ã€ŠRed Zone Sonã€‹


 Chapter 1: â€œYou can stare at the sky when youâ€™re in it."

    Chapter 1

    If Solomon absolutely had to jump out of a plane, 0100 hours was not the time he would have chosen for it. Never was a much better-looking option, in his book. Too bad for him that it wasn¡¯t on the table. Since the Westsylvania Zone Militia handed out beatdowns like a Halloween drone dispensing candy, he found himself with little choice in the matter. Taking a deep breath, he climbed out of the cattle truck with another dozen drafted teenagers, his boots crunching slightly on the hard-packed dirt as he began to help unload the parachute gear onto the airfield.

    The latch on one of the plastic crates was stuck. He finally managed to pry the lid loose to count only three pairs of night-vision dumbgoggles inside instead of the baker¡¯s dozen that would actually cover his squad¡¯s needs. He immediately tossed one to Hyeon-Ju. His friend¡¯s weak nighttime vision made him a terrible candidate for combat jump training, but if optimal allocation of resources was the stated goal of any red zone militia, well, Solomon had yet to see it.

    Straining his eyes, Solomon could make out the vague outline of the aircraft on the nearby runway. The angular ship traced out a shadow just slightly darker than the backdrop of rolling hills behind it, its shape revealed by the dim, flickering lights at the edge of the airstrip. Any minute now his squad would ascend into the pitch-black sky. There, at twenty thousand feet, he would make his first high-altitude jump.

    Whether he liked it or not.

    Still gazing into the night, he turned his back to the cattle truck before flexing his hands, resisting the urge to wipe them off on his pants. He didn¡¯t especially want anyone knowing his palms were already clammy. His anxiety wasn¡¯t just because he was about to fling his body into basically the stratosphere, though. It was because of what a failed jump would mean. The memory of Adah¡¯s tearful goodbye still haunted him, even a year and a half into his conscription. Promise you¡¯ll come back!

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    His shoulders tightened. Thinking about his little sister was no use right now. Forcing his mind away from her, he reached to sling his harness container over his shoulder. The last thing he needed was to be punished for moving too slowly.

    But Wilson was already stomping across the dirt field. The squad¡¯s sole smart lantern hummed beside his head, its light casting sharp, moving shadows as it tracked his movements. His blue-green eyes seemed to leap out at Solomon in the shifting light. ¡°You can stare at the sky when you¡¯re in it. Drop and give me twenty,¡± he heard Wilson bark, the man¡¯s voice cutting through the night air.

    Solomon wasn¡¯t stupid enough to argue. He¡¯d been trained sufficiently to know the only response was to hit the ground. Anything else brought the risk of singling yourself out for more retaliation. Besides, with Wilson at least you didn¡¯t get racial slurs. Instead, as soon as Solomon got into position, he felt a weight begin crushing his fingers. It was a boot, Wilson¡¯s boot, stepping with full force onto Solomon¡¯s right hand as he pushed up and down against the baked earth.

    Twenty push-ups was nothing these days. Even the pain shooting up his arm was something Solomon could ignore. But the tightness in his chest was making it hard to breathe. He closed his eyes, fighting his sense of powerlessness. Now was not the time to feel anything, anything at all. He had to focus on getting ready for his jump. In a few minutes he¡¯d be seated inside that plane, masked with oxygen, and rising through the clouds. The cargo door would open like a mouth waiting to swallow him, and he would have to leap through it. Into the night sky, into a belly full of stars and soldiers hurtling a hundred miles per hour with nothing between them and the vast expanse.

 Chapter 2: â€œQuit harassing us. We canâ€™t keep track of every disappeared employee.â€

    Chapter 2

    Umma had been out getting groceries at Seoul Mart when Solomon called to tell her that Dad still wasn¡¯t home from work. ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid,¡± was the last thing she¡¯d said to him, her voice crackling through the static. ¡°I¡¯ll find him. If I¡¯m not back by dinnertime, you and Adah make some kimchi fried rice. Be a good Oppa to your sister, okay, Solo?¡±

    Solomon was four years older than Adah. For the past seven months he¡¯d tried to be a good Oppa by making sure she was eating, reassuring her they¡¯d be okay, and taking care of adult stuff like bills and school forms. He hadn¡¯t stopped calling Dad¡¯s office downtown until the FrontDesk bot finally told him his father¡¯s absence was his problem, not the clinic¡¯s.

    ¡°Quit harassing us. We can¡¯t keep track of every disappeared employee.¡±

    When Solomon found Adah curled up under layers of blankets, her forehead hot to the touch, he knew it was up to him to figure out how much seaweed to soak for the soup their mother used to boil for them whenever they got sick. Sure, the prevailing culture of the red zone insisted cooking was for women, but Adah was only thirteen, and she was the one throwing up. He wasn¡¯t going to let her go hungry no matter what the digital sky ads said.

    ¡°I have to figure out how to put the house in my name, but I don¡¯t think I¡¯m allowed to do that until I¡¯m eighteen,¡± he said to Adah as he placed a tray on the two-drawer nightstand next to her bed. Her dinner was one watery bowl of miyeokguk with not enough cubed chicken breast in it, thanks to the militias getting the first cut of everything that made it through the zone borders. ¡°Careful. It¡¯s hot.¡±

    Adah¡¯s face fell. She tugged at the band holding her halfro in a puff, probably because her curls had gotten knotted around it. But that happened all the time. He didn¡¯t think that was what was upsetting her just now. Her gaze, fixed on something far beyond the room, told him she was grappling with the implication of his words, his unspoken conclusion.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t given up on finding them,¡± Solomon said quickly even as his stomach sank. He wished he hadn¡¯t brought up the house deed. It had been heavy on his mind but the last thing he wanted to do was share that weight with her, especially while she was recovering. He glanced through her bedroom window at the cold, gray street outside. A mail drone flew by, its usual fireman-red rotors buzzing. ¡°FaceSeek didn¡¯t turn up anything, but I¡¯ve been talking to someone online who defected from the Philadelphia zone two months ago. I asked him to meet in person. I need some censor-free information and it¡¯s been impossible to find anyone willing to give it to me, but I think this guy will.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll take the yellow route?¡± Adah asked. She gave him a tiny smile that didn¡¯t hide the tightness in her eyes.

    He nodded. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll be careful. And I¡¯ll make sure you have enough miyeokguk before I head out. Anything happens, you call me. Okay?¡±

    Two days later, on Sunday afternoon, when WhiteFunk1492 typed back yeah, I can meet at the Schenley Oval Tent, Solomon put his phone in his pocket and knocked on Adah¡¯s bedroom door. Meeting WhiteFunk was what he¡¯d been waiting for, but now that he was on the brink of it he found his insides were churning. He didn¡¯t tell Adah that, though. He didn¡¯t tell her that there was a reason why school, church, and the grocery store were the only places he wanted to let them go these days. Instead, he took a deep breath and gave her a hug. ¡°It¡¯s time.¡±

    Adah dragged herself down to watch him through the open door connecting the kitchen and the garage. Umma had sung the ¡°Lord bless you and keep you¡± passage from Numbers as a blessing whenever they left the house for school, and Solomon heard Adah start to sing it as he got into the car. That was just like her. To think of him even when she was sick, to encourage him the best way she could. Watching her, his shoulders relaxed a little as he directed the old-model DriveAssist to pull out of their driveway and onto the road.

    He still couldn¡¯t help but glance at every hill his car crested, at the clunkers half-parked on the sidewalks per usual and the lamp posts plastered with photographs of dead militia veterans. The explanation his father had given the scared, seven-year-old him the very first time they got stopped at a checkpoint preyed on his mind. ¡°People have been calling it the Great Splintering because the nation split into patches of red and blue, scattered and for the most part disconnected. Some places, red militias rolled in from the fields and took over the cities. Other spots, cities held on and managed to spread that blue rule out to the country. Philly, right next door, they¡¯re all under blue control, stretching across the east side of Pennsylvania. But not here. Pittsburgh, we fell into a red zone, and now those militias, they¡¯re our law and our leaders.¡±

    He¡¯d never gotten used to the checkpoints. It didn¡¯t matter how many he had been stopped at since. He was nervous at all of them. Thankfully, Mappify¡¯s yellow route didn¡¯t let him down, and he arrived without encountering a single militiaman. It probably helped that it was one of those gray April days that felt like a leftover from winter. Nobody wanted to be outside when it was 38 degrees and lightly hailing. While the car parked itself by a defunct carousel that had been temporarily out of service for years, Solomon texted Adah: got here safe.

    Then he got out and looked up. From where he stood next to the faded horses, the Schenley Oval Tent looked like a massive white dunce cap on stilts, except with the top of the hat sliced off to reveal a circle that was maybe two feet in diameter. He couldn¡¯t quite tell from there. Maybe if he got directly under it, he¡¯d be able to estimate better. Sometimes the eyes played tricks on the mind, and something that looked small from far away sometimes turned out to be bigger up close, or the opposite.

    Not that now was the time to indulge his curiosity. The White guy hanging out next to one of the stilts, hands in his pockets, was probably WhiteFunk1492. On a sunny day, this plaza would be stuffed full of people, but he was the only one around at the moment. ¡°WhiteFunk?¡± Solomon called out.

    The guy¡¯s head whipped around. His eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯re not an Asian girl.¡±

    ¡°I know,¡± Solomon replied, sliding in closer, getting under the edge of the tent, out of the rain. He stayed to the far side of a set of folding chairs around a table in case he had to run. ¡°I knew you wouldn¡¯t meet me unless you thought I was a girl. I needed to talk to someone from a blue zone. I have some questions. Can you help?¡±

    ¡°I fed that picture you sent me to a checksite,¡± the guy replied, now sounding half-wary, half-plaintive. ¡°It said that it wasn¡¯t AI-generated, that it was real.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t really want to explain that he had touched up a scanned print photograph of Umma from when she was young, so he didn¡¯t say anything. Instead, he studied WhiteFunk a little. He looked like a standard White guy, blond, blue-green eyes, maybe five or so years older than Solomon. He was shorter than Solomon¡¯s six and quarter feet though, and very thin, a loosely-fitting windbreaker almost swallowing his frame. Meeting him in person confirmed the sense Solomon had gotten from chatting with him online that he wasn¡¯t very internet savvy, that he didn¡¯t know as much as a guy his age should. Things like how everyone online is a dog, and how easy it was to fool the checksites if you knew what you were doing. Maybe it made sense, though. He wasn¡¯t the first blue zone defector Solomon had tried to meet, but he was the first one who¡¯d agreed to meet with him.

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    At any rate, he no longer seemed angry. A bit wary, still. Solomon could tell that the guy was sizing him up just as he was doing to him. He could guess what was going through his mind: Brown skin, but living in a red zone? I thought a lot of them left for blue zones. What¡¯s his story?

    Then Solomon saw it. That change in stance, eyes growing sharp, that shift he had seen some White people go through when they saw his brown skin and realized, I can say anything I want to him now.

    Solomon tried not to wince. He was too young to remember what they used to be like before, but his parents had told him that the White people they knew used to be too scared to talk about race at all in case they said the wrong thing. When the Great Splintering began, so did what his Dad had called White people dumping time. He¡¯d called it this publicly at first, then just at home once the red zone militias took over Pittsburgh.

    But WhiteFunk surprised him. He shrugged, then said, ¡°Well, what do you want, then? Why¡¯d you want to meet?¡±

    Taking that as a sign, Solomon went for it. ¡°Do you know if people ever get taken from a red zone to a blue zone?¡±

    The guy¡¯s eyebrows shot up. ¡°You¡¯re looking for someone?¡±

    Solomon hesitated. How much can I trust him? He thought through what the guy had told him online. How he had grown up a good blue zone White boy, confessing his privilege or whatever it was they did over there. ISP throttling made it hard to get information originating from inside a blue zone. Solomon knew WhiteFunk had liked some random manifesto he¡¯d found online about how the fundamental red zone philosophy was that White people should be free to be White. He had sent Solomon some of it.

    It¡¯s fine to be non-White, the manifesto had read. But no more bullshit about there being something wrong with White people, no more apologizing for being too White. Instead of freaking out because some group isn¡¯t ¡°diverse¡± enough, freak out because it¡¯s not White enough!

    ¡°Yes,¡± Solomon finally said, but he didn¡¯t want to risk saying more.

    ¡°You and half the country,¡± the guy muttered. ¡°Look, I don¡¯t know a lot, but I¡¯ll tell you what I do know. Yeah, sometimes there are trucks from red zones that come in and dump a bunch of people of color off. They get processed. I had a friend who worked at one of the processing centers. Some of them get let go, some of them get handed camp sentences.¡±

    A tight knot was forming in his throat, but Solomon still listened quietly to everything WhiteFunk was saying. Initially, he and Adah had clung to the hope that Umma and Dad had been sentenced to a red zone prison camp. But as the months passed by without a dispatch about either of their arrests, he¡¯d started to believe the worst had happened. WhiteFunk¡¯s words were mitigating his darkest fears. It was seeming possible that some militiamen in the All-White faction had gone rogue, abducted Umma and Dad, and dumped them across the Susquehanna River into the Philadelphia blue zone.

    Maybe they were still alive.

    Solomon managed to swallow it down; he didn¡¯t cry as easily as he used to. ¡°Do you know where they store the data from processing centers?¡±

    WhiteFunk shook his head. ¡°Sorry, man, I don¡¯t.¡±

    Solomon looked up at the tent sloping above their heads, trying to think. I could try to hack their network, run some common exploits... But even assuming that works, what then? Search through the files looking for their names?

    ¡°Do they even store people by their names?¡± he asked WhiteFunk.

    He shook his head. ¡°They don¡¯t record names or anything in those centers, just DNA and a prisoner ID number. And the ones they let go, they don¡¯t record at all.¡±

    A shiver traveled down Solomon¡¯s back. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets. He¡¯d been trying to ignore how cold he was, but the rain had turned back into hail. He should have brought a hat, but his hair didn¡¯t have kink like Dad¡¯s so he tended to leave it uncovered in order to make White people less nervous. ¡°Okay,¡± he said. ¡°How big are the processing centers? And how many are there?¡±

    Slowly, question by question, Solomon pulled all the data he could out of WhiteFunk. He was very surprised the man was being so helpful, but he wasn¡¯t about to question why while he was getting answers. Not yet, anyway.

    Since WhiteFunk wasn¡¯t a bot search agent, though, he couldn¡¯t give Solomon precise numbers about anything, so it ended up taking a while. By the time he was done, Solomon had no actionable information, the dim shadow of the white tent had stretched from nothing to long and fat along the sidewalk, and his stomach was growling.

    And then WhiteFunk delivered the final blow. ¡°Listen,¡± he began abruptly. ¡°If the person you¡¯re searching for was taken to a blue zone, I hate to say it, but you¡¯re never going to find them. Crossing the zone borders is basically impossible. The militias control all movement in and out, and they don¡¯t let just anybody pass through.¡±

    Solomon felt his shoulders slump. It was all for nothing then. He¡¯d come this far only to hit a dead end. ¡°Got it,¡± he said quietly. He pulled out his phone to text Adah that he was still okay, and looked back up at WhiteFunk. ¡°Thank you.¡±

    After that, he wanted to head back to his car, but he hesitated. Even though it had ended up being pointless, he felt like he should offer WhiteFunk something for enduring the long interrogation, and after he¡¯d lied to him about being a girl, too. ¡°You¡­ you need anything?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± WhiteFunk said. ¡°They treat defectors okay here. The hotel is nice, the food is good.¡±

    Solomon nodded. ¡°For now, probably.¡±

    All at once WhiteFunk¡¯s face tightened. ¡°What do you mean, for now?¡±

    The tension in his voice startled Solomon. ¡°Oh, I just meant, historically speaking,¡± he explained quickly. ¡°Like in books. The Limbo Files, Phantom Loyalties. I read that in wartime conditions, it¡¯s common to treat defectors well initially, then later arrest them as spies.¡±

    WhiteFunk¡¯s posture softened. A smile touched his lips. ¡°You read history books? For fun? They don¡¯t have XR games in this zone?¡±

    ¡°No, we do! Or, did, anyway. AR visors have been banned here since the Splintering. You know, because the militia council thought AR platforms encouraged too much political engagement, which, I¡¯ve read they do.¡± Great, now Solomon sounded like he was making excuses, defending a council decision he¡¯d never liked. ¡°They save most of that kind of tech for the militias, anyway,¡± he muttered, shrugging.

    ¡°Well, at least they let you read anything you like here, huh?¡±

    Solomon knew what WhiteFunk was implying. The other blue zone defectors he¡¯d talked to online all seemed eager to think of the red zone as a place of freedom, especially of thought. Solomon hadn¡¯t gotten the impression that any of them particularly wanted their assumptions corrected. He shrugged again.

    WhiteFunk chuckled. ¡°I am going to like this zone. I can tell that already. Anyway, it¡¯s cold as balls out here. Want to know anything else?¡±

    He did, actually. ¡°How did you cross the zone border?¡±

    The mirth in WhiteFunk¡¯s eyes faded. Solomon watched him glance down at his worn sneakers. ¡°By killing someone.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t really know what to say to that, but now he definitely wanted to leave. ¡°Um, well, thanks again, WhiteFunk.¡±

    WhiteFunk scoffed lightly. ¡°Sam.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t think he should give him his name, because it was weird and therefore more easily searchable, but he still felt like he owed the guy something for his time. ¡°Solomon.¡±

    ¡°Solomon,¡± the guy repeated, pausing for a moment. ¡°Well, it was good to meet you. Have a nice life!¡±

 Chapter 3: â€œCan I reach for my license? Itâ€™s in my back pocket.â€

    Chapter 3

    The yellow route back home took Solomon north across Lawrenceville and into a side street. Dusk had settled by the time the car turned off the main road, so he didn¡¯t see the portable barricade fence until he was practically on top of it. The auto-pilot abruptly applied the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a jarring stop.

    Frozen in place, Solomon watched a militiaman begin adding reflective strips along the crossbars of the barricade. After making sure the militiaman¡¯s back was to him, he grabbed his phone and pressed Mappify¡¯s REPORT CHECKPOINT button. Then he swiped out of the app. The militias didn¡¯t like Mappify, and Solomon didn¡¯t want it up on his screen in case the militiaman demanded he hand over his phone.

    After doing that, Solomon put his hands at ten and two like Dad had taught him, and waited. And waited. And waited, tapping his hands on the wheel. It was as if the militiaman wanted Solomon to sit there and sweat. Finally, the man walked back and tapped on his window. He was a White guy who looked only a little older than Solomon at best. Keeping his right hand fixed to the steering wheel, Solomon used his left to press the button to roll the window all the way down. ¡°Can I help you?¡± he asked, placing his left hand back on the wheel.

    ¡°License,¡± the militiaman said.

    He nodded. Just as his father had taught him, he asked for permission before he moved.

    ¡°Can I reach for my license? It¡¯s in my back pocket.¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    This time, Solomon kept his left hand on the steering wheel, and reached for his wallet with his right. The only time he let go of the steering wheel was to open his wallet after bringing it up to eye level. Once he took his license out, he put his wallet, slowly, on the dashboard in front of him, and then handed his license to the militiaman. He put his hands back onto the steering wheel and left them there, every sense at full alert. Things were going fine, so far, but you never knew when the punch you didn¡¯t see coming was going to hit.

    Hopefully, the militiaman wouldn¡¯t ask to look at the car¡¯s registration or insurance card. He didn¡¯t know if they were up to date. Of course, he wasn¡¯t even sure if the militias cared about that kind of thing or not. Since the Great Splintering, a lot of regulations had only been sporadically enforced.

    The militiaman studied the driver¡¯s license as if deciphering a hidden message. He held up a flashlight to it, running his thumb over Solomon¡¯s picture. Solomon kept his hands at ten and two, reminding himself to breathe.

    Suddenly, the militiaman¡¯s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward.

    ¡°This is fake,¡± he growled. ¡°I bet you¡¯re eighteen already, and trying to pretend you¡¯re not. I bet you¡¯re a draft-dodger.¡±

    Solomon felt his stomach twist with fear. He didn¡¯t know what to say. He didn¡¯t even know what the man was talking about. Maybe the factional militias had drafted boys like him before the Great Splintering? ¡°It¡¯s not fake,¡± he managed. ¡°My birthday¡¯s in October.¡±

    ¡°Get out of the car.¡±

    Slowly, with his right hand on the steering wheel, Solomon opened the door. Once outside the car, he kept his hands out in front of him. The militiaman pointed his flashlight forward, revealing a big commercial moving truck on the other side of the barricade with its ramp fully extended. Next to it was a low-roofed warehouse. He shined his light at the open door on the side of the warehouse. ¡°Go there.¡±

    Now Solomon was really trying not to panic. It was even colder outside now that the sun had set, but he was sweating. He shuffled over to the side of the warehouse, past a broken-down robot forklift, and looked through the door. Inside, there was nothing except what looked like bags of sand all piled up on top of each other, maybe a thousand of them. He jumped a little when the militiaman suddenly swung his flashlight to the bags. ¡°Get going. Move them into the truck.¡±

    That was what he wanted? Solomon¡¯s stomach unclenched a little. It was better than being shoved into the truck and taken somewhere else for something worse. He moved to pick up the first bag. It was sand, maybe fifty pounds of it. He picked it up and climbed up the ramp, putting it down gently. A hole in the bag meant some sand spilled anyway, but it wasn¡¯t much and the militiaman seemed to be prioritizing speed over perfection. Solomon moved faster. Especially as he was shivering a little. He¡¯d left his coat in the car, but if he finished quickly, Solomon told himself, the militiaman would let him go home.

    But forty-seven bags later, he was beginning to falter. Sweat stung his eyes. He wasn¡¯t used to lifting heavy loads like this, especially not on an empty stomach. At least the militiaman wasn¡¯t looking at him anymore; he was sitting against the warehouse wall, his eyes closed. Just one more, Solomon told himself. Just one more bag.

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    He was at ninety-eight bags now, and he had barely made a dent. At this rate, Solomon was going to be there all night. He wasn¡¯t even sure he would last the night. He was staggering and his legs were trembling as he carried the next bag of sand up into the truck. He looked longingly at the robot forklift, but the wheels were splayed out in a way that implied mechanical failure. Solomon wasn¡¯t very handy, but even so he had to wonder if he had a better chance of fixing the machine than moving all one thousand sandbags before his body gave out. If only he could have some water!

    His thoughts were cut short by a new voice, an older one that boomed out from behind him. ¡°Who the hell is this?¡±

    Solomon looked up. He had been hoisting the last few bags onto his shoulder to try and distribute the weight a little, so he had to turn to see who asked the question. It was another militiaman, an older one, also White. He was staring at Solomon, and then at the first militiaman who had stopped him, who was now getting to his feet. ¡°He¡¯s, uh¡­¡± Solomon watched mental gears scrabble for traction in the militiaman¡¯s head, and almost heard the metal-on-metal screech as they failed to provide what he was looking for. ¡°He¡¯s helping.¡±

    ¡°Give me your license.¡± The second militiaman held his hand out toward Solomon.

    ¡°He has it.¡± Solomon gestured at the first militiaman.

    Solomon watched as the younger man handed over his license. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, but didn¡¯t stay still for long. It was cold, and at least moving did something about that. He stopped in his tracks when the second militiaman started shouting.

    ¡°You¡¯re out of basic training for six seconds and you think you¡¯re some sort of hotshot? That you can draft underage civilians to do your work?¡±

    The second militiaman stomped over to Solomon and thrust his license at him. ¡°Go home.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t hesitate. He slid the sandbag from his shoulder right down onto the ramp where he was standing, took his license, and raced back to his car. He fumbled with the door handle, his hand shaking as his arms continued to burn. Getting the car started, he didn¡¯t even look at the militiamen as he manually reversed back onto the main road. All he wanted was to get back home, eat, and take a shower. He was freezing and covered in sand and sweat, the salt still burning his eyes. Thankfully, Mappify didn¡¯t lead him astray this time, and he was able to pull into their garage right at ten after ten.

    ***

    Solomon entered the kitchen to find Adah had steamed some jjinppang. Hopefully, that meant she was feeling better. The buns weren¡¯t as puffy anymore, and the red bean paste inside the premade biscuit dough was cold, but he inhaled them anyway. He made the next three since that was all their pot could hold at a time. Standing by the stove, he swallowed them as soon as they were done, even though they were almost too hot to eat. He was so glad she had prepared something. Umma had taught them both how to cook when Adah was around seven and he was eleven, so they had been managing okay at home with meals, but it was hard to know in advance what they were going to eat.

    ¡°You¡¯re the best,¡± he told her, his mouth full.

    ¡°I know,¡± she replied. She was sitting down on a chair she had pulled into the kitchen, and her face was still drawn, but she was grinning, and Solomon knew it was from sheer relief that he was back. He was relieved too. She hadn¡¯t asked yet why he was covered in sand, although she probably would; she was an observant kid.

    Solomon didn¡¯t want to tell her about the militiaman and the bags he¡¯d been forced to carry. It would only upset her. He also didn¡¯t want to tell her that his trip had been a waste, that all he¡¯d found out was what he had been suspecting for months now, that even if Umma and Dad were still alive, he was never going to find them. She was looking at him waiting for him to say more, and Adah wasn¡¯t the kind of person to be put off. She turned stubborn at two and hasn¡¯t lost it since, Umma had once said, and it was true. Adah was always the one who got in trouble for not giving up on what she wanted. She¡¯s like you, Dad would tell Umma, and then Umma would laugh and say, no, she¡¯s like you!

    Thinking about their parents made Solomon¡¯s throat tight. Adah reached up to take his hand; Solomon supposed she could tell from his body language that he didn¡¯t have good news. Next to them, the steamer started to rattle from the boiling water beneath it. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± he said, his voice catching. ¡°We¡¯ll be okay. I¡¯ll apply to be your legal guardian so nobody can separate us. Only six more months and I¡¯ll be eighteen, I can do it then. And we have the money Umma stashed¡­ we¡¯ll make it. God will be with us. We¡¯ll be okay.¡±

    Adah¡¯s face crumpled. Maybe she was thinking the same thing he was thinking, which was that God had been with all the people he had read about in history books, too, and that hadn¡¯t stopped them from being arrested and sent to a camp and worked to death. Was that what had happened to Umma and Dad? Was that what was going to happen to them?

