The street was quiet as we pulled through toward the Boneyard, almost like we were rolling through a minefield, our tires crunching over the blanket of ice.
Our headlights roved over an older man in a thick plaid coat on the sidewalk near our driveway, his veteran’s cap pulled low over his eyes. Fabian slowed as we rolled up next to him.
“Mr. Cauly,” Fabian called as he lowered the window.
Mr. Cauly walked up to the window, hobbling slightly. His doctor told him that if he didn’t walk twice a day, his knees would turn on him. He took the advice seriously, even when it was below zero outside.
“Big van full of those punks pulled by here about an hour ago, Fabian,” Mr. Cauly said, his voice wheezy. He adjusted the rim of his hat higher on his eyes. Gravediggers. He hated them, too. He hated them in the way older people hated young, disrespectful kids, but we didn’t really care about the why. We just needed him to hate them more than he hated us.
“Mr. Cauly, can I walk you to your door?” Rory piped up from the back, leaning in between the two front seats to look at our neighbor.
“Listen to me! I don’t need lookin’ after, sweetheart—it’s you lot that needs to be careful, ya hear? Get inside. Lock the doors.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cauly,” Eva said from the front seat, and Mr. Cauly waved her off, pinching his lips together and pursing them out as he looked up and down our dark street.
* * *
Eva asked if I wanted her to bring some dinner up, but I said I wasn’t hungry.
I showered, though the water never got hot enough to make me feel like I was clean.
The room I shared with Seph and Rory was empty, but I wasn’t tired just yet. Or maybe I was too tired. I couldn’t tell. I paced near my bed.
One hundred and seventy-three days left, and it could all be taken away by a few words. The thought was a rolling boil in my stomach.
I walked to the dresser and knelt before the bottom drawer that used to be Sarah’s. Her clothes were still there. I shoved aside her sweaters and socks, reaching for the back paneling of the drawer. The smell of her Lilu perfume still lingered on the soft cotton, and I shut my eyes tight against it. I hit the wood paneling with the heel of my palm, and it came loose. I pulled it forward and reached around until my fingers brushed up against a paper bag stuffed in the empty space behind the drawer.
It’s where I kept all my cashed paychecks from the diner. We gave our stipend to Eva, who kept careful records and receipts of everything bought for the Boneyard. But this money was mine.
The Internment allowed a request for location transfer two years after the initial registration date, and that day, for us, was 173 days away. Everything had to be ready by then.
I’d been working on this plan since the week we arrived here. Fabian had only been able to find one slip pill, which is why we were in this mess. There was only one and he’d given it to me. I decided I was going to find a slip pill for him.
I started slow. I scoured the Internet, going on all sorts of sketchy chat rooms and websites—though I had to keep that to a minimum because there was always a chance that the Internment was keeping tabs on our search histories. I knew I had to take a different approach, so I started offering to run errands for Eva. Before I went to the store, I’d head to the outskirts of Rearden Falls, where the mountain roads started curving steeply upward. I’d spend as much time as I could manage walking around the gas stations and fast-food joints, looking for someone who could help me. I’d been able to spot those kinds of people when Fabian and I were on the road—people who knew how to get antibiotics without a prescription or, more often, something stronger. They knew where to take shelter on a rainy night . . . people like that were always around if you knew where to look. Human or Hushed, I didn’t care, as long as they could help me. I had rules: I never went out on the same day of the week twice in a row. I varied where I went and at what time of day. I made sure to look busy while inside a store or gas station.
For months, there was nothing.
Then one day as I was sitting in a plastic booth at a Stop & Shop and scanning the parking lot beyond the smudged window, someone slid in across the table. He had dark skin and inky black curls that just barely brushed the shoulders of his green canvas jacket.
“Sitting alone in a gas station. You’re either desperately in love or looking to kill someone. Which is it?” he asked. His voice had a lilt to it, like the words danced off his tongue.
I was used to creeps trying to talk to me, so I just sat back and narrowed my eyes. “Either way, you’re sitting across from the wrong person, don’t you think? Either my lover will end you or I will.”
The man smiled and reached across the table, wrapping his hands around my lukewarm cup of coffee. He took a sip and grimaced.
