“It’s out of our hands,” I keep telling Riley, mostly because she gets this guilty look on her face that makes my gut twist. “We just need to focus on finding Lexie.”
“And when we do, Reed?”
“Yeah. I guess we better make a plan.”
We finally make some headway tonight, coming to a compromise that Riley isn’t crazy about, but she’s at least willing to consider. It was Claire’s idea.
“Why don’t you get a job in The Rose’s kitchen, Reed? You won’t be as vulnerable as Riley dressed like an escort, nor as likely to be executed for impersonating a soldier.”
Tonight, Riley is full of questions, analyzing the details until I feel like I’m going to go crazy.
“How will you get the job in the first place? Claire says there are only military people out by The Rose, so we’ll have to stay in Slick. But how’s that going to work?”
“I don’t know, Riley. But we’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”
Riley and I fall asleep on the deck. The last thing I remember is our heads bent toward each other as we try to figure out the constellations overhead, almost giddy that our plans are finally falling into place.
Claire wakes us up, standing over us wide eyed, shaking from the exertion of getting out of bed for the first time in days.
“You need to leave soon,” she says. “I have a sick feeling that Captain Ogas and his men will be back any day. When they do, you need to be gone.”
14
Xoey
It is past midnight and I should be in bed. We are leaving for Windmill Bay in less than six hours, but instead of sleeping, I am outside, shivering in the cold, my belly twisting in knots as I recall my father’s interview.
I press my hand against my stomach, wishing it all away. Daddy. I never called him that, not ever. Does he expect me to respond to it now?
My eyes sting and I push away hot tears, but it does not help. My hands curl into fists. I pace the floor and imagine confronting him, but the words I want to say just tumble in my mind like clothes in a dryer. Tightening my sweater around my chest, I eventually sit with my back against the concrete bunker wall. The ground is cold and hard, but it feels real, reminding me I am here, far away from his reach. He can make-believe all he wants for the cameras, but it is just like everything else on the streams: fake.
I take a deep breath and try to think of something else. Tomorrow most of us are going to Windmill Bay, but two squads will rendezvous with another battalion that operates out of a hidden base somewhere to the east.
Windmill Bay. A place I hate, and yet the place that gave me friends after my father rejected me. I shake my head, back in the thick of my thoughts. I cannot seem to help myself. I feel so alone tonight, without anyone here to talk to. It is unsettling to feel anything positive about my time at that place, but I cannot help indulging in a game of what-ifs.
What if I had never met Reed on that bus? What if Riley and I had not been roommates? Or if Oliver had never been sent there to protect Sam?
I think about it for a while, imagining where each of us would be now. In prison? At the frontline? Dead?
At the very least, miserable.
The night Mom gave my father the comedy/tragedy masks, he slammed the door as he left the apartment, probably heading down to the nearest bar. I was so angry my hands shook as I watched my mom move through the apartment like she was underwater, putting away the cake my father never touched, hiding the masks in the back of the closet, and straightening the chair he had pushed out of place when he stormed out of the room. But I was scared too. Every time my father lost his temper over some perceived slight, Mom grew a little paler, a little slower. It was as if my father’s cruelty was a kind of venom that was slowly killing her.
“I hate him!” I said.
“Hate accomplishes nothing.” Mom’s voice was flat, reinforcing my fears. “It just breeds more of the same. You must try to love where others hate.”
“How?” I grabbed the pretty wrapping paper he hadn’t even noticed and shoved it in the recycling chute.
“By remembering that if you don’t, you will become just like him.” Her voice was still so low, I barely heard her, but her eyes blazed with a strength that belied it all.
Her words stung. “I will never be like him!”
“No?” She sat on the edge of the couch and looked up at me. “Do you think your father was always like this, Xoey? Do you think I agreed to marry an angry, resentful man?”
I shook my head. In truth, I could not understand why she married him at all.
“He was different when I met him. Lively, creative and…passionate about his dreams of becoming an actor. Then the acting guild released him, and he was forced to work at the bottling plant. Disappointment clouded his vision until all he could see was his own sense of injustice. He hated what happened to him. Then, before long, he hated everything. That hate fed on itself for years until”—she spread her hands—“until it became so deeply imbedded in his heart, it is all but inseparable from him now. Do not let that happen to you.”
“So why do we stay?”
“Because I made a vow,” Mom said. “And I do not intend to break it.”
“Well I didn’t,” I told her. “And I am leaving as soon as I can!”
Mom nodded and pushed away her tears. “I know.”
Suddenly my fear of leaving her collided with my plans, creating a tangled mess of resentment and grief. “You have to come with me, Mom. How can you live like this forever?”
“By remembering who he was, and thinking about how I would keep loving you, even if you lost your way.” Her mouth curved, but the smile did not reach her eyes. “There are still good days, Xoey. Maybe they don’t outweigh the bad, but they get me through. I’ve learned to jump from one to the other, like rocks crossing a treacherous river. Besides, I have God’s help. He will see me through.”
As it turned out, God delivered us both from my father, but not in the way we expected. Mom was sent to prison, and I was sent to Windmill Bay.
