I glance at the sky, but there are no clouds. There are never clouds. I know what clouds look like only because of the digital images in our lessons at school. I know someone who has been north, to the mountains, and swears she saw clouds. Perhaps she’s telling the truth, but I doubt it.

I take my book to a spot I like, a quiet corner behind the shed. There’s shade here. The ground is hard and cracked, separated into rough-edged shards that can pierce the skin, but I bring a cushion with me.

I’m reading a book about flowers. I don’t have much personal experience with flowers. It’s against the law to have unauthorized vegetation on private property. Plants require so much water, you see, that every kind of gardening or agriculture must be approved by the proper agencies.

Naturally, we don’t have much in the way of plant life here at the orphanage. We have cactus, the tall and the short kind, creating an obstacle course of pincushions throughout the property, and a tomato patch was approved after proper petitioning by Matron. When the fruit’s ripe, we have fresh tomatoes with every meal, which is a treat.

But flowers are considered a frivolous use of water. Flowers—the purely ornamental kind—are non-essential. However, I’ve discovered a flower tucked into a small patch of earth behind the shed. No one ever comes here but me, and I don’t think it’s been discovered. It should have died by now since summer is full upon us and the heat is fierce, but I’ve been watering it in secret.

Every night, instead of drinking my last ration of water, I save a swallow in my mouth. Discreetly, I slip out of the dining room. I go to our sleeping quarters and spit the water into a small, covered dish I keep beneath my bed. Every few days, when I have a break from my studies and my chores, I take the water to the shed and pour it out onto the ground.

The flower’s beautiful. The blossoms are small and pink and clustered together like tiny bells. The petals are softer than anything I’ve ever felt in my life. I touch one now, for the pure pleasure of it, before getting comfortable on the cushion and opening my book.

I want to find out what kind of flower I have. The book hints it might be a variety of bluebell, except that my flower is not blue, or even purple, as most bluebells were. It is clearly pink.

“What are you doing back here?”

I freeze, my breath catching at the back of my throat. Carefully, I lean back until I’m sure no part of the flower can be seen. Placing one finger on the page to hold my spot, I glance up.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

I’m not in the habit of making nice with Mary Castle, but neither am I in the habit of being deliberately difficult. I try for casual disinterest and gaze at my intruder with what I hope is just the right mixture of impatience and preoccupation. Looking at Mary always makes me feel impatient, anyway. She’s too perfect, too put-together. Whenever I see her, I want to rumple her up.

Mary studies the book in my lap then raises one snooty eyebrow. “You’re wasting your time studying flowers,” she snorts. “You might as well be studying Latin or some other useless thing.”

“It’s my personal time. I’ll read whatever I want.”

“Matron wants you inside. Visitors are coming tomorrow. You and Sheila have floors.”

I hide my dismay. No one wants floors. Matron insists we get on our hands and knees, running a cloth over every hard square inch. I know I’ll be aching from it tomorrow. Still, I won’t let Mary see that I care one way or the other. She’s probably the one who suggested me for the stupid job in the first place.

“What are you waiting for?” she snaps. “Let’s go.”

I hold my position, keeping my gaze on hers. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Matron doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Beat it.”

Mary narrows her eyes, looks as though she’s going to say something then shrugs. With a wrinkle of her delicate nose, she heads back to the house, leaving me alone in the shadow of the outbuilding.

I exhale as tension seeps from my body. Slowly, I close my book, listening for any sound that indicates someone else might be nearby. I pick up the dish lying on the ground beside me and stand, peering around the corner. All’s clear.

“Aha!”

I turn, startled, as Mary steps around the opposite corner. Darn that girl for a sneak! My mind’s racing, trying to think of a way to divert her attention.

“I told you to beat it!” I growl, getting in her face, my free hand fisted and ready to swing. I honestly don’t know if Mary can take a punch, but we’re about to find out.

“Why are you always hiding back here?”

“I’m not hiding. It’s just…I like it. It’s private.” I stare at her pointedly. “Most of the time that is.”

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“In your hand.”

I glance at the dish in my hand, then down at the lid lying on the ground next to my flower.

“What’ve you got in there?” She reaches, grabbing the small bowl from my grasp. I swing my arm to take it back, but she holds it just out of reach. She tips the container up and catches the lone, last drop onto her face. “It’s water.” She turns accusing eyes to mine. “Where did you get this? You’ve been stealing!”

“I have not! I mean,” I struggle to keep my voice even, “that water was my water, part of my ration. I’ve just been saving a bit to…uh…so I could have a sip when I’m out here reading, that’s all. It gets hot.” I hold out my hand. “Now, give it back.”

She looks at me suspiciously, but slowly, her arm comes down and with it my bowl. I step forward to take it from her and at that moment, something happens. Mary’s eyes shift from mine to a space just beyond where I was standing.

The dish falls into my hand, but Mary’s already pushed past me, her eyes wide on the ground by the shed. My heart sinks. I turn around, silent.

“Is that a real flower?” She lifts her face to mine, her features stark with amazement.

I watch as Mary turns astonished eyes back to the ground. She bends down and puts out a finger to gently tap one of the soft bells. I want to shout and grab her arm. It’s my flower! But, I wait. I watch as she strokes the delicate pink, then looks at me with damp eyes. Ah, geez. Is she crying?

“I won’t tell a soul, Kira. I swear.”

My jaw drops open in disbelief and I close it with a snap. Does she mean it? After a minute, I nod slowly. She gives me a hesitant look.

“Do you think it would be alright if I come out here sometimes? I mean, I know this is your special place, but…when you’re not using it, you know. I could maybe save some of my water, too.”

My first instinct is to tell her to get lost. This is my spot. But, I can’t undo her knowing about the flower. Clearly, I have to get her on my side. Besides, with two of us watering it, there might be a chance to save it. Who knows? Maybe next spring, we’ll have two flowers.

“I guess that would be alright,” I say finally, rocking back on my heels. I try for just the right touch of nonchalance. “But don’t be obvious about it. I don’t want Matron getting suspicious.”

“I promise.” She gives me a watery smile, glances at the flower, then leaves.

As soon as she’s gone, I sink down onto my cushion with a trembling breath. I can’t believe it. Mary’s going to help me take care of the flower. That’s a surprise. Still, I have to be careful. One of the other girls might wander back here and not be as good about it as Mary was. I shake my head, still trying to wrap my mind around what’s happened. She seemed honestly moved by the flower.

Of course, water’s going to be a problem. Even with Mary and me saving our spit, the hottest weather’s still to come.

I bend over the tiny blossoms. “I wish I could make it easier,” I whisper. “I wish I could make water for you, right here; right now.”

Then, it happens.

I don’t see it at first. I’m concentrating on the flower, placing a finger against the arc of the stem to test its strength. My eye is caught by a small patch of dirt that’s suddenly darker than the rest. I put my finger to the ground and feel. It’s damp. As I watch, a small puddle appears. Water trickles up out of the ground. The puddle spreads to the base of the flower then stops.

I blink slowly, pressing my hand to my head. I’m not sure what just happened. I stand up, still staring at the ground. The sun’s hot today and I’ve been out for awhile. I don’t think I applied my sun block as thoroughly as I should have. Mental confusion and hallucinations are common sunstroke symptoms. Every school child knows that. Sunstroke. That must be it. I need to get out of the heat and hydrate. Leaving my cushion and dish, I head back to the house in a daze, shielding my face from the sun.