We can’t risk making our way to either Leonard’s car or Raphael’s Mini so late at night, and using any of Enya Sleepwell’s vehicles is a definite no. Having her implicated in helping me will destroy everything she has done to build up trust with people. We need to be among our own people, and the only transport we can safely use to get to Mary May’s house is the Flawed curfew bus.
Mary May lives out of the city, past the suburbs, near the lake. I imagined her as a farmhouse type of person, maybe with horses, but perhaps animals don’t like her, either. They have extra senses for people like her. I never would have suspected the lake. The lake is beautiful, magical, surrounded by rolling mountains decorated by the shadows of clouds and mountain mist. My friend Marlena’s family have a second house there. She used to go most weekends, and sometimes they brought me. Mom used to take us on drives all around the lake, she used to like to watch the sunrise. Until Juniper and I started complaining about it being boring and then she just went on her own. I feel guilty about that now.
Carrick and I don’t know if the footage is in Mary May’s possession for sure, but it’s all we’ve got to go on. Juniper told me that Mary May removed everything from my room and put it in her own personal car, while wearing her civilian clothes. I can’t even imagine what kind of clothes they would be, or believe that she would possess an item of clothing that wasn’t some kind of Whistleblower uniform. But I do know that Mary May must be under immense pressure from Crevan to find me and the footage. She was responsible for both, and she let them slip through her fingers. If she’s taken my things anywhere, it must be to her own home, where she can search on her own time. They’re only objects, but I think of all my possessions sitting in her house. Teddies, photographs, books, clothes, the only things that I own, all taken away from me.
Juniper has provided me with a cap, and I keep it low over my head and let my hair down to cover my branded temple. We wear F armbands that we were given at Enya’s office, to make sure we don’t stand out. A Flawed person on a Flawed bus without an armband would cause alarm bells to ring. It has been weeks since I’ve worn the armband, and sliding it up my arm feels like a weight being added to my body. I can tell Carrick is feeling the same, as his demeanor completely changes once it’s on. But I suppose that is the entire point, for us to feel harassed, humiliated, and isolated from society.
At least Carrick was spared having to reveal his scar every day, though when it seemed the brandings were unfair to those whose brands could be seen, the F armbands were brought in to eliminate that little loophole.
We join the crowded curfew bus stop, filled with Flawed. Our own people. Carrick wears a cap low and stays close to me, head down. I keep my back to everybody.
Once on the bus, each Flawed swipes his or her identity card and takes a seat.
“We don’t have identity cards,” Carrick whispers.
“Yes, we do,” I say, reaching into my backpack and handing him the two cards I borrowed from Enya’s team. If she does care about them so much, she can help them get new identity cards.
Carrick looks down at them with surprise, and laughs with admiration at my resourcefulness. Though I am Harlan Murphy, thirty-year-old computer analyst, and he is Trina Overbye, a fortysomething-year-old librarian.
When we get on the bus we keep our eyes down and sit in the back row. I don’t know if anybody is looking at me because I’m not looking at them.
I should feel safe in a bus full of Flawed, these are my people, but I’m afraid. A message appears on the screen at the head of the bus. It’s a Guild-sponsored piece, as all the pieces are on Flawed transport. It’s a photo of Carrick. My heart drums and I elbow him roughly to get his attention.
The photograph was taken at Highland Castle when he was brought in by the Whistleblowers. I recognize the backdrop, like a mug shot. He stares down the lens with pure hatred and venom, looking like a total badass, his neck thick, the muscles in his shoulders all pumped up.
Beneath the photo is the word EVADER.
And the voice-over, Pia Wang’s perky replacement.
“Carrick Vane is on the run with Celestine North. He is her accomplice. If anybody finds them, call this number and you will be rewarded.”
For a Flawed, to be offered a reward is like letting a child loose in a candy shop.
“Juniper,” I say to Carrick. “They know she’s not me. We’re out of time.”
“No, it doesn’t mention you,” he says. “Look.”
And he’s right. This piece is just about Carrick. Crevan still thinks that he has me in the hospital, and now he needs to silence Carrick. In the morning my mom and her team will swoop in on Crevan’s hospital and he’ll know that I have escaped him again. He’ll want my head on a plate.
The woman in the seat in front of us turns around to stare at us. I look up and see a few more heads turn.
“It’s okay,” Carrick says, keeping his head down.
But it’s not okay, at some point every single person on the bus has turned around to look at us. I see some tapping on their phones.
Suddenly the bus pulls over to the side of the road and my heart thuds. Carrick and I are holding hands—I’m at the window; he’s at the aisle—his thumb circles the brand on my palm. I don’t know if he even notices that he’s doing it. It’s like he’s guarding my wounds, like whatever the world thinks is ugly, he cherishes.
The driver stands and leaves the wheel. He addresses us all. “I’ll need everybody to get off the bus for a moment. Go shelter in the café, have a coffee, take a pee break, whatever you want.”
There are groans, some worried faces.
“What’s going on?” I whisper.
Carrick shrugs.
“No, no, no, I will not accept this,” a man stands up and shouts. “This is the third time this week that my bus has been delayed. I won’t hear of it. We get off the bus, we suddenly can’t get back on. Problem with the engine, problem with the tires. And then what? I miss the curfew again, another punishment. I’m not getting off this bus.” He folds his arms.
Some others cheer him on.
“This is a setup,” somebody else shouts, and there are louder cheers.
Most people don’t want any trouble at all and just get straight off the bus. A half-dozen people remain.
“Look.” The driver sighs. “I’m under orders. They just radioed it in. I have to pull the bus over and wait for a mechanic. I’m just doing what I’m told.”
The passengers all shout at him, waving their hands dismissively. Nobody moves from their seats.
“We should get off,” Carrick says, making a move, but I pull him back down.