Jory had always liked that thought. A chalk line, or a force field, protecting him and his family: all five of them, safe inside. Or maybe Caleb himself was the circle, wrapping his arms around the family.
Jory and Kit never painted people in their Worldbuilding houses, though. Not their family, or anybody else’s. It was kind of spooky, Jory realized now, glancing at the house in his hands. A town without residents. As if everyone had just vanished.
A matter of life and death, he thought, then swallowed it down.
He’d just dipped his brush in a cup of water when the back door creaked open. Mom leaned out. “Time for bed, my birds,” she said. “We have a long night ahead of us.”
CALEB HADN’T THOUGHT OF EVERYTHING.
Tuesday night was harder. But Wednesday night was the worst. The whole family ached. They stooped through the canyon like a pack of old folks. Every one of them had blisters. Even Ansel, though he didn’t exactly help much.
On Thursday night, Caleb brought home a stack of heavy gloves from the factory. “Blue-collar gloves,” he called them. “You could use them to throttle a porcupine.”
Unlike the family’s shovels, though, the gloves were all the same size. Kit’s kept falling off, until Mom secured them with a rubber band.
Despite the new gloves, digging only grew more difficult. Once their shovels punched through the topsoil, the dirt was hard-packed and snarled with roots, some tiny, some thicker than Jory’s arms. The worst ones snaked so deeply into the earth, he had to grab them with both hands and yank until they snapped—usually sending him flying into something thorny.
He also hadn’t expected so many living things.
Not just plants, but wriggly, many-legged things. Things that skittered off his shovel onto his boots. When that happened, he had to bite his lip not to yell.
Yelling was forbidden.
Talking wasn’t. But the family needed to save their breath. So it was quiet. Almost too quiet, Jory thought. The only sounds were the crunch of roots, the rasp of dirt sliding off their shovels, and the family’s pant-pant-panting.
When they did speak, the words were muffled by the bandanas they wore to ward off the dust. Even so, it scratched their throats relentlessly, and made them rasp and cough.
Ansel spent most of the time napping in a makeshift wheelbarrow bed. Which was for the best. When awake, he quickly grew restless, and Mom or Jory would need to entertain him. Otherwise he might start plum-faced wailing, or toddle off into the ravine. Or gnaw on a rock—it had happened before.
To Jory, it would have made more sense for Kit to watch Ansel. But Caleb seemed uncomfortable leaving Kit in charge, especially in the canyon bottom. He always had an excuse. “She’s too distractible tonight,” he’d say. Or, “I have an important task for her right now.”
Kit’s size had seemed like an asset at first. She could bend into tight places and carve out stones with her tiny fingers. But she hated squeezing into the lopsided, slow-growing tunnel, infested with roots and bugs and worse. Jory could tell by her lower lip, her pinched face and bowed shoulders. Though she never protested, of course. She never even seemed to tire.
Jory always felt tired. He thought of his bed every time he blinked.
“One more bucketful of rocks, and then you can take a break,” Caleb told him, dumping his last bucket into a wheelbarrow—quietly, so the stones wouldn’t clatter.
Jory nodded. Breaks were his favorite. But they were tricky, he’d discovered. If he sat on one of the folded-up tarps for longer than a few minutes, his shoulders sagged. His head drooped. It became a monumental effort not to close his eyes, curl up, and sleep, sleep, sleep.
Kit never sat down, even on her breaks. She stood beside the folded tarps with her head tipped back, her eyes scanning the sky.
“Night Number Four,” Jory whispered, standing next to her. “Though I guess keeping count doesn’t really matter when we don’t know the number we’re counting to.”
His throat tightened a bit at the thought. They just had to be patient, he told himself. The same way they always were. Kit shrugged one shoulder, head still tipped back.
“What are you looking at, anyway? There aren’t any falling stars tonight.”
She glanced at him, half-smiling. Then she reached for his hand and made him twirl her, twice, three times. When she came to a stop, she looked up again.
Jory wished he could read the sentences in her huge eyes. Sometimes he thought he knew exactly what she was thinking. Other times, like tonight, he had no clue.
