24

000.154.20.13.23

My biography is published.

The announcement stands like a resolute stamp of finality four scrolls down The Daily Hemisphere.

Author Skelley Chase, best known for riveting biographies like Blood Numbers and Sweeping Death’s Doorstep, stunned the world with his newest release, A Time to Die, about a Radical girl who was sent across the Wall and still lives.

My story is known. I can’t erase it. According to the date at the top of the article, it’s been known for two days already. A shiver sweeps down my body and my stomach coils like a snake in a knot. Skelley Chase published it early. Is Reid still safe?

I’m taken back to the East with a single inhale. Scenes flutter through my mind like a flip book: the library displaying my book as the newest biography, the Lead Enforcer seething about my accusations against the justice system, Trevor Rain realizing he unknowingly supported and funded Skelley Chase’s plot, Reid being questioned about his Clock . . . maybe even denied a job or hospital care.

I think of the bullies—Dusten Grunt chanting “Empty Numbers”. When he reads my biography (if he can read), will he think I’m desperate or brave? Which do I think I am?

Mother’s voice echoes through my mind: Impulsive.

I am impulsive. She was right. My impulse led to where I am. But so did God. It all connects to my prayer on the hospital floor.

The scenes sweep out of my mind like dust under a rug, brooding until they are unearthed later. My present surroundings return with one slow blink in a swirl of green cattails.

I stand alone in the Dregs, holding The Daily Hemisphere with my right hand. My pack hangs over my left shoulder and the NAB rests by my feet underwater—dropped and abandoned in the flurry of nerves.

Jude is a short speck wading through green water far ahead. He doesn’t realize I stopped. Irrational anger clenches my throat. I don’t yell for him. Why should I call him? He doesn’t seem to care if I’m left behind.

I scan the next paragraph of the article, unable to spur my legs into forward motion yet. My chest feels empty except for my heart pounding like a bell clapper.

Told with nuggets from her point of view, A Time to Die introduces us to Parvin Blackwater, a girl from a Low City with a bland past except for the secret she and her twin brother kept from the world.

My stomach lurches at the sight of my name on screen.

Born with a third brother as an unexpected set of triplets, the Blackwater children outnumbered the required two Clocks in the household at birth. After one Clock zeroed-out, taking a triplet with it, Parvin and her brother remained half-Radical, never knowing to whom the remaining Clock belonged.

This time out, Skelley Chase transcends his previous pattern of biographying by following Parvin Blackwater’s continuing story. He will offer the new biography to fans in X-book form with weekly installments following her miraculous survival on the West side of the Wall, including emotigraphs and journal entries.

Is Mr. Chase leading a revolution in the way X-books are presented, or exploring a new format for a unique case of survival? Mr. Chase hastens to say he has nothing against the current or previous forms of biographies, in fact, he intends to publish another one within the next three-months of an already zeroed-out High citizen. Some question his desire to write about the living when he’s only ever scripted stories of the dead, but Skelley Chase remains unphased.

“My writing proves I’m an expert in life and death. If someone doubts, then they haven’t read A Time to Die, which is, in fact, about both.”

I stare at the end. The article seems more about Skelley Chase than me. Proof, again, that this biography is still about his “good story” and I’m just the tool. But even though I want to remain bitter, I can’t deny the fact he’s proven himself. He published my biography. Granted, he broke his promise of waiting, but my story lives.

I tuck The Daily Hemisphere under my left arm, pick up the NAB, and send a hurried reply to Hawke.

~Is Reid still okay?

I shove the NAB into my pack. Once I’m put back together, I continue my slow trek, avoiding the sharp stalks beneath the water and fighting for balance against the moss. I return The Daily Hemisphere to my right hand, unable to put it away yet. I want to read every word of the article with a magnifying glass.

“Oy!” Jude stands far ahead by a bend in the canyon. He throws up his arms. “Why are you back there?”

Defiance stiffens my muscles and I lift my chin. I continue to walk, giving no response. My initial impulse is to shout, “You’ve noticed, then?”