“Tastes like the piss of someone dying of kidney failure,” he murmured, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth and setting the cup down.
“If this is how you always hit on girls, then I’m not surprised you’ve resorted to gas stations.”
“Oh, you flatter yourself, my dear. I’m not flirting, I’m answering your cry for help.”
I reached for the coffee cup, readying myself to throw the mud-water in his smug face. But his next words stopped me cold.
“You’re looking for a slip pill, are you not? You’ve been looking for someone like me for months.”
I froze. There was a chance he was a cop, or an undercover Internment officer. Even more likely, he was some pervert looking to chuck me into his van. It seemed too easy, and the hairs on the back of my neck tingled. I thought I’d been careful, but the thought that he’d been watching me made me sick.
But there was also a chance he was telling the truth, and that he had a slip pill. After months of nothing, I was willing to take that chance.
“If I am?” I asked.
He smiled, then, and told me his name was Ajit. He worked with a network based out of Omaha that ran slip pills. All it would cost me was a thousand bucks.
“Oh, that’s all?” I quipped, feeling my stomach plummet. It would take months to come up with that kind of cash, and that was if I could pull extra shifts. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
He leaned forward on his elbows. “I think we’ll be able to work something out.”
“And how do I know you’re not lying?”
He pulled a little plastic envelope from his pocket and set it on the table. Inside was a little pink pill with a smudged, iridescent center. I'd seen one like it before, in Fabian's wet, outstretched palm. A slip pill.
* * *
We agreed that I would pay three hundred dollars every three months. I made the first payment in late August, following his instructions to the letter because he said if I messed them up, the deal was off. I put the money in a manila envelope, folded it in half, and wrapped it with three rubber bands. The thick kind, he’d said. The kind that really hurt when you snap them against skin. I went to four different office supply stores to find them, which was a pain in the ass. Then, after a late shift at Mal’s, I walked over and dropped it in the US mail drop box on Carmody Avenue. It didn’t have an address on it, so I knew that it wasn’t actually being mailed. Somehow, Ajit found it. I just never knew how.
How will I know you got it? I’d asked.
You’ll know, he’d said through a smile.
The next day at work, Rory walked back into the kitchen and waved a red rose in my face. “Someone left this for you on a table,” she sang.
I snatched it from her. “Who?” I asked.
“Didn’t see him. But look! Starbucks gift card!” she gestured to the dark green envelope tied to the stem that had Eerie written in big black letters. “You’ve got a secret admirer,” she called over her shoulder as she walked over to pick up a plate of fries.
I opened the card.
Well done. Now get yourself some non-piss coffee. See you in November.
Part of me was creeped out that Ajit had managed to slip into the diner undetected, but I was also relieved that he had received the payment.
I looked down at the cash in my hands as I stood in front of the dresser. I needed to see it now, to feel the crinkly package in my fingers. It was November, and time for another payment.
I was going to request the transfer for Fabian and me next year. I’d have the slip pill by then, and somewhere on the road from Rearden Falls to Boston . . . we would escape. We’d make our way across the Atlantic, somehow. We’d disappear. The plan was a mess, and I knew that. But it’s all I had. Fabian and I had defied the odds once—we’d lived for two years without the Internment catching us. We could do it again. We could do it better.
I pushed the bag deep into the dresser once more, and then put the back paneling in place. I closed the dresser drawer slowly, feeling the resistance of the bag at the last inch of the runner.
I stood, my bones feeling stronger already.
I may be a Hushed, but I had secrets of my own. The thought gave me comfort.
Reed was watching a movie downstairs. I could hear it as I walked down the hallway. I also heard the slight pop and hiss of a beer bottle opening, and Seph’s soft, warning voice. I couldn’t make out her words or his gruff reply, but I knew what was going on. She was asking him to take it easy on the drinking, and he was telling her to back off.
Fabian’s light was on, though his door was closed.
I knocked twice and opened the door, but I stopped short when I walked inside.
Rory sat on his bed. Fabian sat beside her. His arm was up, his fingers almost touching her face. It dropped when he saw me.
“Um. I’m sorry. I just . . . um . . .” I stopped.
