"We can't tell them."
The four of us sit on a cracked, leather couch. Bits of leather stab me in the legs through my jeans, but my mind is too preoccupied to care. Ollie has her knees pulled up into her chest. When she talks, her chin rams into her knees and cuts her words short.
"We can't," she repeats. "They would panic."
"We don't lie, though," Mandy reminds her.
"I'm not saying to lie. Just withhold the truth."
I lean my head on Isaac's shoulder and take a deep breath. The air around us seems too heavy. With every passing second, the fear recedes, but not the worry. The headache growing the back of my mind presses on my eyes and nearly blinds me.
"We can't let it happen," I mumble, rubbing a circle in my left temple.
"Obviously," Ollie snaps.
Mandy shoots her a look and shakes her head. "Don't get hateful, Olivia." She opens up the folder again. "Are you absolutely sure about the numbers?"
"One hundred percent. There's no error." Ollie yanks her legs out from under her and stands up. She starts pacing again, hands running through her hair. "And it has to be real. It's signed by thirteen different officials. Check it out."
I sit up to read over Mandy's shoulder. The thirteen signatures line the bottom of the page. I wouldn't be able to read them if the names weren't printed underneath.
The first and largest signature is Nicolas Ashford, President of the United States at the time of the outbreak and current President of Compound 1. Under his jagged mess of a signature, there's nine more names. I skip the ones I don't recognize and pause at Evan Hartley. The rest must be the eight other presidents.
Farther down on the page, smaller and barely noticeable, are three more signatures. Sai Patel and Ava Julien don't sound familiar to me. But the last one does. It makes my heart jerk in my chest. I stop breathing for a second.
Jacob Price
The letters mesh together in an unintelligible knot. High, sharp arching cursive letters sprawl across the black line. It may be unreadable, but I've seen that signature a thousand times.
Now, I can't deny that Dad played a part in this. It's staring me right in the face.
Jacob Price: Head of Research and Development.
My father created the virus.
"We have to go back." Everyone looks over at Isaac as he speaks up. He continues to stare down at his fingers, which twirl a pencil. "Me and Jay and a few others. The only way we're going to stop this is from the inside."
My headache worsens. It's a dead-end situation. If we go back, the guards will shoot us before we get close to The Wall. On the other hand, though, staying here means certain death. Do we sit around and wait to starve or go on a suicide mission to save the world?
Even I know the answer. I'm not selfish enough to stay here and let Hartley release the second strand of the virus.
But how do we stop them? The people here can't launch an attack on Compound 4; they don't have the manpower for that. It has to be an inside job.
I groan out loud and chew on my thumbnail.
"Getting back in won't be easy," I say, settling for the fact that returning is my only option. "The night guards are no joke. We're trained to shoot on sight. If anyone sees us, they won't hesitate. And we don't leave gaps, so sneaking past them isn't an option."
"We?" Ollie asks. She stops pacing and looks down at me.
"I was in the night guard. That was my appointed job."
Mandy scoffs. "But you're sixteen."
"Yeah, and I've been working The Wall since I was fourteen. Everyone in Compound 4 gets assigned a job at that age." I shrug. "It's normal."
"But you're only sixteen," Mandy repeats, shaking her head. "At fourteen, you should have been in high school, not playing with guns and shooting things."
I narrow my eyes at her and sigh. "None of that matters. I'm telling you that we can't get past The Wall."
Everyone goes silent. We got out; surely we can get back in. That wasn't part of our plan, though. Well... nothing was part of our plan; we didn't have one. So surely we can wing this too.
"Did you make any friends while you worked in the guard?" Isaac asks. "Maybe one of them would be willing to help us."
I run a hand through my hair. "I'm an MU, Isaac. All of the friends I made before I got my title disappeared. You of all people should get that."
"I do, but even I had at least one friend. The guy who owned the tent beside me told me good morning every day. We shared food rations. He would probably help me if I needed him."
"Hold up." Mandy raises a hand as I open my mouth. "What's an MU?"
I really don't have time to explain Compound 4 dynamics to her. She should have been there eleven years ago if she wanted to know. I steel myself to rip her a new one, when Isaac answers her question.