“At least you know your mom is alive,” Ozzy said tonight after we switched off the broadcast.
“If they told us the truth.”
Ozzy just shrugged and began disconnecting cables from his tablet. Jez had referred to Mom only briefly, saying she interviewed her in prison.
“Carly Stone told us she is in excellent health and extremely grateful for the rehabilitative care she receives. As to Xoey’s abduction, she was both distressed and hopeful, saying her greatest wish is for Xoey to be safely reunited with her father.”
After the interview, Jez returned to the street to tell viewers that Reed Paine, Riley Paca, and Adam Quincy stole weapons and used munitions “meant to protect our brave UDR fighters” to hold Secret Service at bay while they escaped with the counterfeit Liberty Bell.
“One soldier in the president’s security detail was shot during the attack. He is now in critical condition at Southeast Belius Hospital, fighting for his life. As for the teenagers who stole the bell and kidnapped Xoey Stone, well, tonight, they are still at large. Back to you in the studio, Chase.”
“Weapons?” Quyen looked at me. “You didn’t use weapons, did you?”
“No!” I frowned. “Well, we detonated landmines outside the fence. And set a stack of pallets on fire. But Adam was the only one who was shot.”
“That you know of,” Quyen said.
“We didn’t have any guns!”
“Kino did, though. Right? She’s the one who shot Adam?”
“Yes.” I suppressed a shudder. “If anyone shot at an SS officer, it was Kino. Or maybe Mr. Haak. Maybe they shot someone just so they could blame it on us.”
“Not you,” Ozzy said. “You were kidnapped, remember? Which proves pretty much everything she said about the heist and the Liberty Bell is a lie.”
“Part of it could be true,” Quyen said. “Sometimes the media mixes the truth with lies. And you still haven’t offered any proof that t
his is the real Liberty Bell. Jez showed evidence.”
Ozzy snorted. “Yeah. Fake evidence.”
The two of them continued to bicker while I paced the room, running through all kinds of scenarios in which I could reveal the lies in Jez’s story. It did not take long to realize there was nothing I could do to prove we did not hurt a Secret Service agent. And as for the Liberty Bell, the only way I could prove we took the real one would be to show it to someone, which would essentially mean handing it over to them. Even if I did, they would just cover up the truth, like they always do. Still, I tossed and turned on my cot for the next two hours, imagining how I might make it work. When frustration finally overwhelmed me, I headed outside.
“You okay, Xoey?”
A sentry named James Richard stops in front of me, startling me out of my thoughts. I jump up and brush the dirt off my pants. “Yes. Just…can’t sleep.”
“Wish you could take over for me.” James smiles. “I’m having trouble staying awake.”
We talk for a couple minutes longer before he says goodnight and moves on with his patrol. A sharp wind whips through the pine trees and tugs on my shirt hem, making me shiver. I sigh and head inside the bunker.
There’s only one part of Jez’s lie that I have any control over—the bit about me being kidnapped. Still, what can I do about it? If I were to send her a message saying, “Hey everyone, I was not kidnapped,” it would prove nothing. The state press would spin it their way, maybe even saying I was coerced, or brainwashed. The media has no interest in reporting the truth unless it supports their propaganda. In this case, that gives them no incentive to vindicate anyone involved in the heist.
Except me. But why? The idea of being portrayed as the victim instead of part of the heist team bothers me in a way I cannot explain. If Oliver was here, he would find a way to cheer me up. He would probably even tease me about being famous.
I lie down and close my eyes. Tomorrow I will be sleeping at Windmill Bay again, a thought that fills me with dread. During Jez’s interview with my father, they never mentioned the school by name, but my father clearly knew about it. More importantly, he knew who Kino was. He even called her by her first name.
Kino.
I twist onto my side and punch my pillow. Only a week ago I learned something disturbing while reading an old Floodlight post written after Elena Reed’s death. The story was about an unnamed military official whose daughter quickly came to power in government circles. The writer claimed her success was largely due to relationships she fostered with men already in positions of authority, a method she learned from her father, who had earned some of his military promotions by offering his daughter’s company to ranking officers. His anonymous source claimed the young woman was only fourteen years old when all of this started, and that she finally made a name for herself in Mobile Family Planning.
It was Kino, I thought, completely horrified. I did not share my suspicions with anyone since the post was so sensational and gossipy, but since then, I haven’t been able to get it out of mind. Now Kino has met my father, and I cannot think of any two people more likely to manipulate each other for their own purposes.
So did they meet once? Twice? Most importantly, is she somewhere in the Sand now, living and working near my father?
If she is, Oliver must be nearby too. He must be.
I roll on my back and pray. God, please let me find her. Let me find her so I can find him.
15
Oliver
There is nothing to do but prowl my cell.
Push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups. Always up, up, up.
Stand up. Stay up. Everything but give up.
But they haven’t brought food or water in two days, so I’m listless. I lie on the floor until my bones ache, then I roll over and ache on the other side.
I sleep.
I wake.
I ache.
I sleep again.
