but I can promise a full one.

Turns out, there's something I believe in after all. I believe in Aidan.

Loving Aidan was never part of any plan. I didn't do it because I was a GeeGee or because I was a Real Dealer. I did it because I didn't have a choice. Something deeper inside of me said, This one.

But I decided to surrender. Aidan didn't; Aidan fought. Funny how things work backward sometimes. When it comes to Aidan, I always did what I wanted to do, all rules be damned, even my own.

At least I love like an Anarchist.

34. STAND

Aidan—

The GeeGee must have stopped their advance. The guards hold their peace through the chant. Maybe they think we are responding—or accepting; it is an acceptance song—but on the third repetition that changes.

"Advancin—ooof." Lin cuts off.

The song stutters as they hit our outer layer and the kids there stagger back, smishing those of us in the middle, but before I can urge everyone to keep singing, the chant picks up again, stronger than before.

"All behind you, let it go!" we shout.

Crow stumbles away and comparatively cool air moves into the space between us. Where did the breathing room—? Oh crap. The guards aren't attacking the outer kids so much as tearing them away, trying to break our huddle.

"Hold onto each other!" I yell, effectively ending both the chant and my anonymity as I grab onto the first body my hands touch. I wrap my arms around a muscular middle and find myself looking into the wide blue eyes of Sevens. I stumble back, grip loosening, and then surge forward to grab him again.

We're all one tribe, now.

His arm comes around my waist and he pulls me close in an awkward almost-hug. "Um, it's Aidan, right?"

Ridiculous, but I nod.

"Lock your arms, we all have to be connected!" I yell, making Sevens flinch at the volume, and then I tell him, "You should be further out."

He blushes. "You know what, you're right."

He moves off. I grab the High Priestess and the Bishop and more arms wrap around me from behind. We cling to one another, the survivors from D-town.

Guards yank us apart but no sooner have they torn loose the outer layer and turned to the next than the outer layer is back. We are going to force them to violence. This is only working because they don't want to destroy us. They want to keep us—who knows why?—but soon they will get bored.

Frustration rises in the air, palpable, that feeling of throwing yourself against something and having no effect. It's the way D-town feels against the GeeGee, and so is familiar. Like children fighting grownups. That's how we've felt since the earthquake, but as I look around, new truth dawns.

We are not children. Not anymore. Not completely grown, maybe. We are in-between, and the GeeGee has set itself up to fail because if they've brought us here to teach us something, well, you can stick a D-towner in a desk, but you can't make a teenager learn.

The first cry comes then, thin and pained, all the more shocking from my position sheltered in the center of the group. The sound squashes my moment of triumph and throws me back into reality.

All at once Xavier shoves in beside me. "We should fight back."

"We can't. They'll crush us."

"They're crushing us anyway."

I shake my head. "No, not yet."

Thumps and cries from the outer layer grow louder.

"What should we do?" the Bishop pleads, pulling at his button-down shirt.

I look at him in shock, realizing I expected the leaders to start giving their own orders as soon as things got rough. Sure, our resistance would ultimately fail, but at least it wouldn't be my fault.

Now it's all on me. The headache from earlier comes back worse.

"Refuse to sit," I say. "They'll put us in the chairs. Resist, non-violently."

This becomes, "Resist the chairs," as the whisper passes away, and I have an image of D-towners fighting off green chairs.

Of course, resist means different things to different people, and sounds of violence escalate as the more aggressive tribes fight not to be stuck in the chairs. The crowd shifts and I catch a glimpse of the goings-on. It's almost funny. Over a hundred teenagers throwing toddler-like temper tantrums. My gaze locks on Tara, who's made herself limp and heavy, like she's pretending to sleep, while a guard struggles to lift and wedge her upright in the chair. She's got the right approach.

"Go limp! Go limp!" I yell.

Despite the situation, some D-town femme still has the energy to yell an obscene comment.

