No matter how much I tried to recall the blend of emotions the tower had aroused, it escaped me. The memories were pale imitations of that first surge of excitement, reminding me more of what I was missing than what I'd experienced. That longing haunted me, and I had no one to talk to about it.
Christine had disappeared shortly after we returned to camp. The last thing I remembered was a look of terror clouding her eyes and a silent scream that stilled her voice. As much as she'd wanted to tell, to share the fear tearing through her, she couldn't. No one spoke about these things. Alarming the camp would only bring pressure down on us. No one wanted the pressure or extra notice from the guards.
Staying silent wasn't as tough for me. No one spoke to me anyway. I bit my tongue, enduring the loneliness of Christine's absence.
It'd been three days, but it felt like an eternity. Images of the tower haunted my every moment. When I closed my eyes in bed, visions of a forgotten tower overtook me. Instead of rotten wooden planks in my room, I saw rows of dilapidated bricks. The creaky floorboards in the cabin reminded me of the swinging of the threshold marker. Even as I waited in line for my daily rations, the wind blew against the frayed remains of our camp's striped flag, the stripes just like the red roses that sprawled across the base of the white tower. I couldn't escape it. Everything took my mind back, especially Christine—or more specifically, the lack of her presence.
My gaze drifted back to the empty hole in the line. A tingle of anxiety wormed its way through me. She should be here. Skipping rations and school was unheard of for her. I had to beg before she'd skip with me, and now she'd missed three days. Something was wrong.
I shivered, feeling a knot in my stomach as scenerios danced in my mind. Did her parents punish her? Had she slipped into remnants of the contaminants? Or worse, was she missing like the others? Panic pulled the edges of the knot tight, squeezing my heart into a cold lump in my chest. I clutched my arms, pressing my nails through the rough fabric—anything to distract me from those thoughts.
Refocusing on the empty spot in line, I counted the families around it. At the front of the line, Hector Carringer and other camp elites stretched out on the wooden deck in front of the general store. Mr. Carringer leaned against the first wooden post, his arms folded against his chest and his face hidden beneath the wide brim of his straw hat. Every once in a while, his chin jutted forward, and he brushed the tips of his handlebar mustache down. With a single-digit number, the bright white cuff at the bottom of his denim sleeve announced his position in the camp hierarchy.
Behind him, the checkers, called that because of their black-and-white patterned shirts, kept to themselves. In charge of market inventory and storage, they rarely spoke to anyone except each other or the guards. Any time I'd gotten close, their conversations sounded more like a secret code, as if they were systematically checking off a list in their minds. Further back, other camp officials sat atop wooden boxes and overturned pallets, crowding under the store's overhang.
The rest of camp sprawled out along the warped deck in front of the meeting hall, down the dusty path, around the overgrown garden, and to the other edge of center camp, where broken stones and rotten planks bordered the main street.
As I scanned further down the line, clean clothes grew darkened with stains, patches overtook shirts, and the tips of straw hats frayed. Dirt permanently marked the thighs and knees of the work pants. Layers of grime stained the farmer's clothes, blocking the sewn-in numbers. Dust scattered around them as they painstakingly brushed off the dirt. A hidden number was as good as a missing number.
By the time I reached the number 170, my heart raced. Sawyer, the youngest of the Wentmire brothers, laughed. Even from the end of the line, I could hear his rich chuckle and see the way his face scrunched up in amusement. Each laugh punched me in the gut. He used to laugh at my jokes that way.
Not anymore. Not for a long time. I wondered when it would stop hurting, but I supposed rejection never did.
"Get it together," I mumbled, running my fingers through my hair, catching a glimpse of my own embroidered number: 677. I sighed and clasped my hands behind my back.
Every other group in camp stood out, easily identified by the style or condition of their clothes—elite, farmer, factory, service—but not me. I fit none of those categories. The only group I identified with—the cabin kids—did nothing to put my heart at ease. We survived on scraps. Forgotten or ignored until desperation hit.
"Christine!" I yelled, waving my hands over my head as she came into view, walking close behind her parents. I ran toward her and stopped when I saw her face.
