I ALWAYS SAID IT started the day we found Cat in the desert, dying from dehydration. He told us things we didn’t know, and after a year of battles and captures, of victories and disappointments, of friends and enemies and love and life and death, the world was changed.
We were changed.
“She would’ve been proud, you know,” Goodwoman Marciniak said to me that evening as we sat around a campfire. I knew without asking she was talking about my grandmother.
“Maybe.”
“No ‘maybe’ about it, she would’ve been.” Then she whispered, “There’s something else.”
Her tone was serious, and a part of me wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what she was about to say.
“There’s one thing you might want to know before we say good-bye tomorrow.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Your real name.”
My eyes widened. “You know?”
“She told me once.”
I couldn’t believe it. It was something I’d been dreaming about for years—my true identity. I had even fantasized about it, imagining the acquisition of a new name the way one dreams about receiving a gift. I nodded eagerly, about to learn—for the first time—what my parents had called me.
Goodwoman Marciniak leaned in to tell me . . . and I suddenly leaned back.
“No,” I said, changing my mind. “It’s better this way.”
She gave me a questioning look. “You don’t want to know?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
The fact was that I already knew. I was a Less Than. I was Book the Less Than, and Flush was Flush and Twitch was Twitch . . . and Cat was Cat. Finding out my given name might just make me turn my back on who I really was, and I didn’t want that.
I thanked Goodwoman Marciniak and walked away from the fire.
Hope and I spent our final night together in my hut. A dozen or so candles spread an amber glow, and we lay on our sides, my arms wrapped around her, my chest pressed against her back. It was as though all the emotions we’d ever experienced—the sorrows, joys, frustrations, downright longing—were channeled into one night. I never let her go—not once.
In the morning, when sunlight flooded through the hut’s cracks, we held each other awkwardly, kissed briefly, then shuffled off to get ready for our departures. I made the rounds and said good-bye to my friends. The new government was thrilled with this sudden infusion of young people and had promised to enroll them in a new school they were starting. Some, like Red and Flush, promised to come visit when they got vacation time. Others, like Scylla, I had a feeling I’d never see again. I would miss her. I would miss all of them.
Then it was time for Hope and me to say good-bye. We had already said it once that morning, and we were in no mood to repeat it. One farewell was enough. Too many, in fact.
We kind of looked at each other, kind of didn’t. Like there were things we wanted to say but didn’t know how. Even if we could find the words, I’m not sure we were capable of putting them together. My mouth and tongue felt oddly clumsy, as if I was chewing on a bag of rocks.
“Hope,” I said, stalling. I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to say, and Hope cut me off before I had the chance.
“Don’t,” she said, and we just looked at each other for a long time. Then she broke the silence and said, “I’d better get going.”
“Yeah, I guess you’d better.”
We locked eyes a moment more, and then she strode off to join the others. Those were our final words.
Everyone saddled and mounted their horses. A group of soldiers was set to lead the column of riders back to the capital in its new—and perhaps permanent—position. I was the only one staying behind.
Even though she was still recovering from a gunshot wound, Hope climbed atop her horse as effortlessly as rising from a chair. She gave a backward glance, then quickly turned around. When everyone was in line and ready to move out, the horses started forward.
“Bye, Book!” Flush yelled.
“See you l-l-later,” Red called.
I waved good-bye but said nothing. My throat was way too tight to allow the passage of words. Shielding my eyes from the morning sun, I watched them depart, a line of horses and riders snaking east, heading for the river and the next territory and the new capital. No more Western Federation for them. Argos gave a soft whimper and leaned into me. I scratched his head.
The others rode on, the horses’ hooves printing themselves in the damp earth. Because Hope was last in line, she was the easiest to follow, her black hair shimmering in morning light. I stood there frozen, watching her get smaller and smaller until she was the tiniest speck on the horizon, a final star evaporating into the day’s blue sky.
And then she was gone, and once more I was alone.