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So how in the hell could I lie there thinking I should give up on them when they needed me most? The idea of Mica at the mercy of those monsters, or Bravo facing down a group of guards to protect the youngs, was unbearable. My stomach burned hot with shame.
I rose from the floor, careful not to wake the children. I needed to move if I was going to puzzle through this. The corridor was dark and cold as I made my way to the book room. Maybe some part of me was hoping that being around all those written ideas and facts might inspire me. The war had wiped out most of the books before I could develop a love of reading, but my father had always had one in hand. Maybe I’d convince Saga to let me borrow one or two when all of th
is was done—if I survived.
A dim glow came from inside the book silo. I paused at the threshold and looked inside. At the large table in the center of the room, Meridian Six leaned over a large book and read by the light of a single candle.
She looked up just as I was making the decision to back out quietly. I froze, unsure whether she’d be angry or ambivalent about my presence.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she said, her voice scratchy with exhaustion.
I shook my head and took a tentative step inside the room. When she didn’t tell me to get out or shoot me a disgusted look, I walked the rest of the way to the table. “What are you reading?”
She sighed and tipped back in the chair with her arms behind her head. The movement made the fabric of her shirt tighten across her breasts and a sharp spear of lust stabbed my groin. I cleared my throat and moved behind a stack of books, pretending to read the title of the topmost cover.
“It’s a book of poetry.”
I looked up quickly. Her expression was too blank to not be a disguise for deeper emotion. “Anything good?”
The corner of her mouth turned up. “Don’t understand most of it. But there’s this one—” She cut herself off, as if she suddenly realized she’d been about to reveal something she’d rather keep hidden.
“Can I read it?”
She shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
I pulled the book toward me, putting a finger between the pages so I could close the cover and read it. “The Chicago Poems by Carl Sandberg,” I read aloud. “Never heard of him. Was he famous?”
She shook her head. “Does it matter?” A catch in her voice made me look up. My vision had adjusted to the dark, and now I could finally see an unusual brightness in her eyes—the sheen of tears.
“I guess not,” I said. Our eyes locked and held for a few moments, and it felt like something passed between us, but I was too confused and tired and nervous to understand it.
The poem gave me the excuse I needed to back out of that look. I read the poem out loud, haltingly, because it had been too long since I’d read anything out loud to anyone.
They Will Say
Of my city the worst that men will ever say
is this:
You took little children away from the sun
and the dew,
And the glimmers that played in the grass
under the great sky,
And the reckless rain; you put them between walls
To work, broken and smothered, for bread and wages
To eat dust in their throats and die empty-
hearted
For a little handful of pay on a few Saturday
nights.