Her downcast head explained why she had been missing. Dark shadows outlined her blank expression, and the discolored remnants of a bruise spotted her left cheek. She stood stoically in line, ignoring my outburst. The pointed glares of scorn and disappointment from Christine's parents told me exactly what they thought of me.
"Christine," I yelled again, scowling. This wasn't like her. Something was wrong. I sighed, feeling a pang of responsibility for my friend's pain.
But was it really my fault? I hadn't found the tower, after all—that was Christine. I hadn't said anything to anyone, but she obviously had. I didn't do anything wrong, and yet no matter how I tried to justify it, I couldn't escape the guilt, deserved or not.
Retracing my steps, I took my normal place at the end of the line, ignoring Mrs. Booker's narrowed eyelids and the tight line of her lips. She was trying to determine just how much trouble I had caused this time. Memories of transgressions flickered through my mind, and a smile grew on my lips. It had a price, but being an orphan gave me a certain amount of freedom, too.
The line quieted as the first set of bells rang.
In the silence of the line, the wind howled, sending a shiver down my spine. I crossed my arms to block the chill, and goosebumps grew under the scratchy fabric of my shirt. The worn burlap did little to block the force of the wind. Behind me, the younger orphans' teeth chattered.
"Eli, why didn't you grab your jacket?" I asked, pulling the young boy to my side, ruffling his mop of dark curls.
He shrugged and looked up at me with a goofy grin, sticking his tongue out between his missing two front teeth.
"You think so?" I asked, narrowing my eyes playfully at him.
He wiggled out of my grasp and ran to join the other kids from the cabin. Rosey, the only red-headed girl in camp, giggled when he rushed past her and ducked out of sight. Freckles danced on her cheeks with each laugh as she glanced between the little boy and me.
"Watch it," an annoyed voice called out from behind them. "You almost ruined it!"
Eli had scooted too far behind Rosey and tripped over Sarah. With a huff, Sarah blew her bangs out of her face and pointed a broken stick she'd been drawing with at the two six-year-olds. She flung dust off the end with each wave of her hand.
Deep down, I smiled. Sarah, for all her protests, had gotten exactly what she wanted—two new workers she could boss around. Being two years older than them gave her an unearned feeling of superiority. I had rescued those kids and a handful of the other young ones from her unreasonable demands many times before.
"You're doing it wrong—not like that—Eli, no!" her voice rose to a shrill squeak.
I cleared my throat and raised my eyebrow at her, pointing at the ground. She glanced over at me, and her eyes darted away.
"Fine," she mumbled, her shoulders sagging in defeat as she sat down next to Rosey. Dust plumed over them when she shuffled her stick across the ground to create a clean drawing surface. She looked back at me and waved her hand like she had done me a favor. I sighed and turned away, hiding my smile at the first strokes of her stick. She drew long lines intersecting a circle. A delicate web.
The orphans obsessed over webs. We always tried to find connections where there were none. It seemed so sad—no matter how elaborately drawn, our webs never caught anything.
My head popped up at the faint sound of marching from the other side of camp, near the factory. Gradually, the slow tapping grew into a rhythmic boom. The guards walked in unison, their impeccably pressed uniforms as harsh as their smiles. Colorful patches and insignias lined the shoulders of their uniforms, and black leather straps secured their guns and ammunition. The air tightened as the line of men passed us.
Above the beat of their measured pace, a choked sob escalated to muffled screams. I looked away from the marching men to Rosey, who was squirming in Mrs. Booker's arms. She threw her head from side to side in a fit.
"No," she cried, her squeals amplified in the silence.
I ran to her side and grabbed her, pressing her head to my chest.
"What's wrong?" I asked in a whisper, wiping tears from her cheeks.
She smeared her snotty nose over a torn sleeve and pointed to the trampled dirt where she'd been drawing.
"Oh, my sweet Rosey, don't worry. They'll be gone soon. Here, draw with me." We dropped to our knees as soon as the guards passed and traced our fingers through the gritty dirt. My encouragement of their art was rewarded with a ragged smile from Rosey and a head shake of disapproval from Mrs. Booker.