I follow my own advice, and those of us still in the huddle collapse into a kind of entwined pile. It becomes obvious this isn't the best idea when the weight of the kids on top compresses my bruised ribs, stealing my breath. An elbow connects with my mouth and I taste my own blood as I take sips of air, trying to focus on my pounding heart, listening to the panicked heartbeats of those closest to me.

The beats thump and sputter like a racing chorus of drums. If we all just stopped and listened, our hearts would sync—the GeeGee's too—no pulse necessary. We're each alone with heart and breath, and therefore alive. Why can't that be enough for the GeeGee?

I close my eyes in rage but only for a second. An instant's all I have, because a pulse will come. It's just a matter of time, and our hearts will sync then, but that will count for nothing.

We only have now to make a difference.

I shove to get free of the pile and my elbow overextends as the Bishop is lifted away. He hovers above me a moment, suspended at an impossible angle, holding my gaze as his shirt rides up. A GeeGee guard has him by the shirt collar. The Bishop blanches as the guard drags him away and shoves him in a chair. He looks away when the guard comes back for me.

I shut my eyes and pretend my body is made of water. No resistance. The guard drags me to the desk easily enough but water can't be made to sit. My body slides boneless from the chair again and again. Water doesn't jerk when a hand closes on my throat, cutting off air. Water doesn't tense when I tumble out of the chair and my temple hits the corner of the desk with a dizzying burst of pain.

Water ends up facedown over a chair. I hang there, limp, but it doesn't matter; all the other D-towners are already seated.

"Hello, everyone," the GeeGee femme says, like she's welcoming a class of kindergartners. "My name is Miss Corrigan. I will be your teacher."

My view in this position is limited to holey D-towner shoes and overwhelmingly green floor. I go ahead and sit up.

Sevens occupies the desk to my left. The skin over his cheekbone is slit and he has a nosebleed, which he does nothing about. Blood dribbles over his lips to his chin. Of course he was one of the ones who fought. I shake my head and he gives me a rueful smile, then lowers his gaze.

I consider his wounds. A guard obviously struck him directly. My guard got so frustrated he was swearing, but he never hit me. They must still be under orders to only strike in self-defense. We can use that, if I can just get everyone to stay non-violent. Too bad it's a bit like getting cougars to eat vegetarian.

Miss Corrigan is spouting some crap about how pleased she is that we "decided" to join her class. What will she try to teach us? If only I knew that, I might be able to come up with a better strategy. There's a more immediate problem, though. Now that we're separated in our desks, if I attempt to lead, I'll be singled out.

I'm the only Bee. I have to survive for when the pulses come. I don't know what I'll do then, but I'll be the only one who can do anything.

Sevens is back to watching me. Maybe it's my imagination, but it feels like he's thinking the same thing. He opens his mouth and I shake my head, but of course he ignores me.

"We won't learn shit from you." Sevens's voice carries.

He glares at the "teacher" but, around the room, D-towners cross their arms. They know the information was meant for them.

Miss Corrigan smiles. "Let's just start with a writing test. I bet none of you can write."

Does she seriously think we're going to fall for that? But there's some angry shifting and a guy shouts, "The Logic can write!"

Stupid, stupid.

Maybe he realizes his mistake because he stares down at his desk.

Guards circulate, distributing the "quiz" while Miss Corrigan hovers at the front of the room. She's obviously wary of us. If I were an A or Real Dealer, I'd know how to use that.

No, don't think about the Real Deal right now, especially not that Real Dealer.

To distract myself, I glance down at the sheet of bamboo paper on my desk.

NAME (First, Last):

GENDER: M/F

I will myself to stop reading there, but my gaze has already moved on.

MOTHER'S NAME:

FATHER'S NAME:

A lump fills my throat. No, not this, not on top of Lawson's disappearance and my own captivity, but the dream is fresh. I remember the sound of those black bags zipping closed. I should have climbed out from between the cars, made sure I saw their faces one last time.

My parents died to keep me out of GeeGee hands, and now here I am. I can't let this happen. I won't.

"I don't know how to spell," I say.

"That's okay," Corrigan says, misunderstanding the emotion in my voice, probably on purpose. "You'll learn that here."

Thanks, but I think I'll pass.

