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Annika waited, then stopped. That was only five. She turned and stared down the line. “Meed!” she shouted. “What’s missing?”
Meed was so cold she could hardly feel her fingers. Every breath burned her lungs. She closed her eyes and let her mind flow. She imagined herself as a bird over the rainforest. She was being carried on a warm breeze. The geography appeared below her like a map on a table. And the answer came. “Xingu!” she called back.
Annika turned forward and led on, her long braids stiff from the cold. She had been in charge of this group since she was just thirteen. Kamenev had chosen her personally. At first, it was hard for her to keep her charges straight, so she had given the students Russian nicknames, based on their attributes. She called the speedy Asian girl Bystro. The kid who bulged out of his uniform was Zhir. The dark-skinned boy was Chernit.“Fast.” “Chubby.” “Black.”
As for the girl with the unforgettable hair, nobody had ever called her anything but Meed, a nickname derived from the word for copper. Annika had tried out a few nicknames for the sullen dark-haired girl. But she only received glares in return. Irina would only respond to “Irina.”
“Zhir!” Annika called out over the sound of the wind. “Name the most celebrated Roman legions!” Silence. Meed looked back. The boy with short legs at the rear of the line was sunk into the snow almost to his waist. His eyes were glazed. Meed knew the signs. The boy’s brain had stopped working on higher-level problems. It was in triage mode, redirecting resources, calculating how to survive another minute.
“Zhir!” Annika shouted again. “Answer!”
Zhir did not reply. He didn’t even hear the question. His lips were blue, and his breath was coming out in short bursts. His head tipped forward like a deadweight. His knees buckled. He groaned once and fell facedown into the snow.
Meed was just a few steps ahead of him. She turned around and tugged on the rope attached to the boy’s waist, struggling to turn him over.
“Zhir!” she shouted. The boy was heavy and half buried in the snow. Meed leaned back with all her strength, but he wouldn’t budge.
“Stop!” Annika’s voice. She was walking back down the ridge, her pale cheeks reddened by the cold. She pulled a hunting knife from her belt and sliced through the green rope connecting Meed to the unconscious boy.
“Leave him,” said Annika. Then she turned and headed back to the front of the group. Meed stood still for a moment, looking back.
Irina grabbed her arm and pulled her forward.
“Stop being weak,” she whispered.
Meed stared straight ahead, cold and numb. The class moved on. They had another five hours to go. On Annika’s orders, they all smiled the whole way.
CHAPTER 10
THAT NIGHT, IN Kamenev’s fire-lit office, Garin and the headmaster stood in front of the wall of photographs. Garin was bent forward, her right palm pressed against her abdomen. Her pain was worse at night. Kamenev reached up and pulled down the photo of a round-faced boy. Garin had heard about the incident during the mountain exercise. Now the victim had a face.
“Zhir?” asked Garin. “He was the one?” She had been fond of the boy. Not as fit as the others, but a hard worker.
Kamenev nodded. The death had been regrettable, but not totally unexpected. The training was demanding, and not every child lived up to expectations. He slid the photo into a folder and placed the folder inside an open safe. He closed the heavy steel door with a thud. Outside the office, music filled the hallway. Rachmaninoff. The Piano Concerto no. 3 in D Minor. Garin knew it well. A very challenging piece. Kamenev tilted his head to listen.
“She’s advancing,” he said.
“The best student I’ve ever had,” Garin replied.
In the small practice room down the corridor, Meed sat at the piano, head down.
The feeling had finally returned to her fingers, and she played her lesson with fierce intensity, blocking out everything else.
Even the body on the mountain.
CHAPTER 11
Chicago
“STICK THIS IN your mouth.”
I was moving from the Pilates reformer to the mini-trampoline when Meed shoved a small round plastic device between my lips.
“Bite down,” she said.
I was drained and panting after a ninety-minute workout. And I knew I still had another thirty minutes to go. Just like every morning. “Whasthis??” I mumbled through clenched teeth. It felt like a mouthguard attached to a whistle, and it tasted like melted plastic.
“It’s an exhalation resister,” said Meed. “Stimulates deep diaphragmatic breathing. Which you need. Because your respiration stats suck.”
