He opens his mouth, ready to protest further, but changes his mind. “Let’s keep moving,” he says.
“He deserves to be angry,” Rose says.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m cold and tired . . . I’d appreciate it if he could wait until we’re out of this tunnel to deal with his grievances.”
“Amen,” says Dekker.
“You’re no picnic either,” I say. “The best thing you have going for you is that light on your head. And you stole that from Grace.”
“Let’s not turn on one another,” Rose says. “If we need one thing, it’s to be united when we reach the other side.”
Grace speaks quietly. “So there’s good news about the rats.”
“What?” I say, snapping at her, too.
“They aren’t fish,” she says, so softly I can barely hear. “They can’t swim for long, so we must be close to land.”
As soon as she says this, I realize I’m barking at everyone because I’m terrified. I don’t know if I’m ready for what awaits us.
Before I can apologize, I see a faint light ahead, proving Grace right. We’re about to reach the next stop, Queens Plaza.
This 6,000-square-foot, candlelit rooftop crowns the Ravel Hotel in Long Island City. The garden terrace is furnished with plush orange chairs and features clear views of the Manhattan skyline and the Queensboro Bridge.
For years, I’ve pictured Queens covered in candlelit roofs. If only.
Before I feel mentally prepared in any way, we reach the station. It seems bigger, more decrepit, than the last two, but it has the same rusted pillars, white tiles, and wide staircases. I’m surprised. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I guess I thought this station would be different.
Juda steers us out of the tunnel and toward the stairs.
Be an intrepid explorer.
With trepidation, I take my hand off the raft and grab the rail of the stairs. I let my feet drift down until I find solid ground. Whatever hesitation I have about what is outside is now overwhelmed by my desire to get out of this unholy tunnel. The others must feel the same, because we slop out of the water, storm up the stairs, and race out to the light.
THIRTY-FIVE
WHEN I GET TO THE SURFACE, I’M BLINDED BY the rising sun and I hear nothing, not even traffic. When my eyes adjust, I see houses—lots and lots of houses—lined up neatly in rows, painted in the most wonderful shades of orange, lime, baby blue, and red, each with its own shimmering, emerald-green lawn. Queens is brighter than Rose’s fruit salad.
“Where is everyone?” Juda says.
“I told you,” Grace says, “there are no people left.”
“Yeah. Puppies are watering those lawns,” Dekker says.
“It’s barely first light,” says Rose. “They’re all asleep.”
A grove of red oaks grows to our left, and a bird chirps as it notices morning has arrived. Dekker looks as wide-eyed as Grace as they glance around the strange terrain. I’m sure I look just as astonished. I don’t know what I expected—an army of readied Apostates; Uncle Ruho with a drum of oil; pile upon pile of ash and bone—but not this. This is . . . beautiful.
Feeling sore all over, I stretch my exhausted limbs. I’m chilly in my wet clothes, ready for the sun to grow hotter and dry me off.
“So what first?” Juda says. I’m surprised to see that he’s looking at me for instructions.
I’m about to say, “How should I know?” but, looking at everyone’s nervous faces, I remember that they’ve never even seen a copy of Time Zero—Time Out, I mean—and that this was my plan. Juda is looking to me for leadership because I have led them here.
“Let’s find some food,” I say, letting my stomach guide my decision.
Everyone nods, and we survey the area. Grace, Rose, and I wander toward the grove, thinking of nut trees and berry bushes. Juda walks toward what looks like a pond to search for fresh water, but Dekker heads straight for a street full of houses.
“Dekker!” I say, as loudly as I dare. “What are you doing?”
He shrugs. “I hate wasting time.”
And that’s when I hear the sound—it’s a low humming. At first I think it’s in my head, maybe water in my ears. But as it gets louder, I know it’s coming from nearby. The others turn in every direction, looking for the source.
I spot something in the sky heading toward us. The buzzing gets louder as it nears. “Juda . . . ,” I say.
“I see it,” he says, running back to us. “Get behind me.”
“Watch your mother,” I say, walking forward to get a better look.
Dekker sprints back over to us, joining Rose at the rear of the group.
Is it a hawk? It seems too large. In fact, it looks large enough to be a man. What if the Apostates can fly?
“It’s an angel,” Rose whispers, giving me chills. Maybe we died, drowned, and this is an angel, here to judge us and take us to Heaven or Hell.
“Should we run?” Dekker asks.
Where to? I think, but maybe he’s right. Despite my exhaustion, my body is on full alert, ready to flee at the smallest sign of danger. I want nothing less than to get back in that water, but standing out in the open now seems foolish. I say, “I think we should head back down the stairs.” I walk slowly backward, and the others do the same. None of us takes our eyes off the object in the sky.
