Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For my family, who are embedded in me.

  And for Faith, who is embedded in this book.

  1

  ELISHA

  After today, I will have seven rights.

  “One,” I whisper. “Retention of the right to vote in a public election. Two: the right to adequate care: food, water, shelter, hygiene, and regular medical attention.”

  Abby rolls around in her little bed. The old wood squeaks as she settles back under the covers. That’s the only right that would’ve done my younger sister any good. Here, she’ll make do with the occasional medical clinic and home remedies.

  “Three: the right to anonymity of surname.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Pressure builds between my brows. After today, I won’t be a Wilder.

  “Four.” I pluck the photo of my family from the windowsill. “The right to one personal item.” It’s the same one Mom took with her. She won’t miss it. She probably can’t even remember it.

  That visit was the last time she was anything like herself. We had our picture taken by a man at the fair. His camera had an old-fashioned lens that reminded Dad of his childhood.

  It was years ago, anyway. Abby was only a baby, all wrapped up in swaddling. Dad still had his beard, a smile nestled in the middle. I’d just grown one tiny hair on my chin and couldn’t wait to show Mom how manly I was becoming.

  “Five.” I resume my count. “The right to personal physical safety.” My heart beats a little faster. “Six: the right to sexual health and protection from pregnancy.” A breeze cools the heat on my face.

  Between school and work and helping around the house, I’ve never had time for relationships. And I’ve certainly never had time for sex. Where would I have done it, anyway? On my mattress on the floor, next to my little sister’s bed? I know a few guys who use the community barn, but between the squawking and cow shit I could never bring myself to join them.

  Besides, I’m counting on Seventh Right to save me from anyone who tries to violate Sixth. “Seven: the right to refuse or demand Dociline, and at any time to change your mind.”

  I rise from bed as quietly as possible and pull on my jeans. No sense in changing my shirt. I put on an old pair of sneakers, leaving my good boots for my sister. She’ll grow into them eventually. I doubt they let Dociles keep their clothing.

  One personal item.

  I slip the family photo into my pocket and tiptoe out of our room without waking Abby. Regret tugs at my heart as I close the door. I didn’t even say goodbye, not a word or a kiss on the cheek while she slept. Nothing. Not for her, not for Dad.

  I linger at his bedroom door for a moment before going to the kitchen. Mom doesn’t look up from the floor. She sweeps back and forth over the same worn-down spot, even when I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Hey, Mom, it’s Elisha.”

  “Hello, Elisha.”

  I hold on to the moment when I can pretend she remembers I’m her son, and that it’s not ten years of Dociline bending her to politeness.

  “I miss you so much.”

  “That’s nice,” she says, her voice smooth as fresh-churned butter.

  “I wanted to let you know I’m not mad at you.” I take the broom with no resistance and lean it against the wall.

  “Okay.” She smiles, but her eyes are empty, expressionless.

  “And I love you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I understand why you left us. And when you’re better, someday—”

  “Okay.”

  I pause. It would be easier if she didn’t reply at all, rather than in that monotone voice, following the same script, over and over.

  “Someday, I hope you’ll forgive me for doing the same.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I need your signature.” I flatten the Office of Debt Resolution form on the table and find her a pen. My parents aren’t married—not legally, anyway. Get married and you—and your children—inherit your partner’s debt. Like each of them don’t have enough separately. No, this is the form that signs both of my parents’ debts over to me, so I can sell it. Sell it all.

  Dad already signed, assuming it was for Abby, like we’d discussed. It was that or wait for the police to drag us all off to debtors’ prison. They only send out so many notices.

  I trace the scar tissue that patterns the inside of my left wrist. The mark stands out, dark and ropey from years under the sun, a fat “S” with a “U” slicing down its middle. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the dollar sign burning into my flesh, hear the cop calling me a drain on society.

  Mom finishes her signature, dots the i’s in “Abigail,” and stares at me, still smiling. Waiting for my next order.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I kiss her cheek.

  “You’re welcome, Elisha.”

  I fold the paper and hold it tight, afraid to lose it. One more stop before the ODR. I lock the door behind me and bury my key in the flowerpot on the porch. When I look up, I see the Falstaffs’ front door open and close, one house over. Dylan stuffs her socked feet into oversized boots. She crosses her arms to secure an old crocheted blanket over her pajamas and hops over, still squeezing her shoes into place. “Where’re you running off to? Can I come?”

  The two of us have snuck out more times than I can count. Midnight swims in the reservoir; talks on the bridge, our bare feet dangling over the edge; that time we walked to Hunt Valley for a party in one of the old office buildings and ended up sleeping in an abandoned unit overnight, talking about what we’d do if we didn’t stand to inherit our parents’ debts. I’d go to the University of Maryland, get my teaching degree, put all the tutoring I’ve done to good use. She’d travel to an elephant sanctuary in Thailand that she read about in an old textbook. I told her it probably didn’t exist anymore; she told me to mind my own dreams.

