By the time the heartwood reaches my floor, I’m a trembling mess. I take the corridor used by Stone-Fated workers. The orange-uniformed personnel don’t give me a second glance. Posted signs lead me to my air-barracks. Soldiers guard the door to Tritium 101.
A worker ahead of me tries to scan his moniker, but a soldier stops him. “You’re getting new monikers in your designated areas. Report to your capsules, and you’ll be summoned throughout the evening.” I pull my gloved hand inside my sleeve so only my fingers show. When I reach the soldier, he waves me through.
Before I reach the underdeck capsules, I branch off and take the staircase up to Section Black, open the door at the top of the stairs, and find myself in the back corner of the locker room. An eerie silence greets me. No one is about. They’ve all returned to their capsules. My wet boots echo on the tile floor.
Finding my locker, I’m about to strip off my leaded glove when I stop. The clock on the wall indicates that it’s half past two. I can’t open my locker yet. I can’t take the risk of my moniker showing up here while I’m supposed to be in detention. My scheduled release is five thirty. I have to wait.
Seeking a hiding place, I go to one of the individual toilet rooms and close the door. The moment I enter it, I begin to retch. Leaning over the steel commode, I vomit until there’s nothing left in me. When I’m finally able, I rise and lock the door. Then, I sit and wait.
Jolting awake, I look around. Bathroom. Bag. Orange uniform. Panic. I jump to my feet. My head spins and I see spots. With my forearms against the wall, I wait until the world rights itself, then I open the door. No one is in the locker room. I listen, but the thundering of my heartbeat is all I hear. Gathering the courage to leave the bathroom, I step out with the bag. The clock on the wall reads five twenty. Close enough! I strip off the leaded glove and shove it in the bag.
I hurry to my locker and scan my moniker. The door pops open. Dropping to my knees, I pull apart the false bottom and cram the bag inside it, on top of the outfit that I wore to the news conference. I strip off Flannigan’s orange uniform and the flat cap and thrust them into the hollowed-out bottom. Covering the hole with the piece of metal, I rise to my feet. I tug on my beige pajamas, warm against my cold skin.
Rising up on my tiptoes, I reach and search the top shelf, knocking things over in my haste to find the welding tool that I’m too short to see. It’s there in the back. I drop to my knees again. A golden flame ignites when I pull its trigger. I put it to the floor of my locker and weld the seams. The melting metal blows curls of smoke up. I try not to look directly at it, but I’m partly blind when I finish.
Easing my locker door closed with a soft click, I hurry back to the toilet closet, shutting the door and locking it. With trembling hands, I begin to take the welding tool apart. Footsteps sound outside the bathroom door. The first part of the tool unhinges. I drop it in the steel bowl. My fingers work furiously on the next part.
Someone beats on the door. “Come out of there!” a deep voice shouts.
I take a deep breath. “Just a minute!” My voice is raw and raspy.
“You’re not supposed to be out of your capsule!” The door rattles on its hinges. Gut-wrenching fear squeezes my heart. A fist hammers again. Another piece of the welding tool slides free. I drop it in the toilet. Sweat slips down my face.
“It was an emergency!” I call back. My fingers bleed, cut by the sharp edges of the tool.
“I don’t care if you shit all over the inside of your bunk, Soldier! I want you out here now!” The door rattles on its hinges.
“Okay!” I answer as the final two pieces come apart. I drop them in and flush. When I’m sure that all the pieces have been swept away, I unlock the door. The door is thrown open by a Strato soldier, red-faced, towering over me, looking as if he’s about to breathe fire.
“Tropo! What are you doing?” he demands. Anger gives way to annoyance when he sees my face. I must look petrified.
“I had to go to the bathroom, Patr?n.”
“We’re on lockdown!” he bellows. “You’re not allowed to leave your capsule!”
“I just got here, Patr?n. I spent all night in detention.”
He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Get down and give me fifty push-ups!” I exit the bathroom closet and drop to the ground. The act of doing something so commonplace makes me feel better. When I’m done, I stand and face him. “Now get to your capsule,” he orders.
“Can I wash my hands first?”
“No, you cannot!” he yells. He calls to someone over his shoulder. “Can you take this Tropo to her capsule?”
I look over his shoulder to the soldier standing by the lockers. Hawthorne stares back at me. “Yeah, Barkley,” he says, “I’ll take her.”
Chapter 13
Ugly Moles
I don’t realize that my feet are bare until Hawthorne asks, “Do you want your slippers?” I shake my head no because I don’t trust my voice not to be thick with emotion, and I don’t know exactly what he’ll see if I open my locker. I try to walk to the door that leads to the tiers of capsules. Hawthorne stops me with a gentle tug on my arm. “Sorry about Barkley. He’s a head case. Stay away from him if you can. He has a crazy fascination for the rules, and I know you don’t.”
Hawthorne’s strong hand on my arm loosens. He’s about to let go of it when I turn and rest my forehead against his chest. I inhale Hawthorne’s scent that I now associate with safety. My shaking shoulders hunch toward him. A sob that I can’t force down breaks through and chokes me. He moves his rifle so that it rests against his back on the gun strap. I hide my face against his chest once more. His hands come up to rest on my shoulders as he holds me to him. “Shh,” he hushes softly, brushing my hair back from my hot face, tucking it back behind my ear. “Whatever it is that’s making you cry, look away from it. It doesn’t have you. I do.”
I can’t get close enough to him. He lifts me up in his arms, and then sits down on a bench, settling me in his lap. He leans his back against the wall. I don’t know how long it takes me to stop crying, but I get the hiccups toward the end. Hawthorne doesn’t tease me about them. He reaches into the pocket of his gun strap and extracts a cloth used to remove condensation from the barrel. “It’s clean,” he says when he uses it to wipe my face.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
“About what?” He stuffs the cloth back into the compartment. “I’ve never cleaned my rifle with Roselle’s tears before. I’ll let you know how well it works.” He waits to see if I smile. I don’t. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I reply with a watery look and a set of sniffles.
“You look exhausted. I know you were picked up for brandishing.”
“Who told you?”
“Agent Crow, when he gave me this.” Hawthorne shows me his new moniker and scar. “He also told me he wasn’t done with either of us.”
“Is that all he said?” I ask.
“Yes. Why?” he replies. I cringe. Hawthorne doesn’t know about Agnes Moon. Agent Crow didn’t tell him. How do I tell him that his girlfriend was murdered because he wanted to help me? He’ll never forgive himself . . . or me.
“He killed her, Hawthorne. Agnes is dead. Agent Crow beat her to death. He showed me the photos.” Exhale—that’s how I tell him.
Hawthorne shakes his head. I’ll never forget the look of horror on his face for as long as I live.
“Agent Crow accused Agnes of being thirdborn. Was she?”
His eyes smolder. His nostrils flare. “No! She was secondborn, like us! She was just a Moon. She’s never even been trained to defend herself!”
“He was going to kill her either way, for helping me. He’s insane, Hawthorne. I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. I feel powerless to take away his pain.
“She didn’t want to help. I convinced her to do it.” His lips thin in despair. “I’m going to kill him.”
“One day. I’ll help you.” Rubbing my eyes in exhaustion, I rise from his lap and sway on my feet. Hawthorne stands and catches my shoulders.
“I’m taking you to your capsule.” I don’t argue. He places a comforting hand on the small of my back, and we walk.