“We have to keep going,” he says once I reach him. “There’s no time for you to meander along. I don’t know what food you have in your pack, but I have nothing. We need to find a way out as soon as possible or we’ll starve.”

“I wasn’t meandering. And I have nothing in my pack. I didn’t have time to grab anything.” Once I start defending myself, the words roll out like tumbleweed down a hill. “You’re the one who dragged me out of the village without preparing. You’re so focused on the plans in your head you can’t even notice if I’m stopped behind you. I could have passed out and you wouldn’t know until I drowned. You got us down here by sawing the rope and flailing a gun and now you turn to me to provide food? I guess saving your life wasn’t enough.”

I got carried away. Again. It’s strange how easy it is to vomit my frustration on Jude. Where has my filter gone?

Jude bows with a sweep of one arm and a hard look. “Lead the way, ma’am.”

“I don’t know where to go.”

He straightens and wipes a trace of blood from his nose. “You have two choices—forward or back the way we came.”

I roll my eyes and try to fold my arms before I remember my stub. Instead, I look away. “I’m not leading.” I’ll stand here all night if you want, Jude-man.

He turns around, rubs the back of his ear with two fingers, and we travel in silence until darkness falls. By this point, my anger subsides enough that I ache for simple friendship, yet every time I imagine saying, “I’m sorry”, my voice disintegrates. It doesn’t help that his prior words and actions send the message that he doesn’t want me with him. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.

I’ve never had much of a friend. Reid was always my go-to. Now that I’m faced with the prospect of sharing bits of life with someone else, I’m rudely aware of my lack in friendliness. Even more pressing is the desire to share. I want someone else to know about me in a real way. My biography ought to do that. Maybe Hawke will read it.

The stars come out and our steps through the water turn slower and slower. Instead of imagining a bed to sleep on, I dream of a flat cropping of rock or beach on which to collapse. The darkness makes me jumpy. Anything could be watching us from the canyon edge. What lives in these waters?

Jude’s head droops ahead of me. I wish he’d offer to carry my pack. It pulls against my shoulders forming muscle knots like mini boulders. He has only his coat. Doesn’t he have belongings?

“So tell me your story.” He rubs the back of his neck.

I fold my arms to keep warm, lodging my stump under my right bicep. My lungs shrink and my breath quickens. Excitement seeps like molasses. He wants to know about me. Do I want to share?

Yes, my mind whispers. If I’m allowing strangers in the United States of the East to read about Parvin Blackwater, I ought to share with the man who did try to save my life. And, he’s waving a white flag of reconciliation.

“I have a twin brother.” I choke a little on the conflict between pride and desire. “We were born as triplets, but our older brother, William, died right after birth.” My explanation of our single Clock is far less eloquent than the paragraphs Skelley Chase formed at the start of my biography. Still, Jude seems to follow along with little prompting.

“I started writing an autobiography in my Last Year to defend the lives of Radicals. They don’t need to die.” My voice catches as faces flash across my mind—faces now gone and dead. Eaten by wolves.

“Then what did you do?”

He doesn’t even realize I’m struggling. I push through the story of meeting and trusting a biographer. I can’t bring myself to say Skelley Chase’s name—it’s like acid on my lips. “The biographer betrayed me, so I proclaimed myself a Radical so Reid could continue to receive medical care. My village sent me across the Wall.”

Facts. Limited emotion. It’s like I’m sharing the shell of my story. I’m not inclined to give Jude the raw portions—fear, loneliness, betrayal, worthlessness . . . weakness.

“Why didn’t you choose relocation? There are plenty of other cities that house registered Radicals.”

“That’s not an option in Unity.” I turn my face away to block out the memory. Betrayal. “Unity Enforcers don’t register Radicals. The trial is supposed to give the impression Radicals have a choice, but Unity Village is so close to Opening Three the Enforcers just send Radicals through. I think they do this in more places than Unity Village. Maybe even all Low Cities.”

