For the first time in my life, I was actually speechless. I was pretty sure my parents hadn’t been allowed to visit me in Fredtown. But why would they have two other kids someplace else that they also hadn’t bothered visiting?
How could I have a brother and sister I didn’t even know?
How could I be the youngest kid in my family?
What kind of family was scattered in three different places?
My father held up his hands like he could tell I had almost recovered my powers of speech and was about to unleash a barrage of questions.
“I thought there’d be time to explain everything,” my father said. “Later. Once you . . . trusted us a little more.”
I was so stunned by his words I almost fell down to the floor again. He wanted to explain everything? Wasn’t he like the Freds, who always told me I wasn’t old enough to know any of the things I really wanted to know?
Did my father think I was already old enough? Why was I old enough tonight, when I hadn’t been old enough earlier today?
How could he think I would ever trust him?
Somehow I managed to keep standing. Somehow I managed to take five steps forward and grab my father’s arm, holding him back from pressing the button under his desk.
“Explain now,” I said. “If I really do have a brother and sister . . . why did you send them away twelve years ago? Why didn’t you send me with them, before the Freds got me? Why—”
“There was a war,” my father said.
I looked at him blankly. I vaguely recognized the word “war” from some history class back in Fredtown. But Rosi was the one who paid attention in history class. Not me. I think our teacher had been talking about war that time Rosi said afterward, walking home, “Edwy, you should have listened today. You would have enjoyed hearing about people fighting. You would have liked finding out all the horrible things people did, before they became civilized. You would have thought it was exciting.”
Did war have something to do with fighting?
No way the Freds would have taught us anything about fighting. The only reason I even knew the word “fighting” was because it was on their long list of things we weren’t allowed to do.
“You mean, in ancient times,” I said to my father. “There was war a long time ago.”
My father gave a barking laugh. It kind of hurt to hear.
“I suppose to a twelve-year-old, twelve years ago is ancient times,” he said bitterly. “The war happened only twelve years ago. When it started, we sent your brother and sister, Enu and Kiandra, to Refuge City to keep them safe. You weren’t born yet. Not until the day the war ended. And that was the day the Freds started taking babies away.”
It was like he was handing me puzzle pieces that didn’t fit right into the huge, gaping holes in my knowledge. This wasn’t what I wanted to know. Or was it?
I remembered the scary scene Rosi and I had been running away from: the vast area of burned houses, destroyed homes. Was that the kind of thing that happened during war? From fighting?
I couldn’t imagine it. My father had to be lying.
But before I could say so, a box on my father’s desk crackled.
“Guard location one, reporting in,” a voice said. I guess the box was an intercom. “The enemy has dispersed. Cloud cover is heavy. This is prime go time.”
“Understood,” my father said.
His arm jerked out of my grasp. I could tell: He’d pressed the button under his desk.
The door swung open.
“I won’t go anywhere,” I said. “I’ll scream. I’ll run away. I’ll fight.”
My father lurched forward and held me tight . . .
. . . just long enough for Udans to tie my hands together, jerk a blindfold over my eyes, and shove a gag into my mouth.
And then Udans carried me out the door.