Radio

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  She can take care of herself.

  “I know,” Ronja replied glumly. “I just wish she would let me check up on her now and then.” Cosmin gave a rueful smile, then put pen to paper again.

  She needs time.

  “I know,” she sighed, casting her eyes to her knees. Her vision glazed like breath clouding on a mirror. “She blames me for what happened.” To her surprise, Cosmin shook his head fervently. He scratched out another message.

  You remind her of him.

  Ronja felt her throat constrict. How could she possibly remind Charlotte of her brother? He was so selfless, so honest, so good.

  Cosmin set his tools aside, observing her keenly. Ronja felt the pull of sleep. Her chin sagged toward her chest. “Do you mind if I close my eyes for a bit?” she asked. The boy nodded. “Get me up in a half hour, would you?” He inclined his head again, then reached out and gave her an awkward pat on the knee. Ronja snorted and returned the gesture. She curled up like a cat in the chair, using the underside of her arm as a pillow. Her eyelids drifted shut as a comfortable fog rolled over her brain.

  She dreamed of running through a yawning black tunnel, chasing a sliver of sunlight that knifed through the black. When she finally caught the rays, she cupped them in her hands. They scorched her.

  Ronja woke to a pinprick of pain on her knee. She slammed her hand down without cracking her lids, capturing Cosmin by the wrist before he could yank back his pinching fingers. She opened her eyes, blinking sleepily.

  “What time is it?” she asked, stretching her arms over her head. Cosmin held up five fingers, then flashed one more on the same hand.

  “Pitch,” Ronja cursed, scrambling to her feet. “I have to get to breakfast.”

  “Why?”

  “Everyone has to go. We have to be well fed to sit on our asses all day.” Cosmin snatched up his notebook, which he had replaced on the nightstand. He wrote out a message while Ronja waited, fidgeting as the seconds whipped by. The boy tossed her the pad. She managed to snag it by the tips of her fingers.

  Why eat with people you don’t even like?

  Ronja shot her cousin an irritated look over the lip of the notebook. “What are you talking about? Roark, Iris, and Evie are my friends.”

  Cosmin shook his head and curled his fingers at her. She returned the notebook to him, watching mutely as he wrote out another message. This one he held up for her to see.

  I mean their friends. You get a weird look when you talk about them.

  “What look?” she demanded, slapping the book against her thigh. Cosmin narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips until they were turned white. “Oh, come on,” Ronja scoffed. “I do not. Anyway, I like them plenty.”

  It was not a lie.

  The family Roark had fashioned himself was everything she had ever wanted. They were funny, protective, and above all loved each other fiercely. Most were Anthemites by birth, but a few had found their way to the resistance in their teenage years. They were good company, but handled Ronja with a sort of caution typically reserved for wild animals. She did not blame them. For all they knew, she was the reason Henry was dead.

  Maybe you are.

  Ronja whipped around and grabbed the drapes. As quickly as she had moved she stilled, her clawed fingers digging into the fabric. “Ro?” Cosmin asked from behind her. “You go—od?”

  Ronja blinked. Her stiff fingers relaxed. “Yeah,” she replied, hiking her dejected voice up like a trailing skirt. “I’ll be back around lunch. Want me to bring you any more books?”

  “No, Trip brou—ght me some.”

  “Roark did?”

  “He brou—ght me some of his fa—vorites. The Black Ca—stle is best so f—ar.”

  “Huh.” A smile built on her grim lips. “Not bad for a shiny.” Before Cosmin could reply, Ronja bid him goodbye and slipped from the hospital room.

  6: Blinded

  The wave of noise that enveloped Ronja each time she left the hospital wing never failed to surprise her. Somehow, the curtains capped the din. The babel was easier to block out than The Music, but she still preferred the quiet. Sighing, the Anthemite lifted her hood and plunged into the throng.

  It was a short walk to the cook fire, which was not far from the powder blue tent Iris and Evie called home. She often dropped by before breakfast so they could walk over together, but figured her presence would not be welcome this particular morning.

