With some difficulty, I’m able to conjure up flickers of images.
A brief handshake with my father.
A burst of laughter.
A cheerful swell of holiday music.
A laboratory and my mother.
I stiffen.
A laboratory and my mother.
I focus my thoughts, homing in on the memory—bright lights, muffled footsteps, the sound of my own voice asking my father a questionand then, painfully—
My mind goes blank.
I frown. Stare into my hands.
Nothing.
I know a great deal about the other commanders and their families. It’s been my business to know. But there’s an unusual dearth of information where Oceania is concerned,and for the first time, it sends a shock of fear through me. There are two timelines merging in my mind—a life with Ella, and a life without her—and I’m still learning to sift through the information for something real.
Still, thinking about Max and Evie now seems to strain something in my brain. It’s as if there’s something there, something just out of reach, and the more I force my mind to recall them—their faces, their voices—the more it hurts.
Why all this trouble to imprison me?
Why not simply have me killed?
I have so many questions it’s making my head spin.
Just then, the door rattles. The sound of metal on metal is sharp and abrasive, the sounds like sandpaper against my nerves.
I hear the bolt unlock and feel unusually calm. I was built to handle this life, its blows, its sick, sadistic ways. Death has never scared me.
But when the door swings open, I realize my mistake.
I imagined a thousand different scenarios. I prepared for a myriad of opponents. But I had not prepared for this.
“Hi birthday boy,” he says, laughing as he steps into the light. “Did you miss me?”
And I’m suddenly unable to move.
JulietteElla
“Stop—stop it, oh my God, that’s disgusting,” Emmaline cries. “Stop it. Stop touching each other! You guys are so gross.”
Dad pinches Mum’s butt, right in front of us.
Emmaline screams. “Oh my God, I said stop!”
It’s Saturday morning, and Saturday morning is when we make pancakes, but Mum and Dad don’t really get around to cooking anything because they won’t stop kissing each other. Emmaline hates it.
I think it’s nice.
I sit at the counter and prop my face in my hands, watching. I prefer watching. Emmaline keeps trying to make me work, but I don’t want to. I like sitting better than working.
“No one is making pancakes,” Emmaline cries, and she spins around so angrily she knocks a bowl of batter to the ground. “Why am I doing all the work?”