“I should get to bed,” Rory said. I chanced a glance at her. Her cheeks were red, but she didn’t avoid my eyes. Rory gently pulled the door closed as she left. Fabian moved to the chair in front of his desk.
“What. Was. That?!” I whispered, crossing the room in three strides and throwing myself on the bed.
Fabian scooted his chair in closer to his desk, but he couldn’t hide the red flush that crept over the collar of his plaid shirt.
“I will get more and more annoying every time I have to ask you this question,” I warned, smiling as I reached over and pulled on his earlobe.
He pulled himself away from his desk to look at me, a slight smile playing on his lips.
“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching and brushing a finger gently over the bruise near my eye.
I pulled back sharply. “Totally fine.”
He didn’t look like he believed me.
“Stop stalling,” I grinned, motioning to the door with my head.
“There’s nothing going on. Besides. The last thing I need right now is a distraction. You know that.” My grin faded as the smile slipped from his voice.
He gestured to his desk. I pushed myself up to my elbows and looked, though I knew what I’d see.
Floor plans of Ironbark Prison covered the left side of his desk. On the right side, in the direct light of his black metal desk lamp, sat profiles he’d made of each of the victims. He spent at least two hours every night going over every detail he could find about the night we stirred.
I sat up, the cords of my heart tingling unpleasantly.
“Maybe a distraction is exactly what you need. This Suck cannot be healthy,” I said. I knew if he and Rory became a thing, it could complicate my plan to leave. But I also knew that the less time Fabian sat staring at his desk, the better. Maybe he’d see some of the other things life could offer. That would be worth it, no matter what complications came from it. We could always save up and get another pill for Rory, and then send for her to join us. It would give Fabian something else to obsess over, and I knew Rory would agree with me. He needed to get away from this. If anything, she’d be the one who would help me convince him to leave when it was finally time.
Fabian looked over at me, his eyes narrowed with the focus that came whenever we talked about Ironbark. It made my stomach clench.
“I hate it when you call it the Suck.”
I shrugged. “Well, it’s not the Pull. But you’re drawn to it, and it sucks. It works on so many levels.”
Fabian sighed. “What are you so afraid of?” he asked. Like he hadn’t asked a thousand times before. Like my answer had ever been different.
I was afraid of the Pull. I’d been afraid of it even before Sarah died in front of me, but it had gotten worse. Sarah loved this world more than anyone I’d ever known. She would catch raindrops on her tongue and sit too close to the fireplace because she loved the feel of it on her skin. She wanted to live, but the Pull was stronger than her. I didn’t want to know what it was like to come up against something that powerful. Fabian and I had been spared that—we were the only Hushed I knew of that had that freedom. It was a blessing, but for some reason Fabian treated it like a curse.
“I’m not. I just think there is more to life than this stupid trial,” I said finally.
“If you knew half as much as you think you do, you wouldn’t be calling it stupid.”
I bristled. “I know just as much as you, Fabian. Just because I’m not obsessive doesn’t mean I’m naive.”
Fabian pursed his lips and held up a mug shot. A woman with short brown hair and deep-set eyes stared back at me.
“Who is this?” he asked, and I gave him a look.
“Your memory is so good that I know you wouldn’t forget, so that must mean that you weren’t listening the first time,” Fabian said.
I rolled my eyes. Fine.
“Monique Cavers. First-degree murder and three counts of attempted murder. Died in cell A1.”
Fabian set the picture down and picked up the next one. She had bleached blond hair and black roots.
“Lila Evans. Two counts of second-degree murder with three counts of bribery and two counts of tampering with evidence. Died in cell B3.”
Next one. The redhead was almost smirking in her mug shot.
“Reva O’Brien. First-degree murder. Cell B4.”
Next one.
“Chin Lee Ro. First-degree murder and several drug charges including intent to distribute. Cell E5.”
He did three more in rapid succession.
Heather Mora. Dee Riles. Stephanie Montier. C2. C3. D1.
I stopped before he announced the last one.
A woman with blond hair and striking green eyes stared into the camera. Her gaze was searching, like the hope was still stirring in her, refusing to lie down and give up. I’d seen those same green eyes a few hours before.