  The fire was situated in a clearing of tents below one of the powerful vents that ferried smoke from the Belly. The atmosphere around the flames was crisp, the closest thing Ronja had felt to fresh air in months. Musical instruments, books, and bottles of alcohol mingled with the small army of chairs that ringed the blaze. How the group continued to get their hands on some of the finest wines Revinia had to offer, she did not know. She was certainly not complaining.

  When Ronja arrived, only Samson was there. He sat hunched on his red stool, stoking the embers of a previous blaze. At twenty-four, he was the oldest of their crew. His jaw was square, his blue eyes laughing. He was also, Ronja had not failed to notice, ruggedly handsome. Two years ago Wilcox appointed him captain of the stationary guard, and for good reason. He was level headed and skilled; the Anthemites could rest easy under his watch.

  “Morning, Sam,” Ronja called as she approached. The man looked up and smiled as she sank into a wooden chair near his. She left a space between them, though she knew he would not have begrudged her sitting directly beside him.

  “Morning,” he greeted her genially. His grin faltered when he caught sight of her bandages.

  “Took a bad fall,” she explained before he could ask.

  “Into a rabid dog?”

  Ronja flushed.

  The captain set aside the iron fire poker and leaned toward her. “I saw Terra storm into her tent — you the one who gave her that black eye?”

  “Black eye?” she asked, a thread of dark satisfaction in her tone.

  Samson’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “I would tell you it was a stupid move, but looks like Iris already got to you.”

  “Why does everyone think I started it?”

  The captain guffawed, drawing curious glances from a couple passing by. Ronja shot him a warning look, which he elected to ignore. “Anyway,” he said. “I really should punish you for infighting, but it looks like you two already paid your price, so I’ll let it slide.”

  “Thanks,” Ronja replied earnestly.

  Samson nodded, then dug into his pocket and produced a lighter. He clicked it to life, leaned down, and pressed the shivering flame to the kindling.

  “What was it about, anyway?” he asked.

  “What?”

  Samson returned the lighter to his pocket and straightened up. “Why were you and Terra fighting?”

  “Oh.” Ronja fidgeted in her seat, itched her nose. “Long story.” The answer obviously did not satisfy the captain, but he did not press her. Gratitude spread through the girl. Samson was one of the only Anthemites who did not treat conversations with her as interrogations.

  “I see you running in the mornings.”

  Ronja started, her eyebrows jerking up her forehead. “What?”

  Samson reddened, the color traveling down his face and into his neck. “Ah,” he stuttered, taking the poker back in hand and jabbing at the logs with fervor. “Not that I was watching, I just get up for my shift around the same time, so I see you sometimes. I mean … ”

  The girl threw up a bandaged hand, swallowing her laughter. “I get it. What about it?”

  “You look strong.” He gazed at her sidelong, his bright eyes pinning her in place. She felt her mouth go dry. “But I could teach you how to punch someone without hurting your hands.”

  “Umm … yeah. Sure.” Something long dormant in her chest unfurled, shaking off a layer of dust.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  Samson and Ronja twisted around in unison. Kala Pent and three other members of their crew were ap
proaching fast. Kala walked at the head of the group. She was nearly as short as Iris, with jet-black hair thicker than rope. Her warm brown hands were dappled with bright streaks of paint, as always. Her dear friend Delilah trailed close behind, her blind eyes the same shade of cream as her skin. The brothers James and Elliot Mason traipsed behind them. Both were members of the stationary guard, but that was where the similarities ended.

  “Cooking accident,” Ronja explained as they arrived at the edge of the fire. Kala looked to Delilah, who was shaking her head, her chestnut hair rippling.

  “Lying,” she confirmed, her milky eyes sparking with mirth and curiosity. “Her voice wavered a bit toward the end.”

  “I knew it,” Kala snapped, jabbing an accusatory finger at Ronja.

  Ronja batted the digit away with her bound wrist, her contented mood evaporating like boiling water. “Thanks, D,” she muttered dryly.

  “Happy to be of service.”