    Solomon¡¯s jaw tightened as he thought about the militiaman who had pulled him out of his car, who had been sitting down resting while he carried one bag of sand after another up the ramp. He¡¯d been powerless to stop him. He hadn¡¯t even been able to say no to him.

    This late at night, the kitchen window looked like a black framed photograph. Reflected in it was the side of Adah¡¯s head, her curls loose against her cheek. Solomon¡¯s grip tightened on her hand, and he found himself praying as he looked at her profile. What else could he do? Please help me take care of her, he begged. Please help me keep her safe. I don¡¯t want her to have to figure things out by herself. Don¡¯t let her lose me too!

 Chapter 4: â€œThatâ€™s how you end up on someoneâ€™s kill list..."

    Chapter 4

    The day Solomon turned eighteen, he felt light-headed, as if all the pent-up breath of the past six months had finally been released in a single, dizzying exhale. He¡¯d never skipped school since even before Umma and Dad disappeared, but today he thought he might. He didn¡¯t think he even had to go to school anymore now that he was eighteen, but he knew Umma would be upset if she knew he was even entertaining the thought.

    He was entertaining it anyway.

    When the factional militias locked down inter-zone travel, they¡¯d made it so people could only attend college in person in Westsylvania. But in some blue zones to the east, that wasn¡¯t the case. Students there could study remotely or travel to other zones for school since they shared a border with other blue zones. Though he¡¯d read that New York was tough to get through because of all the red upstate, this opened their options. Even in Solomon¡¯s red zone, he could apply to Carnegie Mellon, University of Pittsburgh, Duquesne, Point Park¡­ and then, maybe, if he couldn¡¯t find work in this zone, he could apply for a remote job and hope his new degree would give him a leg up.

    That was what Umma and Dad seemed to think he would do, at any rate. In the decades before the Great Splintering, businesses had started aligning either blue or red and only selling to either liberal or conservative customers. There were Republican pillow companies and Democrat pillow companies. There were Republican light bulb manufacturers and Democrat light bulb manufacturers. Those were all still around, and if you lived in a red zone, you could work remotely for a corporation headquartered in another red zone, even if you couldn¡¯t ever travel there.

    Solomon remembered when the zone borders got closed, there¡¯d initially been massive shortages because distribution of goods got shut down too. His parents had been very worried because it was November then. It wasn¡¯t a problem they could garden out of, and without shipments of food, they¡¯d go hungry. Dad had kept saying that they¡¯d unlock the zones, that one thing Americans couldn¡¯t stand was being poor, and he¡¯d ended up being half-right. The leadership of different red and blue zones swapped rights of passage, creating corridors to allow inter-zone deliveries.

    These days, AI-driven delivery trucks were searched at each zone border, but eventually allowed across borders to complete their old, pre-fracturing routes. At the cost of cutting human drivers out of the arrangement, this made it possible for red zone light bulbs to reach distant red zone sockets, and for blue zone pillows to rest on other blue zone beds. But everything moved much more slowly, now.

    At any rate, Solomon wasn¡¯t seeing signs that interzone travel was unlocking for humans anytime soon. Besides, Dad and Umma weren¡¯t here anymore, and their cash was running dangerously low. He didn¡¯t have enough to pay for college tuition. He was surprised they had even made it this far. Umma and Dad had had more saved than he¡¯d realized, but they were going to run out soon, and that meant he needed to find work or there would be no more jjinppang for him and Adah.

    On top of all that, the very first people to get arrested by the red zone militias had been the college professors. Who would even be teaching him if he did go to college? No, he was better off not applying. Anything he wanted to learn, he could learn online anyway, like the one weekend he¡¯d taught himself Perl after getting curious about legacy scripting languages.

    Maybe he should¡¯ve spent more time doing that kind of thing over the summer instead of playing video games and hiking in Frick Park with Adah. Or looked for a job. He¡¯d prayed for one, but little more than that. He¡¯d been so focused on getting to eighteen without anyone finding out that their parents were gone that he hadn¡¯t thought to act on anything before his birthday.

    And now, his birthday was here.

    A rare sunny October day, perfect for visiting a pumpkin farm. Not that he had been to a pumpkin farm since the Great Splintering. He had a vague memory of rolling a pumpkin down a 45 degree slide and hoping it would smash at the end. He must have been no older than six at the time.

    Something about that memory appealed to Solomon. He found himself wanting to see orange guts dripping out of shards of pumpkin all broken up. Umma had drilled into them since they were toddlers all this stuff about sharing their feelings with their words, however, so he started to wonder if he was angry. Angry that they were running out of money. Angry at himself for not having done anything about it earlier, for wasting the summer. Angry that he couldn¡¯t go to college. Angry that Umma and Dad had never came back. Angry at himself for not being able to find them.

    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    ¡°Solo?¡± Adah called out into the hallway. ¡°The bus is almost here. Are you coming?¡±

    Solomon peeled himself out from under his blanket, closed the threadbare drapes, and shuffled to the door. Adah was at the top of the stairs just outside her room, the door ajar. Music was spilling out from behind it. It was from some musical, probably Les Miserables, her favorite. Adah loved musicals, she had a whole stack of vintage CDs from shows that she played all the time.

    ¡°I¡¯m not going to school today,¡± he told her. ¡°Go ahead and catch the bus.¡±

    She made a face. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said. He knew she didn¡¯t like to go without him. ¡°Just this one time, okay? For my birthday.¡±

    He saw her think about it. ¡°Okay,¡± she said. ¡°Since I didn¡¯t get you a present.¡±

    Solomon smiled at her joke. He¡¯d been the one to tell her in no uncertain terms that she was not allowed to spend a single cent on getting him a birthday gift.

    ¡°By the way, a drone dropped off a package for you.¡± Adah held out a flat yellow package about the size of an 8-by-11-inch piece of paper.

    The upstairs hallway wasn¡¯t very long. One step took him past the towel closet and the bathroom door on the left; the next past Umma and Dad¡¯s room on the right, and the final step brought him to the end of the dimmed corridor to take the envelope from Adah¡¯s hand. He glanced up at the cracked ceiling. The bulb had gone out a month ago but the hall wasn¡¯t dark enough to waste money on a new one.

    He waved as Adah ducked back into her room to turn off her CD player, and then she was down the stairs and out the front door, her self-done braids slightly askew. Ripping open the package, he confirmed what he¡¯d suspected through the manila: it was a single-use screen.

    As soon as he touched the screen, the words WESTSYLVANIA MILITIA COUNCIL crawled across the top. Underneath, Solomon was directed to confirm his name, birthdate, address, and phone number before registering for a faction. He knew right away which one he was going to pick and poked the checkbox next to CULTURAL NATIONALIST. It was the biggest faction in their zone. There were six other factions he could have chosen, but he couldn¡¯t join the ALL-WHITE faction, and he didn¡¯t want to join the ANTI-WOKE or the CHURCH MILITANT. Besides, CULTURAL NATIONALIST was the faction Umma and Dad had joined after the Great Splintering.

    Solomon remembered them arguing about which faction to join, actually. Umma hadn¡¯t wanted to sign up for anything. ¡°That¡¯s how you end up on someone¡¯s kill list, by signing up to be part of a political group, any group, it doesn¡¯t matter which one.¡± And at first, they¡¯d been able to avoid it. But when the interim militia council started centralizing power, it had required every Westsylvania Zone resident to register for a faction. Of all the factions, cultural nationalism fit their views the best, so that was what they had picked. It wasn¡¯t ethnonationalism which thought America should be for White people only, it was more a West-is-best attitude. Kind of like the manifesto WhiteFunk, or Sam, had shared with Solomon all those months ago. Don¡¯t come to America if you¡¯re just going to complain about America, don¡¯t come to America if you¡¯re just going to try to use America to get riches for yourself, come to America if you want to be American.

    Which made sense to Solomon. Dad had always joked with Umma that when White people got something right, they got it really right. Like the scientific method. When they got it really wrong, you got race-based slavery.

    ¡°See, that¡¯s what the West is like,¡± Dad had said. ¡°It¡¯s a mix of the real good and the real bad. But it¡¯s a tactical mistake to talk just about the bad parts. If you push White people to choose between outright White supremacy ¨C which they¡¯ve had a thousand years of practice at ¨C and playing the villain in their own national story, well, they¡¯re going to lean toward what they know best. They¡¯ve only been in villain shoes for what, a century?¡±

    His parents¡¯ conversations had grown less lighthearted as time went on. ¡°American history was always just two groups of White people fighting over which group of White people was better, from colonists versus the British to the North versus South to liberals versus conservatives,¡± Umma had fumed once. ¡°And now, because they just had to fight about it, I¡¯m stuck in this zone and can¡¯t go and see my sister.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, don¡¯t worry,¡± Dad had soothed. ¡°Her text messages are still getting through sometimes, right? She¡¯s just waiting it out, like us.¡±

    Eemo¡¯s family had been living in the western suburbs of Chicago before they¡¯d tried to flee. Solomon¡¯s parents had shared with him some ugly rumors about the red zone militias taking over that whole area. In Illinois, the militias were mostly made up of ethnonationalists, and from what he could gather, they hadn¡¯t held back on any part of their vision for a ¡°cleaner Chicago.¡±

    After Solomon finished filling out the screen, he pressed the submit button at the bottom. The screen turned blank except for a loading symbol in the middle. Round and round and round it flickered. He almost put the screen down to go to the bathroom while he was waiting when onto the page flashed the words: SOLOMON WILLIAMS SELECTED FOR MILITIA SERVICE. REPORT FOR DUTY ON JANUARY 1.

 Chapter 5: "â€œThey hunt you down if you donâ€™t show up."

    Chapter 5

    Solomon blinked. What? Militia service? Like the White guy who had him carry all those sandbags into that truck?

    He went back to his bedroom, put the single-use screen down next to his display, and slid his phone into the display¡¯s dock port. Sitting down, he pulled up the bot search agent and asked, ¡°What does it mean if I¡¯m selected for militia service in the Westsylvania Zone?¡±

    He always kept the answers in text-only mode, not wanting to wake Adah when he used his display at night. Just as he was about to give up on the blinking cursor, the bot finally started spitting out text.

    In the Westsylvania Zone, every faction is mandated by the interim militia council to contribute 10% of its members toward the formation of the Westsylvania Zone Militia. Each faction employs distinct approaches in selecting their recruits. For instance, the All-Whites exclusively rely on volunteers, whereas the Cultural Nationalists employ a lottery system for drafting. The duration of service spans eight years. Four of these years are active duty, while an additional four are spent in the militia reserve. Reservists should expect frequent and regular service.

    Eight years?! He stared at the screen. ¡°What¡­ what is militia service in the Westsylvania Zone like?¡±

    Militia service in the Westsylvania Zone can vary depending on the specific factions involved. Until recently, each faction had its own militia and members served only with those of the same faction. Several months ago, the interim militia council overcame internal dissent and consolidated all faction militias into one force, the Westsylvania Zone Militia. Generally, the Westsylvania Zone Militia emphasizes the importance of defense and self-reliance, and rigorously trains new recruits in combat and survival skills to ensure that they are prepared for a variety of situations.

    The words rigorously trains new recruits jumped out at him. ¡°What is the training like?¡±

    Again, he waited for the cursor to blink.

    Basic training is a demanding experience designed to prepare new recruits for militia service. It involves a structured program inherited from the pre-Splintering United States military of physical fitness training, marksmanship, first aid, navigation, drill and ceremony, and leadership development. Recruits experience intense physical training, mental and emotional stress, and strict discipline as they learn to work together as a team and follow orders from superiors. Through this training, they develop the skills and knowledge necessary to succeed in warfare and serve with honor and distinction.

    Intense physical training, mental and emotional stress, and strict discipline¡­ Solomon hesitated, then asked, ¡°Has anyone died going through Westsylvania militia basic training?¡±

    Unfortunately, there have been instances where individuals have died during basic training. While such cases are relatively rare, they can occur due to various factors, including underlying medical conditions, physical exertion, extreme weather conditions, or accidents. The specific circumstances and causes of these incidents vary, and they are typically thoroughly investigated to improve safety protocols and training procedures.

    ¡°How¡­ how many people have died going through Westsylvania militia basic training?¡±

    I''m sorry, but as an AI language model, I don''t have access to current statistics. It''s important to refer to official militia reports, studies, or reliable sources that provide up-to-date information on this topic. Additionally, the circumstances and causes of such incidents can vary widely, making it difficult to provide an exact figure without detailed and specific information.

    Solomon took a shallow breath. ¡°Militia reports, okay, or studies, I can look those up, yes, I¡¯ll do that now,¡± he muttered to himself.

    But when Solomon asked the bot search agent to recommend a specific source, it linked him to an ebook available at InfoVerse instead. That was fine with him, if not exactly what he was expecting. At least it would be free. He checked it out and began to read. It was a pre-Splintering book about American military basic training, but when he asked the bot search agent if basic training for a militia was different at all, it said no, they were pretty much the same.

    Now he was getting really nervous. Information was usually easy to come by, unless someone out there had decided you shouldn¡¯t have it at all. He couldn¡¯t help but feel that the reason the bot search agent couldn¡¯t give him any current links was because the militia death statistics were so bad that the militia wouldn¡¯t publish them. The stories in the book and in posts he found online were all about getting screamed at for not folding your underwear correctly or being forced to go on miles-long hikes while carrying 70 pound rucksacks until you collapsed from heat exhaustion.

    One of the posts he read was from a guy who claimed militia basic training was even tougher than what the old US military used to do, that the old US military had gotten soft in its latter days. Militia boot camps are like boot camps from the 1940s, 1950s, back when the US used to win wars, no more pansy shit, no more stress cards. Red zone men can handle the real thing.

    Solomon closed his eyes. He remembered learning in school about how red zone militias had started forming first, and then blue zone antifas in response to them. When the federal regime began cracking down only on red zone militias, it had caused a massive defection from the military straight into them. So his future training camp had to be run by American military veterans, then.

    Solomon still felt nervous, but he didn¡¯t want to make the same mistake he¡¯d made over the summer by wasting his time. He went back to the bot search agent and asked how an eighteen-year-old could become a legal guardian of a younger sibling.

    The bot hesitated again, then spit out a series of links aiming him at appropriate starting points for the process. Solomon clicked all the links and followed all the steps. Somehow, it seemed too easy. In a real, legally binding way, he was chaining his sister¡¯s fate to his own, altering the trajectories of a good portion of both their lives to follow each other¡¯s path. And yet, in less than two hours of clicking, he had an appointment set with the court for a date less than a month away.

    By the time Solomon finished, it was almost noon and his stomach was growling. He knew he should probably get up and cook something, but his mind kept circling back to the stories about boot camp. He liked hiking, but he didn¡¯t want to be cursed at and punched for no reason. He was tall, but it wasn¡¯t like he was a big guy, and he¡¯d never been much interested in sports beyond pickup basketball. Not to mention he hated the cold.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Most of all, Solomon didn¡¯t want to leave Adah all by herself.

    He glanced at the single-use screen by the side of the display. A twisting force stirred inside him as he read again the words ordering him to report for militia duty. He found himself reaching for the screen. Then, without realizing exactly what it was he meant to do, he slammed it against the wall, swinging it again and again until the screen cracked into a spiderweb of gray lines that stretched across the black background.

    His chest was heaving. He stared at the cracked screen in his hands, but breaking it hadn¡¯t taken away the anger he felt or done anything else, good or bad. Single-use meant after a screen had served its purpose it was supposed to be recycled for parts, so it was garbage already. And the words ordering him to report for duty were still visible through the cracks.

    ***

    ¡°Food smells good,¡± Adah said as she came through the front door. It scraped on the floor a little. Solomon didn¡¯t know how to fix it, so they just opened the door slowly. He was on his phone but tossed it onto the couch cushion next to him.

    ¡°How was school?¡± he asked.

    She gave him a thumbs up. They both went to a former public school five and a half miles to the east of their house. It had been allowed to resume instruction after the Splintering once it got a license from the council certifying that it wasn¡¯t teaching wokeness.

    School was probably the one constant that had been in their lives since before the Great Splintering. Everything else had changed so much. Many of their neighbors had fled when the factional militias had descended on Pittsburgh; there were quite a few empty houses on their street now. And after the militias had gotten rid of the local antifa, expelled the remaining federal troops and shut down the zone borders, they¡¯d replaced the police with themselves.

    That was when the arrests had started. Solomon thought that was what had happened to his closest friend Zhen and his family. Even at school, the teachers he had been close enough with to talk to about Umma and Dad disappearing were gone, and he didn¡¯t know where to.

    Church was different, too. A few years before, the council had decided that denominations were no longer allowed in the Westsylvania Zone. Dad had told Solomon he thought the secularists on the council were probably sick of all the infighting within the religious right, and that they likely pushed that ruling through over the objections of the Christians also on the council. The official ruling allowed only one ecumenical church to operate for every 50 square miles.

    Umma had said she thought it was actually a good idea. That Christians had been divided for too long, and maybe this would help them figure out their differences. But it had been nothing but a holy mess. There was never enough parking, and all the leaders of all the old denominations constantly scrabbled among themselves to do their own services their own way. Which could have worked, maybe, except the ruling forcing them together in the first place kept getting overturned back and forth so many times that nobody wanted to organize anything in case it changed again.

    ¡°I made yukgaejang,¡± Solomon told Adah, forcing a smile.

    ¡°It¡¯s your birthday,¡± she replied, taking off her backpack and hanging it up on the hook by the door. ¡°Why are you making my favorite?¡±

    He didn¡¯t want to tell her yet that it was because he had bad news, so he beckoned her into the kitchen where he poured the spicy beef soup into bowls with rice. Adah liked beansprouts so much that she¡¯d used to fish into the pot for them when she was younger, so he added extra ones to her bowl before sitting down. They prayed and started to eat.

    He was trying to figure out how to tell Adah that he had to report for militia duty when she asked him, ¡°So, how was your birthday?¡±

    All of a sudden, he was once again remembering how Umma had fumed about American history being two groups of White people fighting about which group was better. A hard knot of anger formed in his chest. It was just like Umma had said. Because they just had to fight about which type of White person was better, I get to celebrate my eighteenth birthday, without my parents, facing militia duty.

    ¡°Solo? What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    Solomon forced himself to speak. ¡°I¡­ I got drafted for militia duty. I¡­ I have to report for training in January.¡±

    ¡°What? What do you mean? Report for training?¡± Her eyes darted from him to the door.

    Solomon tried to tell her what he had learned that day about boot camp, but the words wouldn¡¯t come out. Instead, tears rolled down his face. He felt pathetic. How could he survive basic training if just thinking about it made him cry?

    Adah was out of her chair and hugging him right away. He didn¡¯t push her away as he used to when he was younger and mad at himself for crying. She stayed there until he told her he was okay and then she slowly went back to her seat. She had tears in her eyes too. ¡°Are¡­ are you going to leave?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to,¡± Solomon said. ¡°But I think I have to. I spent the whole day reading about it and everyone who is selected for militia service has to go live at a base camp and get training for eight weeks and then they have to serve for eight years ¨C¡±

    ¡°Eight years!¡± Adah all but shrieked. ¡°Solo, no!¡±

    He swallowed hard. ¡°They hunt you down if you don¡¯t show up. They send you to a prison labor camp.¡±

    Now she was really crying. Solomon wanted so badly to make her feel better, but what could he say? He hated it, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was what it was. Sometimes things were terrible, the end. Over a year of trying and failing to find Umma and Dad, to make Adah¡¯s and his life go back to what it used to be, had taught him that. You could be angry about it, but that was it.

    And he was, Solomon was so angry about it, and the more Adah cried, the angrier he got, until he had to stand up, had to stand up and hit a wall or go run or something.

    Adah stopped to take a breath and tearfully asked, ¡°At least they¡¯ll pay you, right? It¡¯s like a job or something, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    Solomon was on his feet, staring at her. Then he raced back to where he¡¯d dropped his phone on the couch. He opened up a bot search agent with his thumb as he went back into the kitchen. ¡°Does the Westsylvania militia pay its recruits?¡± he asked.

    Since it was on his phone, the agent responded audibly. ¡°Yes, the Westsylvania Zone Militia pays its members. The amount of pay depends on various factors such as rank, years of service, and job specialty. In addition to pay, recruits may also receive allowances for housing, food, and other expenses.¡±

    ¡°When do they pay you?¡± he demanded.

    ¡°As I am an AI language model, I do not have personal experiences or the ability to understand specific situations such as when individuals in the Westsylvania Zone Militia receive payment. The payment structure and timing during militia training may vary depending on ¨C¡±

    Oh, come on, you useless computer! Solomon cut it off and re-phrased his prompt. ¡°When does a recruit in the Westsylvania militia receive his first paycheck?¡±

    This time, the bot got it. ¡°In the Westsylvania Zone Militia, recruits begin receiving pay on the first day of basic training, also known as boot camp. During basic training, recruits receive a small stipend known as basic pay. After completing basic training, the amount of pay a service member receives is based on their rank, years of service, and any special pay or allowances they may be eligible for.¡±

    Solomon started to laugh. He could feel a weight dropping from his shoulders. When he hadn¡¯t been praying this past year for Umma and Dad to come back, he¡¯d been praying for God to find a way to get him work so Adah could eat, and now, just like that, he didn¡¯t even have to go out and find a job. He could just show up on January 1st and report for duty. Even boot camp didn¡¯t feel so daunting anymore. Sure, he was going to get screamed at and spat on, but at least he was going to get paid for it!

    ¡°Let¡¯s go get ice cream,¡± he said to Adah.

    Her eyes lit up. But then she hesitated. ¡°I still don¡¯t want you to go, though.¡±

    Solomon took her hand and started pulling her toward the door into the garage. ¡°I don¡¯t want to go either,¡± he said. ¡°But I do want ice cream. For my birthday. Come on, let¡¯s go quick so we have plenty of time before curfew.¡±

 Chapter 6: â€œYou want to know if I turned racist since I last met you.â€

    Chapter 6

    Two weeks into boot camp, Solomon decided it wasn¡¯t as bad as he thought it would be. It was worse.

    He¡¯d never done so many push-ups in his life. If he never scoured a pot clean of potato starch again, it would be too soon. But what he hated most of all were the inspections. His fourth night there, he¡¯d been jolted awake by the piercing shriek of a patched-up firewatch drone. Hovering in the center of the barracks with its red lights flashing, the clearly repurposed bot had barked at the recruits to rise and prepare for their footlockers to be examined.

    Solomon might have had the presence of mind to get out of bed quickly under normal circumstances, but sleep deprivation and a general inability to get used to his new environment meant a certain amount of delay. Unfortunately, giving his superiors anything slower than an instant, reflexive reaction meant he¡¯d spent the rest of the night running up and down every hill in the base camp with his rifle, shouting about he was a slow, slow inchworm, inching his way through life.

    Later that day, the lack of sleep caught up with him. During a customs and courtesies class, whose slides had been sloppily edited from some old pre-Splintering U.S. military lecture, he¡¯d nodded off. When Sergeant Jones caught him, he¡¯d made Solomon stand for the rest of the class with a twenty-two pound jamming rod laid across his shoulders.

    Everything Solomon did was somehow wrong. Everything he did was punished. He was beginning to realize the only way he was going to make it was to do exactly what they said to do exactly when they said to do it, with no variation from the literal meaning of their instructions no matter how stupid they might seem to him.

    The bedsheets and the 45-degree hospital corners were killing him, though. He couldn¡¯t get them right. And they didn¡¯t make sense! Fitted sheets were ancient technology, so why were they making them act like they didn¡¯t exist? The militia had enough money to pay them, but apparently not enough to buy some stupid fitted sheets?

    The only thing at the training camp Solomon was thankful for was Sunday service. The base was about ten miles northwest of downtown Pittsburgh, and while they weren¡¯t allowed to leave it during basic training to attend the civilian church, one of the church¡¯s pastors would come to give a sermon in a makeshift chapel in one of the Quonset huts. It was the only time nobody bothered him if he nodded off. It was also the only time he got to use a private bathroom, which he appreciated most of all.

    He was also grateful that Sergeant Jones wasn¡¯t a member of the All-White faction. Jones was a Black guy, a Cultural Nationalist like most of the recruits. Even though he was the meanest person Solomon had ever met, he didn¡¯t have to worry that Jones was making him do something because he actively wanted him to die. No, Jones just didn¡¯t care whether Solomon died or not.

    Solomon cared, though. At this point, surviving was becoming the only thing he cared about. They weren¡¯t going to keep sending money to Adah¡¯s account if all they had was his dead body. And she wouldn¡¯t have a legal guardian anymore if he died. Which he had managed to become, finally.

    While the judge hadn¡¯t been too keen on him having custody over her at first, his attitude had changed after Solomon had told him he was entering into militia service. He was really pleased to hear it, the judge had said. After a moment of reflection, Solomon had decided not to reveal that he hadn¡¯t volunteered.

    It¡¯s all working out, Adah had written to him. His phone had been the first thing ripped out of his hand when he arrived, so he and Adah wrote historical-style letters to each other instead of texting and calling. And I finally found out your address so I¡¯ll write to you every day from now on.

    Solomon was looking forward to getting her letters during mail call. Right now, though, he and the other recruits were on the concrete parade ground for their morning marching drill. The wind was brutal, cutting through everything, including the budget-brand exoboots, cover, gloves and field jacket kit they issued to less-valuable, Solomon-level personnel.

    Whoever shoveled the parade ground last had done a terrible job, which meant all of them were probably about to re-shovel it. Why they couldn¡¯t just use melting mats was beyond him. Even he owned one back home. Solomon was beginning to think that the Westsylvania Zone Militia couldn¡¯t make up its mind whether to use boot camp to recreate some old-school, tough-guy America, or to actually train soldiers at the technology level available to them. So they ended up using high-tech sensor-equipped toothbrushes to manually scrub the barracks floor, and civilian-issue kitty litter to sop moisture out of a multi-million dollar jet. Which was crazy, in his humble opinion. Not that Solomon let any of his thoughts reach his face; he knew better than that by now. He stood perfectly still, his rifle slung over his left shoulder, waiting along with the rest of his platoon.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    And then he saw WhiteFunk1492. No, Sam. Standing in front, facing them. With a drill instructor¡¯s hat on his head.