The humming is louder, an engine sound, and the thing picks up speed. We begin to run, but before we can reach the subway, it swoops down and lands right next to Grace. She leaps away from it like it might explode, and I don’t blame her. We all jump away.
But nothing happens. It just lies there—a big metal cube surrounded by a silver skeleton that branches into wings.
“What should we do?” Grace says.
“Talk to it?” Dekker says.
“Hello. My name’s Grace.”
“It can’t talk,” says a new voice.
I whirl around to find a small, serene girl studying us through enormous cornflower-blue eyes. Wearing a white T-shirt, white shorts, and pristine white sandals, she has shiny brown hair and a sweet freckled nose. “It’s making a delivery,” she says.
While the rest of us stare at her in fascination, Grace says, “Of what?”
The girl approaches the flying metal thing and opens a little door on the side. She reaches in, pulling out a peach, plump and ripe. “Want some?” Her accent is odd. I understand what she says, but it sounds more like wuntsum—one word.
The rest of us look at one another, stomachs grumbling, wondering whether anyone is brave enough.
“Picked less than thirty minutes ago,” she says. “I only eat Georgia peaches.” When none of us responds, she shrugs and takes a bite. She lets the juice run down her chin, and I see a drop land on her crisp white shorts. The smell is intoxicating.
Wiping her mouth with her hand, she says, “Are you more of the tunnel people?”
“There have been others?” I say. I shouldn’t be surprised, given what Juda said about the fuel.
“Some. My brother’s going to be very jealous that I found you,” she says. “I can’t wait for you to meet him. I’m Beth, by the way.” She walks toward the nearest row of houses, munching her peach. “Let’s go wake him up.” Wekkimup.
Beth seems unfazed by our arrival in Queens. Perhaps Apostates are just pleasant and calm about everything. She’s also very young, so maybe no one’s taught her to be afraid of “heathens” yet. Either way, she’s now happily marching up the street, ready to introduce us to her family.
I look at the others, wondering what to do.
I call out, “Beth!” and she turns around. She’s surprised to find we aren’t right behind her. “If we come, do you think we could get some food?”
She nods with enthusiasm. “Mama’s a great cook. And she loves guests.”
Smiling at Juda and the others, I walk toward her.
We follow her past a bright crimson house with white trim, and I’m wondering whether maybe I
can live in a house like that someday, when Beth pauses and says, “Oh, wait, I’m supposed to ask . . . do you believe in the Prophet?” She looks up at me, her big eyes waiting in bright anticipation.
Listen to your gut instinct about people. It’s usually right.
Deciding to take Nana’s advice, I say, “Yes, Beth, I believe in the Prophet.”
“Well, shoot,” she says. “Then I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”
A siren sounds all around us, while flashing yellow lights rise out of the perfect green grass.
“If you guys don’t mind,” Beth says, pleasant as ever, “could you please lie down on the ground?”
“Run!” shouts Juda, his voice cutting through the alarm.
I sprint toward the subway station, assuming the others will do the same, but Dekker and Grace run toward the grove. Juda starts to run with me but then turns around when he sees that his mother is frozen in place next to Beth.
I’m trying to decide if I should turn around, too, but it doesn’t matter, because I hear a zipping sound and a net lands on top of me. Clawing at it with my hands, I feel it entangling my feet, and soon I’m tripping toward the pavement. I cry out as I land on my hip with a thud.
I hear lots of people now, and someone, a man, picks me up from behind and lays me down face-first in some grass. Cuffing my hands behind my back, he says, “Don’t move, honey,” and then walks away. I can barely turn my head. The grass is cool, wet with morning dew, and it prickles my face.
Soon I see Grace, Dekker, and Juda laid out beside me, all facedown and cuffed. I turn my head with difficulty and see Rose to my left. She looks angry and frightened but not hurt.
I turn back to Juda, who lies next to me. His eyes dart around frantically as he tries to survey our situation. “I’m sorry,” I say, but he can’t hear me over the siren.
I say it again, more loudly: “I’M SORRY.”
He looks at me, confused. I can tell from his expression that he’s trying to formulate a plan, but he can’t possibly know how many men we’re up against. We can’t see anything, since we’re facing the ground, and the siren drowns out their voices. It could be one man; it could be a thousand.
Grace is next to Juda, weeping.
“This isn’t right—there’s been a mistake!” I yell through the siren. Aren’t they going to give us a chance to explain? It can’t be over with just one question!
