When the bell rang for class to be over, Soren scooped his text and notebook into a leather satchel and tugged the strap over his shoulder. He noticed the calendar on his way out. It was halfway through Vigilance Month, summer well underway, just over two weeks until his birth month—and the matching ceremony. He hung his head and ducked out, hurrying to advanced calculus.
Shania Darby, who had been lurking in the hallway, fell into step with him, smiling shyly. “Is there anything you don’t know?” She batted long lashes at him.
“I don’t know who the Oracle will pick for me come Progress Month,” he answered honestly.
Her expression brightened. “I’ll turn twenty next month too. Maybe we’ll be matched. At least that way I wouldn’t be stuck with a stranger. I mean, it would make sense. We’re both studying upper-level computer science. Our children would have to turn out brilliant.”
He glanced at her. Freckles sprawled across her button nose and blushing cheeks. Her front teeth only pushed a little too far forward, and her earthy brown eyes bore an honest quality. Still, she was a woman, and not Nathan. She was smaller than him—couldn’t possibly play the role of roguish protector. Maybe she could cook, but he didn’t count on it.
In a tone as helpless as he felt, Soren replied, “The Oracle knows best. We’ll be matched with whomever we are meant to wed.”
When all his classes were done for the day, Soren boarded a trolley bound for the arts district. He trudged down the steps to Hernando’s Hideaway, entering to the sound of a guitar, flute, and fiddle trio.
“Hit me with a Glow,” he said without sitting at the bar.
Hernando quirked a brow at him. “There’s a group of Progress Month youths planning a big party for the last day of this month, a kind of send-off before the matching ceremony. You’re welcome to come. It’s a tradition, really—not that your parents will tell you about it, but they probably had Last Night parties too.”
“Last Night?” he asked, laying two credits on the smooth wood.
“Yeah—the last night of being single.” Hernando set the sparkling green beverage in front of him.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
Soren didn’t sit with his friends, pull a book from the shelf, or even admire the most recent artwork on display. He headed straight for an empty corner and plopped into a chair half-shrouded in darkness to drink alone. Murals crowded the wall behind him, the smell of citrus and alcohol hanging in the air. A group of girls two tables over laughed raucously, one almost spilling her drink.
Relieved to be alone, he drew a folded paper from his pocket and reread Nathan’s familiar hand. Soren had held it so many times that the pencil marks had smeared. He smiled at the cute way Nathan always drew the “S” in his name. A lump formed in his throat.
Soren, I hope this letter gets to you. I’ve written so many letters. A government guy originally from Appalachia said this pigeon would take it to a family he knows, and they’d get it to you. Soren, I miss you so much! They lied, sweetie. Everyone has been great to me here. I’ve got a new job on a livestock farm just outside of Nelanta, the capital. I met the queen! She’s not evil at all. You wouldn’t believe how free everyone is—wear what they want, say what they want, believe what they want. Everything is more like Harmony Ridge than Clover Hollow, though. Not much technology, but color everywhere.
If this gets to you before your birth month, please send a response. There’s a special forces team here that can extract you safely, bring you to be with me. I wantyou to be with me! They’re working on building a university, like The Institute, and you could teach math and science when it opens. Or you can be an artist and sell paintings. People do that here. Please, Soren. I love you, and I know you’d love it here. Don’t be afraid. Don’t let fear stop you. You’re my one and only. — Nathan
Soren brooded, drained the dubious drink Nathan had once warned him about, and slammed the glass on a small table. He didn’t care. A sudden rage flashed over him, and he crumpled the paper in his fist, gnashing his teeth, holding the tears that stung the backs of his eyes.How dare you leave me! We could have had a life here, split time with our wives, but still be together. You loved your precious freedom more than you love me. I miss one meet-up, and you leave me behind.
He yanked open his shirt, a button skittering across the floor, and tore Nathan’s token from his neck. Opening his fist, he looked at the small wooden bear figure. Nathan had made it for him, carved from the first piece of firewood Soren ever chopped. He had made a mess of the maple branch, whacking it over and over with an axe he could barely lift, never hitting the same spot twice. Nathan had stood behind him, pressed together, put his hands over Soren’s on the handle, and guided him through the motions, bearing the weight of the axe. The memory sent a shiver through him—never had a lesson felt more erotic.
When the branch had finally been rendered into half-meter logs, Nathan took one and held it up with a gleam in his eyes. “This one I’m keeping. Maybe I’ll carve something from it. It’ll remind me of you.”
Gritting his teeth, glaring at the little bear, Soren clenched his fist, pulled back his arm. He intended to fling it into a bookshelf, rid himself of the painful reminder of how Nathan made him feel. He couldn’t. Slumping his shoulders, he slapped his hand on the table, necklace and all.
A ruckus at the entry to Hernando’s drew Soren’s attention. Boots pounded, conversations trickled to a hush. A glass clinked. Two men in yellow and black police uniforms entered, black helmets on, riot sticks in hands. A cloud fell over the salon. “We’re here for Grant Brockman,” barked a gruff voice.
The hairs on the back of Soren’s neck shot up like quills, his gut clenching. He knew Grant, an eighteen-year-old artist and musician. They were friends, frequently spending time together. Grant was a good guy, wouldn’t hurt a fly. He couldn’t have committed a crime.
The trio stopped playing and raced for the back exit. The group of girls gasped, one bordering on a scream. “What do you want with Grant?” the dark-skinned girl wearing a bright orange scarf cried. The officers scowled at her.
Just then, Grant walked out of the restroom and froze, his face paling in an instant. “Grant Brockman?” demanded the gruff policeman.
Soren’s friend nodded. “I’m Grant, but I didn’t do anything.”
“We have orders to bring you in,” stated the other officer.
“On what charges?” Grant asked.
Soren saw the tremor in his hands and heard it in his voice.Do something!he commanded himself.Stand up for him.But his feet stayed rooted. When he tried to speak, no sound came out. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
He heard his father’s voice in his mind,Obey now, keep your head down, and follow the road before you, and one day you’ll be the one issuing the orders. You’re special. You’re going to be somebody.
But it’s right to stand up for my friends,he realized.Swallowing, he tried to speak again as the sound of his own pulse pounded in his ears. Glancing around, he saw others frozen in place, fear thick in the air.
