“You’re a Marshal?” That can’t be. After all—he’s here. In this truck. With all of us. How could I have been talking to someone who has ripped people from their lives, thrown them in cages, and shipped them off—simply for refusing to believe whatever the government tells them?
“I should probably use the past tense, all things considered.” He touches the barcode at his ear, grimaces, and sighs.
“I don’t understand.”
Thunder rumbles.
“How I got here?” he asks.
“You two,” an official yells. “Move!”
“We have to go.” Wallace pulls my hand from his arm. “Do what the officials ask. Don’t attract attention. As long as you blend in and do what they say, you’ll be fine. Come on.”
He heads out and I have no choice but to shrug on my coat and follow.
The wind catches my hair and tugs at my sweaty clothes as I walk down the shaky metal ramp. Thunder rumbles again as an official shouts for me to head after the others who are being led through an open gate. Red lights blink from atop the two gateposts. Stretching between posts, a large wrought-iron sign over the gate reads: The Great American Farm. And suddenly, I have a good sense of where I am.
We’ve been taken to somewhere in Iowa, Missouri, or Nebraska. It could be any of the three. The national agricultural site is expansive—encompassing thousands of acres from all three states. But now that I realize where we are, I’m even more confused.
Everyone in the country knows something about the Great American Farm. It would be hard not to, considering the news specials that run at least three or four times a year and grocery store displays that proudly announce what vegetables, meats, and fruits came fresh from its fields and barns. I even had to write a paper on this place when I was in fourth or fifth grade—it was a Thanksgiving assignment, I think. Something the teacher made us write so we would appreciate the food our families served over the holiday. Every article I found online mentioned that the farm was the largest of its kind in the world—created after companies from other countries tried bullying farmers into selling their harvests to them for prices far lower than was possible. When our farmers refused, the foreign companies pressured them by refusing to buy their products at all. Suddenly, farmers were left without the money they needed to support their families and farms.
There were foreclosures. Bankruptcies. Dozens of suicides. The collapse of the industry and the panic that followed was compared to the stock market crash of the early twentieth century. All because of companies from other countries who were upset they weren’t allowed to cheat us.
That’s why the Great American Farm was founded. First the government helped farmers by giving them grants. When it was clear the money was not a permanent solution, the country purchased struggling farms and created a new agricultural model designed to streamline the country’s food supply so that everything we needed came solely from within the boundaries of the fifty-one states. Many of the farmers who sold their land were happy to be hired by the government to help lay the foundation for the Great American Farm and assist with the everyday work. The best agricultural experts collaborated with architects and engineers. Hothouse environments for popular imported vegetables and fruits were created. Barns, food processing centers, cottages, and dormitories for paid and volunteer workers were built. I’ve seen dozens of those workers interviewed on the news specials.
Now I wonder if any of that is real. If there were other reasons foreign countries didn’t pay our prices or whether the farmers truly wanted to sell. Maybe their lands were simply taken—like what happened to the Native Americans.
I spot Wallace at the back of the line, his hair being tossed by the gusting wind. Despite the confident way he spoke in the truck, out here in the gray light, he looks defensive. Scared. An official holding some kind of long black rod suddenly changes direction and heads toward Wallace. Without warning, the official cracks the rod against the back of Wallace’s legs. Wallace stumbles and the official pulls his arm back to strike again.
A broad-shouldered female official riding a Segway rolls in front of my view and shouts for us to start moving. I hope there will be bathrooms where we’re going, I think, because now that I’m no longer in the truck, I really have to pee.
Lightning slashes white across the sky.
Under the grumble of thunder there is a yelp of pain.
I don’t look. I clench my fists, put one foot in front of the other, and keep my eyes on the back of the person in front of me. I don’t care if Wallace is being beaten, I tell myself with each step. He’s a Marshal. He deserves it.
Gravel crunches beneath our feet. The thin booties provide little protection, making each step more challenging than the last. A drop of rain spatters on the ground. Another. Then just like that, the skies open.
Growing up, I hated when I got caught in the rain. My wet clothing and hair made me feel heavy and awkward and I looked a lot like a drowned rat. Today, I fasten my jacket tight around me to keep the small tracking recorder safe, and then revel in the deluge from the sky. Of having the sweat and blood, and the smells of the cages and the truck that seeped into my clothes and hair, washed away.
I look up at the clouds, run my hands over my face, and then turn to glance behind me. The trucks that brought us are turning around and driving back down the road—leaving us in their dust.
“Ow!” I grab at my stinging arm as the official pulls back the black rod she is holding and prepares to strike again.
“I told you to run.”