Juda is saying something to me, but I can’t hear him. His expression is urgent and I think he’s telling me to do something.
I shake my head, trying to express that I don’t understand.
Two men come up behind him, about to seize him.
I try to warn him, to say, “Behind you!” but it doesn’t matter. The men pick him up, yanking him back as he resists, and take him away.
I don’t have time to protest, because I feel hands on my own back, lifting me up and carrying me away from Grace, Dekker, and Rose.
I’m shoved into the back of a huge, shiny van. I search for Juda. My fear spirals as I see that I’m alone. As the doors close, I see Beth talking to a man who is also wearing all white. The two of them turn to stare at me, and Beth, before she can stop herself, waves goodbye, her half-eaten peach still in her hand.
“Wait!” I cry, but the doors shut and I’m thrown into darkness.
— End of Book One —
NOTE TO READER
Globally, 62 million girls are not in school.
Every year, 15 million girls are married as children.
Stoning as a punishment for adultery is still legal and
occurring in over 14 countries.
If you would like to help girls around the world like Mina,
please contact any of the following organizations:
The Malala Fund
malala.org
Let Girls Learn
usaid.gov/letgirlslearn
Girl Rising
girlrising.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book took many years, countless drafts, and a horde of willing readers. For all their help and brilliant insight, I would like to thank Amy Elliott, Steve Schrader, Emily Klein, Sam Lanckton, Elisa Todd Ellis, David Divita, Roberto Cipriano, Josh Jackson, Ann-Tyler Konradi, Michaela Watkins, Gabrielle Pina, Mark Richard, Mina Javaherbin, Robin Hopkins, Canan Ipek, Drea Clark, Zena Leigh Logan, John Sylvain, Alison Locke Nelson, Alexandra Smith, Evie Peck, Blakely Blackford, Susannah Luthi, Jinny Koh, Andrea Eames, Lynn Cohagan, and the USC Master of Professional Writing Program.
A special thanks to the librarians who read early drafts of this book and who continue to champion the cause of reading every day. Thank you to Neil Gaiman, whose line about the power of the novel I plagiarized. Thank you to the excellent film Girl Rising, which gave me the line “ignorance is the enemy of change.”
If any writing in this novel is subpar, it is because Richard Rayner didn’t get to read the final draft. He is a teacher extraordinaire who nurtured this book well beyond his duties as an advisor. Richard, I will not say, “Thank you enthusiastically.” I will say, “Thank you, with enthusiasm.”
If I left anyone out, then nyek, I apologize.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CAROLYN COHAGAN began her writing career on the stage. She has performed stand-up and one-woman shows at festivals around the world, from Adelaide to Edinburgh. Her first novel, The Lost Children, became part of the Scholastic Book Club in 2011 and was nominated for a Massachusetts Children’s Book Award in 2014. She lives in Austin, where she is the founder of Girls With Pens, a creative writing organization dedicated to fostering the individual voices and offbeat imaginations of girls ages 9-17.
For more information about Ms. Cohagan, Time Zero, or Girls With Pens, please visit www.TimeZeroBook.com.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company
founded to serve women writers everywhere.
Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
Trinity Stones: The Angelorum Twelve Chronicles by LG O’Connor. $16.95, 978-1-938314-84-1. On her 27th birthday, New York investment banker Cara Collins learns that she is one of twelve chosen ones prophesied to lead a final battle between the forces of good and evil.
Faint Promise of Rain by Anjali Mitter Duva. $16.95, 978-1-938314-97-1. Adhira, a young girl born to a family of Hindu temple dancers, is raised to be dutiful—but ultimately, as the world around her changes, it is her own bold choice that will determine the fate of her family and of their tradition.
Cleans Up Nicely by Linda Dahl. $16.95, 978-1-938314-38-4. The story of one gifted young woman’s path from self-destruction to self-knowledge, set in mid-1970s Manhattan.
The Island of Worthy Boys by Connie Hertzberg Mayo. $16.95, 978-1-63152-001-3. In early-19th-century Boston, two adolescent boys escape arrest after accidentally killing a man by conning their way into an island school for boys—a perfect place to hide, as long as they can keep their web of lies from unraveling.
The Wiregrass by Pam Webber. $16.95, 978-1-63152-943-6. A story about a summer of discontent, change, and dangerous mysteries in a small Southern Wiregrass town.
Pieces by Maria Kostaki. $16.95, 978-1-63152-966-5. After five years of living with her grandparents in Cold War-era Moscow, Sasha finds herself suddenly living in Athens, Greece—caught between her psychologically abusive mother and violent stepfather.
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