    Solomon couldn¡¯t help it. His eyes widened. Sam wasn¡¯t looking at him, thank God, although he would see him soon. Solomon was in the back because he was tall, much taller than his battle buddy Rithvik who was standing in the first row ahead of him. Quickly, he stared straight ahead with his chin up and his eyes focused on the snow lining the grayish-brown trees on the far side of the parade ground. He hoped Sam wouldn¡¯t recognize him. Two weeks in and he already knew nothing good came from standing out to a drill sergeant.

    His body only got more tense as Sam began to speak. He introduced himself as Sergeant Wilson, explained that Sergeant Jones had to leave for medical reasons, and that he was there to pick up where he left off. Solomon saw him looking over the recruits. He wondered whether Sam could tell that most of the platoon were guys like him, inexperienced teenagers who got drafted by the lottery and were there only to avoid prison labor camp. Then Sam¡¯s eyes met Solomon¡¯s, and the newly minted drill sergeant grinned.

    Solomon swallowed hard. He was just a recruit, and Sam was in a position of power. He was completely vulnerable if Sam wanted to hurt him. He¡¯d been nice enough the last time they met, but the meeting had happened only because of Solomon¡¯s deception. What if Sam harbored a grudge and chose to make an example out of him here? It wasn¡¯t like he knew much about the man, or anything about what he was capable of. All he had was Sam¡¯s admission of having killed someone. That alone was enough to convince Solomon he might be in real trouble.

    ¡°Forward, march!¡± he heard Sam bark. But even as they started to move, Solomon could feel the weight of Sam¡¯s gaze fixed on his face.

    ***

    Solomon was unhappy but not surprised when Sergeant Sam ¡°Whitefunk¡± Wilson pulled him aside on the way to breakfast. He resisted the urge to look longingly at everyone else heading to the mess hall, where even recruits got to enjoy an abundance of food.

    Protocol dictated that he not speak unless spoken to first, so he stood at attention outside the mess hall door and waited, his nerves on edge, hoping Wilson wouldn¡¯t hit him for some minute error in his uniform or stance. In just two weeks, he¡¯d been tripped, slapped, and choked more times than he could count. He was less than eager to add another tick to that particular tally.

    ¡°Solomon,¡± Wilson said. ¡°Solooomon.¡± He was grinning again. ¡°You¡¯re the reason I¡¯m here, you know that?¡±

    Solomon tried to decide whether to respond with ¡°yes, sir,¡± or ¡°no, sir.¡± He settled on the latter. ¡°No, sir, I didn¡¯t know that. Sir.¡±

    ¡°Well, after what you told me, I decided that yeaaah, they¡¯ll probably get tired of feeding my defector ass eventually. Might as well show them that I mean it by signing up.¡±

    Wilson was standing much closer to Solomon than he had been under the Schenley Oval Tent. That was another part of boot camp Solomon hated. You couldn¡¯t pull away, no matter how much a drill instructor got in your face. From this close, he could see that Wilson¡¯s close-cropped hair was a uniform golden blond. He also noticed Wilson¡¯s teeth were crooked, as if he¡¯d never worn a light therapy retainer. The smell of his breath was noticeable too. And why was he stretching out his words so much?

    Maybe I should ask him if he joined the All-White faction, Solomon thought. Especially since he¡¯s now the person in charge of every detail of my life. He didn¡¯t say anything, though, until Wilson looked at him pointedly. ¡°Which faction did you sign up for, sir?¡±

    Wilson barked out a laugh. ¡°You want to know if I turned racist since I last met you.¡±

    Two weeks ago, Solomon might have shrugged, because there was really no way he could say, yep, that¡¯s right, or even yes, sir. It was pretty taboo in red zones to accuse anyone of racism. In fact, it was one of the worst things you could accuse someone of, to the point of being considered an anti-White slur. So Solomon was relieved when Wilson didn¡¯t demand a response and instead kept on talking. ¡°No, I joined the Cultural Nationalists. Just like you.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t ask him how he knew. Maybe Wilson had looked at his file or something. And anyway, he was still speaking. ¡°But don¡¯t think I¡¯m going to go easy on you just because we¡¯re in the same faction. You¡¯re going to hate me by the time your training is done.¡±

    There was nothing Solomon could say to that. ¡°Yes, sir,¡± he replied.

    Wilson waved him toward the mess hall. ¡°Go eat.¡±

    Solomon couldn¡¯t move fast enough. But even as he was booking it to make it to the ladelers before breakfast closed, he knew he couldn¡¯t let his guard down. Just because Wilson hadn¡¯t said anything about getting back at Solomon didn¡¯t mean he wouldn¡¯t take the opportunity to do so, now that he could.

 Chapter 7: â€œIâ€™m sorry, I didnâ€™t realize you were a special snowflake."

    Chapter 7

    When they¡¯d first arrived, many of the guys had complained and whined while getting smoked, which was how the trainees generally referred to physical training. That behavior quickly faded. It didn¡¯t make anything better, and more often than not resulted in the drill instructors bellowing in their faces.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t realize you were a special snowflake,¡± they¡¯d yell. ¡°You sound like a social justice warrior, complaining about how much of a victim you are. I thought you¡¯d want to be a real warrior.¡±

    Then they¡¯d smoke everyone even more: more push-ups, more sit-ups, more squats, more lunges, and more Solomon hadn¡¯t even heard of before. And that was just during their downtime. Every other moment was spent running. In western what-used-to-be Pennsylvania, that meant tackling never-ending hills.

    More and more of the guys in Solomon¡¯s platoon were getting sick or hurt. Their bodies seemed to be giving out. At least, that was what he hoped was happening, because the alternative was that Rithvik was quiet-quitting.

    Rithvik was his battle buddy, assigned to him on the first day. He was a small Indian kid who Solomon definitely would have been friends with had they been going to school together, but it¡¯d only taken him two and a half weeks of basic training to learn to hate the guy. Being battle buddies meant they had to go everywhere together. It also meant they got punished together, or more accurately, Solomon got punished with more physical training when Rithvik stopped trying.

    Wilson hadn¡¯t been kidding when he¡¯d promised to turn Solomon¡¯s life into constant pain. Still, Solomon hadn¡¯t thought that would mean the drill sergeant would be cursing at him to do extra push-ups every time Rithvik fell behind. One day, he finally had enough. He confronted Rithvik about it right before lights out.

    ¡°I¡¯m sick of getting smoked all the time because of you!¡± Solomon was rubbing his calves in a futile attempt to loosen them up. ¡°You need to kick things into gear.¡±

    Rithvik shrugged. ¡°What are you going to do if I don¡¯t? Kill me?¡±

    If there was any question about the quiet-quitting before, Rithvik¡¯s face answered it. He wasn¡¯t ashamed. He was defiant. He simply didn¡¯t care, and there was nothing Solomon could do about it.

    For a second, Solomon did feel angry enough to kill him. He knew Rithvik didn¡¯t want to be there, that he was like almost everybody else in the red zone who was just going along with what the militias and politicals pushed for. But Solomon was getting worn down. He could feel his exhaustion wasn¡¯t going away, and he couldn¡¯t die or Adah would be the one to pay for it. Thinking about her made him want to scream at Rithvik to wake up. Maybe he should kill him.

    But could he? He wasn¡¯t thinking about the militia¡¯s rules, since he didn¡¯t know what they were anyway, but the Bible. Solomon was supposed to love his enemy and if anyone was his enemy right now, it was Rithvik. Maybe it was Wilson, too. Was Solomon really supposed to let them wear him out until he died? He was training to be a soldier, right? Weren¡¯t soldiers allowed to kill in the Bible? Or was it just soldiers on the other side they were allowed to kill?

    He couldn¡¯t exactly ask the visiting pastor about killing his battle buddy, which meant he could only figure out the issue by looking at the Bible itself. But whenever he got a few minutes of downtime to sit and look in the book he¡¯d just fall asleep holding it. It was as if they¡¯d designed boot camp to make sure he couldn¡¯t think anymore.

    So instead, Solomon just kept going. He kept going and going, enduring every run up and down the winter hills, bearing it when he was smoked for Rithvik being late, suffering through it when Wilson made him stand guard over a half-built water fountain for twelve hours straight without eating or drinking all because Rithvik failed a footlocker inspection two days in a row. Then, one day at the end of their third week, they were in their barracks, a Quonset hut made of corrugated iron like every other building in the base camp. Wilson was running them through bend-and-thrust drills when Solomon stumbled and fell to his knees.

    Wilson was immediately screaming expletives in his face. But Solomon couldn¡¯t bring himself to rise to his feet. He was crying, his shoulders shuddering as he tried and failed to stop. He didn¡¯t even care what happened to him next. He just couldn¡¯t keep going. Wilson began slamming the side of his fist into Solomon¡¯s head, but Solomon didn¡¯t react. He¡¯d never felt so defeated before. He just didn¡¯t have what it took.

    Maybe Wilson could tell he¡¯d given up. Because the next thing Solomon knew, he was throwing his rifle at him, forcing his hands around the stock and the handguard. He heard Wilson shouting at the rest of the platoon, telling them to get ready to spend the rest of the evening doing physical training, that they couldn¡¯t stop until Solomon held his rifle aloft an hour for every minute he¡¯d stopped. Then Wilson was on him again, so close their noses were almost touching, barking orders to hold the weapon up.

    Solomon obeyed. He knew his arms would start shaking soon and that the three minutes of rest he¡¯d gotten were about to turn into three hours of torture. But at least Wilson wasn¡¯t making him stand up, and he wasn¡¯t making him join the rest of the platoon now continuing with the bends-and-thrusts. For the first time, Solomon understood how Rithvik felt. Even as everyone else in the platoon was paying for his failure, he just didn¡¯t care. As long as it¡¯s not me. As long as it¡¯s not me.

    ***

    ¡°Hey, Solomon, listen. I¡¯m leaving tonight,¡± Rithvik whispered.

    They were in the communal shower, standing next to each other under the row of shower heads. The sterilizing UV lights buzzed overhead. Solomon was focused on getting as much hot water as he could on every sore muscle in his arms and shoulders. He didn¡¯t look at Rithvik. The lack of privacy screens between them made it impossible for Solomon to avoid hearing Rithvik, but he pretended not to anyway. It wasn¡¯t because he was trying to be petty. It was because he thought Rithvik was crazy, and it was always a bad idea to engage with crazy.

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    Leave? Solomon thought. What was he going to do, walk to the front gate and tell the guard on duty that he was ready to go home now?

    ¡°You want to come? I found a part of the fence that¡¯s not topped with barbed wire. I¡¯m going to climb it.¡±

    Solomon turned away from him. Why was Rithvik doing this to him? Why couldn¡¯t he leave him out of it? There was never any chance Solomon would run, and now he had to figure out whether or not to report Rithvik¡¯s plans. If he didn¡¯t, they¡¯d skin Solomon alive for not having said anything. If he did, then Rithvik would know that it was him, and he¡¯d have to watch his back for as long as Rithvik was around.

    For a moment, though, Solomon let himself think about what it would be like if he did go with Rithvik, and an intense longing to leave welled up inside him. He didn¡¯t want to be here. He really didn¡¯t want to be here. But he wasn¡¯t going to try to leave. He seriously doubted it was possible to escape, but even if they did, then what? Was he supposed to spend the rest of his life in hiding? Tell Adah to go find work since he couldn¡¯t do so without getting caught?

    I didn¡¯t hear him, Solomon told himself. I was mad at Rithvik, so I ignored him and refused to listen to him, so I didn¡¯t hear anything.

    His five minutes of hot water were up. Leaving Rithvik behind, Solomon dried off and got dressed in his militia-issued sweats. Then he looked at his perfectly made bed and decided to sleep on top of the covers that night. Tomorrow night too. And the night after that. Maybe that was how he¡¯d finally stop failing to make the hospital corners correctly.

    ***

    When Solomon woke up the next morning sweating and feverish, it occurred to him that it might have been a mistake to sleep above the covers. Late January was when the Pittsburgh area was coldest. He forced himself up anyway, if nothing else to give himself extra time to shave. He could barely grow anything on his face in the first place, so he¡¯d never learned the proper way to remove what he did have before coming here. Maybe today would be the day he finally had the time to get it right.

    That was when he noticed that Rithvik¡¯s bed was empty. And not just empty, but as perfectly made as his own.

    Whether Rithvik had actually made it out or had been caught and placed in some holding cell, Solomon didn¡¯t know. If it was the former, they would find out he had run off at roll call during the first official formation of the day. Right now, Solomon needed to focus on getting ready for the inspection, and he could feel from the pounding in his head that his sickness wasn¡¯t going to make getting through it easy.

    He wondered if he had been fighting off an infection all of last week. Maybe that was why he had been feeling so incredibly tired. Part of him almost hoped that was the case. It would make him feel better about having failed yesterday. At the same time, sick bay was the last place he wanted to go. Recruits who spent too much time there got recycled back to start basic training all over again with a new platoon, again and again until they got it right or died in the attempt.

    Solomon managed to fumble through the rest of the morning routine, but his aching muscles and burning throat hurt meant he was even slower than usual. He didn¡¯t quite know how he managed to make it to roll call on time, but he did. Sure enough, Rithvik wasn¡¯t there.

    After that, they geared up for their run. Normally, Solomon liked running more than anything else in basic training, but today he found himself questioning what had gone so wrong in his life that he was now running up a 45-degree hill at 0500 hours in below-freezing weather, all while fighting off a fever. Pretty soon he was lagging behind, and Wilson, who had been keeping in step with the drone monitoring their speed, was yelling at him to come over to the side.

    He grabbed Solomon by the arm and dragged him down so that their faces were almost touching. With his free hand, he began shoving Solomon¡¯s shoulder repeatedly. He was screaming, as usual, but Solomon¡¯s mind was too foggy to care about the barrage of curses being hurled at him. Then Wilson frowned. ¡°You look like shit,¡± he told him. ¡°Get yourself to sick bay.¡±

    Bile rose in Solomon¡¯s throat. At this point, he thought he¡¯d rather die than have to go through basic again. But he didn¡¯t get to choose even how long this hell was going to last for him. ¡°Yes, sir,¡± he said.

    The sick bay was located in another Quonset hut at the edge of the camp, next to one of the four construction sites on base. It felt as if the militia was constantly building. A painted red cross marked the hut¡¯s door. Solomon pushed it open. He was taken aback by the massive interactive screens lining the walls of the waiting room where two soldiers were sitting. It felt so different from the rudimentary living conditions that defined the rest of basic training. Was the militia intentionally holding back on the tech for recruits like him? He hoped not. Getting to play with something actually cutting-edge had been the only thing he¡¯d been looking forward to upon getting drafted. Maybe they were saving it for later.

    In the meantime, at least the sick bay felt properly modern. Solomon even found himself relaxing as he interacted with the virtual assistant on the glowing touch screen. It might yell at him, but it couldn¡¯t touch him.

    ¡°What¡¯s the matter, private?¡± the assistant asked.

    ¡°I think I have a fever,¡± he replied.

    The assistant took Solomon¡¯s name and checked him in. About half an hour later, it called his name and directed him to an examination room, where he was greeted by a robotic nurse. His mouth almost fell open. Now this was cutting-edge. Much of the newer technology that had been available even just a decade before the Great Splintering had suddenly ceased production when the Splintering occurred. There had been a gradual decline in technological advancements since then. Solomon remembered his father mentioning that continued development required far more resources and coordination than the splintered zones could provide.

    The nurse did look as though it had been patched up a few times. It had a worn-out screen facing upward at head level attached to the top of a pole that was welded into a square base on four wheels that squeaked as they turned. Its body was complete, at least, and equipped with all the usual sensors, scanners, and other tools at the ends of its spiny retractable arms, along with an IV bag and an arm cuff in front. Solomon sat down on the gurney inside the treatment room and then, when the nurse told him to, placed his arm into the blood pressure cuff.

    ¡°Blood pressure 140 over 90,¡± the nurse announced, to nobody in particular. It checked his temperature next. ¡°Temperature 102 degrees.¡± Despite his pounding head, Solomon watched curiously as it measured the rest of his vitals. The nurse seemed able to do basic, repetitive tasks as long as no creative judgment or complex joint movement was required. ¡°You need fluids, a fever reducer and antibiotics.¡±

    A wave of exhaustion crashed over Solomon. ¡°I can¡¯t stay for long,¡± he replied, even though he wanted to do nothing more than lie back and rest. ¡°I have to rejoin my platoon.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll leave when I determine you are fit to return to duty,¡± it replied.

    Even a computer had more control over his life than he did. Thankfully, computers, unlike drill sergeants, were easy to ignore. Wilson would want him back ASAP; in this place, being sick was just another sign of weakness. ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Solomon responded, more out of habit than anything else, but he was already planning on returning that night at the latest. The robot could take it up with Sergeant Wilson if it didn¡¯t like it.

 Chapter 8: â€œIâ€™m going to die in here.â€

    Chapter 8

    As expected, Solomon simply got up and walked out of the medical hut while the nurse was tending to another patient. Evidently its one-track mind was not up to the challenge of stopping him. And after sleeping for a whole day straight on a bed he didn¡¯t have to make, he felt good enough to return to duty. If he could avoid running into a smoke session on the way, he could sleep for another full night on top of that. With that rest and the antibiotics still working in his system, maybe he would manage to survive another week.

    He made it. Soon enough, he was lying on top of his covers reading one of Adah¡¯s letters while the other guys around him made crude jokes and boasted about their sex lives. The only people not participating were him, Hyeon-Ju, who he¡¯d known before from church, and one or two others whose reasons were less clear to him.

    Brandon, another friend from church, wasn¡¯t there. He¡¯d come down with something serious enough to warrant a hospital stay off base. Kevin, who Solomon knew from school, had gone to sick bay the day before Solomon and hadn¡¯t come back yet.

    Solomon didn¡¯t have any locker room stories to share. Not that he would¡¯ve shared any even if he had them. Both would go against his faith. Sometimes he wished he¡¯d ended up in one of the militia training camps further north where the culture was more religious, but then again, those camps were a lot more White.

    Almost everyone at this base had been pulled from the city of Pittsburgh itself. Almost all of them had been drafted. On average, they were more like him than draftees in any out camp could be. Even so, many of them seemed to be adjusting to basic training better than Solomon had. He wished they¡¯d keep it down, though. If they annoyed the duty drill sergeant, the man would force them outside to roll around in the frozen mud before sending them back to bed all dirty.

    ¡°Hey battle,¡± someone called to him from across the aisle.

    He glanced up at the recruit. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Did you hear about what happened to Rithvik?¡±

    Solomon shook his head as casually as he could. He didn¡¯t want to reveal that Rithvik had confided in him. The recruit continued, ¡°I saw the drills giving him some wall-to-wall counseling in a holding cell earlier today. I guess he tried to run, and they caught him.¡± He snorted. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t want to be him right now.¡±

    He didn¡¯t know what response to give, but he was saved by the barracks door opening. Putting Adah¡¯s letter down, he mentally prepared himself to be yelled at to go outside into the cold when he saw Rithvik in the entranceway. He could tell at once from Rithvik¡¯s limp and the way he was holding himself that he was badly hurt.

    The barracks fell silent. Rithvik didn¡¯t say anything either. He just crawled into his rack next to Solomon. The racks were close enough together that he could see Rithvik¡¯s left eye was swollen shut. Solomon had gotten a black eye the first time he¡¯d gone out to the firing range and underestimated the recoil of his rifle. But Rithvik¡¯s looked worse, and it was just one of the many bruises lining his face.

    Solomon had spent the last several weeks despising him, but it all washed away in a sudden rush of pity. I¡¯m sorry, he wanted to tell him. They broke me too. You¡¯re not alone.

    Nobody spoke as the lights out taps began playing. Everyone else was either asleep or pretending to be, so Solomon rolled over as quietly as he could and put his hand on Rithvik¡¯s shoulder. And in the silence, Rithvik started to sob. He cut himself off almost immediately, but Solomon waited until he thought his battle buddy was asleep before he pulled back into his own bed to catch whatever shut-eye the drills would let them have.

    ***

    You weren¡¯t supposed to talk during fireguard duty. But there was nothing to guard against except the actual firewatch drone sneaking up on you to make sure you weren¡¯t asleep, so when Rithvik and Solomon got assigned together, he asked him what happened. It wasn¡¯t much of an escape. Rithvik told him he¡¯d climbed over the fence and gotten down to the other side only to get caught right away by a smart camera that had flagged his movement.

    ¡°Then they took me to a holding cell. They showed me a video someone filmed at a prison labor camp and told me they were going to let me experience what being there was like.¡±

    He fell silent. Solomon waited a few minutes to make sure there were no drones around, then replied, ¡°Well, that was nice of them.¡±

    Rithvik shot him a you¡¯re crazy look. But Solomon hadn¡¯t been kidding. ¡°They could¡¯ve just sent you to a prison camp instead of showing you what it was going to be like, and gotten another soldier via the draft lottery. One who doesn¡¯t suck as much as you do.¡± He knew he was being harsh, but he kept going. ¡°They must want you to make it.¡±

    Rithvik turned away from him. ¡°I¡¯m going to die in here.¡±

    ¡°Probably a 30% chance you die in here, yeah,¡± Solomon replied. He was making up the numbers, but they seemed close enough. If this were the old US military he¡¯d have said, OK, a million guys have made it through before, we probably will too. Solomon should be at least tough enough for that. But the Westsylvania Zone Militia wasn¡¯t even a year old, and it didn¡¯t publish its training death stats.

    Not only that, it was clear from all the trash talk floating around that everyone here was highly motivated to prove they were tougher than the blue zone antifas. Rithvik was smart enough to have picked up on that.

    ¡°But it¡¯s what, a 90% chance you die in a prison labor camp? And a 100% chance you die if you kill yourself. So you pick. The math is simple.¡± Rithvik didn¡¯t say anything, so Solomon continued and hoped he was listening. ¡°As for the drills? Maybe they think you can make it through boot camp if you could climb a twelve-foot fence after getting smoked for three hours.¡±

    Rithvik still didn¡¯t say anything. He stayed silent for the rest of fireguard duty, which was probably better anyway since they really weren¡¯t supposed to talk anyway. At the end of it though, when they were turning in, he suddenly looked Solomon right in the eyes. ¡°Thanks,¡± he said. ¡°And for what it¡¯s worth, if you made it this far despite getting smoked all the time because of me, I think that means you can make it to the end too.¡±

    ***

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    Solomon wasn¡¯t sure Rithvik was right about his chances. The physical training was going better since he¡¯d gotten the robot nurse¡¯s medicine, and he was even learning to let all the shouting just wash over him. But he still couldn¡¯t handle it when they made him do anything embarrassing. Being ordered to climb in and out of a dumpster as fast as he could for an hour felt humiliating, especially since it was punishment for pissing himself. After being forced to down a full canteen and denied a bathroom break for the rest of the day, what else was his body going to do? When Solomon wrote to Adah about what boot camp was like, he always left those stories out.

    Some of the other guys didn¡¯t seem to care. Solomon would hear them laugh about being told to sing showtunes while crab-walking in their underwear around the barracks, but he burned up inside whenever he was ordered to do anything like that. The worst part was that every drill instructor seemed to have a sixth sense for exactly how much he hated it. One of the All-White drills nicknamed him Uppity. He was just doing that because Solomon was half-Black, but when it caught on with all the other instructors something inside him hesitated, and he started to wonder if it might be true. Did he really think he was above being punished like everyone else?

    Wilson never called him Uppity, but out of all the instructors he was the most creative when it came to punishments. He was the one who¡¯d had Solomon and several other recruits in and out of the dumpster until he thought he was going to puke from the stench. ¡°Focus, maggot! Focus!¡± Wilson would yell at him. Even though basic training was brutal for everyone, regardless of the drill instructor or recruit, Solomon couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that Wilson was using the general harshness as a cover for payback. Solomon hadn¡¯t told anyone yet but there were times when he got so angry that he wanted to let everyone know just how easy it was to fool Wilson by pretending to be a girl online.

    Still, Solomon couldn¡¯t forget how Wilson, despite not owing him anything, had stayed out late in the cold to answer all his questions by the Schenley Oval Tent. Wilson might be his enemy now, but he hadn¡¯t been then. Enduring whatever punishment Wilson threw at him while keeping quiet about their initial encounter was the only honorable thing Solomon could do.

    Solomon didn¡¯t really know Wilson, nor did he understand what had been going through the man¡¯s head when they first met, but a strategy of patience had worked with Rithvik, hadn¡¯t it? He¡¯d tough it out with Wilson too, no matter how hard it got.

    At least Adah hadn¡¯t been exaggerating when she¡¯d said she¡¯d write to him every day. Thank God. Her letters were the only thing getting him through. Sometimes the mail drones were delayed, and he got no letters one day and two the next. But he¡¯d never gone longer than two days without getting called up for mail. By this point he banged out the twenty push-ups required for each letter. Solomon knew now the drills would find literally any excuse to smoke them, and at least the letters made it worth it.

    But one day, Wilson called him up from where he was sitting on the barracks floor with everyone else, only to hand him a package. Solomon¡¯s heart sank. All packages had to be opened and searched during mail call so nobody could sneak in any contraband. It was a slim package, not much thicker than the manila envelope that held the single-use screen that had gotten him into the mess he was in now. Wilson told him to open it and dump everything inside onto the floor. Solomon complied, and out tumbled an oversize bag of sour gummy worms along with several pages of a letter.

    ¡°Pick it up, private,¡± Wilson said.

    Something terrible was going to happen when Solomon picked it up. He just knew it. It was hard to hold back his dread. Wilson held out his hand and Solomon started to hand him the candy but he knocked it to the side; it fell down to the ground again. ¡°The letter.¡±

    Solomon handed him the pages. They were from Adah, they had to be, there was nobody else who would write to him. And when Wilson started to read it out loud, he barely managed to keep from flinching.