Rain pounding, arm stinging, bladder ready to burst, I hurry behind the others toward a narrow, white-and-blue warehouse-style building at the end of the gravel road. The roof is lined with shiny, black rectangular solar panels. The same roof is on an identical structure on the other side of the road that the men are being herded into. News reports say most of the farm—from the barns and dorms to the electronic cars used on the property—runs on sustainable energy. While the government must be at least partly lying to the public about this place, the energy part clearly is true. We are led inside and instructed to sit.
Inside the building, everything is colored in a shade of gray. The floors. The overhead rafters. The windowless walls. Even the chairs that run in two back-to-back rows down the center of the long space. Long industrial lights break up the color palette. The starkness of their white illumination gives everything a washed-out appearance.
I take my place in the last seat. Directly behind me is a much older woman with gray hair, narrow black glasses, and a wheezing cough.
Rain drums on the roof.
Thunder echoes.
A compact official with jet-black hair pulled tight off her face and a pronounced chin pounds a black rod on the ground to get our attention. But the room doesn’t go completely silent as all around us the plunk, plunk, plunk of water drips off our clothes and onto the concrete.
“Welcome to the Great American Farm. I am Lead Instructor Burnett and you are currently in the orientation and processing center.” The woman uses long, purposeful strides to move to the other end of the line of chairs. “Our Instructors are tasked with preparing you to work at the farm. Everyone who comes here contributes to the safety and prosperity of the country, which is why we are happy to welcome you—our newest volunteers.”
“I didn’t volunteer to work at the Great American Farm,” a brown-skinned woman with blond-streaked hair says quietly.
“Neither did I,” another halting voice says.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Some of my friends talked about maybe volunteering at the farm since volunteering could help them pay off their student loans. Hundreds of doctors and teachers and even carpenters and mechanics have worked off the money they owed for their education beyond high school by working here. My father’s coworkers had done it. Even one of my mother’s friends made the choice. After a year or two, or sometimes three if the debt was really high, the government forgave the debt and the volunteer could leave the Great American Farm as a true patriot freed of their financial hardship.
Enlisting in the military gave the same benefits, but most of the students at my high school considered working in fields or tending to horses and cows far better options than push-ups and marksmanship drills. There were even a few, whose families would have no problem paying for college, who talked about spending time as a volunteer just to give back.
Volunteering for the farm was never something I’d considered. My parents told me they would pay for whatever education I chose after I was done with high school, which meant I was lucky enough not to have to think about how to pay off any debt—and dirt and manual labor weren’t my thing.
“Your disruptive actions volunteered you,” Instructor Burnett’s words crack like a whip.
I clamp my legs tight together as Instructor Burnett walks down my side of the line—tapping her long black metal rod against the side of her thigh. “The Great American Farm celebrates the country’s unity. You have been identified and brought here because you have exhibited behaviors that put our country’s unity at risk. Some of you have deliberately tried to circumvent or corrupt computer systems put in place for your protection. Others defaced public property or have chosen to cause unease by sleeping on the streets. One of you even aided criminals by impeding the officers sent to detain them.”
“I haven’t done any of those things,” a light-haired woman two seats down says earnestly. Her wide blue eyes are red rimmed, but lit with a desperate hope.
Instructor Burnett reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a hand scanner and approaches the woman who spoke out. The scanner beeps. As Instructor Burnett holds the machine up to read the screen, I glance at her feet.
The other officials wear plain brown work boots. Instructor Burnett has the black military running ones.
“Rachael Corn.” Instructor Burnett glances at the light-haired woman. “You hoarded paper books instead of taking them to a recycling center and encouraged others to selfishly do the same.”
The light-haired woman in front of Instructor Burnett shakes her head. “That’s my name,” she says quietly. “But that’s not me. I’m not selfish. I organize recycling drives. I told the man at the other place that there was a mistake. Someone made a terrible mistake, and he wouldn’t listen. But what you said proves I’m not supposed to be here. Just ask my husband, David. He works for the City Pride Department. We know important people. They can all tell you this is a misunderstanding. They’ll tell you I should be allowed to go home. I want to go home!”
I lean forward to get a better look at the woman who’s growing louder and more insistent with every word. Slightly dirt-streaked round cheeks. High forehead. Pale, blotchy ivory skin. Slight wrinkles under the eyes and around the mouth that Rose could easily make disappear with her magic makeup touch. When she isn’t tired and wet, the woman probably passes for late forties. In this harsh white light without any enhancements to ease the years, Rachael Corn looked at least two decades older, which probably meant her husband was around the same age.
Corn. The last name sounds familiar. I rack my brain, trying to call up the image to go with the name. Was he part of one of the design teams my mother worked with over the years. Could we have attended some of the same grand openings and awards ceremonies together? If so, I can’t recall.