And I get it.

The night Lawson rescued me from Sevens, the night Kylie thought I was meant to die, I didn't survive so I could help D-town resist the pulses. Who knows if I even can? No, I lived for this.

My parents gave their lives to stop these monsters from taking over their world, and my world may be smaller, but I can make the same sacrifice. I can set an example.

And if they make an example of you?

Let them. I should be the target. I'm the only one here who understands how to bear suffering without fighting it. I shove the paper to the floor and stand up. Sevens reaches for my hand but I sidestep.

"Your paper," I say, "is missing something. There's no spot for in-between."

Miss Corrigan's lips press flat. "There's no such thing as an in-between."

"Yes. There. Is." I can't let this slide. I don't know why but it matters. My identity suddenly matters so strongly I would die. "I will not fill out that form unless you put in-between on it."

Miss Corrigan's chin comes up and her lip curls. I feel my fellow D-towners draw in a breath and hold it.

"Hansen," Miss Corrigan says.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Find out what the child is." She turns away, unclipping her comm from her belt.

The guard steps out of line and advances on me, and my gaze flies to the door. For a startling moment, I have a vision of Lawson bursting in at the last moment, like he always seems to do, but that fantasy is stolen by the guard's rough hand, shoving under the waistband of my pants. He feels around.

With an extra thirty minutes to prepare, I could probably coax my muscles to relax, to accept this invasion, but now I can't stop them from tightening. It doesn't matter, really, except as the tiny defeat it is to me, as a Bee. I can keep from fighting back or even from wiggling to escape, but it's out of my power to prevent this last battle, my body's rejection of what's happening to me. I don't breathe as he makes more thorough contact than strictly necessary and his hand lingers.

"Get what you came for?" I snap, and my face heats at this second defeat—that I couldn't keep silent.

"Hansen." The femme guard who invited me to live at her house jolts into motion, stepping toward us.

Hansen yanks his hand out like he's been caught doing, well, exactly what he was doing, and he takes a hurried step away. I don't feel the violation, though, don't feel much of anything, until he bends over my desk and marks my sex on the intake form. Then tears of humiliation well and carve stinging tracks down my cheeks.

35. BEEKEEPER

Lawson—

The vacuum seal releases with a hiss. I stagger to my feet as Captain Mom strides in, buckling her empty gun holster. She shuts the door quickly, but if the seal reengages, the blood whooshing in my ears drowns it out.

I have to find Aidan and make my confession. Yes, I was GeeGee, but I changed my mind. I have to know that I'm loved as my whole self, or that I am not.

I face Mama across the cork floor and the fallen knife. She takes off her helmet and tosses it past me onto the bed. Static electricity lifts her hair. She stands on the balls of her feet, arms loose at her sides, ready to fight me.

If she ruled the world, I'd launch myself at her right now and forget she's my mother, but she doesn't, and I'm short on time. I don't speak. The words jammed up against my teeth would only get me sedated.

"Hi," Mama says.

I stick my hands in my pockets and say, "You were too late."

She rocks back on her heels, watching, measuring.

"You took too long and they killed Tab." I've been playing pretend for years, but this is my most important performance.

Her shoulders droop. "I know. I couldn't believe it, but they killed the other actors, too."

I take a step closer. "I was wrong." Another step. "They would have torn me to pieces, just like you said, if you hadn't given me this scar." My fingers brush across the hollow above my hipbone, tracing the ridge of flesh through the fabric of my shirt. "Thank you for that."

"Actually, it's a tracking chip," she says. "That's how we were able to find you." Her eyes narrow.

She's testing me. Maybe thanking her was too much. She wants me to know there's no escape, but she needn't bother. I stoop and snag the knife. She jerks away, and her back hits the door. I flip the knife so I'm holding the blade and extend it to her hilt-first.

"Thanks for always having my back," I say.

She grabs the hilt, a little too eagerly. I tense without meaning to, muscles clamping down. My fingers press together on the flat blade. Smooth metal slides millimeter by millimeter between the pads of my fingers, and then she has everything and I am unarmed. It feels like standing naked in the middle of the Arena. I look down to hide my emotions.