“I guess you never know,” he said.
Ever since her pumpkin-streaked arrival, Kit had been different. A different kind of different.
She’d slept on the floor instead of her bed. She’d eaten with her hands. Whenever anybody had tried to get her to do otherwise, she’d thrown tantrums—entirely silent. She would stand there motionless, rigid-limbed. No amount of cajoling could budge her.
Other times, she’d stare out the window for hours, though she never tried to climb out or escape. It was almost like she was waiting for someone, but no one ever came.
Mom thought she needed special help. “They have counselors at the elementary school,” she’d suggested. “Maybe they can help her.”
“Not if you want to keep her,” Caleb had warned. “They’ll inform the Officials. And the Officials might take her away.”
Take her away.
No wonder they had to keep Kit a secret.
Jory never knew if she’d overheard that conversation. But after that, Kit began to mind. She slept in her bed, and ate with a knife and fork like she’d known how to the whole time. She helped Mom in the kitchen. She read every book Mom gave her, and all of Jory’s, too.
“How do you know she’s not just staring at the pages?” Caleb asked one evening, after Kit was in bed. “If she can’t tell you what she’s read, or write essays about it?”
“She nods and shakes her head,” Mom replied. “When I ask her yes or no questions, she gets every answer right.”
“Then why doesn’t she write? Or speak, for that matter?”
Mom didn’t know.
“So it’s stubbornness,” Caleb said. “Or spite.”
Mom shook her head adamantly. “She’s a good girl. Only confused. It’s almost like…she speaks another language.” She looked thoughtful. “Or doesn’t remember how to speak ours.”
Caleb sat there, scratching his beard.
To him, Kit was serious, even dull. Mom called her solemn, and worried about her fading spirit.
But Mom didn’t need to worry. With Jory, Kit was downright feisty. A hands-on-her-hips kind of girl, who stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes as soon as backs were turned. A lively, creative girl, who skipped alongside him in the fields, leaped over grabby-fingered vines, twirled and spun majestically in her tattered ballet shoes. Who painted their wooden houses improbable colors. Who stalked blackbirds within a couple of feet—and they’d just stare at her, beady-eyed and unafraid, until she flapped her skinny arms and sent them soaring.
Kit’s spirit hadn’t left her. She saved it for Jory.
Sometimes Jory wanted to take her hand and lead her into town. A girl who sparked so bright shouldn’t be confined to the farmhouse and the fields. But Jory never forgot what Caleb had said, way back at the beginning.
The family had to keep Kit safe—which meant keeping her secret.
Or else, the Officials might take her away.
By the second week, Jory was bringing the canyon to school.
Scribbles of branches lurked behind his eyelids. Every time he inhaled, he breathed the musty-sagey smell of canyon bottom. His pencil felt tiny and foreign in his fingers, because it wasn’t a shovel.
He forgot Monday’s homework on Wednesday. He also forgot Tuesday’s—and Wednesday’s, and Thursday’s. The X by his name quadrupled into an angry red forest. I’ll make up all of it over the weekend, he’d promised himself.
But he didn’t.
> It was so stupid. He’d spent so much time trying to blend into the backdrop at school. Avoiding anything that might make him stand out, even raising his hand. But every day that week, the whole class had stared as Mr. Bradley marked his book. Jory had never felt more embarrassed in his—
“Mr. Birch?”
“What?” Jory said. It came out snappy, not like he’d meant it.
Mr. Bradley paused. A nervous giggle tittered through the class.
“I asked,” Mr. Bradley said quietly, “if you’d decided on a topic for your social studies project.”
“Sorry. My topic is, um…” Jory dug through his brain. Last week, he’d thought of so many ideas—he knew he had. But he couldn’t unearth a single one in the confusion of roots and dirt.
“Yes?”
The class was staring. Jory felt frantic. All he could think of was canyons and darkness and shovels and digging…
“If you need help—”
“Tunnels,” he said.
He tried not to cringe. What kind of a topic was tunnels? One too close to home, that was for sure.