    ¡°Dear Solo,¡± Wilson read, his voice rising into a mocking female tone. ¡°I prayed for you like you asked me to that you wouldn¡¯t get injured or sick again. Aw, that¡¯s real nice, Solo, you asked your girlfriend to pray that you wouldn¡¯t get an ouchie?¡±

    Solomon¡¯s face was flushing. ¡°Yes, sir,¡± he said. He could sense amusement from the other recruits sitting on the floor in front of them but he forced himself to hold still.

    Wilson kept on reading it. ¡°I know you¡¯re going to tell me I shouldn¡¯t have bought the candy, that we don¡¯t have enough money for it, but it¡¯s not from your pay, so don¡¯t worry. One of my friends really liked the way I did her nails so she told her older sister about me, and her older sister told her friends, and one of them asked me to do her nails for her and I told her I¡¯d do them for twenty dollars. She actually paid! And before you tell me not to spend it all, I didn¡¯t. I bought your candy and that¡¯s it, I promise. I needed the rest anyway to finish paying the water bill. But I know sour gummy worms are your favorite so I got you a big pack to last the rest of basic training.¡±

    Wilson looked at him, eyebrows raised. It took all of Solomon¡¯s studied resolve not to hit him. Having everyone hear about how much Adah was struggling because he was getting paid barely nothing to climb in and out of dumpsters was even worse than getting smoked all day. But Wilson didn¡¯t stop. ¡°I¡¯m doing great, though. You shouldn¡¯t worry so much about me. The only thing that¡¯s annoying is having to take the bus everywhere. I wish I had my driver¡¯s license so I could use the car. Only two more years! I¡¯ll drive you around then.¡±

    At that, Wilson paused. ¡°Your girlfriend sounds kind of young, private.¡±

    ¡°No, sir,¡± Solomon replied.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s not my girlfriend, sir.¡±

    ¡°Then who the hell is she?¡±

    ¡°My sister, sir.¡±

    ¡°Is she hot?¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t reply. He was barely able to hold himself back. His fists were clenched; he saw Wilson¡¯s eyes glance down at his balled-up hands. Wilson took a step closer to him and asked, real quiet, ¡°Are you angry, private?¡±

    What was Solomon supposed to say to that? Lie and say no, sir, when his rage was plain to see? Or confess to being angry to Wilson¡¯s face?

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± he whispered.

    Wilson reached out and smacked him across the face with Adah¡¯s letter. ¡°Pick up your candy, private.¡±

    Solomon obeyed.

    ¡°Open it.¡±

    He did.

    ¡°Eat it.¡±

    Solomon¡¯s insides were quivering but he pulled a gummy worm out of the bag and ate it. ¡°Faster!¡± Wilson barked at him. ¡°Faster!¡± Solomon started shoving handfuls into his mouth. He thought about Adah painting some girl¡¯s nails so she could buy him this extra-large bag of his favorite candy and he knew that he would never tell her about what had happened as a result. He would take this story to his grave.

    By the time Solomon was done choking down the bag, he already felt nauseous, but then Wilson ordered him to drink two full canteens of water. He chugged them down with Wilson yelling in his ear. Then it was push-up time, twenty for the letter and another forty for the package. Even while he was doing them he could tell he was going to be sick, that it was only a matter of time before everything was going to come back up again, but he desperately hoped his body would wait until mail call was over and Wilson was gone.

    And for once, God answered this prayer with an outright ¡°yes.¡± Literally the second the barracks door closed Solomon was sprinting for the bathroom and heaving up acidic chunks of gummy worms and water. It was a miracle he made it to a toilet on time. Thank God. He didn¡¯t think he could have borne having Wilson force everyone else to clean up his puke knowing how they would all mock him for it.

    Once Solomon was done, he knelt on the tiled floor next to the toilet. He felt as if he¡¯d run a mile while getting punched in the stomach. There were no stalls or doors so the other guys who were coming in to use the head passed by him and his vomit-filled bowl. He sensed someone behind him. He turned his head to see Rithvik. ¡°You dropped your letter,¡± Rithvik told him, and held out the pages that Wilson had handed back to him after he¡¯d drank the canteens.

    Solomon pulled himself to his feet. He managed to thank Rithvik and to take the letter back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then stared at Adah¡¯s neat handwriting filling up the pages. He¡¯d have to find a way to tell her not to send him any more packages.

 Chapter 9: "...itâ€™s better than having the woke around at any rate..."

    Chapter 9

    Did Wilson have some kind of laser lock on him? Every time Solomon turned around, there he was. It felt as if the man was breathing down his neck in every class, shouting in his ear whenever they were out, whether it was on the rifle range or the parade ground. First aid training, land navigation skills, the combat pit, he could¡¯ve sworn he saw Wilson as much as he saw Rithvik.

    Focusing 100% on whatever it was Solomon was being taught at any given moment was the only thing that gave him some mental space from Wilson. And he had to admit, the militia was teaching them a lot. Boot camp wasn¡¯t just a place to get tortured. It was definitely that too, but it was also a place to learn how to kill and how to survive someone trying to kill you. Before coming here Solomon had never touched a gun or even gotten into a fight so he had a lot to learn.

    Sometimes it did get boring though, especially when they were taught land navigation for the fourth time in a row, and it was hard not to zone out of the safety briefings which were always at the level of ¡°if the roof collapses, leave the building.¡± Solomon was especially bored by all the waiting around they had to do. If another unit was using a training area, they had to wait for them to finish. If the bus broke down, they had to wait ¨C usually doing push-ups ¨C for it to be fixed. There was enough space on the range for maybe ten people, but when there were a hundred of them who had to shoot, they ended up waiting hours for their turn.

    But when they finally did get onto the range it was pure cool. Solomon had been waiting pretty much the entire boot camp to get his hands on an AR visor, and when the range master finally passed one down to him, he eagerly slammed it onto his face. During one training exercise, the drab grounds transformed into a trash-strewn slum, his vision inundated with overlays and real-time data. Virtual enemy combatants, appearing startlingly real, moved across the urban terrain. Each enemy had status indicators hovering above them, providing Solomon with their threat levels and engagement protocols. When he turned his head, the scenery shifted with his movements. The AR visor even highlighted virtual cover and vantage points!

    Even using AR just for aiming enhancement helped Solomon figure out how to shoot better. It was too bad the militia was so strict about who got to use the visors. Wilson had to sign them out and collect them back after every training session. They weren¡¯t that strict about even the rifles. Maybe it was because all the rifles the recruits got to use were old M4s from the turn of the millennium and even some M16s from forty years before then. The militia didn¡¯t let them use actual hand grenades either, training them instead on frag casings with what amounted to a firecracker inside.

    It was as if the militia¡¯s stocks were mostly limited to whatever had been in the Westsylvania Zone at the time of the Great Splintering, supplemented by what they¡¯d managed to get shipped to them from other red zones. One afternoon they all had to line up to take a turn activating the same sound grenade over and over again. Same with the one quadcopter.

    They didn¡¯t have any VR training at all. Hyeon-Ju told Solomon and Rithvik one evening that he thought it was because of VR¡¯s reality intrusion problem. ¡°I¡¯ve read that VR¡¯s great for games, but it hasn¡¯t really cracked the code for physical training yet. Without a treadmill, you¡¯re going to run into a wall if you move around too much. Even with a treadmill, it still doesn¡¯t give you the muscle memory you need.¡±

    Still, by the end of week seven, it felt as if things were looking up for Solomon. He was in the best shape of his life. All the weight he¡¯d gained so far was muscle. And while he¡¯d still never managed to get his rifle clean enough to turn it in at the end of the day without being yelled at over one tiny speck of dust, he was beginning to think that was just part of basic training and not something to be as upset about as he had been. He wished he¡¯d known that when he¡¯d first arrived, but whatever. There was only one week left, and that was his focus.

    It was 2000 hours which usually meant it was time to clean the barracks. But Wilson had a special exercise he wanted them to do: pack for an undercover mission into a blue zone. Solomon didn¡¯t bother letting himself think about how pointless it was to do this without any specifics about which blue zone they were targeting, how they would get there, or what their objective would be ¨C he just packed. From the clothing he¡¯d been issued, he chose the items that looked the least military: underwear, shorts, t-shirts, sweats, and all his cold weather clothing. He made sure to remove all his name tapes. He added soap, shampoo, his toothbrush, toothpaste, and shaving supplies. A flashlight, canteen, and Bible went last.

    Wilson would probably make them dump everything out onto the floor so he could kick through it but Solomon packed neatly anyway since that was what you¡¯re supposed to do. He wasn¡¯t thinking much while doing it. His mind was mostly on the Field Training Exercise coming up soon. They would spend three full days in the field living in tents and running various drills meant to test them on everything they¡¯d learned so far. It was like their final exam. And then they would be done. They probably wouldn¡¯t be allowed to leave the base even after boot camp was over, but he¡¯d heard from another drill that their families would be permitted to come visit them.

    Solomon couldn¡¯t wait. I haven¡¯t seen Adah for seven weeks straight¡­

    Everything was packed. Wilson was entering the barracks. As anticipated, he was making everyone dump their stuff on the floor. Solomon stood at attention, waiting, and when Wilson got to him, he shook everything out of his duffel bag and then placed the bag on the floor next to his pile of clothes.

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    His first sign that he¡¯d done something wrong was when Wilson started laughing. Since Solomon was standing at attention he didn¡¯t see right away what Wilson was bending over to pick up until he was holding Solomon¡¯s Bible in his face. His shoulders immediately tightened. He was taller than Wilson, so when the man stepped back to flip it open Solomon could see it without breaking posture if he glanced down.

    So Solomon saw it perfectly clearly when Wilson started ripping out the pages.

    Solomon felt as if he¡¯d stopped breathing. He almost took an instinctive step forward to deck Wilson; only seven full weeks of training kept him planted in place. Seven full weeks, and the thought of the last week in front of him, one last week between him and Wilson forever, just one more week until this hell was over, but Wilson was flipping to another section now, tearing even more pages out, and it was taking everything in Solomon not to shake with rage as the man continued mutilating his Bible until a full third of its pages were in torn scraps on the floor.

    Then he stopped. ¡°There,¡± Wilson said. ¡°I took out all the pages about women, gays and slaves. This,¡± he said, holding it up, ¡°is the Bible you can bring into the blue zone.¡± He then tossed it onto the floor by Solomon¡¯s feet, and walked on to the next recruit. Solomon heard him berating the recruit for something or other, and then he moved on to the next one, and kept going until he¡¯d gone through them all. And then Wilson was out the door and Solomon on his knees not a second later, picking up the ripped pieces of the torn out pages.

    Rithvik, too, dropped to his knees to help. Some of the other guys also bent over, until almost everyone in the platoon had handed him at least a piece; he took them and placed the handful of ripped pages inside the covers of what was left of his Bible. The recruit who slept in the rack across from Solomon thrust a crumpled page at him. ¡°Sergeant Wilson was right, you know,¡± he told Solomon.

    Solomon didn¡¯t reply, and the recruit seemed to interpret his silence as an invitation to continue. ¡°No, really, he was right. In the red zone you¡¯re either Christian or you accept that Christians think that believing in God is the most important thing in the world. I don¡¯t think the Bible¡¯s sacred, but I get that you do. And look, I think it¡¯s a good thing to have Christians around, it¡¯s better than having the woke around at any rate, but my parents grew up in a blue zone and even before the Great Splintering a ton of blues thought your Bible was racist, sexist and phobic. Bringing a full Bible into a blue zone on an undercover mission is probably the stupidest thing you could ever do. You should be happy Sergeant Wilson didn¡¯t recycle you all the way back to the beginning of training just for being an idiot, that all he did was rip it up.¡±

    Solomon took the crumpled page from him. ¡°Thanks,¡± he said quietly. The recruit was probably right. He should have been more mindful about his packing instead of daydreaming about the end of boot camp. But he wished Wilson had just smoked him, or even beaten him instead. This Bible now half in shreds was his father¡¯s Bible, the one he¡¯d left behind the day he¡¯d disappeared.

    ***

    It rained the entire time they were out in the field. Solomon and Rithvik spent three days getting drenched in the freezing March rain, struggling to stay dry inside a tent that seemed to leak wherever they accidentally touched it on the inside of the canvas surface. Solomon¡¯s head kept bumping against it until Rithvik finally snapped at him that he was too damn tall, to get down on his hands and knees and crawl if he needed to move.

    Rithvik was good at setting up the tent. He was fast at buttoning the two shelter halves along the top seam and arranging the tent poles where they needed to go. He also had the idea of rationing ¨C and guarding from other recruits ¨C their food so they didn¡¯t run out before the third day. It was a good idea so Solomon went along with it even though he felt as if he was starving the entire time. Maybe he was going through a growth spurt. That was what Umma had always told him whenever he¡¯d wanted to eat every hour at home. Or maybe he was just hungry because they¡¯d been marching for hours on end with 60-pound backpacks and trying to eat mud-splattered slices of salted ham without ever once putting down their rifles.

    Toward the end of it he felt like he was carrying Rithvik half the time too, dragging him along as his body fought off what Solomon hoped wasn¡¯t pneumonia. At one point he seriously thought he needed to tell a drill instructor that Rithvik had to go on sick call, but Rithvik grabbed him and made him swear not to do it. ¡°30% chance I die now, 100% chance I will kill myself if I have to go through this again.¡±

    So they counted down the days together, and then the hours, and then the minutes, and somehow they were both still alive when it was time to march back to base. Rithvik was coughing and feverish and clearly couldn¡¯t breathe well in the cold winter air. Solomon had taken most of Rithvik¡¯s load into his own backpack so his friend was able to keep pace, barely. At least it¡¯d stopped pouring. There was no sun but the gray sky was still clear and bright.

    It was bright enough, in fact, that as they neared the parade ground, Solomon could see even from a distance the American flag waving from the top of a hundred-foot flagpole. A cold wind whipped it in and out. Then he started to hear the music. Strains of it reached his ears, growing louder the closer they got. Then they were in full view and he was startled by the changed parade ground. Red, white and blue decorations were everywhere, and a band in full dress uniform was playing on a temporary stage.

    Solomon could sense the excitement growing around him, the other recruits anticipating a change from the ordinary routine of punishment and deprivation if nothing else. But as he looked at the old American flag, something twisted inside him, and suddenly the music was no longer thrilling but discordant, as if the notes were crashing and screaming into each other.

    He knew he ought to feel proud. After all, he¡¯d made it. He¡¯d endured. He was a soldier now. But when Solomon looked at that flag, all he could feel was heartbreak. Most of their instructors had served in the old US military, so maybe it felt to them as if they were still the old America, as if they had been able to hold onto its traditions and pass them on, but it wasn¡¯t true. That flag up there was a lie. The truth of it was that they had spent the last eight weeks ¨C Solomon had spent the last eight weeks ¨C being trained to kill other Americans.

    And on the other side of the Susquehanna, inside the blue zone base there, were other Americans being trained to kill him.

 Chapter 10: "As long as Iâ€™m alive, Iâ€™ll come home to you."

    Chapter 10

    Inside the visitor control center at the entrance of the base, Solomon waited with Rithvik and some other soldiers in the reception room. An officer had told the soldiers to arrange it so that they were spread apart, each soldier in a folding chair with a small folding table in front of them, and two more folding chairs on the other side of the table. Only two guests were allowed during this visit. Not that it mattered for Solomon, but Rithvik had said only his parents were coming since his grandmother and younger brother couldn¡¯t join them.

    Solomon flicked his thumb toward the cast on Rithvik¡¯s leg. ¡°How is it?¡± Apparently at some point during the Field Training Exercise he¡¯d developed a stress fracture, which meant he¡¯d been marching on a broken leg for that last stretch back. And this on top of his lung inflammation, which he¡¯d had to get medevac¡¯d for as soon as they¡¯d arrived back at the base camp. Rithvik had told him when he¡¯d woken up at the hospital he¡¯d been surprised to still be alive. I get it, Solomon had replied. I¡¯m kind of surprised you are too.

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± Rithvik said. ¡°My parents are going to flip out, though, when they see it. I wasn¡¯t very specific in my letters about what it was like here. They were upset enough when I got drafted.¡±

    ¡°As long as they don¡¯t try to complain to anyone about it.¡±

    Rithvik gave a soft laugh. ¡°They know better than that, by now. We all do.¡±

    Solomon knew what Rithvik meant. They both knew their parents had chosen a red zone to live in for a reason, but that didn¡¯t mean they liked how authoritarian it was here. Checkpoints everywhere, barely any due process, severe restrictions on speech, ruled by a stratocracy¡­ Umma and Dad¡¯s stories of pre-Splintering America always made it sound so much freer.

    At least they didn¡¯t live in a blue zone. From the classes they¡¯d taken during boot camp, blue zoners seemed to live under even more restrictions. That matched what Solomon remembered reading once: in communist regimes, you couldn¡¯t live your life normally ¨C you always had to be political ¨C while in fascist regimes, you could live more freely as long as you stayed out of politics. In Westsylvania, it felt more like the latter.

    Unless you were a soldier, of course. Their lives belonged to the militia. They had no right to demand anything. Not even a pass to go home for a little, despite having a week-long break before being sent out either to sentry duty on the border or into advanced training. It sucked. Thirty minutes to talk to Adah across a table didn¡¯t feel like enough after eight weeks of only letters.

    ¡°I wish they¡¯d given us a few days of leave,¡± Solomon said. ¡°But I guess they¡¯re still afraid we¡¯ll run off and go into hiding.¡±

    Rithvik laughed again. ¡°Even I probably would, to be honest.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Feel more like a prisoner than a soldier, sometimes.¡±

    I guess we all remember the old America enough to feel like we should at least have done something wrong for our choices to be taken away from us, Solomon wanted to say. But the conversation had gone far enough into the danger zone. The visitor control center was almost certainly bugged, or so he suspected.

    Before Solomon could come up with something else to say, the door to the waiting room opened. He could tell the first visitors were Rithvik¡¯s parents from the way their frantic gazes zeroed in on him. His mother was crying. Watching her embrace Rithvik made something sharp twist inside Solomon. Umma used to joke with him that after he got married and left the house she¡¯d still visit him all the time until he grew sick of her. She used to tell him that she¡¯d always be there to listen to him even if nobody else was. If you¡¯re lonely, or sad, or stressed, call me, she¡¯d said. I¡¯ll always pick up for you.

    Solomon took a deep breath and forced his gaze back to the door. Adah! Beaming at him as if he were the Second Coming or something. He felt a huge smile spread across his face. Her sheer joy was like a burst of sunshine. When she bounded up to his table, he stood to give her a hug. She grabbed him around the waist and buried her face in his chest. It felt like a full five minutes before she let go. Then she looked up at him. ¡°Solo, you got huge!¡± she squealed. She poked his upper arm. ¡°You used to be skinny!¡±

    By now Solomon was grinning his head off. ¡°They made us eat a lot if we came in underweight.¡±

    They held each other, still standing, still grinning. He was happy just to be looking at her, but he told her to sit down. She looked tired, actually, now that he¡¯d had a few minutes to examine her. ¡°Are you doing okay?¡± he asked.

    Adah hesitated. ¡°I just miss you so much,¡± she finally said. ¡°I¡¯m okay, though, I really am, I don¡¯t want you to worry. Alice¡¯s mom found out that you were at basic training and that I was alone, so she¡¯s been having me over for dinner and helping me out. Alice¡¯s brother got drafted too, a year ago I think, so I guess she felt bad for me.¡±

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    Alice was one of Adah¡¯s friends at school, the one with all the freckles. He¡¯d met her once. ¡°Tell her I said thank you,¡± he said.

    Solomon could tell Adah was blinking back tears. ¡°Will they ever let you come back home?¡±

    He reached over the table to take her hands. He knew he shouldn¡¯t promise her that he¡¯d come back. With Umma and Dad¡¯s absence pressing like a boot on his throat, he knew that he couldn¡¯t keep that promise. But something had changed since he¡¯d left for basic. He didn¡¯t know what it was exactly. Maybe he felt more confident. Yeah, that was it. He did feel more confident. The militia had taken a lot from him, and it was going to take a lot from him still, maybe even his life, but they¡¯d given him something too. He now knew he could handle a whole lot more than he¡¯d thought he could. He was a whole lot stronger than he¡¯d used to be, stronger than he¡¯d ever thought he could be.

    So he held Adah¡¯s hands, and met her eyes. ¡°As long as I¡¯m alive, I¡¯ll come home to you,¡± he said. And from the way she relaxed a little, from the slight easing of her shoulders, Solomon could tell that she believed him.

    ***

    After that life settled into a pattern. Sentry duty for three months, then a week off, during which Adah came and visited him at the base, and then back to sentry duty for another three months. Other than the hazing he went through for being new, the first ninety days he was stationed alongside the Susquehanna River all blended into each other. He spent most of his free time reading.

    Not just for fun, though. If there was one thing Solomon had learned from his eight weeks at boot camp, it was that he¡¯d been stupidly unprepared for it. He¡¯d already kicked himself during basic for not having spent every second between getting his draft notice and showing up to the base asking the bot search agent for tips. Now that he was out, he was finding almost everything he¡¯d gone through had been described online already. His conclusion: he couldn¡¯t predict what was going to happen to him, but he could read every InfoVerse ebook available on military history.

    Things got a little more exciting when he got shifted to the western side of the zone. When the Great Splintering happened, the Columbus and Cleveland blue zones managed to link up, but a good chunk of what used to be southeastern Ohio and a bit of West Virginia joined in with the Westsylvania red zone militias. Maybe it was because there wasn¡¯t a river clearly marking the boundary as there was in the east, but there were more firefights on this side. It was still mostly just sitting on a hilltop behind a parapet, staring at a blue zone squad sitting behind their parapet on another hilltop half a mile away, but one night there were loud bangs and everyone started running around. Nobody seemed to know what was happening, though, and in the end, he never found out.

    When he returned to base after his three months in Ohio, he got good news. If a soldier agreed to wear an electronic ankle shackle, he could go home during his week off. Solomon was literally the first in line to get one. He didn¡¯t tell Adah in advance in case they changed their minds at the last second. The look on her face when he showed up at home was priceless ¨C her surprise and joy hit him right in the chest, making the moment feel even more rewarding than he had imagined.

    It felt good to be out of the barracks. Over the past few years, they had steadily filled with new draftees; the ranks, once manageable, were now swelling to the point of bursting. Solomon bet that was why the militia had decided to set up the ankle shackle program in the first place, to clear the seasoned soldiers out and get some space back.

    He spent most of his time at home sleeping, charging his shackle, eating whatever Adah made, and fixing things around the house. He found out that the bathroom faucet had been leaking since he¡¯d left for boot camp when Adah showed him the pan she¡¯d been using to collect the water. ¡°I tried to tighten the connections, I found a video online about it and the bot search agent gave me the steps, but I just couldn¡¯t apply enough pressure.¡± The front door also: he adjusted its hinges so that it didn¡¯t scrape on the floor anymore.

    By the time Solomon¡¯s week was done, he¡¯d tightened and screwed and wrenched back together everything that had come loose while he¡¯d been gone. Adah was very happy about all the fixes. She kept opening and closing the front door and exclaiming about how smooth it was. He was glad she was happy. He was glad he¡¯d been able to come back, even though leaving again was hard. He really didn¡¯t like her being alone. At least the neighborhood seemed to be filling up again, with refugees from blue zones taking over the houses abandoned by those who¡¯d fled. The refugees had come with nothing, so he was sure they were glad to be handed homes already fully furnished, especially the families with kids.

    On his way back to base, Solomon kept thinking about kids, and realized that he eventually had to figure out Adah¡¯s future. He was getting paid more now than he was during boot camp, but it still wasn¡¯t much, not enough to pay for college tuition. Did Adah really need to go to college, though? The red zones didn¡¯t look down on a girl getting educated past high school, but they didn¡¯t encourage it either.

    Solomon remembered Umma saying once that one good thing about the red zone was that they didn¡¯t sneer at girls who wanted a domestic life. In basic he¡¯d been taught that blue zoners didn¡¯t even have marriage at all as blue zones didn¡¯t require government approval for committed relationships.

    In Westsylvania, there¡¯d been a big political argument over divorce, abortion, and sex when the Great Splintering first happened, and it had taken forever for the red zone secularist and Christian military leaders to agree to a coalition compromise. Solomon wasn¡¯t sure how other red zones ran things, but in the Westsylvania zone they ended up banning abortion completely. They also split marriages into two types, secular and Christian, with the latter being undissolvable.

    You could still have sex with anybody who would have you. The secularists refused to back down on that one.

    But he didn¡¯t really want to think about that, didn¡¯t want to think about Adah getting married. She was only fourteen. He didn¡¯t even want to think about him getting married. What, so he could have a son and then disappear on him, leaving him to figure things out by himself? No thanks. Taking care of Adah was enough for him.

    And so Solomon did. Another three months along the river, and then a week off at home, and then another three months in Ohio, and then a week at home, and then he was not quite nineteen and a half when he got the order to come in to train for a mission into a blue zone.

 Chapter 11: "â€œThe reality of male and female biology is a red zone hill to die on..."

    Chapter 11

    It was mid-February when Solomon got the training order, so he had a flash of d¨¦j¨¤ vu when he got off the bus in front of the base and stepped right into a blast of ice-cold wind. He didn¡¯t think the training would be like boot camp, though. He hoped not, at any rate.

    When he got assigned to a double occupancy room instead of a barracks he began to feel his hopes might be justified. He started unpacking. He was almost done, and about to turn on the pre-loaded tablet the duty sergeant had given him when he¡¯d arrived, when the door behind him opened to reveal Rithvik.

    ¡°Hey!¡± he said, grinning. Solomon found himself grinning too. It was kind of surprising he hadn¡¯t run into him again since basic training, actually. The Westsylvania zone wasn¡¯t that big compared to some of the other zones. He¡¯d known a lot of the guys he¡¯d done sentry duty with already since they¡¯d been part of his cycle at boot camp.

    ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡± Solomon asked, sitting down on his bed.

    Rithvik updated him as he unpacked. From the sound of it, he had done pretty well for himself in the militia. He¡¯d gotten sent into advanced training and now had a position analyzing surveillance data. ¡°I spend most of my time in front of a display. Although they did send me out to direct traffic in East Liberty for a while.¡± He gave Solomon a glance. ¡°I guess you didn¡¯t know to tell anyone you were good with computers. They want guys who are. You could¡¯ve gotten out of sentry duty.¡±

    ¡°Do they pay more?¡± Solomon asked.

    ¡°Not really. They eventually give bonuses for specialized work, but not at my current level.¡±

    ¡°Who would I even tell?¡±

    ¡°Wilson.¡±

    Solomon blinked. ¡°You mean¡­ our drill instructor?¡±

    ¡°My parents told me to talk to him after basic. I didn¡¯t want to, at first, because, well, you know, but they told me that now that I was in the militia I had to treat it like any other job. Ask for advice, ask for help. My father kept telling me, you¡¯re on the same team as your instructors now, so finally I asked Wilson and thankfully he thought the same way as my father, he was happy to help me out.¡± Solomon supposed Rithvik could sense his hesitation, because he continued, ¡°He¡¯s really not the asshole he was in boot camp, I think it¡¯s just some kind of act the drills put on to train us. And isn¡¯t he the one running this mission into the blue zone? That¡¯s what I read in the briefing report.¡± Rithvik gestured at the tablet he put down on the desk when he came in. ¡°He¡¯s the one you should tell.¡±

    ¡°He already knows,¡± Solomon replied evenly. He was torn between trying not to feel jealous that Rithvik had parents to advise him, and knowing that even if Umma and Dad had told him to talk to Wilson, he wouldn¡¯t have wanted to listen to them. Not that it mattered. He didn¡¯t think Wilson respected him enough to want to help him. He was pretty sure he¡¯d blown his chance by packing his Bible during that last exercise in boot camp. ¡°Anyway, I have to read this thing.¡±

    ¡°Me too, I¡¯m going to finish it now. We have that introductory session scheduled soon.¡±

    Solomon fired up his tablet. It made sense that he would run into Wilson again. As he¡¯d noticed before, the Westsylvania zone wasn¡¯t that big. He couldn¡¯t claim to feel very excited about it though.

    ***

    The base had been built up a lot since Solomon was last there. It was still mostly Quonset huts on every flat corner of land, including beside retaining walls at the bottom of hills, but the construction that had just started when he was at basic was now either done or close to it. There was a new sleek, glass-paneled command center that Rithvik and he headed toward. They went through the double doors, past the lobby, and up the stairs to the lecture hall.

    By the time they got there, the lecture hall was about half-filled with around fifty people. They were called to attention, and then someone he didn¡¯t know, a captain, came to the front and told everyone to take a seat. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± he began. ¡°I am Captain Daniel Reynolds, your commanding officer for this mission. Today, we embark on a mission that requires dedication and resolve. We will be infiltrating enemy lines, assuming covert identities, and operating in the shadows. I have served in this esteemed militia for over a decade. I have witnessed firsthand the extraordinary acts of bravery and selflessness displayed by soldiers like you. This mission will test these characteristics and everything else you¡¯re made of, but I have the utmost confidence in each and every one of you.¡±

    Solomon wanted to roll his eyes. Yes, yes, we all have to pretend like we chose to be here, ok, got it. He glanced at the other soldiers around him, his attention drifting as Captain Reynolds continued. But when the topic shifted to the practicalities of their training, Solomon leaned forward slightly. None of them might actually get selected to go into the blue zone? Selection would depend on how well they trained and the needs of the mission?

    He listened as they were also warned not to tell anyone about their training, or even that they were training. ¡°Under no circumstances are you to discuss anything you learn with each other.¡±

    Now that, Solomon found interesting. They had learned in boot camp about the retroviral hypnotics that the blue zone used to interrogate suspects. He remembered Wilson saying, ¡°The drugs will work, you will tell everything you know, and we know this because we use the same drugs.¡± Probably they were going to split up into different groups for training. Rithvik might be taught some aspect of infiltration while he was taught another, and that the reason they didn¡¯t want them talking was because if both of them did get selected to go into the blue zone, they didn¡¯t want him getting caught and then talking about what Rithvik was up to.

    It was as if they were going to execute a heist, but with a twist: each soldier would be unaware of the tasks assigned to others. Only the squad leader would have the complete picture. And that leader was ¨C

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    Wilson.

    Solomon saw him now, coming up to the podium. His whole body tensed up at the sight of him. It was worse when he started talking. He had thought he¡¯d never have to hear Wilson¡¯s voice again, never have to obey any more of his commands, and instead, he was right back to being directly underneath him. If Wilson was the one who was going to physically lead the team into the blue zone, he did not want to go.

    But he knew that wasn¡¯t up to him. So if they chose him, he would go, and he would do it without complaining or arguing, as it said in Philippians 2:14. Praying that he wouldn¡¯t get selected was probably okay, though. Even Jesus prayed to avoid the crucifixion.

    Thankfully, Wilson didn¡¯t talk for long. His focus was mainly on emphasizing the absolute necessity of not discussing their training with each other, that they couldn¡¯t know anything beyond what they needed to know. Then they were released to go eat, free until it was time to return to their dorms for the night. Rithvik invited Solomon to go to the base club, but even with every cent of his salary going to Adah, he could barely keep her afloat, so he told Rithvik he couldn¡¯t afford it and headed back to the dorm alone. Twenty minutes later Rithvik opened the door. ¡°They didn¡¯t have anything but this,¡± he said, pulling out from under his jacket a bottle of Pennsylvania rye whiskey.

    Solomon tried not to flush. They weren¡¯t supposed to take alcohol outside of the designated areas within the base club, and he knew Rithvik had both bought it for him and broken the rules for his sake. Rithvik told him it wasn¡¯t a big deal. ¡°You¡¯re the only reason I made it through boot camp,¡± he said. ¡°I would have definitely died without you, so shut up and drink.¡±

    He accepted the bottle and took a swig. Rithvik asked him how Adah was doing, and he told him she was managing. Rithvik shared that his younger brother was turning eighteen next year and that his parents were worried. Solomon kind of wanted to ask Rithvik why his parents chose a red zone, but after Captain Reynolds¡¯s speech, he wasn¡¯t sure he should. He didn¡¯t actually want to get caught and then spill all these details about Rithvik¡¯s family¡¯s life to some blue zone antifa when he could just not know them in the first place. Maybe Rithvik felt the same way because he didn¡¯t ask him anything more either.

    Instead, they talked a little bit about the rumors surrounding a debate some higher-ups in the Cultural Nationalists were supposedly having around whether to add women to their lottery draft. Apparently, some of them thought that having women around to fill non-combat roles would position them better against the neighboring blue zones. Rithvik asked Solomon what he thought. He told Rithvik that while he didn¡¯t normally think about what other people he had no authority over should do, he personally didn¡¯t want to see Adah drafted. He also told him that he didn¡¯t think it mattered, that the Cultural Nationalists could debate all they wanted, but it was the council that would decide whether to accept women into the militia even in non-combat roles, and that there were no signs they were going to.

    ¡°You¡¯re probably right,¡± Rithvik replied. ¡°The reality of male and female biology is a red zone hill to die on, the militia council isn¡¯t going to abandon it any time soon. Anyway, I¡¯m going to get ready for bed.¡± He gestured at the bottle in his hand, which they had been passing back and forth. ¡°Do me a favor and hide that at the bottom of the trash can. I''ll take it out later.¡±

    Solomon knew he should sleep too. He was getting tired. But he wanted to review his schedule first, so he pulled out the tablet they¡¯d given him. He touched the screen and started swiping through. He stopped when he got to the letter.

    Solomon Williams:

    This briefing serves to inform you about your upcoming participation in the Advanced Training - Parachute Jump Qualification Program. The purpose of this training is to equip you with the necessary skills and knowledge to safely conduct parachute jumps as part of your duties.

    Training Objectives:

    <ol>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Develop a thorough understanding of parachute systems, equipment, and procedures.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Master parachute landing falls (PLFs) and body positioning techniques to ensure safe landings.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Gain proficiency in parachute rigging and maintenance.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Enhance situational awareness and decision-making abilities during parachute operations.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Foster teamwork and effective communication among fellow trainees.</li>

    </ol>

    Training Outline:

    <ol>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Day 1:</li>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Introduction and overview of the training program.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Classroom instruction on parachute systems and components.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Safety protocols and emergency procedures briefing.</li>

    </ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Day 2-3:</li>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Practical sessions on PLFs and body positioning techniques.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Physical conditioning exercises to improve strength and flexibility.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Introduction to parachute packing and rigging principles.</li>

    </ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Day 4-5:</li>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Ground training exercises simulating parachute jumps.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Mock parachute jump preparations, including equipment checks and inspections.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Review of landing procedures and emergency drills.</li>

    </ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Day 6-7:</li>

    <ul>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Actual parachute jumps from gradually increasing altitudes.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Focus on proper exit techniques, freefall control, and canopy control.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Post-jump debriefings and performance evaluations.</li>

    </ul>

    </ol>

    Please note that the schedule is subject to change based on weather conditions and training requirements. Your commitment, discipline, and adherence to safety protocols are of utmost importance throughout the training.

    Ensure that you arrive well-rested, physically fit, and prepared with the required equipment as specified in the pre-training checklist provided separately.

    We look forward to your active participation and dedication during this advanced training program. Should you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact your assigned training officer.

    Best regards,

    Samuel Wilson

    Lieutenant

    Hm. Parachute training. With Wilson. Lieutenant Wilson. He¡¯d gone through some sort of officer candidate school and gotten commissioned, it looked like.

    Maybe Solomon needed another drink¡­

 Chapter 12: â€œI didnâ€™t think you were the seditious type.â€

    Chapter 12

    It turned out Solomon didn¡¯t need to be so nervous. Wilson wasn¡¯t his assigned training officer. In fact, he barely saw Wilson at all. Wilson came by the airfield once in a while, but it was just to glance at them and then talk to the training officer and poke at things on his tablet. Solomon spent more of his downtime talking to the guy assigned to drive them all to the airfield. Or more accurately, he spent his downtime listening to the guy complain about how he should have never gotten licensed to drive a cattle truck because now that was all anyone had him do, transporting troops either for jumps or for literally anything else.

    ¡°And because I¡¯m the one driving, and not jumping,¡± he kept saying, ¡°I get to be the one getting the chutes and bringing them to the airfield. I get to wait at the drop zone as a chute turn-in point for all of you. I get to count the chutes after the jump. Then I get to drive everyone back. Then I¡¯m put on chute shakeout detail. By that point it¡¯s nine in the morning and I¡¯ve been up all night with this bullshit.¡±

    The jumps usually happened around midnight since they were supposed to train the way they fought, so Solomon got how the guy might find it annoying. And even if they were done in broad daylight, none of what he did sounded that fun. The militia didn¡¯t seem to care much about anybody¡¯s natural interests when it came to assigning them to details. It was the needs of the militia, first and only. He could see why Rithvik had needed Wilson¡¯s help to get the position he got analyzing surveillance data. And even that, Rithvik told him, was boring.

    ¡°The only fun part is getting to work with a VR helmet,¡± he said. ¡°They¡¯re really cool. They make you feel like you¡¯re really there. The militia is so strict about who gets to use one, though. You have to have clearance and everything to be able to even sign one out.¡±

    Umma had used to wear her VR helmet a lot. Dad had always thought she used it too much; Solomon remembered the ban was one of the few council edicts Dad had been happy about. ¡°VR made it convenient for people to meet anonymously in secure environments to organize politically,¡± Solomon said. ¡°The council doesn¡¯t exactly like that kind of thing happening. Not to mention VR is harder to track than phone calls or messages.¡±

    Rithvik shrugged. ¡°They still don¡¯t have to let civilians use the visors, they could give them just to soldiers to train on. Even for this mission. We could be given a much better sense of what it¡¯s going to be like in the blue zone through VR.¡±

    ¡°I wonder why they picked us for this,¡± Solomon replied. ¡°The fifty or so of us that they¡¯re going to be selecting from for the blue zone mission.¡±

    ¡°I was thinking about that too. I asked around a little, and you know what I found out? Every single soldier chosen for this program has family in this zone. They want to make sure that only those who have the motivation to come back are given the chance to go into the blue zone.¡±

    Wow, Rithvik was even more politically cynical than he was. ¡°Except for Wilson,¡± Solomon said. Since he was a defector, whatever family he had had to be in the blue zone.

    ¡°Oh, I guess so, I wasn¡¯t counting him.¡± Then Rithvik frowned. ¡°Wait, how do you know that?¡±

    Too late, Solomon realized his mistake. ¡°I¡­ I met him once. Before basic.¡±

    ¡°You knew him before? You never said!¡±

    ¡°It was one time. In passing.¡±

    Solomon could tell Rithvik was curious, but he didn¡¯t press him. He was good like that. Instead, he shrugged. ¡°Oh, you know the other thing I noticed? None of the fifty of us are White.¡±

    Solomon thought about that for a moment. And then he said, ¡°Except for Wilson.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Rithvik replied. ¡°Except for him.¡±

    ***

    Solomon found himself unable to stop thinking about what Rithvik had said. How every single soldier chosen for the program had family in the area, and how none of them were White. He didn¡¯t know why it bothered him so much. It wasn¡¯t as if the Westsylvania militia was as racist as, say, the militias in ethnonationalist red zones. Sure, the All-Whites were annoying, but they mostly kept to themselves, and anyway they seemed to prefer constantly harassing the White guys in other factions to join up with them instead of messing with any non-White soldiers.

    So why did he feel so suspicious?

    There were a few reasons. First, since Solomon had gotten called back to train for this mission, he¡¯d started working his way through any books on the blue zone he could find. There weren¡¯t a lot. He¡¯d been tempted to set up a VPN to bypass the firewalling that restricted their access to the blue zone nets, since he wanted to learn more about what it was going to be like there, but unfortunately that was illegal. Like really illegal, it was pretty much the one thing they didn¡¯t want them doing. He¡¯d of course use a server network based in another country, but even that wouldn¡¯t protect him from a targeted attack by a militia computer security unit, and he doubted a VPN provider would hold out on giving up his information in the face of escalating demands for cooperation.

    So he was limited to what he could find on the red zone nets, and what he¡¯d learned from others. During basic he¡¯d been taught the blue zone hated White people. That could explain why they were having only non-White soldiers go in. It still felt off, though. After all, Wilson was going in too. He was the one leading them. And could any zone that had once been part of America really hate White people that much?

    Maybe this was where his second piece of reading was coming in. After he¡¯d finished a book on how armies in ancient Rome were funded, it had started making him wonder how the militia was getting the resources to pay soldiers like him. Was it all from civilian payroll deductions? Or were there red zone billionaires who were financing the red zone militias? Were they a professional force or a private army? How exactly had the council forced the factional militias to come together to form the Westsylvania militia? Who had given them the money to make it happen?

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Maybe Solomon was overthinking things. He probably was. There was no real reason for his mind to keep returning to a theory that this mission into the blue zone wasn¡¯t actually for zone security purposes, that the lack of White soldiers indicated it was not an officially sanctioned mission, that instead it was some favor being done on behalf of a private funder.

    He tried to ignore his suspicion, but it kept growing as he moved through the rest of his training for the next several months until it was mid-June. Deep-water rifle retrieval, construction of improvised tools, terrain runs, hand-to-hand combat¡­ out of everything, he liked hand-to-hand combat the best, or at least he was better at it than he was at anything else. Including parachute training. There was something about flinging himself out of a plane at 20,000 feet that he was just not into. He didn¡¯t know if it was a good or bad thing when he passed his evaluation by successfully steering his parachute several miles to the drop zone. If it meant not having to do it again, maybe it would¡¯ve been better to fail. Granted, failure would¡¯ve just meant being given some wall-to-wall counseling to motivate him to try harder, so it was probably good he didn¡¯t fail. It had taken them a long time to figure out Hyeon-Ju needed to be washed out.

    But when Solomon received a memo from Wilson ordering him to attend a private briefing, he was pretty sure that meant he¡¯d been selected.

    When he walked in, Wilson looked up from across the desk. He grinned. Solomon saluted, stood at attention and tried to will himself not to feel as if Wilson were mocking him with his smile. ¡°Congratulations,¡± Wilson told him. ¡°You¡¯re going into the blue zone.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± he said.

    He studied him for a moment. ¡°Any questions?¡±

    Solomon knew he shouldn¡¯t ask. This was the first time he¡¯d been face-to-face with Wilson since basic training and it looked as if the meeting might already be over, which was what he wanted. But it had been on his mind so much that when invited to ask, Solomon did, even though he knew it was dumb to take Wilson up on it. ¡°Why are none of the soldiers going into the blue zone White?¡±

    Solomon could tell right away that Wilson did not like his question. And honestly, he got why. It wasn¡¯t like he wanted to think about politics either. He didn¡¯t want to think about treachery, didn¡¯t want to think that something else was going on other than a simple mission into the blue zone. But the reality was that despite the old flag, this wasn¡¯t the United States military anymore, it was a militia he¡¯d been forced to join, and he wanted to know if he was going to get screwed over while being used for some billionaire¡¯s personal machinations.

    Solomon watched as Wilson slowly got to his feet. ¡°What are you accusing us of?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not accusing anyone of anything,¡± he replied. ¡°You asked me if I had any questions.¡±

    ¡°What is this? You don¡¯t want to go?¡± he snarled.

    Of course Solomon didn¡¯t want to go! Why did Wilson? Did he not see that if this wasn¡¯t a real mission into the blue zone, he was going to get into as much trouble as the rest of them? But Solomon didn¡¯t know how to tell him that. He was already regretting asking his question. He should¡¯ve listened to the instincts he¡¯d developed around Wilson during boot camp and kept his mouth shut.

    ¡°I¡¯ll go wherever I¡¯m told to go, sir,¡± Solomon replied. ¡°I took the oath. I know how to obey orders. All I¡¯m saying is that people are people, and politics are politics, and the only difference that matters between people is how they treat the person in front of them, and not what opinion they have in their heads.¡±

    Just because the red zone militia had been good to Wilson didn¡¯t mean that the red zone militia wasn¡¯t made up of fallen people too, people who wanted to get ahead, people who had their own agendas that were orthogonal to your well-being, people who would happily throw an entire squad of soldiers under a bus if they thought they could get something out of it for themselves. That was what Solomon was trying to say. But Wilson didn¡¯t seem to be taking it that way. He was literally glowering at him. ¡°I didn¡¯t think you were the seditious type.¡±

    Seditious? Solomon could feel his heart start to race. He wanted to stammer out an apology but he didn¡¯t want to say the wrong thing, and he didn¡¯t know what the right thing to say was. With Wilson standing there, glaring, he felt as if he were spinning back to the beginning of boot camp, where nothing he did was right and there was nothing he could do to make it better. If Wilson reported him for speaking sedition, and he got convicted, that was a one-way trip to a prison labor camp.

    He had to think, and quickly, to get his stupid self out of this mess he¡¯d created.

    Thank God, the words came out all at once. ¡°I didn¡¯t go through losing my parents and getting drafted and surviving basic training only to go to a prison camp, and if you send me to one, that¡¯s on you. I didn¡¯t say any of this stuff to anyone else, I told you, because if I¡¯m in your blue zone squad, then you¡¯re my officer. If you tell me to shut up and keep going, I will. What happens to me is your responsibility.¡±

    Wilson sat back down. ¡°Damn right it is.¡± He picked up a piece of paper from the desk and held it out to Solomon. He had to step forward to take it from Wilson¡¯s hand. It was a briefing report but it contained almost no details; it was 90% boilerplate about how important it was to maintain operational security, with a single line stating that their exfiltration would be arranged through covert channels by an insider embedded within the enemy¡¯s ranks.

    Only one part stood out to him:

    The objective of this assignment is to provide protection to a designated agent at Hershey Park. Your role is to ensure the safety and well-being of the agent. This assignment aims to prevent any potential threats, disruptions, or incidents that may compromise the agent¡¯s mission. For this assignment, you will assume the identity of a tourist visiting Hershey Park. Your cover story will portray you as an ordinary visitor enjoying the park¡¯s attractions, rides, and amenities with the designated agent. You will blend in with other park guests and engage in typical tourist activities to maintain your cover. It is essential to be a regular visitor and avoid drawing attention to your true purpose or affiliation. The designated agent will provide you with additional details and appropriate documentation, such as tickets, maps, and any necessary props to enhance the authenticity of your cover story. The agent will also pick you up at your drop zone wearing a neon green shirt with the letters RUN CMD printed on it. You will be going to your drop zone alone.

    ¡°Hershey Park?¡± Solomon asked.

    ¡°The amusement park, yes.¡±

    Huh? ¡°Aren¡¯t amusement parks for children?¡±

    ¡°Why do you think we¡¯re sending you?¡±

    At first, Solomon thought Wilson was having a jab at him, but then he realized he¡¯d meant it. Fair, it was true that he was not yet twenty, and that amusement parks were things teenagers went to. It had just been a long time since Solomon had thought of himself as a kid in need of amusement.

    There was no other real information in the briefing report, other than his code name, Landon, Wilson¡¯s code name, Wade, and the designated agent¡¯s code name, Manal. Maybe Wilson was being careful to make sure Solomon only knew what he was doing and not what anyone else might be doing. ¡°Okay,¡± he said.

    Wilson held his hand out for the paper. Solomon gave it back to him. ¡°Any questions?¡±

    ¡°No, sir.¡±

    A smile touched Wilson¡¯s face. ¡°You¡¯ll get issued your gear paperwork later today. Go,¡± he said, and for once, Solomon was happy ¨C no, relieved ¨C to obey.

 Chapter 13: â€œYes, like weâ€™ve been dating for the past three months.â€

    Chapter 13

    The militia didn¡¯t actually deliver his gear paperwork until the next day, but that was still pretty timely for them. They made a mistake and delivered Rithvik¡¯s paperwork at the same time, so Solomon knew he was selected too. He wasn¡¯t part of Solomon¡¯s jump group, though, so he had to be going in later. At least that was what Solomon figured when he didn¡¯t see Rithvik at the warehouse he went to with his paperwork to pick up, one item at a time, all the gear he needed. Left bootlace, check, right bootlace, check, left sock, check, right sock, check¡­

    It took forever. Solomon was glad to be done, to be getting into the cattle truck later that night. To his surprise, Wilson climbed in with him and two other soldiers. When they got to the departure airfield, they were paired up to help adjust and check each other¡¯s parachutes.

    Wilson helped place Solomon¡¯s harness container onto his back. He bent forward so Wilson could push it up higher while Solomon threaded and fastened the chest strap. Then Wilson prepared Solomon¡¯s leg straps. ¡°Left leg strap,¡± he called out, and passed it to Solomon, who grasped it with one hand. With his other hand, Solomon felt along the length of it to make sure it was not twisted and turned anywhere before he inserted it through his kit bag handle and then fastened it. Then it was time for the right leg strap. Wilson helped him tighten everything, and when he was done they changed positions and repeated the procedures.

    He could tell Wilson was excited. He was grinning even as the jumpmaster signed for them to put on their helmets. Then it was takeoff time, and before Solomon knew it they were at 1000 feet above ground level, and it was time to unfasten their seat belts. They kept climbing up. 2000 feet, 3000, 4000¡­

    They were almost at 10,000 feet when the jumpmaster put his right thumb on his right cheek and rotated his palm across his nose and mouth, signing for them to put on their oxygen masks. Between the roar of the aircraft, his helmet¡¯s hearing protection, and now the mask, Solomon couldn¡¯t hear much, so he kept his eyes on the jumpmaster. He also adjusted the mask and tested it for a proper seal, as he¡¯d been trained.

    Then it was time for thirty minutes or so of pre-breathing oxygen while the cabin depressurized. He took a deep breath, enjoying the sharpened night vision that came with it. He pitied those of his fellow soldiers who had to rely on dumbgoggles; those things would seriously mess up your depth perception.

    12,000 feet. 13,000. 14,000. The jumpmaster signed for them to check their oxygen, though Solomon¡¯s AR goggles already displayed the prompt to do so. He double-checked, then returned the signal with a thumbs up. 15,000 feet. 16,000. 17,000. A ten-minute warning flashed on his goggles. Then the cargo door was opening, and Solomon was glad he was wearing gloves and a jumpsuit over his layers of civilian clothes ¨C lace-up sneakers, sweats, and a windbreaker ¨C because the temperature drop was already noticeable.

    As the jumpmaster raised his arm in an arc, palm facing up, Solomon¡¯s goggles displayed the command to stand. Two minutes out. He checked his equipment as the digital countdown ticked away. Then the jumpmaster extended his arm straight out to the side, palm facing up, at shoulder level. His AR goggles flashed at the same time. Move to the rear. One minute to go. Solomon adjusted his goggles, disconnected from the oxygen console, activated his bailout bottles for oxygen during the jump, and moved to the hinge of the cargo ramp.

    Now he was staring into a black abyss. The slipstream was tugging at his ankles and his adrenaline was soaring. They were almost at the release point. He¡¯d done this a few times now, but his heart was pounding just as fast as on his first jump. Maybe it was because this time it was for real. Solomon wasn¡¯t headed for the drop zone where the cattle truck driver would pick him up with more stories about how much he didn¡¯t want to be doing what he was doing. Nope, it was the Susquehanna that was going to be under him, and then, if Solomon steered correctly, it would be behind him as he completed his insertion into the blue zone with no one the wiser.

    In fact, that was the whole reason they were doing a high-altitude high-opening jump at all. They were so high up nobody would hear the noise of his parachute opening, and this way the plane could stay in red zone airspace the entire time. Instead of having to fly over a blue zone and get detected, it could just send Solomon out to silently glide the thirty miles or so to the drop zone, too small a figure for their sensors to pick up.

