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“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“Probably nothing,” he says. “When my father and I came to visit, Mrs. Barnes let me hang out in here. She always had flowers on the table and things her kids made on the countertop by the sink.”
I shine my light again. The countertops and table are clear of decorations. Out of curiosity, I open one of the cabinet doors. In it are two plates, two bowls. The next one contains three mugs and two drinking glasses. I think of what my mother keeps in our kitchen. Because my father’s job requires him to be close to the area he is currently working to revitalize, we move often, so Mom tries to keep our possessions to a minimum for ease of relocation. Despite that we have at least six or seven pots and pans, over a dozen plates, and a large number of cups. I have a hard time believing that what’s contained in these cupboards is enough to service a family of five.
“Let’s go.” Raffe turns toward the door that leads to the rest of the house.
I keep the light pointed in front of us as we walk through a hallway that takes us to a large room. On one side is a wide staircase. A sofa, small table, and two blue chairs are arranged in the middle of the room. A shelf on the wall contains a number of books, but, as in the kitchen, there are no personal objects of any kind in the room. No paintings or baskets filled with knitting needles like I noticed in Raffe’s house. The furniture and rug look comfortably worn, but still the house feels as though it’s not really lived in.
Gun in hand, Raffe leads the way up the stairs. As I follow, I run my finger along the wood banister. It comes away clean. No dust. Despite the meager furnishings, someone still lives here.
We reach the top of the stairs and turn to the left. The light I saw from outside is coming from an open door fifteen feet away. The rest of the doors in the hall are closed. No lights shine from beneath them.
Raffe glances at me and nods. I turn off my flashlight, put it in my pocket, and nod back. This is it.
It is easy to keep our approach quiet. The carpet on this floor is thick. When we are steps away from the door, Raffe looks at me and mouths the word “Go.” He races through the door. I step in after him with my finger poised on the trigger, prepared to fire. Only, no one is there. The chair behind a large desk stacked with papers is empty. The shelves in this room are stuffed with books worn from use. A large rocking chair sits near a window. Beside it is a small table stacked high with paper-filled folders.
Without discussion, Raffe and I walk out of the room and search the rest of the upstairs rooms. No one occupies them, but we do find answers of another sort. In the largest bedroom, we see a portrait of Dr. Barnes, his wife, and their children on the nightstand, but when we look in the closets we find clothes that belong only to him. There are no toys or clothes in the other bedrooms. Dr. Barnes still lives here, but his family does not.
Why?
We go back to the office to see if answers can be found there. Raffe stands at the desk. I walk to the rocking chair and sit on the floor next to a pile of papers. But before I can open the first file, I remember Zeen. Opening my bag, I take out the Transit Communicator, turn it back on, and click the Call button. When Zeen doesn’t answer, I click the button three more times, hoping he will understand that I am now able to talk. That I have not heard the message that he took such a chance to relay to me.
The Communicator stays silent. Whatever Zeen is doing at this moment, he cannot hear me or cannot get to his Communicator. Biting my lip, I set the device to the side and search for the pulse radio. The message light is on, so I press Play and feel a tear slide down my cheek as Tomas’s voice fills the room.
“The first step is complete. We are moving on to the second.” His voice is strained. He promises to contact me once their next task is finished and then says, “I hope you are safe. Remember, I love you.”
Warmth floods my body as I cling to one thought—Tomas is alive.
“He didn’t say what happened with Professor Chen,” Raffe says.
“No.” I noticed that omission too. Perhaps Tomas is being careful, but his tone tells me something went wrong. Since there is nothing we can do about what has happened, I say, “They must have found her or he would have said they were unable to complete the first step. They might be with Professor Holt now. We have to decide what to do next. Where do you think Dr. Barnes and his family could be?”
“Dr. Barnes must have decided to move his family somewhere safe in case something went wrong with his plan. But I can’t imagine he’d leave Tosu City.”
I agree. Symon is in charge of directing the rebellion, but Dr. Barnes gives orders to Symon. He wouldn’t leave. Not when the events he has orchestrated are about to be put in motion. “According to the president’s information, he spends a lot of time at The Testing Center. I think our best chance of finding him would be there.”
“Getting off campus was hard.” Raffe frowns. “I’m guessing security is even tighter now.”
“If we have to get past the Safety officials, we will,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “But it would be better if we knew for certain if Dr. Barnes is there.” I glance at the papers in piles around the room. “Maybe there’s something here that will help. We might even be able to find evidence of what happened to your sister and the other students.”
That kind of proof to supplement the death of some of the top Testing advocates might aid us in ending The Testing even if Dr. Barnes has gone into hiding. But we can’t stay here for long. My gut tells me Dr. Barnes is still in the area. If we are going to find him, we need to continue our hunt. “Let’s do a quick search,” I say, opening the first folder in the stack next to me. “If we don’t find anything after ten minutes, we should get going.”
As Raffe flips through papers on the desk, I focus on the pages in my hand. At the top of the first page is a name. Ayana Kirk. Beneath it are listed grades for twelve years of studies a
s well as notes that say the student especially excelled in physics and music. There are several recommendation letters from teachers. In a different hand, I see notes in the margin questioning whether the student’s musical proclivities make her too sensitive to withstand further education or whether she might be better served by a mid-level education job instead of reaching for a higher position. These questions must have been sent to those who wrote the recommendations because more letters follow, addressing the concerns, as well as a note that an invitation to take the University exam was sent. I flip the page and my heart sinks as I see the words “Redirected and assigned to resource program under Professor Cartwright.” Beneath that is Dr. Barnes’s signature and a date. This student failed her examination last year. The signature is in the same hand as the notations in the margins throughout the file.
I skim through the next file. Another failed student. Another Redirection. This one also from last year. As I quickly scan the pages, I notice that all the files stacked here are from the past ten years. No students previous to that time are included. All were Redirected. The older the application file is, the fewer notations in the margins. Not a single question is written for those who applied a decade past. As I do the math, I notice something else. Unless files are missing, over three times as many students were Redirected ten years ago than last year.
“What did you find?” Raffe asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say. Or maybe I am and I don’t want to admit that what I’m seeing is real. Dr. Barnes is the force behind The Testing. He’s the one who created tests that kill and who turned failed University applicants into resources to be experimented on. And yet, if these files are authentic, he’s been working to convince applicants he believes are doomed to fail to choose another path before they make a choice they cannot take back. Just as he did with Raffe’s sister. Why?
“Maybe officials who traveled to the colonies began to notice that none of the Redirected students were ever seen there,” Raffe suggests when I explain what I’ve found. “Limiting the number of unsuccessful applicants means fewer questions he’ll have to answer for officials and families here in Tosu.”
That makes sense. Especially since President Collindar took office just six years ago. I glance at the clock on my watch. Our ten minutes are up. We need to get moving.
“Did you find anything?” I ask.
