29

000.143.10.51.20

The warm interior of the Ivanhoe Independent welcomes me, but my soul remains chilled.

Willow.

Lines of brown bench seats, big enough for two people, flank each side of the car, facing forward. Each one is empty. Light orbs, like the one the conductress held, hang from the center of the ceiling in a long line. Cold metal floors chill my exposed foot.

I wrap my arms around my middle and walk into the next car. More empty seats line the sides like café booths with tables between them. I don’t know what I expected—Independents cheering me aboard while they sit drinking hot chocolate?

No one is here.

Chills creep up my legs like iced fingers. I wish I wasn’t alone.

Willow.

I open the next door and step across the shuddering enclosed walkway between cars. This one has a narrow hall with olive curtains along both sides. The orbs expel dim light. A snore crescendos over the deafening train. Sleeping quarters. I’ve always wanted to sleep on a train.

Some of my guilt recedes into interest. I look from curtained bed to curtained bed and sneak a peek under one of them. A snoring gentleman lies on his side with his lips sticking out like a lazy fish. I walk on, embarrassed that I peeked.

I pass more occupied beds until I reach three open ones, curtains still tied back. Three. One for each of us. I close my eyes and curse myself.

God, strike me dead now. Forget about my Clock. I hate myself.

The aches of my body flair in anticipation of lying down on cloth, on a mattress. I look down at my clothes and back at the folded white bed sheets. My own blood, scrapes, and dirt stand out with a shout against the possibility of touching something clean. I glance around before sniffing my right armpit. I cringe and suck in a breath through my mouth.

One of these beds is for me. I’m a passenger. They can’t kick me off for being dirty. I’ll take the lower bed. The other two open bunks are too high for a girl with a stump arm to climb into. Willow could’ve slept above me.

I drag a hand over my face, envisioning her small form crumpled on the tracks. Abandoned. By me. Has she ever seen a train before? She was so excited about Ivanhoe.

I let out a long breath and drop my pack onto the foot of the bed. A hiss meets my ears from my left. I pause, tense.

“Pssst.”

I look over and start. A woman with wheat-blonde hair in a side braid stares down at me with smeared eye makeup. She smiles, revealing sleepy bags beneath her eyes and splotchy skin.

“The showers are two cars up.” Her sleep breath hits my face with the strength of a rhino.

I step back. “Thank you. I’ve been traveling.”

She looks me up and down, her eyes lingering on my stump then taps her nose. “I can tell. It’s so much nicer sleeping refreshed.”

I can’t remember the last time I went to sleep refreshed. Showers. I know how they work, but I’ve never seen one before. Leaving my pack on the bed, I take my extra shirt, a wad of remaining underwear, and untie the curtains to claim my spot. I then proceed through another sleep car into the shower car. Four wooden stalls on the right say, Men and four on the left say, Women. Ahead are toilets with curtains around them. Toilets.

They tremble from the harsh clatter of the train, but the cold metal still feels like a luxury. After relieving myself, I enter the first shower stall. More cold grey metal lines the three walls, surrounding a spout above my head. A knob below it has an H and C for what I assume are ‘hot’ and ‘cold’. Beside that is a small digital clock covered in plastic.

A clear sealed box hangs on the shower wall. With careful maneuvering, using my teeth and good hand, I extract myself from my layered clothing and stuff it all in the box. It feels strange being unclothed and I double-check the latched door. Then I turn the knob to the H.

Ice water spews from the spout into my face. I leap back and slam against the door. It stays latched. The clock above the temperature knob blinks a number countdown from six minutes. By 5:23, the water is hot and glorious.

A sigh escapes my throat and I soak in the water for a full minute before scrubbing the grime from my skin. My bashed shin is already swollen and turning purple. It’s numb to the touch.

This is so much easier than heating the kettle over and over again. If I get enough specie from my biography, maybe Mother and Father can invest in a shower.

A large bottle labeled SOAP with a dispenser sits in a holder beside the glass box. I use my elbow to squirt liberal amounts into my hand. The left side of my body gets much cleaner than my right, since I don’t have a left hand. I rub my forearm up and down, hoping to spread the soap that way. Scrubbing my extra clothing proves even harder so I kneel and use my elbow to hold each piece against the floor while I brush soap over them.