  I smile at the memory, but hers fades when she sees the forms in my hands. I tuck them under my arms, but it’s too late. Dylan knows me better than anyone; she’s practically my second sister. After her father took his life and it became clear that my mom was no longer herself, Dad and Nora began spending more time together. We have three surnames between us, but we’re still a family. Even after what our parents went through—what we’re dealing with, now.

  “I have to.” I have trouble looking into her eyes. “We received a final notice. The interest is—”

  She wraps her arms around me before I can finish. Warm together inside the blanket, I never want to leave.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she says, voice muffled against me.

  “I don’t, either, but it’s me or Abby.”

  “I know,” she says. “Just seems like everyone’s leaving, lately, and too few of them come back. Even
fewer like their regular selves.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let that happen to me.”

  “Well, do what you have to, but if it gets too hard, talk to your caseworker.” Her father hadn’t. He didn’t make it.

  “I will.”

  “And I’ll see you in six months, okay? For your visit.” Dylan drapes her blanket around my shoulders. “Don’t fucking freeze to death on your way.”

  She shouldn’t waste it on me—I’ll have to give it up—but I’m too cold to refuse.

  When I slide out of her grasp, I know I can’t go back for another hug or I’ll run back inside and do the same with Dad and Abby and then I’ll never leave. There’s no time to waste. Last I heard, the walk from Prettyboy Reservoir to Baltimore City took twelve hours.

  * * *

  I don’t have a watch, but the moon hangs high overhead when I make it to the entrance ramp for the interstate. A single strip of undisturbed pavement lines the center of 83 South—a path barely wide enough for a car and mostly used by bikes and pedestrians. I doubt the pockmarked road has seen much action since the last police raid.

  I count the few cars that pass instead of thinking about how I’m going to miss my sister growing up or wondering whether Mom will ever snap out of it. I’m up to thirteen—the last car sunflower yellow and shaped like a cat ready to pounce—when soggy fields transition to neighborhoods and the pavement to a darker, smoother texture. My fingers are numb where they poke through the crocheted blanket.

  South of Exit 20, cars crowd 83. I fall into line with the other pedestrians who exit onto the local road. A metal sign reads: “Welcome to Hunt Valley!”—one of a few struggling towns along the way. A diverse group of smiling cartoon people wave at me; I do not return the sentiment.

  I thrust my hand into my pocket and rub the wad of cash, worn soft by too many hands. The only thing I need in order to register with the ODR is a state ID. The amount of money and red tape that stands between me and one of those isn’t worth the hassle. I started saving for a fake one the day Dad told me his plan to register Abby with the ODR.

  She’ll fetch the most, Dad said. She’s got the most life ahead of her. But I’m twenty-one, old enough to consent. I’ve heard stories about trillionaires fucking their Dociles, and trillionaires? They pay. If I could sign with one of them, I might be able to sell off all our debt. I might be able to keep the collectors and cops from ever coming for my family again.

  So, while Dad’s smile faded and his energy dropped, I pocketed a few dollars from our take at the Hunt Valley farmer’s market and stayed out late tutoring kids who couldn’t make it to their “local” schoolhouse an hour away; a dollar per hour isn’t bad, out here.

  Our neighbor Shawna’s the only one who goes into Baltimore City regularly. She and her wife have a tandem bicycle, and since they both work for the government, it’s not too bad of a deal. She hooked me up with the forger in the city. Fifty dollars, she quoted. I re-count my money as I pass the patchwork houses that pop up the closer you get to the city. Dad told us they used to be called McMansions. The ones out our way crumbled to the foundations, long ago, before everyone with money moved into the center of the city. We built them up with logs and stones and makeshift cement and what house parts we could scavenge from abandoned neighborhoods. Here, the first floors are still intact and squat looking without the former second floors to top them off.

  Locals inhabit abandoned chain stores and restaurants. Office buildings house people instead of corporations. A grocery store spills out into the parking lot where folks trade and donate canned goods. And an Empower Maryland banner hangs over an old movie theater advertising supplemental education, daycare for working parents, skills training, and public assistance. They’ve come to our farm a few times. Donated winter boots, blankets, a bike every few years. They help some, I suppose, but we sure haven’t felt it in Prettyboy.

  * * *

  Buildings thicken the closer I get to the center of the city, and corporate-sponsored clothing thins. People in these neighborhoods can afford to buy their own. Cold claims the sweat on my back, as I fold Dylan’s blanket over the TruCare Insurance logo on my shirt. It was free.