Jude is silent for a long time. Does he see how this is wrong or does he have a similar mindset to the Enforcers? “So you’re on a pilgrimage now.”

“Pilgrimage?”

“It means you’re on a quest to something sacred.”

Quest. Pilgrimage. These words light flares of hope inside me. “But I don’t even know where I’m going.”

Jude shrugs. “It’s not based on what you’re doing, it’s dependent on your mindset. A pilgrimage is about following despite not knowing the answers. Maybe this quest you’re on can stop Enforcers from sending Radicals through the Wall. How many lives could you save?”

“That’s what I tried to do with the biography.” I look away, pondering his words. Is there a more tangible way I can help Radicals? Am I following God’s call to pilgrimage? What is my mindset?

An image of staring at Ash’s freshly birthed son flows into my consciousness, bringing with it strong hope. God wants something more for me. He won’t leave me in this broken shalom.

“Maybe I’m supposed to find the Newtons.” I glance up. “They’re a Radical family I know. The Albinos said they went through their village. I want to find them.”

“I know the Newtons. They adopted a Radical child from an orphanage near where I lived. The law took away their High-City status because of the girl. Solomon escorted them to your village to help them settle in.”

I shake my head. “It’s bizarre how many people we both know. I never would have expected to even meet someone from the East on this side.” I stumble and land on all fours in the water. Jude stops. “Sorry, I’m tired.”

I try to push myself up, but my left arm crumples under the pressure. I wince and Jude hauls me to my feet. I’m both warmed and shamed by his help.

We stand there in silence, slimy water dripping down my neck. I shiver. Jude looks around and I know he’s thinking the same as I am: how will we sleep?

The wind picks up, rustling the unseen darkened cattails. The sound of their long stalks bumping into each other sounds cold and intimidating. The gnats, locusts, and dragonflies have long since gone to sleep.

“One of us will need to rest,” he says. “Otherwise we’ll both collapse once we’re weaker.”

I cringe at the word weaker. I won’t collapse. I’ll be the last one standing, no matter what. “What do you suggest?”

“What if you lie down in the water and I pull you by your pack? I’ll keep your head above water and you can try to rest.”

I wrap my arms around my middle. “I’m already freezing.” The idea of submerging myself in the fishy gunk when I’m shivering in the darkness sounds as pleasant as walking with the wolves.

“I guess we’ll keep walking, then.”

“Thanks for the thought.”

“Welks.” He rubs the back of his ear again as if scratching away an itch.

The night feels endless in the silence. At first, I watch the moon creep higher in the sky, but my neck grows increasingly sore and I succumb to staring at Jude’s back. Crickets and frog croaks grate on my nerves.

Hours creep by, taking bites of my sanity with them. Even when daylight comes, the sleepy sand in my eyes keeps me squinting. Pimples dot my upper lip, brought on by sleep deprivation. I habitually rub my fingers over the spots, hoping a moment will come when I find they’ve disappeared.

By noon, I speak. “I need another break, Jude.”

I don’t tell him my pack feels like a boulder or that my legs are numb and heavy from the water. I don’t want him to know I want to collapse. My injuries have piled on my body like barnacles over the past few weeks. They scream for attention.

Jude’s hand flies up to swat a bug from his temple. “What?”

“I need to rest.” The least he could do is look tired.

“Lie down and I’ll pull you along.”

This time I don’t argue, though the water still causes a perpetual shiver. I release a chilled breath as my body sinks into the murk. Jude grips the two straps of my pack with both hands and I lean my head back on the lump of belongings. I’ve accepted the fact the items inside will be wet, no matter how hard I try to keep them dry.

My body is buoyant, even though my boots drag against the bottom. A sense of freedom comes once my weight leaves my feet. I close my eyes and force my muscles to relax against the cold. Small waves lick the back of my neck making me shiver. The slimy water creeps through my clothes like long water worms, filling my boots and separating my numb toes. I’ll never be warm again.

I allow twenty minutes to pass before groaning, “I can’t sleep.”