“Madeline Winspeare,” I said. Fabian was about to set the picture down but stopped at the sound of my voice. “Convicted of the first-degree murder of Stephen Winspeare. Died in the stairwell between levels one and two.”
He showed me a couple of pictures of guards, and I named them as well.
Tate Givens. No smile, all business.
Rudy Sugita. A candid photo of him fishing.
I looked at the last one. The man had a kind-looking face, the kind of face you’d look for if you were scared in a crowd.
He smiled in his official photo. Sam MacDonald, I knew. He was one of the guards.
Fabian lowered the pictures. I looked up at him, trying to hide the way my chest tightened. He flipped through them once more, and then stopped.
“Well done,” he conceded. He set the picture of Madeline down on his desk, and I looked over his shoulder despite myself. There were more, but he didn’t quiz me on the rest. He got the point. In total, there were eight guards. One custodian. One doctor. All floors, from the basement to the top fourth floor, were gutted. That’s how I knew my memory of that night wasn’t completely foolproof. 2B was the lowest level on the plans. In my memories I always saw a level marked “3B,” but according to the official info, that floor didn’t exist.
Everything was fine at 11:06, the last logged check-in.
Then by 12:03, everything was in flames.
I ran my eyes over their faces. They were so static in my mind—a piece of history I was more than happy to forget. Fabian didn’t think like that. When he looked at the pictures, he saw them move. He thought of the families who never saw their loved ones come home again. He imagined tears and laughter on faces that showed mostly blank stares.
I lay down on his pillow, bunching it up under my head for more support. Fabian didn’t like pillows. He had always slept upright, with his head leaning against a wall. He only kept his pillow because he said the bed looked weird without it.
I looked up. Handwritten scriptures were tacked above his desk and bed.
I never understood how he could’ve stirred with so much faith when I had so little. None.
“I didn’t want this life for you, you know,” he said finally, as he rubbed his hand over his face.
Anger looked like a stone striking against my rib cage, sparking and illuminating memories I wanted to leave in the dark.
I was still, my chest rising and falling as I let my eyes shift to him. It had been over a year, and I was still pissed. He was, too. I’d screwed up his plan, after all.
Because I didn’t leave him, bleeding out in an overturned car in the middle of the soaked woods. Because I didn’t abandon him when he screamed at me to go. He’d told me he’d taken his slip pill, that we were in it together, instead of being honest that he’d only been able to find one, the one he gave to me. He didn’t understand that there was no version of freedom for me that didn’t involve freedom for him. We were family, and I wasn’t leaving him. It was selfless, sure. But he lied to me, and that was hard to forget.
“I don’t want to hear your self-sacrificial bullshit right now.”
“Everything that’s not running for your life sounds like self-sacrificial bullshit to you, Eerie,” he said.
I shoved myself off the bed and spun, taking two steps toward his door.
“At least I’m not so scared of living that I hole up in a room, piecing together a puzzle that will never be solved.”
I jabbed at the ground so hard that my elbow over-extended.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at me with heavy eyes.
“Scared is all you are, Eerie.”
I leaned back, reeling as his words hit me in the gut, knocking all the air from my lungs. Fabian stood when he saw me take a staggered step back, and his eyes widened slightly. It was like the words had surprised him, too. I knew he regretted them.
Fabian was closer than my own skin. He always had been. His words slipped like a razor between my bones, hitting the soft parts. He knew the real reason I went out to bury Sarah by myself. He’d been there the first time when I’d had the panic attack—he’d held me until it passed. I went out to that tree to prove to myself I could lay my friends to rest without losing my mind, and I’d succeeded. But in the cell, I was untethered. At the slightest push, all my strength had amounted to nothing. I was still always one thought away from coming undone.
“Eerie,” he said, like he wanted to try and put me together with his soft voice.
My nostrils flared, lit by the heat in my breath.
“Go to hell, Fabian,” I said, fumbling for the doorknob behind me.
I ripped into the hallway, hatred writhing in my chest.
Not for Fabian. I couldn’t hate him if I tried.
Not even for the words he’d said.
But for the way the words sunk into my chest and felt at home.
I hated that they were true.