    Fifteen second warning. He moved to the ramp. Nobody else was jumping with him. Wilson was off to his side. His face was all masked up but Solomon could tell from his eyes behind his goggles that he was grinning his head off. Then the light turned green and the jumpmaster crossed one arm across his chest and pointed at the exit. Solomon didn¡¯t hesitate. He leapt. And he was free-falling into total darkness for ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, zero ¨C

    He pulled the ripcord, and felt the tug of his parachute opening. He heard the receding drone of the aircraft above. It was leaving him behind. He was alone in the void now, floating in the night sky. It was perfectly calm. Perfectly peaceful. There was no moon so it was just the starlit sky stretching above him, a vast canopy of shimmering constellations. For a moment it felt as if he¡¯d entered a realm beyond Earth, as if the shining expanse all around him was the very footstool of God. He pulled on the toggles which dangled down from his canopy on either side of his head and pointed himself into the breeze. Then he was running with the wind, his path through the deep alive with light.

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    The view through his goggles filled up with floating numbers: a compass direction hovering beside a mountain peak, an altimeter reading ascending as he climbed on the breeze, a display of his location and trajectory provided by the inertial navigation system. With the wind as calm as it was now, it would take him maybe an hour and a half to get to the drop zone. He pulled the toggles to slow down as he went through a layer of clouds and found his vision cut off by dense white fog. It was distractingly cold and wet inside the clouds. He focused on maintaining the compass heading until he was through. Now he was low enough to see city lights, twinkling and beaming out into the night.

    Solomon flew over the city. They had no idea he was right there above their heads. They had no idea an enemy was coming.

    After gliding for a little over an hour, he checked his compass. In his mind¡¯s eye, the broken pieces of dim grayness ahead of him resolved into the Tamakwa Lake. This meant that the darker patches must be the woods surrounding a clearing where he was supposed to land. He began braking, pulling in the toggles so that the trailing edge of his parachute deflected downward, creating additional drag. His altimeter read 200 feet. Time to get ready to bring her in.

    He went for a flared landing. After clearing the treetops, at about ten feet above the ground, he slowly pulled both toggles downward, timing his movement to coincide with the full-brakes position at touchdown. He hoped he wasn¡¯t conducting it too low. There was very little wind which meant he had to slow down enough to land safely.

    Maybe this time he¡¯d actually pull off a textbook five-point parachute landing fall: feet first then immediately throw himself sideways to distribute the landing shock along his feet, calf, thigh, hip and side of his back. The falls were easier to do when flying light, which he was. He didn¡¯t even have a combat pack since the agent he was meeting was supposed to have everything he needed. The only weapon he was carrying was a pistol in a strapped-on container. And he¡¯d practiced falling correctly so many times, going back to the trainer so he could let loose the cable and drop him again and again until he got it right.

    I will do this without breaking a bone, Solomon told himself. I will not land on my feet then fall on my face as I did after my first jump.

    He succeeded. He was winded, but his momentum bled off as he hit the ground in the correct posture. Then he was on his feet and gathering up the parachute before the wind could grab it and yank him through the brambles, which would not be fun at all. He removed his harness, opened up his kit bag, and placed the canopy, deployment bag, suspension lines and risers into it. Within half an hour every piece of parachuting equipment, from his oxygen mask and the bailout bottles to the pilot chute, was inside the zipped-up bag. This was called recovery. It, too, was something he¡¯d practiced, many times.

    He¡¯d just finished when he heard a car. It was coming up the road nearest to him, the one he¡¯d flown over. Solomon hauled everything to the nearest tree and hid behind it, pulling out his pistol as the headlights cut through the leaves and trunks. He heard a door open, then close. He was still behind the tree, waiting, when he saw the dim shape of someone coming out into the clearing through the trees on the other side. Even in the dark he could tell it was a neon-colored shirt of some kind, but he couldn¡¯t read the letters until whoever-it-was came close enough for him to see RUN CMD printed across the front.

    It was the right letters, it was the right color, so Solomon lowered his pistol as he went out into the clearing. He was barely an arm¡¯s length away when the designated agent turned her face toward him, and he saw that she was a girl. ¡°Landon?¡± she called softly.

    His mind was spinning. I thought Manal was a guy¡¯s name ¨C is this going to be ¨C what are we going to ¨C why is the agent a girl ¨C

    He forced himself to stop. ¡°Thunder,¡± he replied, giving her the pre-set challenge.

    She smiled. She was pretty. Short, dark hair, and looked as if she was around Wilson¡¯s age, so five years older than Solomon. He couldn¡¯t quite tell if she was White or not. Maybe Latina? Or Arabic?

    ¡°Quartz,¡± she replied. ¡°I¡¯m Manal. Where¡¯s your parachute?¡±

    ¡°Back there.¡± He nodded toward the trees behind him.

    ¡°Is it disassembled yet?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± he said.

    ¡°Okay, I¡¯ll help you bury it.¡±

    She followed him into the woods as he put his pistol into the shoulder holster underneath his windbreaker. Out of her purse came two garden trowels. She handed him one, then gestured at him to follow her to a flat patch of grass beside one of the trees. ¡°Here,¡± she said. She knelt down and began cutting out the turf.

    Solomon crouched down next to her. He wanted to tell her that it was okay, he could do it by himself, but he found himself unable to speak. So he joined her and worked fast, until the hole was large enough to fit the kit bag. After he smoothed the dirt over the buried bag Manal placed the turf she¡¯d cut out on top so that it looked as if nobody had dug there at all. She stomped the patch down, pulled out a bottle, and splashed water all over it.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± she told him. She led him to the road where a compact hatchback was parked, and pulled out a key fob. ¡°Get in the front,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ll drive.¡± She smiled at him again after he buckled his seat belt, and then picked up what looked like an AR visor from the center console and put it on. ¡°Our cover story is that we¡¯re at Hershey Park to celebrate being together for three months. I booked a hotel room for us; we¡¯ll go there now.¡±

    ¡°Being together?¡± Solomon repeated.

    ¡°Yes, like we¡¯ve been dating for the past three months.¡±

    He was glad it was dark in the car because his face was flushing. As Manal started to drive, he couldn¡¯t help but feel that somewhere, in some other drop zone in northeastern Pennsylvania, Wilson was laughing at him.

 Chapter 14: â€œIâ€™ll take the floor.â€

    Chapter 14

    When they got to the hotel room, the first thing Solomon noticed was that there was only one king-size bed. His stomach tightened. Was he supposed to share it with Manal? Was that what she was expecting? All she¡¯d told him on the drive was more about their backstory: they were students together at some local college, they¡¯d met for the first time a year ago, things like that. But she hadn¡¯t said anything about how they were supposed to act around each other.

    Maybe it was because she thought it should be obvious. It wasn¡¯t, though, not to Solomon. He¡¯d never dated before. He¡¯d never even kissed anyone. And he certainly hadn¡¯t ever done this, sleeping over in the same room with a girl who was not his sister, let alone a girl he was supposed to be pretend-dating!

    Manal was putting her purse and visor down on a shelf beside the wall-mounted display. She glanced back at him, still standing in the entryway staring at the bed. Maybe she could tell what he was thinking, because she said, ¡°Reserving a room with two beds wouldn¡¯t have been in character. There¡¯s room on the bed for both of us to have enough space between us, but if you prefer, you can take the floor ¨C¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll take the floor.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± she replied. She walked around to the other side of the bed, where a small table with chairs was set up beside a window. When she bent over to pick up a pillow, Solomon looked away. He didn¡¯t want to be caught staring. Especially because now that they were in a well-lit room, he could see that his first impression of her was right. She was very pretty. ¡°Let me give you some of these, and a blanket,¡± she said. ¡°Go ahead and set up the suitcase on a luggage rack. There¡¯s stuff for both of us inside it, you can pick out what you want to sleep in.¡±

    Solomon pulled out a luggage rack from the closet in the entryway and placed it at the foot of the bed in front of the display. It was filled with civilian clothes. He found a T-shirt and some shorts that seemed as loose as the militia¡¯s exercise shorts. But now Manal was coming around the bed carrying two pillows and a folded blanket stacked together. With his hands already full of clothes, he had to clumsily grip the garments in one hand while extending the other to take the bedding from her.

    Then Manal stopped. ¡°Oh, I can put this on the floor for you,¡± she said, clearly seeing his struggle to hold on to everything. But he already had his hand out, he¡¯d already started to shift the load onto his arm. He paused. Should he shift it back to her? Should he say something? They were both standing there, holding the stack on opposite sides. He felt incredibly awkward. He was probably acting like it too. He wanted to tell himself to pull it together but couldn¡¯t seem to. It wasn¡¯t as if he¡¯d never talked to a girl before! They had been half the class in high school!

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    It didn¡¯t help when Manal smiled, as if she could tell his face was burning. ¡°Okay, go ahead and take it,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m going to get changed and ready for bed.¡± He stood there, clutching the waistband of the shorts in his hand, until she disappeared into the bathroom on the left side of the bed. Only then did he lay out the pillows and the blanket on the floor of the entryway. Then he waited. As soon as she was out of the bathroom, he dove into it.

    When he opened the door again, Manal was already in the bed under the covers, facing away from him. He didn¡¯t say anything to her. She turned, though, when she heard him come out. ¡°It¡¯s okay with you if I turn off the lights?¡±

    Solomon nodded. After being up all night, flying and parachuting, he was tired. It was almost dawn. Manal had told him in the car that they had to be at Hershey Park by noon. They¡¯d get at least a few hours of sleep in then. With the pillows and the blanket, the floor was as good as a barracks rack, and thankfully he was tired enough to sleep instead of thinking about the fact that there was a girl in her pajamas on a bed less than five feet away from him.

    ***

    When he woke up later that morning, Manal was still asleep. Quietly, he got up to go into the bathroom, wash up and get changed into another set of civilian clothes from the suitcase. Other than a few black holster t-shirts, all his assigned clothes, including the shorts and long-sleeve zip-up he was pulling on now, were in various shades of pink. He felt ridiculous, but maybe that was what fashion was like here in the blue zone.

    When he came out, Manal was standing in front of the luggage rack. She smiled at him. ¡°Did you sleep okay?¡±

    Solomon nodded. He got back into the entryway and began to pick up the pillows he¡¯d slept on. He could hear her behind him getting into the bathroom and closing the door, so he went and made the bed. Fitted sheets, thank God. He¡¯d used to have nightmares after boot camp ended about still being back there, unable to leave until he got the hospital corners done correctly, which in the dream he never could.

    He was on the far side of the bed, beside the table, when Manal came out wearing a jean jacket and a pink dress that went down to her knees. ¡°Oh, you don¡¯t need to make the bed,¡± she told him as soon as she saw what he was doing. ¡°Housekeeping will come.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d rather they didn¡¯t,¡± he replied. ¡°I¡¯d rather nobody have a reason to come to our room, so if someone does, I¡¯ll know it¡¯s someone who¡¯s onto us.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s fine, I can cancel the housekeeping. But you still don¡¯t need to make the bed, this isn¡¯t a barracks.¡±

    Solomon let go of the cover he¡¯d been stretching out over the bed, but now he didn¡¯t have anything to do with his hands. He could feel Manal¡¯s eyes on him even as he refused to look at her. He wasn¡¯t sure whether she was amused or not and he didn¡¯t want to find out.

    ¡°You ready to go get something to eat?¡± she asked after a moment.

    He nodded.

    ¡°And everything¡¯s okay? You¡¯re all right?¡±

    He nodded.

    ¡°Okay,¡± she said. She stepped over to the display shelf where she¡¯d placed a conversation spoofer last night when they¡¯d arrived at the hotel, picked it up, turned it off, and slid it into her purse along with her visor. ¡°Let¡¯s go, follow me.¡±

 Chapter 15: "I think theyâ€™re allowed to do pretty much anything to us then."

    Chapter 15

    The rest of the day was just as excruciating. Solomon felt very stupid on a log flume ride next to Manal as two eleven-year-old girls behind them cried about how they wanted to get off. Manal twisted around to talk to them, which was nice of her. Their log dipped and splashed around the curves, then did a final drop into a pool in a splash of water.

    His pistol was tucked away inside a shoulder holster underneath his pink zip-up. He kept an eye on a man ¨C or at least Solomon thought he was a man, he was wearing some kind of loose robe-like dress ¨C standing alone at the end of the pool, but then a woman in a suit came up to him with two ice cream cones and he walked away with her. Not a threat. Just dressed weirdly. And not even that weirdly for the blue zone. Or at least that was what Solomon was realizing from even just a few hours of being at the park.

    Manal talked to the girls again after they got off, then waved goodbye to them. Maybe she was combining engaging with civilians and interacting with fellow undercover agents, all under the guise of being an exceptionally friendly person. She was good at maintaining her cover. Solomon couldn¡¯t tell which was which, although he was pretty sure the eleven-year-olds were just eleven-year-olds. Manal had been keeping up her cover with him too, standing very close to him, talking to him eagerly about what ride she wanted to try, and how she wanted to eat the ice cream from that stand over there, and how she liked the acrobatics show they¡¯d just watched.

    So far all Solomon had done was nod at everything she said while maintaining vigilance for any potential threats. Of which there had been zero. He wasn¡¯t dumb enough to wish something would happen, but he was beginning to think he¡¯d even rather be a cattle truck driver than have to continue this playacting.

    Toward the end of the day, he noticed Manal had stopped glancing at doors that had KEEP OUT CONSTRUCTION AREA signs on them, and that instead she was glancing at him. ¡°Come sit down,¡± she said, touching his arm. He instinctively pulled away, before stopping himself and letting her guide him to a park bench. ¡°I want you to listen to this,¡± she told him as she sat down right next to him. He tried to focus on something other than her leg against his and didn¡¯t realize what she¡¯d pulled out until she was placing audiobands over his ears.

    She tapped the audiobands, and music filled his ears. At least he thought it was music. There was chanting, but it wasn¡¯t in English, and then someone started singing with some kind of stringed instrument and percussion in the background. It was intense, melancholic, almost haunting. ¡°What was that?¡± he asked, genuinely curious, after the song was done.

    ¡°It¡¯s Arabic worship music, from my old church,¡± she replied.

    Solomon did a double-take. And then he was quickly scanning around them to see if anyone had heard Manal. They were sitting on a bench in the middle of the park: there were people all around them, walking past with cotton candy cones and iced sodas. The only thing within arm¡¯s reach was a sensory chill out pod that Manal had told him earlier was for autistic kids, which Solomon had thought was actually kind of a good idea.

    Within eyesight, however, beside a looping roller coaster, were a dozen people in wheelchairs and one self-stabilizing skateboard holding a protest. Their signs said things like FIX THE SYSTEM, NOT ME and RIDES ARE FOR EVERYONE. He¡¯d been keeping aware of them; he didn¡¯t know what they were protesting, but he was assuming it was somehow against the red zone. Which made Manal¡¯s comment even more confusing. What was she doing, talking about church in a public place? Wasn¡¯t that something that would out her as a red zone agent? And why in the world was she having him listen to music in the first place?

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°Nothing,¡± he replied, although he was definitely going to ask her about it later. ¡°When¡­ when should we head back?¡±

    ¡°We can go back now,¡± Manal replied. She got up and smoothed her skirt down, and smiled. ¡°Let¡¯s go, I want to get my favorite for dinner to celebrate our first night here.¡±

    It was about a thirty-minute walk back to their hotel on the walking trail. Solomon was silent the entire way. When Manal suggested that they order at one of the restaurants nearby and take the food to eat in their room, he nodded. Once they got the food and returned to the room, she put the spoofer next to the display, then turned on the display to a talkshow. Solomon was holding the bag with the takeout containers inside it ¨C she¡¯d ordered some kind of noodles for them both ¨C and he moved to put it on the table on the other side of the bed. She followed him and they both sat down. He glanced at her, and saw that she was smiling.

    No, she was trying not to laugh.

    ¡°You were a little stiff today, soldier,¡± she told him. Her eyes were alight. ¡°I think I might have to explain it by saying we got into an argument this morning, that you were mad at me for the rest of the day.¡±

    Solomon tried not to flush. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said. He knew what she was saying. She was communicating to him, very gently, that he¡¯d done a terrible job maintaining his cover at the park.

    ¡°You did okay listening to the music though,¡± Manal continued. She began to pull the containers out of the reusable bag and opened them. The food smelled good. Solomon hoped she couldn¡¯t hear his stomach growling. ¡°How about we get to know each other a little? I think that might help too.¡±

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    ¡°I thought Wade didn¡¯t want us to,¡± he replied, reaching for a pair of recyclable chopsticks.

    ¡°That¡¯s what he said?¡±

    ¡°No, not exactly.¡± Now that Solomon thought about it, it had been he who¡¯d decided it was better not to know anything about anyone in case they fell into the hands of a blue zone antifa. ¡°We were warned to be careful not to talk to each other about what we were being assigned to do in case we get caught and interrogated.¡±

    Manal was chewing. She swallowed, then said, ¡°The antifas are not that effective. The blue zones in general don¡¯t wage war in a very organized manner. Don¡¯t get me wrong, their camp bureaucracy is excellent, but Wade keeps drawing the wrong conclusions from the antifa data I give him.¡±

    Solomon blinked. It was the first time he¡¯d heard the blue zone antifas described as anything but merciless zealots who were all clamoring for the opportunity to kill fascists, which was what they called red zoners like him. ¡°Why don¡¯t we conquer them, then? If they¡¯re not that effective?¡±

    Manal shrugged. ¡°Why should we? That¡¯s never been a red zone goal. All we¡¯ve ever wanted was to be left alone to raise our own children the way we think is best. They¡¯re the ones who kept insisting, even pre-Splintering, that we were bigots if we didn¡¯t inculcate blue zone beliefs in our own households.¡±

    Her bringing up values reminded him of how openly she¡¯d talked about the Arabic church music in the park. ¡°I was surprised when you brought up your church music openly, by the way,¡± he said after a mouthful. ¡°I thought that Christianity was suppressed completely here. Or at least that¡¯s what Wade made it seem like when he ripped up my Bible.¡±

    Manal¡¯s eyes were wide. ¡°What?¡±

    Solomon immediately regretted bringing it up. He didn¡¯t like talking about what had happened. But now that it was out there, he found himself telling her how Wilson had torn out the pages he¡¯d said had anything to do with women, gays, and slaves. Solomon could tell she was shocked, she even covered her mouth with her hand. ¡°He was allowed to do that?¡±

    It was Solomon¡¯s turn to shrug. ¡°It was during basic training. I think they¡¯re allowed to do pretty much anything to us then.¡±

    Manal¡¯s face shifted, her features softening. She leaned in closer to Solomon, met his eyes, and there was an acknowledgment in them that he hadn¡¯t been expecting. ¡°I really don¡¯t think they should let that kind of thing happen, basic training or not,¡± she said quietly. ¡°But he¡¯s not that off base. You can¡¯t talk about anything to do with any category of marginalized person unless it¡¯s to say that Jesus loves the marginalized. Which he does,¡± she added, ¡°but I don¡¯t think we¡¯re all defining marginalized in the same way.¡±

    ¡°So you can go to church in the blue zone?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s basically the same model as in the red zone, one ecumenical church per parish. With an exception for any additional immigrant or Black churches, as multi-racial ones don¡¯t meet their needs for healthy community. In my opinion, there¡¯s no difference between any of them. I attended services in several different churches when I first started working undercover, and the sermons are all almost entirely about how terrible red zoners are, how unlike they are to Jesus, how they aren¡¯t real Christians, how blue zone Christians are the only ones actually practicing Christ-like love for the marginalized, etc. etc. So I stopped going at all.¡±

    It was kind of funny that the red and blue zones had the same restrictions on how many churches were allowed to be open and that the sermons here were also about how the other zone was full of sin. ¡°I guess it¡¯s not that different.¡±

    Manal shook her head. ¡°No, don¡¯t misunderstand me. It¡¯s very different. There¡¯s a way to be a blue zone Christian, but it¡¯s a really tight, narrowly defined way. For me to play Arabic church music is fine, I count as coming from a marginalized culture anyway, plus most people just assume it¡¯s Islamic. But in terms of actual beliefs, you have to make it clear at all times that you¡¯re not a bigot like the red zone Christians across the river. You don¡¯t want to evangelize anyone, all you want to do is feed hungry people and fight racism, that¡¯s it. And you have to be affirming about any sort of sexual activity. Even to your own kids, or they¡¯ll take them from you.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean, they¡¯ll take them?¡±

    ¡°Just that. If they find out you¡¯re a phobe, and that you¡¯ve been teaching your children that it¡¯s God who gets to decide when sex should happen and with whom, they¡¯ll remove them from your custody. After all, they say, what if your kid ends up being queer? Then you¡¯re abusing them. Better for them to be removed from an abusive, phobic household.¡± She shook her head again. ¡°My father was a pastor at our mixed Egyptian-Lebanese church and he preached on how God made them male and female, and they arrested him right at the start of the Great Splintering for transphobic hate speech. My mother managed to visit him once and he told her to take us kids and get to a red zone, that they were going to take us from her next. It was the hardest thing we ever did to listen to him. We crossed the river into the Westsylvania zone right before they closed the borders. I was fifteen.¡±

    Manal¡¯s words were coming out in a rush. Solomon could tell from the way her eyes were flashing that this was hard for her to share, that she still keenly felt her loss. ¡°I tried to sign up for militia service as soon as I turned eighteen. They don¡¯t take women, but someone found out about my efforts, and got me into this undercover program they¡¯d just started then. I¡¯ve been doing it ever since, and I¡¯m twenty-four now. I will find him.¡±

    She stopped. Maybe she felt vulnerable, because she was looking down at her feet, smiling a little ruefully. Then she met his eyes again. ¡°You think you¡¯ll be better tomorrow?¡±

    Solomon nodded. Then he added, ¡°Yes, I will.¡±

    She smiled at him, and now her smile was warm and full. ¡°It¡¯s okay if you¡¯re shy,¡± she told him gently. ¡°Just follow my lead. Don¡¯t pull away from me is all, that¡¯s a little too obvious. Okay?¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± he said, trying once more not to flush. ¡°I ¨C thank you.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± Manal said, and when she got up and the light from the lamp fell on her face, Solomon told himself that him thinking she was beautiful was a good thing, that it would help him better maintain cover.

 Chapter 16: "I already did my daily amplifications..."

    Chapter 16

    The next morning, Manal took Solomon¡¯s hand in hers as soon as they¡¯d entered Hershey Park¡¯s grand plaza. His heart immediately started to race. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± she said, smiling at him. ¡°Just relax. No need to tense up. What do you want to do today? I liked the Coastline Plunge, do you want to do that again?¡±

    It was extremely difficult for him to both feel Manal¡¯s hand in his and keep his attention on what she was saying to him. But he was determined to do better today. ¡°Sure,¡± he said. ¡°That sounds good.¡±

    Manal laughed. Her persona while undercover was more exuberant than she was inside the hotel room when it was just them, but it didn¡¯t feel fake. It was more as if she were letting loose a part of herself that she normally kept locked down. ¡°You¡¯ve been very nice to go along with everything I want to do,¡± she said. ¡°Is there nothing you want to try?¡±

    Solomon thought she was asking him if he had any special orders to check out any specific part of Hershey Park. He didn¡¯t, so he shook his head. ¡°Whatever you want is good,¡± he said.

    ¡°Let¡¯s do the Chocolate Tour, then,¡± Manal said. She pulled him under the archway covered with oversized Hershey¡¯s Kisses, guiding him through the growing morning crowd to the ride. Her hand didn¡¯t let go of his the entire way, not until they got into the tour car, a small open-air vehicle. He noticed he kept looking at Manal instead of keeping tabs on their surroundings, so he forced himself to examine the car. It looked like a miniature roofless trolley, with a sleek silver exterior and just enough room for four passengers. It moved along a track inside the chocolate factory, and they got to see themed scenes showcasing how cocoa beans got turned into chocolate. ¡°Did you know that cocoa beans are very bitter?¡± Manal remarked to him at one point.

    She had her visor on. Solomon had been suspecting for a while now that it was some kind of an AR visor, and now he was sure of it. He found himself gripped by sudden curiosity. This could be his only chance for the rest of his life to wear a visor in a civilian context. ¡°Can I have a look?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Sure,¡± Manal said. She pulled off the visor and handed it to him. ¡°Just don¡¯t touch anything. I already did my daily amplifications and I don¡¯t want you to accidentally undo them.¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± he reassured her. He wasn¡¯t sure what she meant by daily amplifications, but he put his hands back down on the seat of the trolley after putting the visor on. Then he was blinking because the world around him was coming alive with vibrant colors and shimmering holographic displays. It was like stepping into a dream. As he glanced around, his vision was flooded with digital overlays and notifications. Floating hearts, thumbs-up icons, and comments in various languages filled his field of view.

    And then he looked at Manal, who was smiling at him. He saw a speech bubble with a timestamp of about a minute ago hanging over her head. It takes a lot of work to turn cocoa beans into something sweet. Thinking of all the exploited labor that brought us the chocolate we eat today. The bubble had four hearts on it, he was guessing from others on this tour who¡¯d seen it already? Solomon turned, trying to catch a glimpse of the people on the next trolley down the track, and when he saw them, he saw bubbles pop up above their heads too. Theirs were full of exclamations about the cocoa bean fermentation process.

    He turned his gaze back to Manal. The visor didn¡¯t change how she looked through it; the lens was clear plastic, just like the AR visor he¡¯d worn at boot camp. And just like that visor had transformed a muddy field into a combat zone, the chocolate factory tour had been turned from a series of conveyor belts and machines to something far more mesmerizing. He couldn¡¯t help but feel a spike of jealousy at the blue zoners who apparently got to use visors all the time.

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    They were at the end of their ride by then, so he handed the visor back to Manal and she put it into her purse. There was a guy his age in a Hershey polo t-shirt opening the tour car door for them and helping them out. Solomon was surprised when he saw Rithvik was beside him, also dressed as a staff member. They were both disciplined enough not to react to each other, although Solomon did notice that if he looked closely enough, he could see a slight distortion in the fabric of his Hershey Park uniform. Rithvik had to be wearing a shoulder holster. Solomon wondered what he¡¯d been up to. His uniform had a sheen of dust on it, as if he¡¯d just emerged from an unfinished basement or some construction site.