Jude continues to walk. I twist to my feet. The movement jerks him backward. He looks at me with raised eyebrows and I wince at the two black eyes from his broken nose.

“Didn’t you hear me?” The Dregs are so silent it’s hard to imagine he’s not ignoring me. “I can’t sleep.”

“I was listening to music.”

I roll my eyes. “How?”

“My tune-chip.”

My sluggish brain runs the word tune-chip through my mental process three times before I ask, “What’s that?”

“A chip that plays music matching my mood.” He folds his right ear in half. I squint through the shadows beneath his hair and see an undefined black spot in the crease between his ear and his skull.

Music. I rarely hear music. The county building played music in every room of the building—soft wordless music that doesn’t spread an ounce of inspiration. Boys in school would sometimes carry small pocket music players, but they always wore cordless headphones so I never heard the songs.

“I can’t hear it.” I wrap my arms around my dripping form. How nice for him that he’s been entertained by melodious art while I’ve listened to mosquitoes nibble my ear hairs.

“Of course you can’t.” Jude releases his ear. “It’s surgically programmed in my brain. You think I’d force the whole world to hear my mood?”

The concept is so bizarre I stare at his head for a moment as if I’ll see wiring. Is half his brain made up of electronics? How can music be implanted? “I didn’t know they could do that,” I whisper. What mood would his music reveal at this moment?

Sunlight accentuates his frown. “I didn’t think about you having to deal with the silence.” He looks past me in his own wave of thought. “Wow. I’d hate that.”

“Silence? There’s a lot of sound. Wind, the lapping water, bugs and things . . .”

He shakes his head. “I can’t think when it’s quiet like that.”

Weird. What must it be like to be so used to hearing music that the sounds of the world are distracting?

“You still tired?”

I nod, forcing my drooping eyes to blink instead of close.

He turns his back to me. “Hop on.”

“A piggyback ride?” When’s the last time I had one? “Won’t this hurt you?” I climb up with difficulty.

“You’re not very heavy.” For once I’m thankful for the comment on my size.

He has a firm hold as the canyon slopes down and my backside dips beneath the water. Wrapping my arms around his chest and resting my head on his shoulder feels acutely intimate, which may be why I’m so calm.

I drift off, watching the cattails pass by and listening to the sound of his rhythmic breathing.

Who needs music? I think in a sappy stupor.

When I wake, it’s dusk. A cricket chirps, awakening the other dusk insects. Jude is still walking, bobbing his head to his tune-chip. He must be in a happy mood. I strain my ear right next to his, but catch no whiff of melody.

We’re still in deeper water and my legs are numb from the pressure around his waist. Soreness crawls up my spine and my neck pops when I straighten it.

“I’m so cold,” I croak.

Jude lowers me into the water so I can stand. “Try walking again. The movement will help.”

My stomach rumbles with a stab of pain. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

No other speech passes between us. No use thinking about food without a solution. God, please get us out of this canyon, I pray. Must my time be wasted in this place deserted of people? Bring us the hope You showed me during Ash’s labor.

Thinking of Ash reminds me of my Bible. What if she and Black burn it as heresy? The albinos have no faith in God. But they have to see that their life isn’t how things are supposed to be. How can they not see this? Where does their purpose come from? Do they even feel the pull for more?

I need more than what they have to offer. Protecting trees while partaking in purposeful mutilation will never fulfill me, even if they hold a unity I’ve longed for within my village. I can’t be part of their purpose because it doesn’t look like purpose at all. I am on a pilgrimage. As Jude said: a quest to something sacred.

A quest to shalom.

Thirst drags drying saliva down my throat, but my water pouch is empty. The departure of the sun brings shadows once again, leaving the water with a black sheen. When I can’t see all the cattails, bugs, water-spiders, and slime on the surface, it’s easier to imagine the water being clean. How bad would it be for us to drink it?

The disgust I had when we first fell in the Dregs isn’t as strong anymore. It takes only an hour of dry mouth and the memory of dehydration with the wolves to scoop a handful of water to my lips.

