It’s almost sunrising and I’ve gone to do an inventory of the medical supplies—with pencil and paper—and also to do a bit of clandestine packing, when I notice that the seal on one of the amrita bottles is the tiniest bit loose. I lift it to my nose, then tear off the seal and smell again. Water. I check the others. Three more, just water, and the tiny bottle of Forgetting, the one that Reddix gave to Beckett, is gone. And I know who did this. Nathan. Jill, it seems, realized the potential after all.
I have to tell Annis. We have working communications now, through the re-launched satellites, and she sends a message. But her words won’t fly any faster than the ship, so it may be far too late by the time the message gets there. We don’t tell anyone else. Earth is beyond our control, and so many other things are here, within our grasp.
I meet Beckett at Uncle Towlend’s desk, which is really Joanna’s now, and sometimes Sean’s, the room clean, organized, but with the same soft chairs. I set the book of maps on her desk, with the inscription from my ancestor, and the book that describes Nadia’s journeys outside the old city’s walls. And then together, we set down my book on the desk. The only written account of the Knowing. And in the back is a page to say what—and who—we choose, signed last night on my balcony. I hope the story of Nadia will help Beckett’s parents understand what we’re doing. I hope my book will help them understand who I’ve been and who I am now.
I pick up my pack, which is huge, Beckett hoists his own, takes my hand, and we leave the office—up the stairs, out the gates that are never shut, past one or two sleepy people moving too early for the waking, the mountain shadows deep, except for the place where the mountain isn’t.
We are so hemmed in here.
I climb with Beckett up through the gated fields, already prepared for the sunrising and the planting, across the groves, and then up through the dark of the thick-growing brush. We find a cliff, but instead of looking out over a barren plain, what stretches below us are rolling hills, the first streaks of sunlight shining from behind us, showing the new yellows and blues.
Beckett is hoping to find a colony out there. Another lost outpost of Earth. I don’t know if we’ll find that. But what if all we find is … a place. An open space. For a new city. A city without walls. We could be builders after all, if we wanted to. The architects of a new world. The ones to get it right.
Or maybe just the ones to get it a little bit better.
Beckett grins, and the rising sun is gold on his face. “Ready?”
I turn to face the unknown. And I am.
“Acknowledgment” seems like such an inaccurate word, when what I really want is to say thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who made this book possible, and that’s a lot of people.
First to my critique group: Amy Eytchison, Ruta Sepetys, Howard Shirley, and Angelika Stegmann. Let’s just keep on doing this forever, shall we?
Second to the entire Middle Tennessee writing community: SCBWI Midsouth, Parnassus Books, the SEYA Book Fest, you know who you are. Your support makes me who I am as a writer. I don’t deserve you.
Kelly Sonnack, truly the best agent I could have ever signed with. Never have I stopped counting my lucky stars. Plus, I admire you to pieces.
Lisa Sandell, truly the best editor I could have ever been paired with. You stretch me and challenge me in the most patient of ways, and suddenly here comes a book I would have never guessed I could write. Perhaps you are magic. Thank you for being my friend.
Brooke Shearouse, you are the most excellent of publicists. Please find things for me to do so we can go more places together.
All those lovely, lovely people in the Scholastic offices who not only make beautiful books, but make me feel like one of the family: David Levithan (love you, David!), Elizabeth Parisi (for yet another gorgeous cover), Rachel Gluckstern, Olivia Valcarce, Rachel Feld, Isa Caban, Mindy Stockfield, every single person on the Scholastic marketing and creative marketing teams, Tracy van Straaten, Lizette Serrano, Emily Heddleson, Michelle Campbell, Ellie Berger, Lori Benton, John Pels, Sue Flynn, Jacquelyn Rubin, Jody Stigliano, Chris Satterlund, Alexis Lunsford, Elizabeth Whiting, Alan Smagler, and the whole sales team and everyone on the Scholastic Reading Clubs and Book Fairs teams. And a special shout-out to Nikki Mutch, Roz Hilden, and Terribeth Smith. You three ladies are the best!
Aunt Brenda, this book would not exist without your willingness to share your porch, your extra bedroom, your popcorn, and hot beverages. Love you.
And finally, Philip, Elizabeth, Stephen, Chris, and Siobhan. You are my family, and family is everything.
Sharon Cameron’s debut novel, The Dark Unwinding, was awarded the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators’ Sue Alexander Award for Most Promising New Work and the SCBWI Crystal Kite Award, and was named an ALA Best Fiction for Young Adults selection. Sharon is also the author of its sequel, A Spark Unseen; Rook, which was selected as an Indie Next Top Ten Pick of the List selection; and the companion to this book, The Forgetting, a #1 New York Times bestseller and an Indie Next List selection. She lives with her family in Nashville, Tennessee, and you can visit her online at sharoncameronbooks.com.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Sharon Cameron’s companion to The Knowing:
The Forgetting!
I have forgotten.
When I first opened my eyes I saw a room of white stone, and the light was bright, too bright, coming into the room from two high windows. I have never been so afraid. I don’t know this room. I don’t know this girl who woke with me, or these children who cry, their faces streaked with black lines. They’ve forgotten, too. But this book was tied to my wrist, and the book says I have a family, and that my family will be marked with dye so I’ll know them. I think I have to believe the book.
There is violence outside. We’ve barred the door. I don’t know what else is outside this room, but I think there are more of us, and that they did not wake up with a book. I want to scream like they are. I want to cry like the children. I want to claw my own skin and find out what’s buried inside. I want to know who I’ve been.
The book says I knew this Forgetting would come. That it’s happened before and will happen again. We have to write it all down. Everything about us, as the book has told me to do now. The children with the marks on their cheeks run from me. I think I am their mother. I will read them this book. I’ll tell them their names and I will tell myself mine.
We are made of our memories. Now we are nothing. It feels like death.
What have we done to deserve this piece of hell?
THE FIRST BOOK OF THE FORGETTING
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