"We have the others in lockdown," she says. "We're hoping you'll talk to them for us."

Which explains why I'm here instead of rehabilitation. The mission isn't yet complete. Maybe she wants me to keep my edge. Maybe she thinks Real Dealer Lawson makes the ideal soldier. She's almost right about that.

She's just forgotten one thing about anarchists. The most important bit. We don't take orders.

I search the face in front of me, more familiar than my own. The square jaw, the rounded tip of her nose, the dark circles under her eyes like fading shiners. If only she locked me up to save me from the pulses. If only she wanted what I want with Aidan, truth and forgiveness, but her face gives away nothing but exhaustion.

"But why?" I swallow. "You have them already."

If she weren't used to pulse-controlled sheeple, she'd see through the wide-eyed innocent act in a second, but she says, "The media department wants a record of them agreeing to the pulses. The lost children coming home. Think you can get us that?"

I look at my torn jeans and t-shirt, black and red and filthy. I scrub my hands down my thighs, collecting grime. Dirty hands feel right.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm your man."

She turns for the door but then looks back over her shoulder. "I'm really sorry about the Bees. I know you had a soft spot for them. Sergeant Hansen acted alone on that one, and I, well, let's just say I'm glad your gender-confused friend wasn't among them."

There are no tells to give her away but I don't need one. I grew up in her army; she's the one who taught me to lie. Massacres never happen without the Captain's permission, and she does wish Aidan had been there.

She opens the door and holds it wide. "Come on."

I stare into the mirror of my mother's face. Good-bye.

She jerks her head. "There's already trouble."

Fierce pride fills me. D-town is fighting back. I focus on the worn toes of my boots, hiding my expression, as I step past her. She takes back her gun from the guard waiting out in the hall. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from grabbing for a weapon, then yank them out again when the guard steps in front of me.

"You one of them?" The visor of his helmet is up. There's strain around his mouth and a bruise forming under one eye.

My hand balls into a fist.

"Stand down," the Captain says, stepping quickly between us. "Don't mind him," she tells me. "The pulses are off for the day."

My face goes slack. I can't summon an expression, can't remember how the muscles in my face work.

Off? Like off, off?

I wet my mouth. "For how long?"

"Not long at all. Don't worry." She sets off at a jog down the curving hallway.

I follow. The cork floor adds spring to my step, making me run like a G-spot, too perky. The hall bends to the right, curving tighter and tighter as we spiral in on the center of the compound. I trail my fingers along the pale green wall, probably leaving smudges, but the Captain doesn't order me to stop. She moves with purpose, unlocking a final fortified door.

We step into an airy reception area with high ceilings and round skylights. Stalks of bamboo grow from flowerpots straight toward the early evening light. A ponytailed receptionist sits behind a desk made from yet more bamboo. The femme turns as the door opens and does a double-take on me. I focus on her to keep from staring at the door in the convex wall on the other side of the reception area. Under my gaze, her russet skin reddens by degrees, like a stove heating.

My heart jackhammers against my ribs and the walls seem to pulsate as I follow my mother across that last bit of smooth floor to the door of the re-education room. She adjusts her grip on her gun and my stomach does a slow, sickening flip. Aidan is behind that door, if Aidan is anywhere.

While the Captain unlocks the door, I'm powerless to stop my glance through the viewing window into the classroom.

There's Aidan, the only D-towner standing. Wrist bones so sharp it's a wonder they don't tear through skin. Tendons standing out in too-thin arms. The Om tattoo on the back of that one's scalp is darker than any bruise.

"Are you ready?" the Captain asks.

My gaze jerks from the door, down to my knuckles. Something about the curve of Aidan's shoulders has made my hands curl into fists. The Captain is watching me. I nod and reach past her. She steps aside.

My fingers close around the door handle, the metal slipping against my sweaty palm as I twist it.

"Lawson, wait," she commands, sounding suddenly anxious. "Do you know who you are?"