    ¡°Excuse me,¡± Manal asked him. ¡°Do you have a paper copy of a park map? My visor is having trouble bringing one up.¡±

    ¡°Sure thing,¡± Rithvik replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out what looked exactly like a park map on the outside folds. Manal thanked him, then they walked out of the air-conditioned coolness of the factory into the summer sun. She stepped to the side of the exit to look at the map. She looked at it for a long time, long enough for him to wonder what it was that Rithvik had given her. Probably because he was bored hovering next to her, Solomon began pretending to himself that the park was only attended by undercover agents, that every single one of them there was either a blue zone soldier or red zone spy, all of them acting out together an elaborate charade with no civilians in actual attendance.

    Apparently he was too amused by his own joke because Manal looked up at him. ¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you later,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s better for the hotel room.¡±

    She gave him a surprised look, as if he¡¯d said something inappropriate. Too late he realized how his words could have come across. ¡°That¡¯s not ¨C it¡¯s not what you¡¯re thinking ¨C I didn¡¯t mean ¨C¡± he stammered.

    Manal placed her hand in the crook of his arm and began pulling him away from the chocolate factory behind them. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she said, a smile touching her lips. ¡°Let¡¯s go see if there¡¯s another live show, I think I remember yesterday hearing that they were going to put on another acrobatics act this morning.¡±

    Not trusting himself to speak again without messing up, he went back to giving her a nod and following a few steps behind her. It turned out it was not an acrobatics act but a musical performance that was going to be put on at the open-air auditorium, and it wasn¡¯t going to happen until later that afternoon. They went to get food at a cart outside, but the sun was baking them. He pulled up the sleeves of his zip-up, wishing he had worn something else, but anything else would have revealed his pistol and holster. Manal today had chosen what she¡¯d told him was called a light romper. She hadn¡¯t worn anything shorter than her knees, which he approved of.

    Manal said she wanted to do the Chocolate Tour again, and this time when they got off she told Rithvik he¡¯d dropped something and handed him the map back. After that Solomon had to use a toilet, so he asked Manal to wait outside the men¡¯s room for him since he wanted her unprotected for as little time as possible. ¡°I¡¯ll just come inside with you, I have to go too,¡± Manal said, and he realized what she meant when they got to the restroom, and it was unsegregated, men and women and some people whose gender he couldn¡¯t tell coming in and out freely. It was a little uncomfortable, but at the same time it made following his mandate easier. He did use a stall though, instead of one of the urinals.

    After they were done, they headed back outside, but in the twenty minutes or so since they¡¯d re-ridden the Chocolate Tour the temperature had plummeted. The cool wind was thick with moisture. Solomon appreciated it, but Manal¡¯s romper wasn¡¯t long-sleeved. By the time they got seats at the open-air auditorium, she wasn¡¯t quite shivering, but was clearly cold.

    ¡°Should I¡­¡± he started, then stopped. ¡°Should I get a jacket for you?¡±

    ¡°Maybe¡­¡± she paused too. ¡°Maybe you could put your arm around me?¡±

    Hesitantly, he did. Onstage, the group of musicians had started playing, but it wasn¡¯t with any instruments he recognized; they were from some other country where the guitar bodies were short and squat. He wasn¡¯t really listening to them anyway. It was exactly like when Manal had taken his hand that morning. His heart began to pound. The back of his neck was warm. He found that he didn¡¯t want to move, he wanted to stay just like this, her head leaning back on his shoulder, for as long as he could.

    But he couldn¡¯t let it go any further. He wasn¡¯t going to be able to control his thoughts if he did. He avoided looking down at Manal¡¯s body and instead focused on the musicians on stage. He¡¯d never stared so intently at fingers plucking an instrument¡¯s strings. And then the performance, thank God, was over, and it was time to go to the next attraction.

 Chapter 17: â€œIâ€™m not White.â€

    Chapter 17

    Over the next few days, though, it got worse. He was thinking about her too much. He was enjoying their conversations in their hotel room too much. He found himself telling her things he¡¯d never told anyone before, all his deepest beliefs about the red zone, his unshakeable sense that life was better before the Splintering. He was way too eager to get up and go into Hershey Park with her, as if this was his real life, as if this wasn¡¯t an undercover mission of a week at most. He didn¡¯t know which he liked more, holding hands with her out in the park or talking to her over takeout dinner. Both made him happier than he¡¯d been for a long time.

    Solomon found himself imagining what it would be like if it were real, if he weren¡¯t a red zone soldier with over six years to go before he could be freed from the militia. He was sure it was a stupid fantasy. Manal was just as warm and kind to him in the hotel as she was out in the park, but she completely stopped touching him as soon as they crossed the threshold into the hotel room. She seemed to like talking to him as much as he liked talking to her, at least, and he was usually the one who had to remind her to go to sleep on time. There had still been absolutely zero threats whenever they went out, but he found himself wanting to make sure he was rested and alert in case any did pop up. For once his assigned mission was aligning with what he wanted: to protect Manal.

    On their fifth day out it started raining, so she suggested they go inside to one of the restaurants in the park. It was the kind of place where you grabbed your food and cutlery, piled it up on a tray, and took it to the self-checkout counter. As usual, the checkout bot had a hand-drawn ¡°out of service¡± sign on it; those things were notoriously unreliable. A bored-looking human cashier was waiting next to the bot, idly staring into the distance through her AR visor.

    Since they were getting sushi, which Solomon had loved as a kid but hadn¡¯t had much of in a long time, he grabbed chopsticks instead of a fork. Manal did too, and they went up to the cashier carrying their trays.

    He let Manal get in front of him since she was paying through her AR visor. But the cashier didn¡¯t ask her for the code on her visor to confirm the order. Instead, she looked at Manal¡¯s tray and then up at Manal and said, ¡°Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s a little culturally appropriative for someone like you to use chopsticks?¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t know what ¡°culturally appropriative¡± meant, but he thought maybe the cashier was making some kind of joke. Manal didn¡¯t take it that way, though. She met the cashier¡¯s eyes and said, coolly, ¡°I¡¯m not White.¡±

    ¡°Neither am I,¡± the cashier replied.

    Now Solomon was looking back and forth at both girls staring at each other, the cashier glaring, and Manal refusing to back down. He was confused. Both of them could pass for White to him¡­ he cleared his throat. ¡°Well, I¡¯m not either,¡± he said, in an effort to break up the tension, and it worked. A half-smile flickered on Manal¡¯s face and the cashier turned to glance at him; her eyes still on Solomon, she asked Manal for the code, then sullenly punched it in and waved them off.

    They picked up their trays to find seats. Manal was quiet during the meal, and she was more subdued than usual for the rest of the day, too. It wasn¡¯t until they got back to the hotel room that she turned to him and said, ¡°I have to do that all the time here. It¡¯s always the half-Whites doing it, they¡¯re the most insecure about being too White so they¡¯re the most zealous about controlling everyone they think is too White for them. Or it¡¯s a person of color who¡¯s married a White person. It¡¯s all just them being racially insecure and trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Whiteness as a result.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t quite know what to say to this. The blue zone had very different racial rules from what he was used to. ¡°The cashier was half-White?¡±

    ¡°Yes, or she would never have dared to talk to me like that. Half-White and half some other light-skinned race, or maybe she¡¯s a no sabo kid. Actually, given what she was saying about the chopsticks, I¡¯d guess half-Asian.¡±

    Solomon put down the takeout bag they¡¯d gotten today on the table. He was thinking about what Manal was saying. The cashier had wanted distance from Whiteness¡­ and apparently Manal had wanted it too, or had had to at least act as if she wanted it, or she wouldn¡¯t have taken it so hard.

    And had he, as well? He was thinking about the moment he¡¯d picked the chopsticks instead of the fork. Had he been trying to instinctively distance himself from Whiteness then? No, he didn¡¯t think so. He¡¯d grown up eating almost entirely Korean food since that was all Umma cooked, he¡¯d used chopsticks since he was a kid, when he¡¯d needed the trainer ones that were welded together at the top. Also, who the hell ate sushi with a fork?

    ¡°What do White people do?¡± he asked.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    He was struggling to find the words, the concepts were so alien to him. ¡°If everyone is trying to distance themselves from Whiteness, what do blue zone White people do, since they can¡¯t do that too?¡±

    ¡°Oh, they do,¡± Manal replied. ¡°They¡¯re always bringing up some person of color they¡¯re related to, how they cooked dumplings on Chinese New Year with their Chinese niece-in-law.¡± She didn¡¯t speak with any contempt, just matter-of-factly. ¡°The main way they do it, though, is by pretending that only White people live in the red zones, and only racist White people to boot. That way they get to set themselves up as not as White as red zoners because they¡¯re living in a blue zone alongside people of color.¡± She let out a soft sigh. ¡°They get furious whenever they¡¯re presented with evidence that there are still lots of people of color who prefer red zone values. People of color who don¡¯t get that the purpose of their lives is to be blue so that blue zone Whites can point to them and say, ¡®see, I¡¯m a good ally.¡¯ People like you and me are all suffering internalized hatred according to them, anything to explain why we won¡¯t play the role they¡¯ve designated for us.¡±

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Solomon couldn¡¯t even imagine any of the White people he knew back home acting like this. But when he thought about it some more, he wondered if that had more to do with the environment than anything to do with them, innately. If they¡¯d ended up in a blue zone, would they be reacting in the same way to the racial pressures here? Because as he kept thinking about it that night and even into the next day, he felt as if he were being affected, a little bit at least. Maybe it was watching Manal and the cashier that had done it to him, seeing both of them scramble to avoid getting labeled as White. His hair had been growing out since basic training and they¡¯d been told not to cut it too short before the blue zone mission, but he found himself wishing it was shorter to hide the lack of kink in it. He didn¡¯t want to get mistaken for Indian or Hispanic instead of Black.

    And now that Solomon had the vocabulary for it, he found it interesting that in the red zone he¡¯d instinctively tried his best to minimize his distance from Whiteness, while here it was the opposite. But he didn¡¯t mind it too much. He was realizing over even just this week that he¡¯d been feeling a lot more relaxed in his own skin on this side of the river. He hadn¡¯t realized how constantly he¡¯d been thinking about the comfort of the nearest White person to him until he got to the blue zone, where the comfort of White people didn¡¯t matter. He definitely didn¡¯t think it was worth it to have to hide the anti-blue-zone aspects of his faith, he¡¯d never defect or anything like that, but he would enjoy it while it lasted.

    ***

    On their seventh day, Solomon got up before Manal as usual and headed into the shower. He finished quickly and reached for the civilian clothes he¡¯d left folded on the bathroom counter sink next to his pistol. He was in his underwear when he heard it: a man¡¯s voice, low and insistent, through the bathroom door. Immediately, he grabbed his pistol. He was about to fling open the door when he heard it again, and he stopped, because he knew that voice, he would know it if it was in a whisper from the ends of the earth. That was Wilson talking.

    And from the sound of it, Manal did not like what Wilson had to say. ¡°You don¡¯t outrank me,¡± she hissed at him. ¡°I¡¯m not in your chain of command. I¡¯ve gone along with all your paranoid no electronic communication security measures as a courtesy, even as you continue taking stupid risks against my express recommendations!¡±

    Solomon put his pistol down. Pulling on his clothes, he replaced the pistol in its holster, then took a deep breath before opening the door. Manal was standing in her pajamas to the right of the bathroom door, while Wilson was doing his best to loom over her. When Wilson saw Solomon he raised his closed hand, palm facing up, and stuck his thumb out, as if he was gesturing at Solomon to get out of there. Retreating back into the bathroom, he started to close the door on himself when Wilson said, ¡°No, I meant Manal.¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± she said. Her arms were crossed and she looked angrier than Solomon had seen her all week.

    Wilson turned to Manal. ¡°Do you mind giving us some privacy?¡±

    ¡°Of course not,¡± she said, her voice extremely cool. ¡°Let me grab my bathrobe, I¡¯ll step out into the hall.¡±

    At that point Solomon interjected. He looked at Wilson. ¡°I don¡¯t think she should go out by herself, sir.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s right,¡± Wilson said. He was looking around the room, but it was a single room and not a suite, so there was nowhere for Manal to go. ¡°How about¡­¡±

    Manal put up her hands. ¡°You know what? My turn for a shower.¡±

    She strode forward to grab her clothes from the suitcase at the foot of the bed, forcing Wilson to back up against the wall-mounted display. Solomon had to awkwardly shuffle out of her way next so she could enter the bathroom. The door closed behind him, but he could still hear the water turn on. Great, now he was going to be listening to Wilson while also trying desperately to not think about Manal in the shower.

    ¡°Here, take this,¡± Wilson said. He tossed Solomon something, which he caught with his left hand. It was a dumbphone. ¡°I may need you tomorrow,¡± he continued. ¡°I¡¯ll call you on that to let you know. Keep the ring volume on, keep checking it for any messages throughout the day.¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Solomon said.

    He hoped Wilson didn¡¯t have anything else to say, that he was going to leave now, but of course Solomon was disappointed. Wilson gestured at the pillows in the entryway where Solomon had slept last night, the ones he usually put back onto the bed after Manal got up. ¡°What the hell are these? I¡¯m tripping on pillows as soon as I open the door, did you and Manal have a pillow fight last night or something?¡±

    He hadn¡¯t thought about Wilson for a whole week and yet whenever he showed up he never failed to make Solomon feel embarrassed. ¡°No, sir,¡± he said.

    Wilson put up his hands. ¡°You know what, I don¡¯t even want to know.¡± He had to walk past Solomon to leave. Then he was in the entranceway where Solomon could hear him stepping on and around the pillows before he finally reached the hotel room door. As soon as Solomon heard the latch click shut he started cleaning up, moving the blankets and pillows to the bed. He was done by the time Manal came out. She didn¡¯t seem as angry, although he could tell that she wasn¡¯t about to start jumping for joy, either.

    ¡°Are you okay?¡± he asked her.

    Her face was troubled. ¡°He hates the blue zone too much. It¡¯s clouding his judgment.¡±

    Solomon wondered how much Manal knew about Wilson¡¯s background. He still hadn¡¯t told anyone what he¡¯d known about Wilson before basic training, and he wasn¡¯t going to say anything now. At any rate, Manal seemed deeply inwardly focused. She wasn¡¯t looking at Solomon. Her brow was furrowed, and she was lost in her own thoughts.

    Then she shook her head. ¡°He doesn¡¯t want victory. He wants revenge.¡±

 Chapter 18: â€œListen to me! I have to get you back, now!â€

    Chapter 18

    Solomon was more on edge than usual when they went into the park later that morning. The dumbphone in his pocket felt like a sound grenade. Manal, on the other hand, either didn¡¯t care about Wilson¡¯s visit or was just better at hiding it. She seemed like her usual self, smiling, laughing, and eagerly pulling on his arm to try one ride after another. If she hadn¡¯t mentioned how sad she was that they had to go home soon, he wouldn¡¯t have guessed it was probably their last day together.

    But maybe that was just her maintaining her cover, because Solomon wasn¡¯t sure either of them were going back to the red zone. Or maybe she was, and he wasn¡¯t, or maybe he was, and she wasn¡¯t, he didn¡¯t know. He wished he did. But all he did know, as they sat in a roller coaster car climbing up a steel track to where it would drop them down at a 97-degree angle, was that things were about to change.

    They were at the top and about to descend when Solomon heard the phone chime once. He had to make a split-second decision: should he try to open it on the ride while they were screaming down the inverted slope, or wait until they reached the bottom? His training urged him to immediately take out his phone, to obey without hesitation, but he could vividly picture the phone flying out of his hand and shattering on the pavement below.

    Their train was tipping over the slope, but it hadn¡¯t yet gained much acceleration. Solomon reached into his pocket, grabbed the phone, pulled it out, and opened the message. He wrapped his fingers around the bottom half of the phone to maintain a good grip. This meant he wouldn¡¯t be able to respond to any messages on the ride, but he could at least read whatever Wilson had sent him. Now they were hurtling down at seventy-five miles per hour, and he was holding the phone against his knees to steady it, trying to read the screen from around his safety harness.

    run get her back to red

    The wind was roaring in his ears, the world blurring around him as they hurtled down the track. His stomach was rising into his throat, as if he¡¯d just jumped out of the plane again. Get her back to red, get Manal back to the red zone, man, if Wilson wasn¡¯t bothering to even use a code word that meant the message was urgent, extremely urgent. Was he trapped? Someone closing in on him? Yes, had to be, this was the kind of message you squeezed out when you only had seconds to spare. And the fact that Wilson was telling him to get her all the way back to the red zone and not just to hide out confirmed another thought Solomon had had for some time: Manal was a key figure in the red zone spy network here, a hub, and not a small one. She couldn¡¯t get caught.

    He had to warn her. She was sitting next to him. He could barely hear her laughing; she had no idea. But it was impossible to talk on most of these roller coasters. ¡°Manal!¡± he shouted over the rush of the wind and the screams of the thrill-seekers around them. ¡°Listen to me! I have to get you back, now!¡±

    Her eyes widened as she turned to face him. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her safety harness. But they were about to go upside down now, into a loop, and Solomon couldn¡¯t help but feel paranoid that someone was going to take a shot at them as they hung there, stuck inside their seats, Manal¡¯s hair flailing in the rushing wind. Then they did a twist, and yet another climb and another dive, and he was starting to feel that this roller coaster ride was the longest ride in the world until finally, finally, they were racing toward the braking zone.

    Solomon got himself ready to run; when they came to a jolting halt he unfastened his safety harness at once. He was on the platform before any staff members could say anything. Manal was out of her seat a second later, and without hesitation he grabbed her hand and yanked her onto the platform. People were starting to stare but he made a beeline for the exit, not quite but almost dragging Manal along with him.

    Finally, they burst out into the main area of the park. He was scanning the surroundings for anyone approaching them, anyone looking at them, anyone near them at all. He put his hands on Manal¡¯s shoulders to hurry her forward, but she slipped out of his grasp, took his hand, and pulled him down so she could whisper into his ear. ¡°Slow down,¡± she murmured. ¡°We can¡¯t run. They¡¯ll pick us out if we run.¡±

    She was right. At the same time, it was agonizing to limit himself to what felt like a crawling pace. Every corner had Solomon reaching for his pistol underneath his long-sleeved zip-up. That was when he heard it: the distinct sound of an explosion behind and beneath them. His hand was immediately on his pistol¡¯s grip, he was a moment away from pulling it out of his holster shirt, when he heard another sharp, cracking sound, less reverberating, less forceful, than the first. He saw a park employee behind a nearby concession stand turn her head to look up at the sky. ¡°Fireworks?¡± she said. ¡°In the middle of the day?¡±

    She wasn¡¯t the only one to notice them. In the morning people at the park were usually more spread out but when another bang and whistle in the sky went off, Solomon saw a couple peel off from the log ride line they had been waiting in, and a kid wearing a blue baseball cap get up from a bench with his hookah stick to join the crowd that had started to cluster around them.

    Solomon exchanged a glance with Manal. She didn¡¯t look worried, but she stepped closer to him. Another firecracker went off, and the crowd began to grow faster than he liked, much faster. He let go of his pistol and put his arm around Manal, and started trying to force a way through for both of them. They were the only ones trying to go out toward the park¡¯s perimeter. Everyone else was heading into the park to get a better view of the fireworks.

    Should I stop pushing and go with the flow? he wondered. Would that make us less visible to whoever is setting off firecrackers in what¡¯s an obvious attempt to cover up the explosion? No, I¡¯m going to keep going and get Manal out. I don¡¯t want us to get sucked deeper into the park and get trapped.

    The people around them were pushing against them in every direction though; Solomon had to shove by blue-baseball-cap boy. He didn¡¯t like how packed in Manal and he were. He didn¡¯t like how every step they took bumped them up against a dozen people, any of whom could be concealing a weapon. He felt Manal flinch every time the fireworks went off above them. ¡°Excuse me, sorry,¡± she kept saying to the people they were pushing past. ¡°Family emergency came up, so sorry.¡±

    By the time they were at the entrance plaza and out of the park Solomon was sweating and tense as a live wire. Nobody was around them inside the plaza, which was somewhat of a relief, but that also meant they stuck out like a sore thumb. He scanned the trimmed bushes in case someone was hiding beneath them. Manal turned to him. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±

    Solomon explained as quickly as he could as they made their way along the paved pathways past benches and lampposts. Manal grew angrier with each word. ¡°I told him he wasn¡¯t making good decisions,¡± she hissed. ¡°I told him and told him, and now he¡¯s caught, I know he¡¯s caught, and everyone with him!¡±

    ¡°How many were with him?¡± Solomon asked, his heart sinking, his thoughts turning at once to Rithvik.

    ¡°Eight. And don¡¯t you even consider going to the safe house, the antifas turn our safe houses into prisons to try and trap anyone attempting rescues.¡±

    It was clear Manal didn¡¯t want him going back for anyone, but Solomon didn¡¯t know if he¡¯d be able to stop himself. And if he were going to go for it, he needed more information. ¡°What were they doing here?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not telling you anything that the blue zone operatives don¡¯t already have at this point, but we were verifying whether or not this amusement park is a front for a weapons depot, which it is. I told Wade to send a drone in and take some pictures and be done with it but he insisted on setting the entire place up for a search-and-destroy mission and managed to convince some higher-ups to go along with him.¡±

    All of this was above his pay grade, although he did feel a weapons depot only a few miles away from the Susquehanna was a little too close to the red zone for comfort. But that wasn¡¯t his focus right now. They were out of the park and on the road. There was a walking trail in addition to a bike path alongside every street in the blue zone, it was what they¡¯d used to get to their hotel since he hadn¡¯t wanted anyone driving them, but they weren¡¯t going back to the hotel now. ¡°I need to get you across back to the red zone,¡± he said. ¡°Can you swim?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Could you swim across the Susquehanna?¡±

    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    Manal fell silent. She was thinking, Solomon could tell. Doing math, calculating her own strength and ability and assessing it against the force of the river¡¯s currents, measuring whether she could cross quickly enough to avoid getting shot at. After a minute, she shook her head. ¡°No, I can¡¯t do it on my own. Especially not if I have to stay underwater the entire mile, which I would have to, in order to cross safely. But I know where some equipment is that¡¯ll close the gap. Come, follow me.¡±

    It was broad daylight and sunny out. Solomon felt extremely exposed as Manal led him off the road into a broad expanse of green grass that apparently served as a cross-country racecourse, according to the posted signs. Manal didn¡¯t seem to be worried about trespassing, so he followed her without comment. She led him through it, then onto a walking trail that they stayed on for a long time, cars and the occasional bike moving past them. There were a few people on the walking trail back behind them which made him want to take more turns, to shake off any pursuit, but by now it was past noon and he didn¡¯t know how much longer Manal could keep going. They hadn¡¯t eaten or drank anything since they¡¯d left the hotel room that morning, not even water since they¡¯d checked in their bottles to the desk before their last ride. So he kept looking over his shoulder instead.

    When Manal at one point had them take a sharp left, though and then another left immediately after, Solomon took his chance and pulled her down to duck between two parked cars. He waited, listening for the sound of hurried footsteps on crushed recycled concrete. He heard them soon enough. He still didn¡¯t know for sure if it was someone following them or someone randomly taking that same first left turn as them, but he waited until the footsteps were well out of hearing before standing back upright.

    Manal looked drawn. ¡°This way,¡± she whispered. They continued down a few side streets until they got to a camping ground parking lot. When they went into the campground office he wanted to buy water from the man behind the desk but he didn¡¯t want to use the AR visor since that would pin them to their location, so he waited.

    ¡°I¡¯d like my key to Cabin D4,¡± Manal said.

    The man went to the pegboard behind him and pulled an old-fashioned metal key off a hook. A sign above the board said, ¡°Welcome to Old Times.¡± Underneath, it said, ¡°Indigenous-owned, trans female-owned.¡± When the man handed the key to Manal without comment, Solomon glanced at her. Maybe she¡¯d already had this place rented? Or was the man also part of her underground network? Manal left without saying anything further to the man, which made him think it was the latter.

    Outside there were six cabins, set up not in rows but around a grassy commons in a vaguely hexagonal shape. In the center of the commons was a bioethanol-style fire pit, with several blue zone citizens gathered around it, barbecuing short strips of pork that looked and smelled like samgyupsal to Solomon. They had to go past them to get to Cabin D4. They were at the cabin door when Manal turned to whisper to him, ¡°Can you make sure it¡¯s clear inside?¡±

    Which of course, was at the exact same time that one of the campers near the pit called out, ¡°Hey, you folks are new, right?¡±

    Manal turned around to face them, all smiles. Solomon was able to not glower, but that was about it. Of all the times to run into friendly civilians! He hoped that was all they were, at least. He couldn¡¯t tell whether Manal seemed to think so or not; she was responding to them, laughing, both of them standing on the small front porch of the tiny log cabin that she had just asked him to clear.

    He was impressed she¡¯d thought to ask him to instead of just barging in. He decided not to tell her that in drills they¡¯d only ever done room clearing in a team, and armed usually with more than just a pistol. Besides, knowing Manal was relying on him for her safety burned away his hesitation. So while he waited, as unglowering as he could, for Manal to finish putting off the blue zoners, he sized up the cabin as best as he was able to from the outside. It looked as if it were about the size of their hotel room, so it wouldn¡¯t take him too much time to clear. Come on, come on, come on¡­ It didn¡¯t help that he was hungry and that the samgyupsal sizzling on the grill pan smelled amazing. ¡°Want to join us?¡± one of the campers was asking Manal.

    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, we actually have a family emergency, we just came in to grab a few things and then we have to head straight to the hospital,¡± Manal replied, and they responded with all the right noises of course, you have to go, sorry for keeping you. Finally she turned back to Solomon. Her hands were trembling as she unlocked the door which he thought was a bad sign. He wished he could pull out his pistol before going in but he couldn¡¯t wave a weapon around in front of the campers so he braced himself, entered and unholstered at the same time.