“Contact David,” the woman insists in a more confident tone. She sits up straight in her chair and smiles. “You really don’t want the people we know to learn about this mistake or that you were warned you made it and did nothing to remedy the situation. If you call my husband now, I promise I won’t tell anyone about this mix-up. I don’t need an apology from your supervisor and I won’t demand anyone get fired. I just want to go home.”
“You want me to ask your husband whether you belong here?” Instructor Burnett glances down at the scanner screen again and shakes her head. “It seems it was one David Corn who filed the report that caused you to become one of our volunteers.”
“No.” Rachael shakes her head. Her eyes go dull and wide. “That can’t be.” She grabs the hand of the woman next to her and squeezes it tight.
The black rod whips in front of Rachael’s face, narrowly missing her nose, and clangs against the concrete next to her feet. Rachael lets out one last squeak, then falls into terrified silence.
Instructor Burnett waits to make sure she stays that way, then continues, “Regardless of what you wish to believe, you are all here because of your disruptive choices. Choices that have threatened to take us backward to a time when there were mass shootings. When gangs terrorized the streets in cities and towns around the country.”
“How does not recycling books encourage violence?” I’m so focused on how badly I have to use the bathroom that the words just slip out.
All eyes swing toward me as Instructor Burnett strolls to my end of the line. The scanner hovers over my ear and beeps. Instructor Burnett flicks a drop of water off of the scanner and recites, “MaryAnn Jefferson—caught defacing public property. A violation of the American Pride Beautification Act.”
Several seated women gasp. Whatever they did to get brought here was clearly not the same as my offense.
Slowly, I lift my chin. “I wasn’t caught defacing property. A can of spray paint fell out of my bag. For that, I was arrested, shoved into a car against my will, and drugged.”
The official slowly shifts her gaze from the screen to me. “Were you planning to use that paint to deface public property?”
I ignore the drip running along my cheek and take a deep breath. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I can’t say what I was planning. Neither can you.”
She scoffs. “Do you think that explanation helps your cause?”
“I was taken against my will and brought here,” I say calmly, despite my racing heart. “I think the facts about why you did that matter, don’t you?”
The woman behind me chuckles. I remember Wallace’s warning to avoid drawing attention. Suddenly, I wish I could take my words back.
Instructor Burnett’s eyes narrow as she studies me.
Finally, she says, “I will certainly be making a note of this conversation. Do you have anything else to add?”
“I’d like to use the bathroom,” I say.
Several women down the row nod in agreement.
Instructor Burnett taps the rod one last time, then slowly starts walking again. “Bathrooms will be available when you move to the next room. The more cooperative you are, the sooner you will have the opportunity to use them. Do you understand?”
Several of the other Instructors smile.
Not a single one of us sitting in our lines says a word.
“Good.” Instructor Burnett gives an approving smile. “Some of you might be teachable after all.”
Her eyes slide in my direction, as if after my words she isn’t so certain about me. “You have been granted the opportunity here at the Great American Farm to make amends for the disruptive choices you have made in the past and to learn the error of your actions. Here you will be taught the value of putting the unity and safety of your country above your other interests. At this farm you will have a chance to contribute to the food supply our country relies upon. The harvests here are essential to our economy and the Instructors will do their part to make sure you are dedicated to your work.”
She stands again at the front of the line of chairs and looks at Rachael, who has tears silently streaming down her cheeks. “You will obey your Instructors without question. You will do your work without complaint. Anyone disobeying an order from an Instructor will be punished. We do not wish to punish you, but actions have consequences,” Instructor Burnett continues. “It is our job to make sure that is a lesson you don’t forget again. We take that job very seriously.”
An Instructor standing along the wall holding a long black flexible rod that reminds me of a riding crop smiles at the official next to her. My stomach curls at the glee in the woman’s eyes.
“Anyone with ideas about trying to leave before completing your instruction would be wise to leave those thoughts here,” Instructor Burnett says sharply. “A number of measures have been put in place to ensure you cannot leave the boundaries of the farm without completing your time here. You have all been fitted with one of those measures.”
Slowly, I touch the edge of the cuff riveted into my ear. A few others do the same and Instructor Burnett nods.
After a beat, she continues, “The boundaries to the Great American Farm are at times unmarked, but do not make the mistake of believing they are not real. Your ear markers each have been installed with an education protocol chip. The minute you came through the gates of the farm, that chip was activated. Any attempt to deactivate the chip will send an alert to the farm’s Instructors. If the chip is not deactivated when you cross the boundaries of the farm, the education program will be triggered. You will be designated unteachable. A drug will be released into your system by the program protocol and you will die.”