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I’m so furious and hurt that I’m having trouble catching my breath. “That’s not fair, Day. I didn’t choose to be born into this. I never wanted to hurt your family—”
“Well, you did.” I feel myself tremble and fall apart under his glare. “You led the soldiers right to my family’s door. You’re the reason they’re dead.” Day turns his back on me and storms out of the kitchen. I stand there alone in the sudden silence, for once at a loss over what to do. The lump in my throat threatens to choke me. My vision swims with tears.
Day thinks I’m being blindly faithful to the Elector instead of being logical. That I can’t possibly be on his side and still loyal to the state. Well, am I still loyal? Hadn’t I answered that question correctly in the lie detector chamber? Am I jealous of Tess? Jealous because she is a better person than I am?
And then, the thought so painful I can hardly bear it, no matter how angry his words made me: He’s right. I can’t deny it. I am the reason Day lost everything that matters to him.
I SHOULDN’T HAVE YELLED AT HER. KINDA TERRIBLE thing to do, and I know it.
But instead of apologizing, I go back around the shelter and check the rooms again. My hands are still unsteady; my mind is still fighting down the rush of adrenaline. I’d said it—the words that have been stewing in my head for weeks. They’re out now, and there’s no going back. Well, so what? I’m glad she knows. She should know. And to say that money means nothing—that phrase just flowed from her mouth, natural as water. Memories fill my head of all the times we needed more, of everything that could’ve been better with more. There was one afternoon, during a particularly bad week, when I came home early from grade school to find four-year-old Eden rummaging in the fridge. He jumped when he saw me step inside the house. In his hands was an empty can of beef hash. It’d been half full that morning, precious leftovers from the night before that Mom had carefully wrapped in foil and stored away for the next night’s supper. When Eden saw me staring at the empty can in his hand, he dropped it on the kitchen floor and burst into tears. “Please don’t tell Mom,” he begged.
I ran over to him and took him in my arms. He gripped my shirt with baby hands, burying his face against me. “I won’t,” I whispered to him. “I promise.” I can still remember how thin his arms were. Later that night, when Mom and John finally came home, I told Mom that I’d caved in and eaten the leftover food. She slapped me hard, told me I was old enough to know better. John gave me a disappointed speech. But who cares? I didn’t mind.
I slam a door in the corridor in anger. Has June ever had to worry about stealing half a can of beef hash? If she’d been poor, would she be so quick to forgive the Republic?
The gun that the Patriots gave me sits heavily against my belt. The Elector’s assassination would have given the Patriots the opportunity to take down the Republic. We would have been the spark that lit a powder keg—but because of us—because of June—it fizzled out. And for what? To watch this Elector go on to become just like his father? I want to laugh at the idea that he’d free Eden. What a Republic lie. And now I’m no closer to saving him, and I’ve lost Tess, and I’m right back to square one. On the run.
That’s the story of my life, yeah?
When I go back to the kitchen half an hour later, June’s not there anymore. Probably off in one of the hallways, making mental notes to herself about every goddy crack in the wall.
I throw open the kitchen’s drawers, empty out one of the burlap sacks, and start sorting stacks of each type of food into it. Rice. Corn. Potato and mushroom soups. Three boxes of crackers. (How nice—everything’s going to hell, but at least I can fill my stomach.) I grab several bottles of water for each of us and then close up the sack. Good enough for now. Soon we’ll have to be on our way again, and who knows how long the rest of this tunnel is or when we’ll hit another shelter. We have to move forward into the Colonies. Maybe they’ll be willing to help us when we get to the other side. Then again, we might have to keep a low profile. We did ruin the assassination that the Colonies were sponsoring. I sigh deeply, wishing I had more time to chat with Kaede, to coax out all her stories about living on the other side of the warfront.
How did our plans turn into such a mess?
There’s a faint knock on the kitchen’s open door. I turn around to see June standing there with her arms crossed. She’s unbuttoned her Republic coat, and the collar shirt and vest underneath look rumpled. Her cheeks are more flushed than usual, and her eyes are red, like she’s been crying. “The electric circuits in here aren’t feeding into the Republic,” she says. If she had shed any tears, I sure as hell don’t hear them in her voice. “Their cables run down through the other end of the tunnel, the part we haven’t covered yet.”
I go back to stacking cans. “So?” I mutter.
“That means they must be getting their power from the Colonies, right?”
“Guess so. Makes sense, yeah?” I straighten my back and pull the two burlap sacks I’ve prepared tightly shut. “Well, at least it means the tunnel will lead out to the surface somewhere, hopefully in the Colonies. When we’re ready to go we can just follow the cables. We should probably get some rest first.”
I’m just about to walk out of the kitchen and past June when she clears her throat and speaks up. “Hey—did the Patriots teach you anything about fighting while you were with them?”
