I spot a neighborhood where the roads and sidewalks are cracked and broken and the grass less green, and turn to enter it. The roofs of the houses sag in the middle. Boards across windows and doors signal a lack of materials to make repairs. Stairs are missing steps. Swirls of faded paint decorate the houses’ exteriors. The front yards are mostly dirt with a few patches of scraggly yellowish grass. If it weren’t for the hopeful budding of the healthy trees on the street, I would think this area had yet to be revitalized and that people did not yet live here. But they do. A rag doll sitting near the rotted front steps of a squat brown house with a porch that is carefully swept of debris and a metal shovel that is free of rust sitting outside another dwelling tell me that people are here.
Since coming to Tosu, I’ve realized that despite the best intentions of the government, it is almost impossible for a city this size to treat all citizens the same. Streets that government officials call home are repaired more frequently than those of people who do not hold influential jobs. But the run-down appearance of some areas notwithstanding, I have never seen another so poorly tended as this one. While that disturbs me, in a way I am glad. It’s clear that the government rarely if ever notices this street, so it could be a perfect place to hide the papers I don’t want anyone to find.
In the last rays of daylight, I study the dilapidated, graffiti-laden houses on either side of the roadway, ignoring those that show signs of habitation. A small one-story structure with boarded-up windows and a sagging roof catches my eye. The houses across from it show subtle signs of occupancy, but this one and the two on either side look as though nothing but rodents and small animals have gone near the front door in months.
Careful to keep to the grass so I don’t leave footprints in the dirt, I cross to the back of the house. The door in the rear hangs precariously from its hinges. I can see at least one spot where an animal has constructed a nest in the eve of the roof.
I lean my bicycle against the back of the house and walk to the door. The hinges let out a shrill protest as I shift it open. I go still and wait to see if anyone appears. When no one does, I walk inside into a small kitchen. Doors of cabinets are missing. In the center of the room, the remains of a collapsed table lie sprawled on the floor, surrounded by three wooden chairs. Leaves and twigs are scattered on the ground. Still, I search the rest of the structure to make sure this place is not in use.
The living room floor is coated in a thick layer of dust. The lone sofa in the room is so worn that springs poke through its cushions. I search the bathroom and two bedrooms. When I see no obvious signs of habitation, I pull my pocketknife out of my bag, then open the bedroom closet. Kneeling, I use the knife to prod around the floorboards. Several are loose. I pry up three, stand up to pull the folder out of my bag, remove the list of names, and tuck the rest of the papers into the spot I dug out. I replace the floorboards and pile the clothes stained with Damone’s blood on top of them. Then I close the closet door and hurry out.
I save the coordinates of this location on the Transit Communicator, then climb onto my bicycle and ride. When I reach the end of the street, I look back at the house where the papers lie hidden, knowing that if I return to retrieve them it will be because I have chosen to take up President Collindar’s charge.
And not just me. Because this task is not one that I can complete on my own. My father told me to trust no one. I have broken that edict more than once—often to my detriment. And if the president is right and there is no other way to end The Testing and the destruction to the country that might come, I may have to break it again.
Chapter 4
THE SKY IS dark as I cross under the arch that marks the entrance to the campus. Solar lights illuminate the roadways and the buildings that I pass. I see fewer students than usual. Many spend their Saturday evenings in their rooms, catching up on sleep or blowing off steam, but normally there are more than the handful of students I see going to and from the library or sitting on the benches outside the residences. The inactivity makes my heart race as I pedal across the bridge toward the vehicle shed. I store my bike and hurry around to the entrance of the residence.
“Cia.”
I jump at the sound of my name and squint into the shadows, looking for the source. For a moment I see nothing. Then a figure moves away from the trunk of the weeping willow tree into the faint moonlight.
Enzo. Of all the University students, Enzo is the one I think I most understand and the one I am more inclined to believe has my best interests at heart. He is not like the others, whose families have ties to the Commonwealth Government. He could not rely on his parents’ connections in order to get accepted to the University. Enzo worked for it. He, like me, wanted to come to the University to help better our country. That similarity and the lack of connection to those who currently lead the University are the reasons I cross the grass instead of going inside. If Enzo has been waiting outside the residence for me, the reason must be important.
As I walk toward him, Enzo looks around to make sure we are alone. When I reach his side he says, “Professor Holt is looking for you.”
I swallow hard. “Do you know why?” Does she want to know what I was doing in the city today? Does she suspect what the president has asked of me? Or is this about what happened last night?