With the kids drawing, I squinted at the guards. Even the line of dust seemed to be displaced with precision. They marched to the gates and stood on either side of the main doorway, creating a tunnel of armed men. A round red light crowned the doorway, remaining dormant until the doors opened. Faded letters blended into the thick, steel-studded doors, their earlier designation forgotten. With only a few surviving camps around the country, it didn't matter who took care of us, just that we were taken care of. We were protected. The thought soured in my mind. Protected—restricted—it was all the same. Prison with a softer name.
The red light flashed when the door opened. The hinges creaked, threatening to buckle under the strain.
Dust surrounded the incoming trucks. Covered in studded armor, camouflage paint, and metal spikes, they were faint shadows of their original design. The trucks maneuvered slowly, filling the silence with the hum of machinery and the smell of exhaust. An armored guard peeked through a small opening in the top, an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. Tan goggles monopolized his face beneath his domed hat. He didn't see us as the caravan rounded its way through the gates and into the circular marketplace path, covering the line of people with a layer of grime that clung to our bodies.
The Colonel stepped out, as foreboding as ever. His boots hit the ground at the same moment the second bell rang. Years of routine had made the process seamless. Seamless, but not painless. The older I got, the more I noticed the palpable disgust on the Colonel's and transit guard's faces. The smirks of our guards seemed genial compared to the sneers of those who brought our rations.
The line crawled forward, and we approached the armored vehicles. Transit guards bordered both sides of the path, forcing us to pass through a tunnel to reach the Colonel. The guard's blank eyes stared through me on either side until I reached the end, where another uninterested guard held out a small cloth bag. Past the guards, the rigid-backed Colonel stood, his dark eyes hidden behind the shadows of his hat's brim. Black-gloved fingers strangled a pen as he marked off our numbers, mutely searching our clothing for confirmation. Even after so many years, he showed no signs of recognition.
"Thanks," I mumbled, walking away with my rations clutched to my chest.
A sweet fragrance wafted up from the bag, hitting my nose like a sucker punch. The emptiness of my stomach, aggravated by my sleepless nights, rumbled in protest. That gnawing ache grew with every step I took away from the guards as I made my way back across the main street. I knew better, but anticipation stirred within me, and my mouth watered before I made it to my normal spot across from the general market. I climbed on top of a row of leaning, rotten posts, hooking my legs around them for balance.
I shook out my fists, white-knuckled from clenching the bag, and whispered a quick wish before peeking inside. Lucky this time. I grinned, welcoming the sight of the jerky strip, bread roll, and sprinkling of dried berries squished along the side of the bag. Rations changed daily, and since I was a high number, I never knew what would be inside my bag. Sometimes there was enough to save food for another day; other days yielded a simple roll. Sometimes they ran out of food before they got to me.
Popping a few berries in my mouth, I watched the caravan retreat under the flashing red light, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. The berries melted on my tongue, a surprising blend of sweet and tanginess unlike the salmonberries and blackberries I picked in the forest.
Balancing a berry on the top of my thumbnail, I flicked it up into the air, catching it with one clean swoop. I'd demolished half the berries and almost choked on another when I saw Christine.
She hesitated midway across the street, glancing at me and then toward her parents, who were deep in conversation with Mr. Carringer.
"Hey, you," I called out. Her face paled, and she forced a small smile before glancing back again. She took a step toward her parents. "Where are you going? The third bell hasn't rung yet," I said, jumping off the post.
She slowed but wouldn't meet my eyes. Hidden inside her stretched-out sweater, she looked so frail. It was the same cranberry sweater she'd worn in the woods, but the fabric had stretched beyond repair in the wash. Even after its tortured cleaning, small specks of yellow stained the thick yarn.
"Let me share my rations with you," I offered, holding out a handful of berries.
Christine looked at the offering warily. "That's a first," she said, jumping onto the post next to me.
I smirked and closed my hand at her insult.
"No take backs," she said, prying my hand open.
I feigned a pout and pulled out the strip of jerky, tearing off a chunk of the salty meat. "Your sweater looks nice," I said.
Christine raised her eyebrows. "It's ruined. I've spent the last three days scrubbing it, trying to get the paint out."
"I think it looks pretty clean," I said. Her eyes strayed back to the ground. My smile disappeared. "What happened?" I finally asked.
"I got in trouble," she mumbled.
"I can see that," I said, brushing a strand of auburn hair away from her eyes. A purple and green welt streaked her cheekbone. "I didn't think they ever hit you. What happened?"