My hand is on the door. I can say anything I want to. I turn my head and look directly into my mother's hazel eyes.

"Yeah," I say. "I am the beekeeper."

I throw open the door just as she reaches out to stop me.

36. LOVE

Aidan—

The door bangs open and hits the wall. Two figures tussle in the opening. Broad shoulders in a dirty red t-shirt fill my vision. Lawson is here. Too late to rescue me this time, but maybe it's never too late, because humiliation washes away, replaced by warmth.

He jerks free of his opponent and stumbles into the room, shouting, "—maybe I don't want to be a soldier! Maybe I'm a Real Dealer."

Maybe?

I have a view of the pair in profile as the Captain stalks in after him, helmet off, gun dangling from her grip. They're of a height, with almost identical brown hair. Only the cut is different.

"You're no anarchist," she snaps. "You're a little actor who's lost his way!"

"I am a Real Dealer," Lawson repeats. "We have no leaders. We have no Gods. Sometimes violence is the lesser evil." It's the Real Deal creed.

"Sometimes you're right," the Captain says, and she raises the gun.

"No!" he shouts. "Mama, don't."

The barrel jerks. Crack. Lawson turns.

"Oh," I breathe. Of course.

I'm falling. Lawson is falling apart. I see it in his eyes.

It's okay, I want to tell him. It doesn't change anything. I try. My lips move.

The Captain, Lawson's mother, raises her comm unit to her mouth and says, "Yes, that was the last one. You may resume the pulses at any time."

Lawson's eyes flick to her; he wants that gun, but then he's rushing toward me. He drops to his knees at my side, already yanking off his shirt. He wads the fabric and presses it against the wound in my chest.

"Pressure, got to apply pressure." A tear leaks from his eye as he chokes out, "I was coming to tell you—I'm your Lawson."

I need to brush the tear from his cheek, grab his hand, hold on, but darkness snatches at my vision. I fight it. For the first time in my life, I fight with everything I have, to stay with him.

Then a great harmony overtakes me. The peace I've been looking for my whole life is just suddenly there, wrapping around me like Lawson's arms. It's not a pulse, because a pulse is a happiness lid, trying to smother whatever's underneath, and this...this is what's underneath. Tenderness and agony, rage and forgiveness, jealousy and sacrifice—peace can take it all. And I understand.

This whole time, I thought I was messing up, failing as a Bee, but I was wrong.

Lawson and I...we got it right.

Memory folds, gathering a selection of moments, and awareness multiplies, allowing me to relive them all at once.

The first person I see is Lawson; maybe I was looking for him all along. His knuckles dominate my field of vision. Black letters tattoo the backs of his fingers.

REAL

DEAL

Without thinking, I grab his hand. The skin on top is warm and soft. "Together," I say. "We can make it."

He smiles and it's like a rare blue-sky morning, when the early sun reflects off the Three Street windows. My breath catches.

"Aidan." His voice is rich, confident, familiar.

And when he says my name, I can't see anything—anyone—but him. My hand drops to the waistband of my jeans.

"You bring out the worst in me," I say.

He takes my wrist between two fingers, like he knows how I've been manhandled and doesn't want to add to it. "Who says it's the worst? Maybe it's the best."

Tension flows away. I smile; he smiles. My weight shifts toward him.

The next thing I know, we're kissing. He backs me up against the wall, and his mouth threatens to tear open my split lip, while his callused fingertips map my cheeks, forehead, and chin, raising gooseflesh. When we ease apart and stand surrounded by the broken remnants of the world, I feel more at home than I ever have, anywhere.

"Come here," I say. My body belongs sheltering his body.

He grips my hip and adjusts my stance. "I'm with you."

He touches the bare skin of my inner thigh. I brace against the wall, and he moves slowly. His heart beats in my ears, his rhythm filling me, while a mental voice chants, Don't waste this, don't waste this, don't waste this.

"Oh," Lawson groans. "Yes."

And I'm nothing, and I am nothing but love.

The End

As a child, Láyla was prostituted, raped, and tortured. She is proof that Love wins.

Connect with her at authorlayla.com

