Sid cracks first, putting out his left hand, which Tom switches hands to receive. “Good to see you, Tom.”
“Yes. Very nice.” He gives us both a false smile. “To what do I owe the visit?”
“Kayla wanted to talk to you.” Sid nudges me forward, but I don’t relinquish my hold. The solid mass of him is the only thing keeping me from bolting.
“Does she? Then why don’t you take a seat, Ms. Hollins.”
As we sit, Tom opens the files that govern my life here on Salt Spring. “So, what brings you here today? I should let you know, I received a note from the secondary school about a month ago that your sister had served detention for an altercation with another student. You’re not worried about her, are you?”
“No. I think she’s okay.”
“Then whyareyou here?”
“I…” I look down at my hands, which slide against each other in my lap. “I need to update something on my papers. The line about last known zone of origin. It wasn’t Port Alberni. It was eleven years ago, in Astolia.”
Tom straightens in his chair. “Astolia has provisional ally status. Youcan’tput that on sanctuary papers. You would have to immigrate through some other mechanism or—”
“And has anyone ever done that?” I ask. “Have you ever had immigrants from Astolia?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he says. “But that isn’t to say—”
“It is.” I pull a document from my bag, signed by Pat Moore. I hold it out to him, while I rattle off the monologue I memorized. “During the twenty-three years Salt Spring Island has had contact with Astolia, the hospital has only seen twenty-six individual patients and never treated anyone of Astolian origin with Salt Spring citizenship. Nineteen of these patients have been adult men. Three were adult woman. Four were infants below the age of three. There has never been a child old enough to remember a visit to the island who has checked into the hospital.”
“How did you get this?” Tom flips through the multipage document, his face rippling with shock. “This should be confidential information—”
“All names and private information have been removed. So it isn’t.” I lean forward and point out the line on the document stating exactly that. Right before the signature of Doctor Levy, who luckily hasn’t retired yet. Once Pat heard my story, she knew immediately which physician would be the most likely to help us.
“Surveying legal records of our alliance with them, they’ve also been assigned provisional allyship for longer than the recommended ten years, as outlined by the charter. But they’re yet to agree to a more thorough evaluation of the colony, which would be required if they wanted to advance to full participation in the League of Gulf Nations,” adds Sid. That’s been his job for the past couple of weeks—gathering whatever legal backing he could find through the library and City Hall records to bolster our case.
“I’m aware ofthat,” says Tom. “We’ve been trying to arrange a day with them, but they’re a superstitious bunch. They keep going on about choosing a spiritually meaningful day to—”
“Superstitious? They’re a cult!” I can’t hold it in any longer. “They’re a cult and my family had to run away from them when I was fourteen so they couldn’t marry me off!”
Tom does a double take, looking between Sid and me. “And how did that turn out for you?”
“Oh, go to Hell, Tom!” Sid shouts. “Do you trust me or not?”
“When it comes to your judgment around this woman? Not remotely,” says Tom. “But… I am looking at something signed by the hospital. Itdoesgive one pause. What makes you say they’re a cult?”
“Well… they’re probably spewing propaganda about this place right now,” I say. “That’s why the hospital hasn’t seen any children. That’s why they don’t bring many women in. Only the people the Grand Astrologue trustsget to come here. The numbers shouldn’t look the way they do. The moment the hospital pulled the information, they knew something was wrong. Doctor Levy recommends pulling services to Astolia until a thorough investigation into the living conditions and size of the population can be conducted.”
“And you want me to… to what?” He shuffles the pages of the medical recommendations between his fingers. “Instigate an international incident?”
“No. I’m going to do that.” I don’t think my words reassure him. “What I’m asking is for you to listen. So that no one can think I’m lying when they ask you.”
He lowers the papers and looks at me, eyes no longer squinting and critical. “Well. Go on, then.”
“I… I guess I’ll start when Port Alberni fell,” I begin.
Tom never interrupts. He might prompt me, if my pace slows, but none of his cutting remarks shorten my story. Of all the times I’ve told my tale, this is by far the worst. It’s like I’m rattling off statistics, my whole life reduced to numbers. If I try to gloss over something, Tom’s questions are to the point. How old was I when they measured the girls at school for reproductive fitness? How old was April when we left? How many individuals do I remember?
At least with him, I get to end before I reach the death of my mother and Curtis. I let the story trail off with my family wandering the woods, with the implied addendum that only April and I survive.
A long pause follows as he rifles through the pages from the hospital, reviewing Doctor Levy’s statement again and again. Finally, he sets it aside and picks up his copy of my sanctuary papers. My heart is in my throat as he begins writing notes on it.
“Congratulations, Ms. Hollins,” he says. “I’m amending your application. You will be free to apply for fullcitizenship in January, once you’ve reached the four-month anniversary of coming to the island.”
I straighten in my chair, sure I misheard him. “Excuse me?”