Christine twisted her fingers, refusing to meet my eyes. "They haven't before. It was scary. When I told them about the tower, you should've seen my mom's eyes. I've never seen them that mad."
"They did this to you because of the tower?"
"They said it was a warning." She brushed her hair forward, covering the bruise. "That I got off easy. That if I ever went back, it'd be worse. Like I'd ever go back there."
"I don't understand. They hit you over a stupid tower?" I asked, appalled. "Geez, I thought they'd be madder that you were skipping class or something. Why'd you tell them, anyways?"
"Don't give me that look. I didn't tell them much, just the obvious. I had to explain the paint and why we were in the woods instead of class," she said. "I'm not like you. I can't do things and not have to answer questions about it. They hold me accountable for everything, and now..." Her voice trailed off.
"And now what?" I prompted.
She met my eyes and scoffed. "And now with the factory coming up, they expect more of me. They said I need to start following the rules, for my own good...and they warned me to stay away from...certain things."
"The tower?" I asked.
"You."
I nodded and looked back at my rations. I picked through the remaining berries in silence. Sometimes she saw my circumstances as easier than hers. "I could say the same thing about them. I'd never hurt you."
"This," she said, pointing to her cheek, "was a mistake. The true wounds don't show."
I scrunched my forehead and reached for her hand, understanding more than she thought. That gesture eroded the last bit of her resistance. She leaned forward and pulled out a jerky strip from her rations.
"You should have seen them, Simone. They were livid. When I mentioned the tower, they lost it. I mean, really lost it," she said.
I relaxed, feeling the distance between us shrink. "I can imagine."
"What do you think they told me first?" she asked with a wink.
"Oh boy, they probably blamed it on me," I said with a slight laugh, digging my nails into the post at my side.
"You're right. At first, it was all about you. What a bad influence you are, how you're always thinking of yourself, how I shouldn't see you anymore." She chuckled, oblivious to my discomfort. "That sort of thing."
"Ah, there's nothing new there. They've told you that from the beginning. It wouldn't do for a 96 to be seen with a 677." I hid the sting with a joking tone.
"It's not about our numbers," Christine said, hiding the cuff of her sleeve under her palm. "It has nothing to do with that. It's about the rules. I've broken too many recently. They're afraid."
"We've been breaking them our whole lives. I don't know what's different now."
"We're getting older, Simone. It's no longer just skipping class or taking someone else's rations. We're almost old enough for the factory, and that means things are about to get serious. We need to follow the rules. They're here for a reason."
"What sort of reason?" I rolled my eyes. "To glorify submission? To numb our lives into a routine of nothingness?"
"Lower your voice," Christine hissed, nudging me with her elbow. "This is what my parents were talking about. You can't say stuff like that. The rules are here to protect us. It might be a life of routine and rules, but it's still a life. We're the lucky ones. You should remember that. You know our history just as well as I do. Or did you sleep through those classes?"
"I'm about to fall asleep now."
"Stop it. You can't deny we're better off. The stories of failing crops, violence, and anarchy? They've given me nightmares."
"Mr. Carringer gives you nightmares." We both looked over at the mayor, who was stroking his mustache flat against his jaw, and giggled.
"You can't blame me—look at him. He's scary. Just look at that golden tooth and his wide grin. I can't tell if he likes me or wants to eat me."
"Probably both," I said with a wink, popping the last berry into my mouth.
"Stop it—be serious."
"Never."
"So you're just going to ignore all this? My parent's warnings—"
"Come on. What do you want me to do? No one disputes our past. But, yeah, I'm not going to dwell on it. Bad stuff happened. Move on. That's what this camp is for, right? To protect us. No need to worry."
"But my parents—"
"Worry too much. They'd keep you on a leash if these walls weren't here."
"That's not fair."
"Nothing's fair here. Get used to it. I have."
She looked at me intently, wrinkling her nose and upper lip like she wanted to say something. Instead, she stuck out her tongue.
I choked back my laughter and repositioned myself on the post, brushing chunks of dried moss off the bottom. "Just leave the past behind. It's better that way," I said.