I’ve slurped half of it before Jude slaps away my hand. “Don’t drink that!” His voice echoes against the canyon walls.

“Don’t shout!” My hand stings. “I’m thirsty.”

“This water isn’t clean.”

I shake my head. “Would you rather die of dehydration than drink a little dirty water?”

Jude lets out a huff. “Cities dump their waste and refuse into the Dregs. You could get seriously sick.”

My mouth seems to shrivel up at the idea of what I might have put into it. I have nothing to say, but I don’t doubt Jude will be drinking from the Dregs by sunrise.

Morning comes as pleasantly as the raising of a guillotine. Grey clouds grow stronger with the rising of the sun. I’m sick of living and Jude looks like a nauseous clown. His eyes are puffy and the black beneath them is turning to greenish yellow. Around two in the morning, I’d tried dragging him by my pack like he’d done to me, but I lasted an hour before my arm felt like a searing iron. I don’t even know if he slept, but the momentary rest seemed to invigorate him.

Our hunger takes precedence once the sun shines its muted warmth on our skin between the dark clouds. Jude plucks a locust off a cattail and bites it in half.

“Eww!” I recoil. I force a swallow to rid my mouth of the imagined crunch of locust.

“It’s food.” Jude pops the other half in his mouth. The legs are still squirming. “Men of God ate locusts in the Bible.”

“You can’t listen to bugs, but you can eat to them?” I shudder. “You are strange, Jude-man. Strange.”

Jude releases a one-beat laugh at my joking tone. I squeeze a green cattail stalk as we push through. “The albinos ate these.” I so hope he doesn’t suggest I eat a locust.

“I know. They’re delicious with salt and butter. Taste a lot like artichoke.”

“Do you think we can eat them raw?” If only we could somehow make a fire.

He responds by snapping a stalk. “If they’re green. Never eat them once they’ve turned brown.”

I follow his lead and pluck off a cattail head, checking to make sure no grasshoppers are hiding on it. All clear. Without allowing myself to question, I bite into it.

The center is hard as a rock, so I nibble the green fuzz around it. The texture is stiff and stringy, with little hairs like a peach. Raw, there’s not much taste to them; either that, or I’m distracted by the fact it feels like a miniature animal in my mouth. I still eat three of them.

“They’re much better cooked,” Jude says after his fourth one.

“I would assume so.”

He chuckles and I smile, desperate for an ounce of hope. My ounce turns into an avalanche when I glance up at the brightening edge of the canyon. A person stands on the albino side, a hundred yards away.

I grip Jude’s arm with a gasp. “Look.”

The person is tall and scans the Dregs. From this distance, it looks like a man wearing copious amounts of traveling gear. Maybe he has food. And water! He might even have a rope.

Jude squints. The man spots us and waves.

“Jude! He can help us.”

“Hey!” The man jogs up the canyon toward us. His voice is a tiny pinprick of sound, but settles like gold aloe on my heart. He waves again and Jude waves back.

“Hello!” I shout.

When he reaches us, he’s panting. “Hey! Jude and Parvin?”

“Yes!” I exclaim, but Jude steps forward, holding out a hand to silence me.

“Who are you?” His tone is cool.

“Willow sent me. A little albino girl. Do you know her?”

Jude relaxes. “Yes, where is she?”

“On the other side of the canyon. I saw her a day ago. She asked me to find you. Do you need help?”

“We need food and water.” My stomach clenches at the thought.

Jude laughs, relief clear on his voice. “We need rescue. Do you have a rope?”

The man sets his giant bag on the ground and rummages inside. It’s all black and looks very official. “Here.” He tosses us a silver canister. “To hold you over while I dig out my rope.”

The canister lands short with a plop and both Jude and I trudge forward to retrieve it. Inside are half a loaf of bread and three small cooked potatoes. What a savior!

I look back up. “Thank yo—” The words die on my lips as the stranger takes aim with a sleek sniper pistol. Before I can register the explosion from the weapon, Jude is struck by a bullet.