  No one seems to notice, all too busy speed-walking to work or breakfast or whatever they do for fun in the city. I’ve only been a handful of times and never for fun. Heard they ride bicycles that don’t move and soak in bathtubs full of chemicals. Along the city blocks, trees grow from predesignated holes in the ground; their branches are trim and tidy, their roots don’t sprawl. Pink and yellow flowers—colors you shouldn’t see yet in January—hang from streetlamps in metal baskets with some sort of fake brown grass. I wonder if anything here is real or if it’s all plastic. Like I’m walking through some child’s play set. Even the buildings look unreal, the marble shaped into arches and frills and angels, painted baby blue and gold and red.

  Ahead, a hand-painted sign reads: “Eddie’s of Mt. Vernon.” My destination. I didn’t think people worked until 9:00 a.m. in the city, but the clock tower in the distance only reads 8:00 and already shops are opening. It smells like filth and perfume.

  I walk around back of the grocery store until I come to the dumpster. When she sees me, a woman nudges the man beside her. He stomps out his cigarette and heads inside.

  “You Shawna’s friend?” she asks, wiping her hands on her coat. She looks more like a butcher than a forger.

  I nod and hand her the fifty dollars.

  “She told me a guy from the county was coming in for a fake.” She counts the cash and pulls out a tablet. “Stand against the wall. Don’t smile.”

  No problem, there. I stare at the tablet, while she takes my picture, then glance left and right.

  “Stop looking so suspicious,” she says. “We’re just two friends taking pics.”

  Easy for her to say. Someone is bound to see us, and I cannot get arrested. Not when I’m so close. She shoves a plastic card into her tablet, then pulls a stylus from her coat pocket and moves it over the screen, like she’s writing in a foreign language.

  “Write in your full name, address, age, and so on. Skip whatever you don’t know and I’ll make it up.”

  The stylus slides too easily over the tablet, but I know most of the answers, and hand it back to her when I finish. After a few more minutes, she rips the plastic card out and hands it to me, still warm.

  “There you go, kid.”

  I examine her work because I feel like I should, not because I know what to look for. “This’ll fool the card readers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. There’s only one reason someone from the county buys an ID.” She pushes up her sleeve to reveal a scar that looks like mine did ten years ago.

  “The ODR’s about a mile down Charles Street.” She eyes the blanket Dylan gave me. “You going to make it?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say, pocketing the ID.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around.” She opens the back door of the grocery.

  “Probably not.”

  We share a shrug and I leave in the direction she pointed. The only things I look forward to are the heat and sitting down.

  2

  ELISHA

  A middle-aged white man at the front desk gulps his coffee. “Welcome to the Office of Debt Resolution; how can I help you?” Little brown drops stick to his graying beard. He dabs at them with his shirt sleeve.

  “Checking in.”

  He taps at his computer. The keypad flickers under his touch. “ID?”

  I pass the fake over the counter. The man scans it without a second look.

  “Elisha Wilder.” He pronounces it “E-lish-a.”

  “E-lie-sha.” I correct him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Probably no one will, from here on out.

  “Twenty-one years old, biological child of Abigail Wilder and David Burns. Are you here to represent both lineages?”

  “Yes.”

  “Multilineage Debt Resol
ution Consent Form, please.”

  I dig the signed paper from my pocket and hand it to him.

  “All right.” He stamps it and scans it into the system. “How much debt do you want to sell off?”

  “All of it.”

  For the first time, he looks at me—all of me, like he’s buying me. “Not sure you’ll fetch three million. Maybe with some cleaning up.” He checks my ID again. “Well, you are over eighteen. That’ll boost your price.”

  I’ve never been so conscious of my appearance. No one in the county cares about scraggly hair or freckles. Only that you’re strong enough to help raise a barn or dexterous enough to patch up clothes.

  “Sign here.” He pushes a clipboard in front of me. “And initial next to the life term clause, in case someone goes for it.”

  The words “life term” send a chill through me. Mom sold almost a million in debt for ten years. Of course, terms must go longer—I knew that deep down—but hearing someone say it? With a breath to center myself, I do as instructed, and the man scans it alongside my consent form.

  “You will receive your ID back upon completion of your service term. Hold on to this”—he hands me a new card—“for now. It contains your rights, calendared alerts for all forthcoming elections in compliance with First Right, a copy of your parental consent form, and the agreement you just signed.” He punches a hole in the top of the card and hooks an ODR lanyard through it, then continues in the same droll tone. “Report to the second floor for the remainder of processing. Per Third Right, all interactions from this point forward are anonymous. Disclose your surname at your own risk. If at any time you feel your rights have been violated, please contact this office per the information on the card. Thank you and have a nice day.” The man returns to his computer, as if bored by the speech he’s forced to give over and over.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, and head for the stairs. I expected the inside of the ODR to be marbled and bright, like the rest of the city, but the carpets are worn and the only elevator is out of order.