Tired, discouraged, and grateful tears mix with the shower water, confusing me. I should stop crying, but no one’s here to see me. No one will know.

Six minutes end far too soon and I try to restart the shower after the water turns off. It doesn’t work. I even wait a full minute, but the water won’t return. With a reluctant groan, I dress in as few of my dirty clothes as possible, slipping into fresh, but wet, underwear, leggings, and top. Everything else smells of campfire—something I didn’t notice before. Touching the clothes leaves my hand smelling the same. It reminds me a little of home.

I return to my bed. Has Willow ever had a shower? Has she ever heard of one?

“God,” I groan. “I’m just obeying You.” But I can’t blame Him. He said go to Ivanhoe. He didn’t say when. “Jude wasn’t going to take me anymore.” I bite my tongue. Jude apologized. Maybe his apology meant he was going to take me to Ivanhoe. He should have said more with his ‘sorry’.

I lie in my curtained haven and think. Instead of the anger and conviction I felt about leaving Jude behind, I now recall the other things he’s done for me. He saved my life during the flash flood in the Dregs. He saved us from the angry albinos. He tried to help me when the albinos cut off my hand.

He said sorry.

Why couldn’t I remember those things when deciding to board? But my decision wasn’t based on leaving Jude. I don’t want to travel by foot anymore. I don’t want to sleep at the base of headstones or pick ticks out of my skin, or swat the bugs seeking my sweat anymore. I don’t want to spend my Numbers traveling.

He danced with me, I think, growing more despondent. I made him laugh. He carried my pack. He said he’d take us to Ivanhoe even though he didn’t want to. Will I ever find out what he invented that angered the Council?

I shouldn’t have left.

My NAB blinks 7% energy. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, but I need to. I need to contact Hawke for help, but can I expect help when I’ve deserted his friend?

~Hawke, I left Jude and Willow. I boarded a train going to Ivanhoe. It’s for the best. Jude and I had a . . . disagreement. The NAB picks up on the hesitation in my voice. I leave it.

~ It’s not safe for us to travel together anymore.

Should I elaborate?

~Apparently he got shot because of me.

Was it my fault?

~I think if we’re separate, he’ll be safer.

Do I really?

~I need to find my own way.

But I don’t want to be alone.

~Lastly, my NAB is saying it needs to be charged. How is that done?

Will Hawke see why I left? Will he see that part of my decision was for Jude’s safety?

I place the NAB back in my pack, trying to stifle the scent of lemon still attached to its cover. I don’t know how it lingers after all the Dregs water. I’ll write Skelley Chase his new journal entry tomorrow. He’ll like this one.

I roll onto my side and breathe in the softness of the pillow. It smells clean—soapy clean. I haven’t smelled something clean like this since home. I inhale again and imagine the scent of sawdust mixed in.

Father . . .

A fierce desire to go home flares in my soul. Simplicity was another life—one where I didn’t feel guilty or tired or hunted. A life where I could sleep in and didn’t have to wonder if I’d find water that day. A life of sewing and new clothes and fresh wool socks on a polished wood floor. No bleeding feet, no scarred legs, no rope burns, no aching muscles.

No purpose.

My eyes pop open. Him. God. That was Him putting a thought in my head. God? I reach out with my mental fingers. You’re here with me? Did I mess up? Are You disappointed?

The clarity of God-infused thought doesn’t return, but I know He’s here. He reminded me He’s giving me purpose.

“He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion . . .”

I’m on a train headed to Ivanhoe where I’ll find answers. I’ve fought for survival and clung to faith in His promise of life. He’s promised me four and a half more months . . . and I’m spending them abandoning my two companions. What must they think of me?

Fighting the emotional nausea, I pull the fresh blanket up to my chin and curl my head beneath it. Sooner than I expect, my body and mind relax into oblivion.

Morning is announced by a crewmember mere hours later. “Breakfast, seven to nine!” He taps his hands on the safety rails of a few beds and continues down the car. “Breakfast seven to nine!”