  Delilah stepped around the fire, her hand held out to gauge the heat, then perched on her orange stool. An accident had destroyed her vision when she was a child, but in recent years a sliver of her sight had returned. She was now able to see vibrant hues and vague shapes out of her left eye. As a result, most of her belongings were brightly colored. “If you would just tell the truth once in a while I could stop publicly shaming you, Ronja.”

  Ronja muttered something foul under her breath, knowing Delilah would hear. She only gave a cheeky smile in response, revealing a small gap between her front teeth.

  “Who was it, then?” Kala asked, taking her usual spot next to Delilah.

  “I got into it a bit with Terra, no big deal.”

  “No big deal,” James mimicked, pitching his voice up several octaves in a poor imitation. Ronja glowered at him as he stepped over her legs and took the seat between Samson and her. She inched away. She was not fond of the elder Mason brother. He saw the world in black and white and had not cracked a smile in the eight weeks she had known him. “Just breaking one of the only rules the stationary guard has set. But we can overlook it for the savior, right, Sam?” He turned to his captain expectantly. Ronja gritted her teeth and glanced down at her knees, shame prickling under her skin.

  “I let it slide when you and Connor got in a fight on duty,” Samson replied flatly. “It only seems fair we do the same for a newbie.”

  Ronja felt her chest expand as James flushed, forcing out the mortification gnawing at her insides. She locked eyes with the captain. He winked at her, quick enough that she wondered if she had imagined it. She wracked her brains, trying to remember the last time someone had defended her before a crowd.

  She sat alone in the elementary school hallway, her cold chapped hands curled around a thermos of milk, lost in a world of her own creation. She did not notice the knot of older children approaching her until it was too late. Their dull cruel eyes and grubby hands kept her rooted on the spot, her fingers turning white around the container.

  “Stupid mutt, what are you doing in a school?”

  “Get back to the pound!”

  “Listen to your Singer you dumb pitcher!”

  “Leave her alone!”

  A dark hand shot through a gap between her tormenters and gripped her wrist. It was so soft, so warm, startlingly different from her own rough palms. Before she could even open her mouth, he yanked her through the mob and pulled her to his side, pressing her face to his knit sweater.

  “I got ya, Ro,” Henry whispered into her hair. “I got ya.”

  “Do they hurt?

  Ronja blinked. “Huh?”

  “Your hands, do they hurt?”

  She followed the question to Elliot, who had taken the vacant seat next to Delilah. At seventeen he was the youngest of the group. He was a gentle and sensible boy, the opposite of his short fused brother. Elliot had a rather long nose and protuberant ears, but his eyes were a lovely shade of hazel and his head was full of thick auburn hair.

  “A bit,” Ronja answered honestly. “Iris said I might have fractured a knuckle, but I think I got lucky.”

  “Who started it?” Kala asked.

  James let out a hollow laugh. “Who do you think?”

  Ronja tossed him a black look. He returned it vehemently. “I started it,” she admitted, “but she deserved it.”

  “I bet,” Kala replied. “But James is right. Infighting is a serious offense around here, especially for people like … ”

  Delilah threw out her elbow and nailed her in the ribs. Kala hissed, massaging her side, but she shut her mouth. Ronja dropped her eyes to the flames, oblivious to the sting of the smoke. Lighter conversations from nearby circles drifted in tauntingly. “People like me,” she finished tonelessly. “I get it.”

  Kala did not respond. Ronja peeked up through her lashes. The painter wore a calculating expression. Elliot and Delilah both appeared pained. She could not see Samson around James, but found herself wondering what he was thinking.

  “You know,” Kala finally spoke up carefully. “This would be a lot easier if you would just tell us what happened out there.”

  Here we go, Ronja thought dully. She should have known. Every conversation led back to the night she desperately wanted to forget.

  “It would be easier to trust you if we knew your story,” Elliot tacked on with a coaxing smile. Kala tossed him an appreciative glance. Ronja fought the urge to reach across the flames to slap him.

  “Wilcox would exile me if he found out I talked,” she explained tiredly, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. “Roark trusts me. Is that not enough?”