"It means 'mentally unstable.' It's the label that Compound 4 gives people who they think have something wrong with them. We were both labeled."
"What for?" she hisses, sounding insulted.
"Well... I have— uh— I suffer from—"
"It's none of your business," I interrupt, slipping my hand into Isaac's. He's trembling slightly. At my touch, though, it softens, and he gives me a squeeze. "And none of that's important. We have to find a way in."
Ollie rubs her cheek and thinks. "And there's no one inside you can think of that might help you?"
"Maybe." I don't want to give them false hope. Howard comes to mind, but I can't guarantee he'll help. We were friends: we never agreed though.
"Well, we have to figure it out. Fast. I'll talk to the rest of the crew and see what they think." Ollie exhales loudly and pats me on the shoulder. "Sit tight. I'll let you know when we figure something out."
With that, she leaves, ruffling her hair like it's a nervous twitch. Mandy follows. She says something about making sure Belle has eaten breakfast. I glare after her. I almost snap that Belle isn't her daughter, but it wouldn't do any good. She's known the girl for all of her short life; the two of us barely have history. There's a gap in our relationship that can't possibly be closed. A gap eleven years wide.
For the rest of the day, Isaac and I learn the ins and outs of the Alma. A man teaches me how to wash clothes by dragging them across something called a washboard. The soap makes my hands wrinkly but soft. It's the cold water that really bothers me.
Across the building, Isaac learns how to repair the building using planks of recycled wood. The repair crew find a use for him in carrying the wood back and forth as well as various equipment. Sometimes, while I'm washing clothes, he walks past me, and I pause to watch him. He seems happily distracted with sweat gluing his hair to his neck and forehead.
After working all day, I'm exhausted. My arms hurt from pushing and pulling fabric all day, and the rash on my hands burns. Yet, I still feel accomplished. Here, people don't sit around in silence, whispering about how miserable they are. No one has to do a job they're terrible at; no one is forced to do anything. They still play their part, though. All day, I listened to people laughing and joking. I saw them enjoying life. It's a wonderful change in tone.
Isaac meets me at our sleeping bags that night and smiles happily at me. We lay down, our heads touching.
"How was your day?" I ask in a whisper. Dozens of people sleep around us. After experiencing how hard they work, I wouldn't dare wake them.
"It was... tough." He laughs. "I don't think I've been this tired in a long time."
I laugh. "Me either."
We lay in silence for a minute before he continues. "You know what was best about today, though?"
I turn over on my stomach and prop my head in my elbows. Isaac rolls over and looks up at me with his giant, solemn eyes. They remind me of the corn field back at the Compound when it's just beginning to sprout from the ground. I always liked to watch the stalks sway in the early summer breeze.
"What?" I ask, smiling.
"No one looked at me like I was diseased." He sighs happily. "People talked to me, Jay. They let me help them and didn't doubt that I was capable. I wasn't broken."
The smile on my face falters. "Isaac...." I reach out and rest my hand on his. "You weren't broken in the first place. We were labeled incorrectly. Neither one of us are crazy."
Isaac laughs and pulls away, flipping back over. "Maybe you're not, but there really is something wrong with my brain. Has to be. It's the only way to explain my night terrors, my shaking, my nerves."
"There's nothing wrong with you!"
He glanced up at me through his eyelashes. "It's okay. I'm dealing with it, and you're helping. This place is, too. Today, I felt genuinely happy. Before I met you, I never really did feel that way."
My heart skips. Before he met me? I make Isaac happy? Before I can open my mouth to question him, Isaac continues.
"I'm pooped," he says. "See you in the morning." His eyes slip closed, and within seconds, his body descends into sleep.
As much as I want to stay awake and analyze every word he just said to me, I can't. I roll back over and stare up at the holes in the roof. Stars peek through them, dancing between slants of moonlight. As always, stars make me think of Dad. This time, though, thinking about my father makes me sad. And even more tired.
Deciding not to think about it right now, instead I turn onto my side and close my eyes. Soon, I fade into a deep sleep.