Mr. Bradley stopped Jory on his way to lunch. “Can we talk for a sec?”
Jory nodded, fighting the heat in his cheeks. “What is it, sir?”
“Sir!” Mr. Bradley’s inch-long dimples appeared. “I haven’t been called that in a long time. I wanted to hear a little more about your project. Where did you get the idea?”
“I…” Jory thought fast. “It was that Chinese emperor you were talking about. With the armies buried underground. I just thought—well, tunnels. There must have been lots of tunnels.” Good save, he thought.
“Ah,” Mr. Bradley said.
“But I’m interested in other kinds of tunnels, too,” Jory added. “All kinds.”
“Well, I look forward to reading about them! Especially after your essay on venomous animals. You always ask questions I would never have thought of. In fact, your papers get me thinking.”
“Really?”
Mr. Bradley nodded. “Really.”
“Wow.” Jory grinned, feeling warm all over. Here, he’d thought he was in trouble, when Mr. Bradley just wanted to compliment him. His paper on venomous animals had been pretty great, particularly the part about spitting cobras.
“You can see why I’m concerned about all that missed homework,” Mr. Bradley went on.
Uh-oh.
“Is everything okay? Anything you want to talk about?”
“Yes, of course,” Jory said quickly. “I mean, no, there’s nothing. Nothing to talk about.”
“Nothing I should be concerned about?”
“Nope! Everything’s just fine.” Jory had to force a grin this time. “I’ll catch up, I promise. Can I go to lunch now? I’m really hungry.” He wished could make his stomach growl on command. Even better, he wished he had a tunnel he could crawl inside.
Mr. Bradley sighed. “All right, Jory. Go ahead.”
Jory hurried for the door.
“Hey, Jory?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“You’re a smart guy,” Mr. Bradley said. “Why don’t you raise your hand from time to time?”
“I…” Jory shrugged. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try.”
As soon as he stepped outside, he shoved his hands in his pockets.
A SIREN HOWLED THROUGH JORY’S DREAMS. He jerked up in bed, confused and groggy. It wasn’t even dark yet—he’d only been asleep twenty minutes, tops. Sleeping before sundown still felt wrong.
Brrrrrng. Brrrrrng.
It wasn’t a siren—it was the telephone.
Oh no. What if Alice was calling again? Jory had warned her not to, but…
He threw back his covers and slipped into the hall. Kit already stood at the top of the stairs, swaddled in her flowered blanket, listening. Or appearing to listen. There’s no way she can hear what they’re saying, Jory thought. The kitchen was too far away.
Suddenly, Kit rushed down the hall toward her room. Jory blinked a moment, then hustled to his. Half a minute after he dived under the covers, someone knocked on his door.
“Family meeting,” Caleb said, leaning in. “Right now.”
The patio glowed pink in the light of the sunset. Jory was too worried to sit, but too sleepy to stand. He leaned against a wall, arms crossed.
“Who called?” Mom asked, her arms around Ansel.
“Tom Bradley,” Caleb said. “Jory’s teacher.”
Instantly, Jory was wide awake. This was worse than Alice. So much worse.
“He claims you haven’t been acting like yourself in class. That you’ve seemed tired. And that you’ve missed a whole week of homework assignments.”
Jory’s stomach seemed to topple into the canyon. He never imagined Mr. Bradley would call his house. Home was home and school was school.
“I understand the family’s new schedule has been challenging,” Caleb said, his intense eyes locked on Jory. “I thought we’d adjust after a few days, but apparently that hasn’t been the case for all of us.”
“I’ll try harder,” Jory said. “I know I’ll get used to it.…”
“Jory’s the only one in school,” Mom said softly. “It can’t be easy for him.”
Caleb sighed.
“Maybe it’s time to homeschool him again?” Mom suggested. “Ansel’s older now, and less trouble. Kit can watch him while I take care of Jory’s lessons.”
Jory felt an odd hitch in his middle. His feelings about school were complicated, but he didn’t want to leave it.
“I don’t think so,” Caleb said.