I tumble out of bed at the thought of food consisting of something other than rabbit meat. My mouth waters in wistful memory of Mother’s cinnamon oatmeal. I pull my pack after me and head through the washing car, barefoot and self-conscious.

A line has already formed in front of the women’s showers. Misty hot water and the aroma of soap fill the air. I feel out of place, clothed and dry, but the food car must be ahead.

Sure enough, the next car holds a long table on each side. Chairs are nailed down at one, facing the flyby scenery and the other table is laden with covered food dishes. A crewmember stands at the door, but says nothing when I cross the threshold. His eyes flick to my wrist and then he stares determinedly out the window.

“Do I just help myself?” I ask, fighting the threat of misery. Will people see me as half human? Handless? Will anyone look at my face anymore?

He bows. “Of course. Sit where you like.”

I walk down the food table like a dragon surveying its treasures. The meal is not elaborate, but it’s enough to make my stomach twist in a greedy knot. Scrambled eggs covered in cheese, boiled red potatoes, sliced apples, and thick flat rounds of bread. I pick one up. It’s light and floppy. Beside it sit two lidded glass tureens of gravy. The gravy is a dark amber color and almost see-through.

“What is that?” I ask the crewmember, pointing to the gravy.

“Maple syrup.” His eyes pause on my left arm again. “Uh . . . for your pancakes.”

I cover my stump with the floppy bread, fighting the warmth crawling up my face. Turning away, I return to the syrup. The pancakes must be the floppy bread. Mother makes something similar, but we call them corn patties and eat them with butter.

I spoon a drizzle of syrup onto a plate and taste it with my finger. Sweet. Very sweet. When’s the last time I had anything sweet? A couple spoonfuls later, I sit down at the opposite table, alone in the food car with plans already to return for seconds. To my surprise, I only eat half a pancake and my eggs. I stare at the remaining sticky bread made with precious flour seldom seen in Unity Village.

“Are you finished?” The crewmember reaches for my plate.

“Yes, but”—I grip the plate with my hand—“I’ll—I’ll keep this for now.”

He frowns and his lips twitch as if he’s about to say something. I look away, staring hard at the passing tombstones. Leave . . . please leave. I can’t let him throw away my pancake. It seems unjust when Jude and Willow are still eating rabbit meat.

When he walks away, I fold the pancake in a thin cloth napkin and place it in my pack. A different crewmember approaches me as I replace the flap over my pack.

“Ma’am?”

“I just wanted to save—”

“Are you last night’s pick-up?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He sits in the chair beside me. A bristle mustache lines his upper lip. Crinkles between his eyebrows hint at several years of frowning. “You were last night’s pick-up at two in the morning?”

“I-I believe that was the time.” I tug down the flap of my pack. He pulls a pencil from his pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. Black lines create columns down the length of the sheet. Half of them are filled in with tiny pictures and writing I can’t read.

“I’m the trade collector for the Ivanhoe Independent. You are traveling all the way to Ivanhoe, I presume?”

“Yeah.”

He makes a little smack sound with his tongue and scribbles on his paper.

“Name?” He doesn’t look up.

“Do you have an extra pencil I can borrow?” I blurt.

He glances at me with a frown, making me feel like a purple thistle in an alfalfa field. Without a word, he hands me his own pencil and pulls a new one from his pocket. “Name?”

“I’m sorry.” I fight a growing unease. “Why do you need my name?”

His scowl meshes with his many wrinkles. “I set up trade-pay. The conductress informed me you have no trade.” His eyes flit to my stump and linger there. “You will have to pay for your current passage when we reach Ivanhoe.”

“Pay with what?” I mentally search through my pack. Is there anything of worth in there?

“With time.” The man sighs, and I wipe my hand along my skirt pocket as if I can clench my Clock. “I have a list of vendors and traders who pay the train line for workers. I will set you up with one of them until your passage debt is paid.”

Why did I leave my sack of money at home? “How much is my debt?”

“We run a day-per-hour charge. Since you boarded around two in the morning and we’ll arrive at Ivanhoe around ten . . .” he squints in the air. “. . . that’s eight hours, so you’ll work for eight days.”