  “His judgment is clouded,” James answered sourly.

  Ronja narrowed her eyes to slits. “What do you mean?”

  The guard barked a laugh, his mouth curled into a smirk. “Are you blind?”

  “Oi,” Delilah mumbled.

  “Ronja.” Kala was scrutinizing her through the column of smoke. Her eyes were nearly as black as her hair. “You want us to trust you, right?”

  Ronja hesitated before nodding.

  The painter arranged her mouth into some semblance of a smile. “Then help us to. Tell us what happened at Red Bay, and then maybe we can … ”

  “Stop treating me like a bomb about to go off?”

  Kala swallowed, her eyes darting around the circle desperately. Again, no one came to her aid. “What I meant was … ”

  “How dare you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You think you can bait me with friendship? I spent most of my life alone. I have everyone I need.” The truth of the words sent shockwaves rippling along her bones, spurring her words. “I am here to fight, and to do that I have to keep my mouth shut. I am not going to risk being thrown out so you and I can braid each other’s hair. So, if you would kindly skitz off, I would appreciate it.”

  It was only in the wake of her words that Ronja realized she had been shouting. The fire crackled cheerily at her feet.

  “I … I … ” Kala stuttered

  “I think what Kala means,” Delilah spoke up quietly. “Is that it would mean a lot to us if you could tell us what happened to him. How he … ” She raised a hand to her quivering lips.

  The rage drained from Ronja slowly, then all at once. She glanced around the circle, but everyone refused her gaze. When she finally spoke, her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “This is about Henry.”

  Kala gave a rueful smile, her dark eyes shining. “Of course it is. He was like a brother to us, even after he left the Belly.”

  “I remember when he was born,” Samson interjected. Ronja leaned around James to see him, her eyes widening in surprise. He nodded as if to confirm his own words. “I was five.” A low chuckle bubbled up on his lips. “Skitz, he was one ugly baby.”

  “Please, Ronja,” Kala said quietly. “If you could just … ” She gestured helplessly at the intangible.

  Ronja swallowed the lump in her throat. A thousand thoughts whipped through her mind, but there was only o
ne conclusion. They were right. They deserved to know why she came home instead of Henry. She took a deep breath, wet her lips, then spoke. “He died protecting us. He stayed behind to make sure we all got out.” She shut her eyes as if that would stop her from hearing her own words. “He was cornered and killed himself before the Offs got him.”

  She allowed her eyelids to drift open and found the focus had shifted from her to Delilah. The blind girl was utterly still, her head tilted to the side as she searched for a trace of a lie. Time stalled until finally she spoke. “She believes it.”

  Ronja tensed, readying herself for an onslaught. It never came. Instead, Samson loosed an exhausted sigh, then bent down and retrieved a half-empty bottle of whiskey from beneath his stool. He unscrewed the lid and tossed it to the stone floor. Delilah stiffened at the echoing ping. “Sam,” she chided. “It is 7:00 A.M.”

  “7:15,” he corrected her. He raised the bottle over his head, the amber liquid glittering in the firelight. “To Henry,” he said, his big voice rolling over them like thunder. “An excellent soldier, a loving brother, and a selfless friend.” He tipped the bottle back and took a swig, then passed it on to James.

  “To Henry,” James mumbled, then took his shot. He handed the bottle off to Ronja without so much as glancing her. She took it with both hands, worried it might slip through her bandaged fingers.

  “To Henry,” she said. “My … ”

  My first friend. My best friend. My brother.

  She pressed the bottle to her lips, drank long and deep. The whiskey burned on the way down and settled decidedly in her empty stomach. Wincing, she half stood to give the bottle to Kala.

  “To Henry,” the girl repeated in a thick voice. The rest of the toasts passed in a blur. Ronja stared into the steady flames, searching for something she could not name among the heat and the ash. She felt ill and was certain it had nothing to do with the alcohol.

  Did you think you were the only one who loved him? A nagging voice in the back of her mind asked. Did you think you were the only one who lost him?