Clara goes still, sniffing as her tears retreat. “Really?”
“Yes,” I whisper, heart still pounding as I stare into the middle distance. I wonder what they’ll make me do for a piece of bread.
“Thank you, Rosa,” she says, wiping her eyes with a dirty fist.
Die, I tell myself.Die.
I force my body to calm, my thoughts to quiet. “Look at this one,” I say to her, picking up a frond with my trembling hand. “Do you remember what this one is called?
She sniffs again, then points. “Fun.”
“Yes,” I say. “Fern.”
“Rosa?”
“Yes?”
“Where is Mama’s glasses?”
I look up at her. “Mama’s glasses?”
Clara nods, turning away as she runs her hands along the forest floor. “She was looking for them last night.”
I sit back. “What do you mean?”
“In my dreams,” she says, lifting her head to frown at me, as if this should be obvious. “She never knows where anything is, but she’s a grown-up, just like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yes.”
“But, Clara,” I say softly. “I’m only eleven.”
A hand grasps my arm and I nearly startle. “Hey, did you hear me?”
I turn slowly to face the woman, the action carefully dislodging her hand. My first impression of her was simple: she’s beautiful. Tall and willowy, with warm olive skin and yards of dark, glossy hair that looks nearly black. She has sharp, light brown eyes. A tiny, almost missable diamond stud pierced under her bottom lip. She wears a loose shawl around her neck and a rifle strapped across her chest.
Of course, I recognized her immediately.
Nazeera Ibrahim: only daughter of the supreme commander of Asia. Sister to a brother: Haider Ibrahim.
Both siblings were traitors to The Reestablishment.
It occurs to me that almost every child of a supreme commander betrayed or murdered their own parents. This alarming fact is certainly worth greater reflection.
“Your room is over there,” she says, nodding beyond my shoulder.
I don’t turn to look.
My eyes focus; unfocus.
A simple wooden folding chair rests against the far wall. There’s a spade in the garden. An exposed light bulb hangs from the middle of the ceiling. A loose grate is poorly affixed to the floorboards. A full-length mirror leans in the hallway. A screwdriver sits on the windowsill. On the kitchen counter there are two glass cups, a pair of scissors, and a punctured plastic sleeve with a disposable fork and knife inside; no spoon. The kitchen offers greater yield, but I’m about two yards away from the screwdriver.
“I thought you’d like to see it,” she says, tilting her headat me. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
I don’t move.
I blink and hold; release.