I wake with a jolt. There’s a commotion in the corridor. Boots stomping, feet dragging, muffled groans. Then the buzz of a lock, just to my right. The creak of a metal door. Someone new in the cell next to mine. He doesn’t curse or scream like the last guy. I hear nothing but a soft oof when he hits the concrete floor. The door slams shut, and all is silent again.
There is a metal ventilation grate on the wall between our cells. I press my ear to it, listening. I hear him breathing.
“Hello,” I whisper.
Nothing.
I try again.
And again.
Two days pass.
Two days? Has it been two days?
Maybe. Hard to say. It runs together and my hunger eats me alive.
The guard pushes a bowl of water through my slot, sloshing half of it on the floor. I lap it up like a dog, then roll back toward the grate. Maybe food will follow. Sometimes it does, so I spend several hours hoping. Trying not to hope.
My fingers find my ribs and I count. Count ribs. Count days until I go mad.
My neighbor is there, breathing.
“Hey. You okay in there?”
He doesn’t answer. Never answers. I hear him whispering sometimes. Maybe he’s praying? Maybe he’s crazy.
“Did you get water?”
Nothing.
“I’m Oliver.”
I’ve said this before. He must know my name by now.
Unless he’s deaf?
Or maybe he hears me, but he’s nonverbal? I’ve heard of that, I think. Nonverbal people. Never met one though.
Maybe he’s the first.
Another day passes. Maybe he’s just rude.
Another day. I finally get fed. Mush has never tasted this good. It improves my mood.
He’s probably just tired. Or sick.
“If you ever want to talk…”
Another day passes. I’ve decided he’s suspicious. Why talk to me? What’s in it for him? I might be dangerous. Or an informant. What does he know?
Two more days.
“I came from Chicago,” I say. Then I listen to him breathe for the rest of the day.
Maybe he’s just patient.
The shadows on the wall shift. I draw Xs on the floor with my finger.
Xoey.
I might have dozed. Either way, his voice startles me after a full week of nothing. Deep and low, it travels through the grate like music.
“I’m Jonah.”
I nod, which is stupid. I touch the vent.
“Nice to meet you, Jonah.”
16
Xoey
I squeeze my eyes closed and count. One…two…three...
Then I do it again.
It’s my first night back at Windmill Bay. Counting. Sleepless. Underground with a hundred other people unconcerned by the narrowness of the tunnels, the low ceilings, the darkness. We line the passageways, our cots tandem so people can pass, so people can get up.
So people can escape.
But I can’t escape. It’s not allowed. We were free of this place, then we brought freedom back with us, but we are not free at all. We have to stay underground until the cloaking devices are put in place. Even then, we will only have limited freedom. Mostly we will be down here, living like moles in the dark, and when I think about that, I cannot breathe. The hysteria I am working so hard to overcome presses in against me like the walls.
I need to get out of here!
“Xoey! Calm down. Breathe.”
Adam is by my side, his hand on my shoulder, dragging me upright and coaxing me out of another panic attack. Dim, blue lighting shows me the contours of his face. The circles under his eyes remind me I have been waking him up over and over tonight.
“I’m sorry,” I gulp. “I—”
“Shh. Don’t apologize.” His voice is sharp. For a moment, I am not lost in my own claustrophobic fear, but worrying about him—about what makes his eyes look so sad all the time.
I have talked about it with Bess. She watches Adam too, the hard angles of her face softening into something thoughtful, or maybe
reminiscent. I don’t know what it means, only that she sees something like me.
“I want to help him,” I told her, “but...”
“Dinnae push him, Xoey. Whatever he’s going through, he needs time.”
I tried to take her advice…until I didn’t. Last night I asked him about Riley.
“Do you miss her?”
“I want her to be safe.” A sad smile touches his mouth. “But being around Riley made me stupid.”
“Adam—”
“No, it did. I was angry and unfocused, which made me…”
“Vulnerable?”
He scowls at me. “No. Dangerous. I don’t want to be that way again. So, no, Xoey. I don’t miss her.”
Tonight, when my heart stops pounding, I squeeze his hand. “I wish we could go back to the night of the heist. Make better decisions. Make sure Oliver and Paisley escaped with us.”
Adam pulls his hand from mine. I have said the wrong thing. “We can’t go back, Xoey. Sometimes…” He sighs and covers his face with his hand.
“What?”
“There’s just doing the task in front of you, okay? We follow orders. We survive. We just keep going until there’s nothing left to do. We do what Oliver would do if he was here.”
“I’m sorry.” Sorry I woke him. Sorry I brought it up. “I can’t help wishing for a redo. It keeps me awake, wondering how we could have done things differently, or how can we ever make up for leaving them behind?”
He stands up and goes back to his cot. I think I hear him whisper “we have to,” but I’m not sure. Within seconds, he is still and maybe even asleep again. I must force myself to settle back down and do the same.
One…two…three…
I reach ninety-seven and give up. Counting is not working. My mind keeps fixating on more unsettling things, like the fact that we still have not heard from Riley or Reed. They should have reached The Rose by now, or at least checked in with the general. Hopefully he and Riley are just being cautious, holed up somewhere, waiting for a safe time to continue with their plans.
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