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THE AFTERNOON SUN WAS warm, offsetting the cool autumn breeze as Connor and Megan ambled among the shops near the Mission. They’d volunteered, at Don’s request, to pick up various items for his “culinary extravaganza.”
Connor tried his best not to stare at his surroundings, but getting used to the Old City was still a work-in-progress. Where he had expected to encounter squalor and cutthroat competition, he found instead—with a few minor exceptions—a vibrant and cooperative community.
It’s not perfect. Connor wasn’t naïve enough to make that mistake. But it’s not like what I was raised to believe, either.
“Last crop, most likely.” The shopkeeper’s voice drew him back to the present. He escorted them to the door of his shop, handing Connor a bag of potatoes. “Won’t be much more this season, what with winter just around the corner.”
Megan smiled and thanked him, and they resumed their stroll along the boulevard. Connor let her do most of the talking, still unsure how to act outside the Enclave.
Megan had brushed her long, wavy hair to minimize her scars, but it was impossible to disguise the eye patch. Connor wondered how people might react, but said nothing. She was the eldest, but he was still protective of her.
Their shopping trip turned out to be a pleasant surprise. A few people crossed the street to avoid them, not trying to conceal their revulsion. But for the most part, the people they met treated Megan with respect.
A fresh start—beyond the Enclave’s walls—might be possible after all.
Megan nudged him with her elbow. “Something on your mind, Connor?”
He hesitated, caught off-guard. Should I even ask? He took a deep breath and decided to risk it. “Darcy was there when the Givers . . .”
His voice trailed off as Megan gave her head a violent shake.
“You’re about to ask me if Darcy had anything to do with our parents’ deaths.” She glanced at him and then away. “I’ve told you everything I can remember. Darcy was there when I became a Tracker, but beyond that, I don’t know.”
She halted, putting out a hand to block him. “And I think it’s dangerous to speculate. Obsessing about the past won’t do either of us any good. Please stop asking.”
Connor raised his hands, surrendering. “I know you’re right, but it’s hard. I’m sorry, Megan—and I’ll try.”
She took his arm and they resumed walking.
Connor glanced at her. “They’ve given you space after what happened at the Citadel, but it’s only a matter of time before Garr—I mean, the Colonel—wants to debrief you.”
“I know. And don’t worry, I’m planning to tell Colonel Rucker the truth.” Megan sighed heavily, not looking at him. “That my little brother, Connor Sinclair, wet the bed until he was seven years old.”
He pivoted to face her, shocked. “I did not.”
Megan doubled over, laughing. Connor stared, confused, and then he caught on. He lapsed into an embarrassed grin, shaking his head. “You know, that’s more how I remember you. Less like a Tracker, and more like . . . you.”
Megan’s laughter faded as she considered his comment.
“I’ll always be a bit of both.” She tucked her hands into her pockets. “And let’s face it—my memories aren’t likely to return. We both need to accept that.”
Connor broke eye contact, making no effort to hide his disappointment. “You make it sound so final. To tell you the truth, I hope you’re dead wrong.”
She stopped and held out her hand, palm up. “Your locket. Give it to me.”
Connor halted, surprised by her demand. He slipped the chain over his head and handed the locket to her.
She pried the casing open to reveal the photo, and held it up between them. “For you, this conjures up hundreds—maybe thousands—of memories. But when I look at it, I only see two things. First, I recognize myself in this picture. Or how I used to be, years ago.”
“And second?” Connor prompted when she paused.
Megan tried, and failed, to repress a facetious grin. “That I was a lot prettier when I had two eyes.”
Her expression changed, turning serious. “I’m free from the Givers and their mind control. That was enough at first, but not anymore.”
She pushed her hair back, revealing the full extent of her scars. “Everything I knew as a child was stolen from me. And if I could, I’d gladly lobotomize myself to erase the memories of what the Givers forced me to do.”
She took a deep breath, allowing her hair to fall into place. “The Enclave wasn’t all bad. I’d like to hear about the good times. I need you to tell me about my past, my family. Our family. Those are the stories I need to focus on.”
Connor nodded, zipping his jacket against the breeze. “I’ll do my best. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
She grinned suddenly, handing the locket back. “And in exchange, I’ll teach my very serious little brother how to buy food in the market like a normal person.”
Connor tucked the locket inside his shirt. “Sounds fair.”
She punched him playfully on the arm. “Let’s get back to the Hub. We don’t want to keep Chef Don waiting.”