Christine smoothed out her hair and grabbed a sweet cake loaded with icing from her rations bag. "I guess you're right. None of that really matters. In a couple weeks, we'll be too busy with the factory to worry about anything else."
I bit my lower lip and looked over my shoulder at the oppressive building at the edge of my vision. "Has your mom told you anything about it yet?"
Christine shook her head and frowned. "Not really. It's like she pretends that part of the day doesn't exist. She never mentions it, and I don't bring it up. It can't be too bad, though. A stitch here, a stitch there. It'll be fine—something new for you to complain about."
"Complain?" I feigned shock. "Never. I always make the best of a situation. Speaking of, what do you say we skip out and take advantage of the sunshine? I bet we could find it again." The corners of my mouth turned up mischievously.
"Drop it, Simone." Christine's voice hardened. "I'm not going back there."
"Why not?" I begged. "I have to see it again. It's killing me."
"I can't. It's too...it's bad. Let's leave it at that."
"What aren't you saying?" My shoulders tensed. "If you know something about that tower, you need to tell me. It's been driving me crazy."
She rolled her eyes but leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Okay, but this is serious. It's bad stuff. They say the tower brings death and disaster to anyone who goes there. Everyone who's gone near it in the past has come back contaminated, scarred, or dead." We locked eyes, and a new shiver ran through me.
"Oooooh, scary," I said, trying to diffuse the prickles on my neck.
"Stop it. I'm serious. Even your mom." Christine's voice quivered.
"My mom?" I choked out, sobering. "No, Mrs. Booker told me...she was sick."
"She was, but it was from contaminants, not just a cold or something. About ten years ago, there was a rations shortage, worse than anything they'd ever seen. People were starving to death in the streets. At some point, people got fed up, and a group went out, searching for extra food, animals, anything really. But instead, they found the tower. The guards saved some people, but even they didn't come back unscathed. The others, like your mom...weren't so lucky. That tower. It's not good."
"Whoa, you can't blame the tower for contaminants," I protested.
Christine shrugged. "My parents said it was the tower that killed them. They wouldn't lie."
I looked past her to her parents, Maxwell and Justine Decker. Uptight, overbearing wimps—I could call them a lot of things, but not liars. Just like Christine, they prided themselves on their integrity.
"Why I haven't I heard about this?"
Christine looked at me. "You were only six. It's not the sort of thing someone would tell you."
"No, I don't believe it. I would've known. Mrs. Booker would've told me." But even I knew it wasn't true. She'd never told me anything about my mom that I hadn't heard from someone else first.
Christine raised her eyebrows and gave me a knowing look. "You don't have to take my word for it. Tomorrow morning, look closer at Mr. Carringer or Sawyer's dad. They were in that group and made it back safely. Look at their hands next time we line up. They're marked. I'm not going back here. I don't want to risk it. The world out there's still bad."
"You really believe that?"
"How could you not? People are still dying from contaminants, others go missing, and the guards are still here. If everything was fixed, none of that would be happening, right?"
I regarded her carefully. Naïveté covered her from head to toe. There would be no changing her mind, and maybe I didn't want to. Maybe her conviction was enough to give me the unreasonable hope I was wrong. I packed the rest of my rations into the steel container at my hip. "You're right. You always are. It's just that when I saw the tower, something inside me changed. When I saw it, I don't know..." I sighed. "It just made me feel."
"Made you feel what?"
I gave her a sad smile and shrugged. "It just made me feel."
We both jerked at the sound of the third bell.
"What do you want to do today, then? Steal more supplies? Climb the old buildings?" I asked.
She folded her rations into her side pouch, handing me an extra two slices of jerky that wouldn't fit. "I'm going to class today," she said, jumping off the post. "Maybe tomorrow."
I watched her go, running down the path to catch up with Miss Hutchings and the other kids. When they turned the corner after the meeting hall, I jumped off the post and followed them, leaving a trail of dust behind me.
* * *
The rest of the day settled into a blur. While I drifted in and out of sleep, Christine's hand jumped at every question, as if excelling in class would atone for her transgressions. People compensated in different ways. I tried not to judge, but mine seemed easier. I folded my arms on my desk and leaned over, closing my eyes, listening to Miss Hutchings' voice list off the tragedies of the outside world.