My muscles slacken with a stunned shiver. “E-eight days?”

“That’s how it works, ma’am. Unless you’ve got trade.”

My brain sinks into a sludge of injustice. “You can’t take eight days from me.”

His wrinkles harden into a firm glare. “You boarded the train with the knowledge you’d be using Ivanhoe credit. If you don’t pay it you get yourself locked up until you have a change of mind.” He must notice some sort of horror on my face because he softens his tone until he sounds a little more like a grandfather. “It’s not so bad. They don’t make you scrub floors. You can learn a lot under a trader. It’s commitment-free apprenticeship.”

His words don’t make much sense to me, but my heart withers at his gentler manner. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

“How long will you be there?”

“I-I don’t know.” I haven’t thought past getting to Ivanhoe.

“Why are you going?”

Sound confident. Think of a sure reason. “I need questions answered from the city leader.”

The old man’s laugh carries a sharp bite. “You want to see the Preacher? Who are you that he’d answer your questions?”

I gape at him with mounting exasperation. “I’ll keep my information to myself, thank you.”

Preacher? Willow never said the leader was a preacher. Maybe, in Ivanhoe, religion is common. Maybe they don’t have laws against raising children in faith like they do in the USE.

The trade collector rolls his eyes and returns to his paper, poising his pencil over a new line. “Give me your name.”

I pause long enough so he looks up, then lift my eyebrows and respond in as cold a voice as I can muster, “Parvin Blackwater.”

“Age?”

“Eighteen.”

“City?”

“None.”

He writes nothing nor does he look up, but his fingers tighten on his pencil. “I’ll inform you of your assignment options when we reach Ivanhoe.” He tucks his pencil into a pocket and folds up the piece of paper. “Keep in mind you are not permitted to enter the city proper of Ivanhoe until your passage has been paid in full.” With that, he walks away, my glare ushering him out the carriage door.

I rest my head in my hand, allowing the rhythmic clap of the tracks to jolt my body. A week of work. I boarded the Ivanhoe Independent to avoid wasting my last weeks. Now I’m paying for my rash action.

I should have jumped off when I saw Willow.

My NAB sends out a pop from inside my pack. With a heavy, leaden hand, I pull it out and view my message from Hawke.

~I’m afraid this may have been my fault. I informed Jude that your X-book journal entries mentioned him so he might need to caution you against how that information might be used. It was inevitable the assassin would find him, whether you sped that process up or not. Do not blame yourself.

~Your NAB should charge with the exposure to sunrays, either from the actual sun or a sun-port. It should take an hour to charge. This should last you up to a month. Stay safe. Tally ho.

Hawke’s message leaves me feeling worse and I’m not sure why. The NAB now blinks:

 . . . 2% energy, please charge . . . .

The sun outside shines parallel to the direction of the train. I make my way to the end car and step outside onto the same railing on which I watched Willow shrink into the distance. Now, the only things in the distance are the curve of the shrinking blacktop, giant white windmills, and the last of the dotted headstones. The ground looks so much flatter without the crosses and arced markers interrupting its pattern.

Morning sun illuminates the locomotive’s yellow paint. I sink to the shuddering ground with my NAB on my lap, leaving it open to the rays. The scent of lemons swirls in gusts with the wind. I turn my head away, trying not to breathe it in.

Skelley Chase caused all this. He forced me into the West. He published my biography and journal entries early. He’s making a game out of my life, and now I’m endangering Jude and Hawke.

I lift my chin with pursed lips and scowl at the sunrise. Going to Ivanhoe was the right thing to do. I’m alone again, as it started, as it should be, as I’ve always been. These people are toying with my decisions and emotions, interrupting my focus. Who cares what Hawke thinks? Who cares what Jude thinks? Who cares what Skelley Chase does or what Willow feels?

I never asked for any of it.

I’ll travel to Ivanhoe, work a week, and then demand answers from the Preacher. He’ll tell me how to find out God’s plan for me. He’ll tell me what the Independents need. He’ll tell me what to do and I’ll do it with every ounce of energy for one hundred and thirty-five days, five hours, and thirteen minutes. And then . . .

Then I’ll die.