“It’ll be no trouble—”
“It’s not a good idea. Pulling him out of school will focus more attention on our family. Especially since this Tom Bradley already has his eye on us.” Caleb looked out the window. “We need all the time we can get. Because we don’t have that much time left.”
A chill crawled down Jory’s spine.
“Then what can we do?” Mom asked.
“From now on, Jory will take Tuesdays off from digging,” Caleb said. “The rest of the family can go to bed at three p.m., but we’ll still work in the canyon on Tuesday night. Jory, will that be enough time for you to catch up?”
Jory nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Inside, he was shriveling. When Caleb was proud of him, he called him son. When he was disappointed, he called him Jory.
“Now that we’ve all gathered here, how about a story?” Caleb said.
He reached for Ansel, and Mom passed him over. Ansel didn’t look as comfortable with Caleb as with Mom, Jory thought, but at least he didn’t cry.
Caleb switched on a lantern. Then he began.
As always, he set the scene so vividly, Jory could feel it. The desert alley bullied by a heavy sun. Dust everywhere. Too much to carry. A team led by a superior officer who told them little.
“The less soldiers know,” Caleb explained, “the easier it is for them to follow orders. Innocence encourages trust. And trust breeds obedience.”
The family had heard this story many times before. The pounding boots. The soldiers’ yells. The clap bang rat-a-tat-tat of the artillery echoing through the alley. When Caleb was in a good mood, he’d mimic the noises, tickling Ansel on his lap. The story seemed almost lighthearted—well, optimistic, anyway. A parable about how smart Caleb was, thinking for himself.
Tonight, though, Jory smelled the gunpowder. The bitter tang of smoke. The terror gripping the soldiers when the superior officer ordered them to Charge!
“In that moment,” Caleb said, “I had a choice. I could stay and fight, like my superior officer ordered—and face certain death. Or I could defy orders and save my own life.”
Jory knew what came next, but he still held his breath.
“I stepped into the shell of a burnt-out building. Then came a blast so loud my hearing blanked out. I waited. And waited. When I was certain of the silence, I went out to investigate. Everybody had been killed. All my fellow soldiers—and my sup
erior officer, too.
“I was alive—I am alive—because I listened to my instincts. Because I trusted myself.”
This was when Caleb usually looked at each family member, one by one. But this time, he only looked at Jory.
“Only follow orders from people you trust,” he said. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” Jory said.
“Then remember. There’s no shame in staying back and keeping your eyes open. There’s no shame in hiding.”
The next morning, as Jory was about to leave for school, he discovered a square of card stock taped to the front door.
JORY’S NEW SCHEDULE
Monday:
Dig Day.
School 8 a.m. to 3 p.m.
Dinner at 5 p.m.
Sleep 6 p.m. to midnight.
Dig midnight to 5 a.m.
Sleep 5 a.m. to 7 a.m.
**Tuesday:
Jory’s night off.**
Wednesday to Friday:
See Monday.
Saturday:
Day of Rest.
Sunday:
Other Preparations.
Sleep 6 p.m. to midnight.
Dig midnight to 5 a.m.
Sleep 5 a.m. to 7 a.m.
Jory frowned, then shoved it into his pocket.
In class, he tried his best not to slouch. Or yawn. Or do anything that might inspire Mr. Bradley to glance his way. Whenever he caught his mind drifting, he pinched his leg under the table and remembered he’d get plenty of sleep that night.
Eight full hours. Or more, even. If he wanted—after homework, of course—he could go to sleep after dinner and not wake until morning. He’d never felt more excited about his bed.
But first, he had to get through the rest of the school day.
All day long, he noticed Mr. Bradley watching him. Jory had no idea why, especially since he’d managed to complete yesterday’s homework on time.
He didn’t figure it out until science.
Mr. Bradley was discussing hydrothermal vents: big fissures in the earth that brought warmth and life to the deepest parts of the ocean. “Entire ecosystems thrive around these vents,” Mr. Bradley said. “They’re like underwater desert oases. Hundreds of new deep-sea creatures have been discovered in otherwise barren places.”
Watch the Sky Page 5