    Kitchenette, clear. Attached bedroom space, clear. Bathroom, clear. Everything was clean and nothing looked rifled through. The smart fridge and smart microwave shone as if they¡¯d been wiped down with a chemrag. Nobody else was inside. He checked behind the front door one last time, noticed that it was smart as well, then gave Manal the go-ahead.

    She slammed the front door shut and ran for the bedroom. She started to pull off the queen-size mattress and he moved to help her. Underneath it was a large box in the form and shape of a box spring. There was a split down the middle, like a gap between two doors, and a number pad on the right-hand side of the split. Manal knew he was watching but didn¡¯t ask him to look away, so he memorized the numbers she punched in: 4233791.

    The doors unlocked with a click. Manal struggled for a second to open them, so he moved again to help. He wanted to kiss her when he saw the contents. Water bottles, stacks of MREs, civilian clothes, gas masks and more weapons than he¡¯d seen for a week. And at the very bottom, next to flippers and other scuba gear, was a cylindrical torpedo-shaped object about the length of his forearm.

    ¡°It¡¯s a subscooter,¡± she said; then, seeing his puzzlement added, ¡°An underwater propulsion device.¡±

    Solomon double checked to make sure the cabin door was locked, then he made Manal sit down at the table in the kitchenette to drink some water. He was about to cut open an MRE pouch and microwave it but she shook her head. ¡°We don¡¯t have time to eat. The guy at the campground office not saying anything to me when I asked for the key, that was a pre-set code, it means he detected someone accessing this cabin¡¯s network. Whoever it is will find out soon enough that we opened the door. We¡¯ve got maybe five minutes here before we have to leave.¡±

    Five minutes, okay. Solomon sat down across from Manal and began reviewing, out loud, as quickly as he could, what he¡¯d learned in training about the security on the blue zone side of the river. There was no obvious solution. They relied heavily on drones equipped with cameras and sensors. There were radar installations and motion detectors. He remembered learning they even had metal detectors buried underground in a lengthwise miles-long track about two hundred feet off the shore of the Susquehanna. To top it off, there was always at least one human guard per mile patrolling at the river¡¯s edge.

    No landmines though. They weren¡¯t environmentally friendly enough.

    ¡°The metal detector means we won¡¯t be able to take the propulsion device,¡± Manal told him after he was done. ¡°It¡¯ll set it off way before we can get it to the river¡¯s edge.¡±

    The metal detector also meant Solomon wouldn¡¯t be able to use any of the weapons in the armory unless some of them were customized polymer pieces. But even as he realized this, he had an idea. ¡°What if I tackle the guard first? Then you run and get the device into the water and go while I¡¯m engaging him?¡±

    ¡°Only I¡¯ll be able to get across then.¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that the point?¡±

    Manal¡¯s eyes were bright, as if she were holding back tears. She reached out across the table and grasped Solomon¡¯s sleeve, the fabric bunching up in her hand. Nobody was around them, and they weren¡¯t undercover. She wasn¡¯t pretending anything. ¡°You¡¯ll get caught,¡± she pleaded.

    He put his hand over hers and said, as gently as he could, ¡°Well, it¡¯s a good thing I don¡¯t know anything, then.¡±

    Manal shook her head. ¡°If you get caught,¡± she whispered, ¡°interrogation will be the least of your worries. It might not even happen. They will most likely send you straight to a camp.¡±

    ¡°Tell me where the safe house is,¡± he replied.

    ¡°It¡¯s a trap.¡±

    ¡°I know. But if I don¡¯t get caught at the border, I have to at least try to find out what happened to the others.¡±

    Her grip tightened on his sleeve. ¡°Let¡¯s find another way. A way for both of us to go back.¡±

    For a moment, Solomon was tempted, incredibly tempted, to do just that. What if he did? There were no orders from Wilson for him to stay, to try a rescue attempt or even gather information on what had happened. All Wilson had told him was to get Manal back across to the red zone as quickly as he could. Maybe Solomon could return with her to the red zone. Then he could report on the mission¡¯s failure. He could execute his duty exactly and no more.

    He could come home to Adah, as he¡¯d promised he would.

    But even as he thought about it, he knew it couldn¡¯t happen. Wilson wouldn¡¯t have told them to run if there hadn¡¯t been an imminent threat closing in on them; he wouldn¡¯t have told Solomon to get Manal back to the red zone unless she was important enough for that. He had to get Manal out, get her out as soon as possible, no matter the cost to him.

    Besides, they had Rithvik. Maybe it was boot camp training kicking in, maybe it was those eight weeks of not being able to go anywhere without him, but Solomon felt physically compelled to go find him, as if some giant invisible hand was forcing him forward. He thought that was what was happening, at any rate. While stationed at the border, he¡¯d read several articles about the psychology behind basic, the idea that it was designed not only to test you to see how you handled stress, but also designed to break you down as an individual, to force you to see yourself only as part of a group. Even knowing so ahead of time didn¡¯t help you resist, the tactics still worked. Maybe the militia had brainwashed him, maybe they¡¯d hijacked all his natural instincts, but Rithvik especially, he couldn¡¯t leave behind.

    ¡°Tell me where the safe house is,¡± he repeated, and this time, still holding tightly to him, she told him.

 Chapter 19: â€œCan you tell my sister what happened if I donâ€™t make it out?â€

    Chapter 19

    They were lying prone, propped up on their elbows, hidden by the grass just a few feet east of the track of buried metal detectors running parallel to the Susquehanna. Not a single weapon in the cabin hadn¡¯t had at least one piece of metal in it, which was such an incredibly gross oversight on the part of whoever had stocked it that Solomon found himself wanting to complain to Wilson about it. Even his own pistol he¡¯d had to leave behind. It was just going to be him and his body against a fully armed border guard.

    If he¡¯d had more than five minutes in the cabin to plan, he would have taken a bunch of metal odds and ends with him like nuts, bolts, screws, and tossed them across the track every few yards for hundreds and hundreds of feet, making sure most of them could be easily found. Maybe he could¡¯ve sneaked across with his pistol then, right after the commotion was over, because they¡¯d think that his pistol was just another harmless metal thing crossing the track.

    And now that he was thinking of better ideas than the one he was about to execute, Solomon was realizing that if the reach of these buried metal detectors was only even sixteen feet above the ground, he could¡¯ve probably tossed his pistol over in a high arc undetected. Actually, why hadn¡¯t he stopped to grab a rock or even a stick on the way here? There was nothing but grass around them, and a half-finished fence at least a hundred yards north, where fresh concrete footings anchored thick metal posts, standing upright in neat rows.

    Well, too late now. At least they hadn¡¯t finished fencing off the entire river. Manal, too, seemed as if she¡¯d do her part okay. On the way there he¡¯d worn the backpack with her propulsion device but she seemed confident she could, despite how heavy it was, run with it to the river and get into the water if Solomon kept the attention off her for sixty seconds.

    ¡°Ready?¡± he asked.

    Manal nodded. She had her oxygen mask ready, her hands on the handles of the device, and her eyes fixed on the guard standing ahead of them. At two hundred feet away, he was a small figure along the river shore without any distinguishable details. They needed to get going, they couldn¡¯t get caught out here, but he needed to ask Manal one more thing. ¡°Can you do me a favor?¡±

    She turned to look at him. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Can you tell my sister what happened if I don¡¯t make it out?¡±

    Briefly, she closed her eyes, but only for a moment. Then she met his gaze, and once again there was an acknowledgment in them, a salute, just like on their first day together. ¡°Yes,¡± she whispered. ¡°I will.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said. ¡°Okay. Let¡¯s go.¡±

    Solomon began crawling on his elbows through the tall grass that was growing everywhere on this side of the river. It was almost three feet high, covering him nicely, and he could barely believe nobody had been ordered to mow it to prevent someone from doing exactly what he was doing right now. He knew Manal had said the blue zone antifas were disorganized, but still! Although maybe they were just as bad in the red zone, as that cabin really should¡¯ve had even just a non-metal knife for him to use. Not to mention an anti-drone gun. Although he was going to bet that the antifas struggled with equipment too, that this border wasn¡¯t as flush with drones as the old US military would have had it.

    Maybe this was really how battles were won or lost: someone hadn¡¯t mown the grass, someone hadn¡¯t supplied the right equipment. All Solomon could do now was pray the border guard wouldn¡¯t see him¡­

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    He was at a hundred feet now. The grass was seeding and he wanted to sneeze but he¡¯d learned how to control that urge in week one of boot camp after he¡¯d gotten screamed at and slapped and smoked in rapid succession when he¡¯d broken formation once by sneezing. Fifty feet. He could see the guard better now, a White guy in a dark green uniform, armed with at least a rifle, and maybe more; he didn¡¯t have the best angle for vision while crouched down like this. At any rate, he doubted he could get any closer without being noticed. He¡¯d feel pretty stupid if all his effort up to this point just led to the guard seeing him and shooting him at a safe distance, so he stopped and waited for his chance.

    It took a while. He was holding perfectly still under the June sun, in a long-sleeved green shirt with a hood that he¡¯d picked out of the wardrobe in the cabin. His jeans were a dark, almost blackish blue. He was sweating as his clothing absorbed the sun¡¯s rays. Especially inside his hood. He didn¡¯t move his eyes off the guard, ignoring the prickling sensation of the grass brushing against his face.

    Then he saw it.

    A slight shift in the guard¡¯s focus. The man¡¯s gaze was wandering for a split second. Some distant movement had distracted him.

    Time to go.

    With a surge of adrenaline Solomon propelled himself forward, cutting through the air as fast as he could. The guard¡¯s head snapped back but Solomon was already on him, his shoulder crashing into the guard¡¯s midsection.

    Solomon could tell immediately that he¡¯d picked the wrong guy to tackle. The guard had at least fifty pounds on him and was older, with a whole lot more experience than just training under his belt. Only the element of surprise was what made tackling him actually work. The impact sent them both sprawling to the ground, and now they were a tangle of limbs and grunts as they rolled and struggled, each of them fighting for the upper hand. More than anything Solomon didn¡¯t want to let him reach for a weapon to shoot Manal with as she ran to the river, so he focused on the guard¡¯s arms, grabbing his wrists, trying to maintain control.

    Solomon had one advantage: all he had to do was keep the guard busy for sixty seconds and that countdown had already started. There was an alarm going off somewhere which he was sure meant Manal had crossed the metal detector line with the propulsion device. She was on her own now though, as he could tell he was going to have his hands full just trying not to get killed by this guard who might have been from a disorganized unit but still sure knew how to fight. He¡¯d already broken one hand free and pinned Solomon¡¯s right arm down under his shoulder. They were lying on their sides, facing each other as if they were in bed together, only the guard was grabbing him by the throat.

    Had it been sixty seconds yet? He was clawing at the guard¡¯s eyes with his free hand but the guard didn¡¯t try to dodge him, he just kept on crushing Solomon¡¯s throat with a vice-like grip. The seconds felt like an eternity as he desperately struggled for breath. He hoped Manal had made it because he was about to die here. His fingers grabbed at the guard¡¯s belt loop, groping instinctively for a firearm, but his rifle was long out of reach and Solomon was coming up empty on anything else. Black spots swarmed his vision and he really thought he might be about to die, when he felt it: a sound grenade in the guard¡¯s pocket.

    He had only enough in him to activate it by clenching the ball-shaped device with all his strength, through the guard¡¯s clothes, so that the pressure would set it off.

    The grip on his throat faltered as the blue zone guard immediately released him to dig frantically through his pocket for the ticking grenade. But he was too late. A deafening explosion of sound erupted from his side. It was as if a bomb had gone off, shockwaves of noise cascading outward into the air. Solomon barely had the presence of mind to push himself away. Then he was gasping, staggering to his feet, ears ringing. He was trying to run but kept falling. He had to get out of there. If they hadn¡¯t come yet, the drones would be there any second. He forced himself to stand upright, and for a beautiful second he saw the river and the red zone on the other side. Manal was nowhere in sight, which was a good thing; it meant she was in the river now, safely underwater.

    The fact that he¡¯d succeeded gave him hope. Or maybe it was that the guard behind him was having such a hard time recovering from the sound grenade that gave Solomon a lift. He wasn¡¯t going to win any racing awards, and he had no idea where he was going, but he was running now, and picking up pace as he headed away from the river, back into the blue zone.

 Chapter 20: â€œCould Iâ€¦ could I have some water?â€

    Chapter 20

    While Solomon hadn¡¯t fallen over again yet, he felt dizzy as he ran. His ears were still ringing. He wasn¡¯t keeping very good track of where he was going. He had some vague idea of trying to get to an urban area before the drones found him. After all, he was wearing civilian clothes. He could blend into a crowd, right? But he thought he was on a walking trail. Cars were flying past him while he ran. He wasn¡¯t even really running anymore, though, he was limping, had he gotten hurt?

    Next to him on the side away from the cars was a metal guardrail barrier. How had he gotten here? There was grass on the other side of the barrier, a low upsloping hill. At the top of the hill were a series of houses. Maybe that was where he should go. Houses meant people, more people, a crowd, a crowd to blend into. Or maybe he could hide in one of the houses. Maybe some of them were empty. Had to be. Who wanted to live this close to the border?

    He climbed over the highway barrier. He started going up the hill but it was too open. Everyone could see him. The sun was bright and the sky was blue. He dropped to the ground and started army crawling which made him feel safer. He thought the ringing in his ears was fading. Or was that siren he was hearing an effect of the sound grenade? Wait, were those dogs barking in the distance? The hoarse staccato of the barks barely cut through the high-pitched tone in his ears. He should move faster. Why was he crawling? He must look so suspicious. He had to get to his feet.

    There was a row of half-grown evergreen trees in front of him, and a house several feet past them, a house with dark windows and nobody in the yard. Solomon crept up to one of the trees. It had some sort of knitted cloth wrapped around its trunk, which was really weird, but the pattern¡¯s colors were green and dark blue like his clothes so he tucked himself in next to it, so that he looked as if he were part of the tree too. Now he could look at the house. Now he could see ¨C

    ¡°Don¡¯t move.¡±

    Solomon froze. It wasn¡¯t because of the voice. It was because he could see out of the corner of his eye a pistol pointed in his direction. Hidden on the other side of the tree, apparently waiting for him, the owner of the pistol stepped out. She looked African to him, not Black American, but actually African. All the Africans he knew back in the red zone were Christians, but this woman was wearing a hijab. She looked him over. Her hands were steady, she¡¯d positioned herself far enough from him that he couldn¡¯t close the gap between them without risking getting shot, and she clearly knew how to handle her weapon, a weapon that was pointed at his head.

    A weapon that she suddenly lowered.

    ¡°Come this way,¡± she told him. ¡°Quickly. Through the basement door. I¡¯ll hide you.¡±

    At least Solomon thought that was what she was saying. His hearing was still off, and her accent made it harder for him to be sure. Was she really offering to help? How did she even know he was hiding from someone? Maybe it was a trap. But she had already turned away, heading toward the back of her house. She lifted one of the bulkhead doors from the ground. Her pistol was still in her hand. She hadn¡¯t put it down. But she hadn¡¯t shot him, either.

    If she were a man, Solomon probably would not get into that basement, but as it was, he was going to bet that he could take that pistol from her later if he needed to. She was smart, though. She aimed it at him and stepped back as he approached the basement. She let him pull the bulkhead door shut over his own head. The steel edges clanged slightly as he did, and he was left standing on the bottom step of a cement stairway inside a lightless room, while overhead he heard the woman turn a key, locking him in.

    He put his hands out and started feeling around for a light switch. The ringing in his ears was mostly gone; he felt more alert now, and intensely on edge. When a bulb flashed brightly overhead his adrenaline soared. But nobody came swinging at him. Instead, he saw another woman¡¯s face peering out over the railing of a stairway rising up out of the other side of what he saw now was a small, unfinished basement with a cement floor. She wasn¡¯t the African woman who¡¯d led him to safety, though, she was a White woman with short blonde hair.

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    She stared at him. He stared back at her. Then he heard a door opening up behind her and a second later the African woman he¡¯d first met was standing next to the White woman, both of them halfway down the stairs.

    ¡°Are you running from the police or the border guard?¡± the African woman asked him.

    ¡°The¡­ the border guard,¡± he answered. His voice was hoarse.

    ¡°Were you trying to escape into the red zone?¡±

    This was Solomon¡¯s first time interacting on his own with blue zone civilians, and he found himself feeling disoriented, as if he hadn¡¯t completely shaken off the effects of the sound grenade. Her questions were not what he¡¯d expected. It almost felt as if she wasn¡¯t a fan of either the blue zone police or the blue zone border guard, but why would that be the case? From the hijab, she was Muslim, and precious few of them had chosen a red zone to live in.

    Suddenly, the White woman grabbed the African woman¡¯s arm. ¡°I don¡¯t think¡­ I¡­¡± She peered over the stairway railing to look at him more closely. ¡°Are you¡­ are you from the red zone?¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t think he ought to answer that question, so he stayed quiet. In the silence, the siren he¡¯d thought he¡¯d heard earlier went off again. The African woman put her hand on the White woman, where she was grabbing her arm. ¡°Go to the radio scanner. Listen for any reports about where they think he is.¡±

    So that was how she¡¯d known about him, how she¡¯d known when she saw him that he was looking for a place to hide. He wondered what description they¡¯d given. He¡¯d have to get new clothes. He didn¡¯t know how he was going to, though. He wanted to go listen to the radio scanner too, but it seemed that these women for whatever reason were willing to help him, so he didn¡¯t want to do something that would scare them into shooting him. The African woman still had her pistol in her hand. Which was actually pretty strange, now that he thought about it. He could¡¯ve sworn that a class they¡¯d taken during boot camp had taught them that blue zone citizens weren¡¯t allowed to own guns.

    They waited in silence until the White woman came back. ¡°They¡¯re down south. They think he stuck to the river.¡±

    The news that nobody was about to bang down the door and take him was such a relief that all the tension in his body melted away. With that release came a keen awareness of all the discomfort he¡¯d been ignoring since he¡¯d tackled the guard. His neck muscles were throbbing from the chokehold. Every turn of his head was accompanied by pain. He didn¡¯t know how he¡¯d hurt his ankle but he thought it was swelling. He was terribly thirsty.

    ¡°Could I¡­ could I have some water?¡± Solomon asked, his voice still raspy.

    The women exchanged a glance. Then the African woman went up the stairs, coming back down a few minutes later with not just reusable water bottles but pre-packaged snacks, granola bars and dried fruit, all of it piled on top of a blanket folded on top of a pillow. She placed her load at the bottom step then retreated back up to join the White woman, whose hand she took.

    ¡°Stay here,¡± the African woman told him. ¡°Eat, drink, rest. You can go in a few days when they stop looking for you.¡±

    He nodded. He wanted to ask her why they were helping him, but they were both heading back up the stairs now, and the White woman seemed extremely nervous so maybe it was better if he didn¡¯t press the issue. Waiting until he heard the door close before he started limping toward the bottom step, he then did as the African woman had told him to: he ate, drank, then propped the pillow up so that he could lean against the wall while sitting on the blanket.

    He also thought about Manal. It didn¡¯t make sense that he missed her as much as he did right now. He didn¡¯t even know her real name. He¡¯d met her for the first time a literal week ago. And yet it¡¯d probably been the best week of his life since he¡¯d been drafted.

    She made it back across, he told himself. She¡¯s safe now. And I, too, will find my way back, find my way back home, and maybe I will get to see her again¡­

 Chapter 21: â€œWeâ€™re not allowed to say that kind of thing."

    Chapter 21

    Later that evening, Solomon took the pillowcase off the pillow he¡¯d been given and wrapped it around his ankle. As a makeshift compression bandage it was pretty lousy but it was better than nothing. He needed ice. A map would be nice, too. And new clothes. And that pistol, if he could get it. He needed to find a way to the safe house address Manal had given him, but after all her warnings about it being a trap, he didn¡¯t want to go in unprepared.

    And if Rithvik and Wilson and any others weren¡¯t there? Well, he¡¯d cross that bridge when he came to it.

    Solomon¡¯s eyes burned with fatigue, but he couldn¡¯t relax when he was basically relying on two blue zone citizens not to turn him in. He wished he had the dumbphone Wilson had given him but it was back in Cabin D4. So he got up and started looking around. There was a water boiler in the middle of the basement, some boxes along the walls, two bikes, some shelves with winter clothes stacked on top of each other. No toolbox. He limped to the bulkhead doors. His shoulders relaxed a little when he discovered he wasn¡¯t trapped after all, that he could push a release lever to easily unlock the door. There was also a throw bolt which he slid shut so nobody could get in from the outside, even with a key. Next, he dragged himself to the stairs and started crawling up. He took it as easy as he could since he didn¡¯t want to mess up his ankle any more than it already was. Also, he didn¡¯t want anyone to hear him. There was nothing in him that wanted to be greeted at the top of the steps by panicked women with guns.

    A few steps away from the top, Solomon knelt down to look through the light-filled crack at the bottom of the door. Voices. There was a keyhole, too. He put his ear to it but couldn¡¯t make anything out, so he pressed his face against the door, and held his breath.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure the red zone is as bad as they say,¡± someone was saying. Solomon thought it was the African woman, from the accent. ¡°But we know for sure that those in charge here are evil. I promised myself I¡¯d never do what was done to me, and I will keep that promise. I will never turn anyone in so they can end up in a camp.¡±

    Solomon pulled back, his brows furrowing. It was so perfectly reassuring it almost sounded too good to be true. He moved cautiously, peering into the keyhole. The small hole restricted his view to a sliver of the room: a bit of a kitchen table and the profile of the African woman¡¯s face. She sat next to the White woman, their hands intertwined on the tabletop. Then the African woman¡¯s hand moved, gently cupping the White woman¡¯s face. A moment later, they were kissing.

    He jerked back abruptly. Spying to confirm his safety he was okay with, but he wasn¡¯t a peeping tom. He was also surprised, even though he didn¡¯t know why. This was the blue zone, after all. He¡¯d seen some of this kind of thing at the amusement park, hadn¡¯t he?

    He didn¡¯t want the two women to hear him so he stayed put until he was calm enough to creep back down the stairs to his blanket and pillow. His mind was still spinning though. It wasn¡¯t just that they were lesbians. It was that they were blue zone lesbians who seemed to think it was at least possible that he was either from or trying to escape to the red zone, and yet they were still sheltering him. It didn¡¯t make any sense. Hadn¡¯t Manal told him that blue zoners thought all red zoners were bigots? Wouldn¡¯t anyone non-heterosexual think so even more? Why are they helping me?

    He thought over what he¡¯d heard. The red zone is bad¡­ but we know for sure the blue zone is evil¡­ I will never do what was done to me¡­ I will never turn anyone in so they can end up in a camp¡­

    There was the sound of a door opening, the door at the top of the stairs. Solomon turned to see the African woman descending. She was carrying down a bucket with a garbage bag lining it. She brought it to the bottom step and put it on the cement floor. Then she placed toilet paper and a spray bottle next to it. ¡°I put some essential oils into the bottle,¡± she told him. ¡°It¡¯ll take away the smell.¡±

    After being in the militia for almost two years and having to be knee-to-knee with other guys in the barracks latrine while doing his business, Solomon at first didn¡¯t even know what she was talking about. Then he got it, and he almost wanted to laugh. At the same time, he was strangely moved by her gesture. Essential oils in a spray bottle.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he told her.

    She nodded. She turned to go, but before she could disappear back up the stairs, the question that had been haunting Solomon ever since she¡¯d lowered her pistol and invited him into her house burst out. ¡°Why are you helping me?¡±

    She looked at him over the stairway railing. Her face framed by her hijab was expressionless. Solomon was still seated on the blanket she¡¯d given him, his leg with the pillowcase wrapped around his ankle extended out. ¡°You need ice,¡± she said.

    ¡°Ice would be nice,¡± he replied.

    A slight smile of amusement touched her lips. ¡°I¡¯ll get it for you.¡±

    He waited under the unblinking glare of the single lightbulb above him for her to return. She was around Umma¡¯s age, he thought, the age Umma was when she disappeared. When she did come back, it was with a reusable ice gel pack and a compression bandage. He didn¡¯t think she was armed, but she stepped down off the stairs, picked up the makeshift toilet she¡¯d made for him, and, carrying it with her, approached him, closer than she¡¯d ever come to him since he¡¯d first seen her. She put it down then knelt by his leg and unwrapped the pillowcase. With clearly practiced hands, she wrapped the compression bandage around his ankle, which immediately felt better. Then she placed the ice pack on it, and used the tail end of the bandage to bind it in place.

    Solomon watched her tend to his injured ankle with a mixture of relief and fatigue washing over him. The pain, which had been gnawing at his senses, ebbed away as the ice pack numbed the throbbing ache. His weariness hit him at the same time; he couldn¡¯t help but let out a tired sigh. She glanced up at him, her demeanor shifting. Her eyes softened. When she finished she didn¡¯t go, but remained kneeling at the edge of the blanket.

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    ¡°How old are you?¡± she asked him.

    ¡°Nineteen.¡±

    She reacted to that. A mixture of emotions flickered across her face ¨C surprise, concern, even a touch of something akin to motherly protectiveness. ¡°You¡¯re from the red zone?¡±

    Solomon decided he didn¡¯t want to lie. He wouldn¡¯t be able to pull it off anyway. This past week he¡¯d managed to avoid drawing attention to himself, but that was it. He¡¯d never had to straight up lie to anyone¡¯s face. ¡°Yes,¡± he said.

    ¡°What¡¯s it like?¡±

    It was somewhat startling to realize that blue zone citizens knew as little about how red zoners lived as he¡¯d known about them before he¡¯d joined the militia. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s okay,¡± he replied. ¡°It¡¯s different. Different rules for what¡¯s okay and what isn¡¯t.¡± Then, because it was always on his mind whenever he compared the zones, he added, ¡°I wish it were more like the old America.¡±

    A small smile touched her lips again, her eyes glinting with laughter. It wasn¡¯t mocking though. More like she found it amusing that he missed a time he likely had few memories of. She tilted her head slightly, her voice light as she asked her next question. ¡°And what do you remember of the old America?¡±

    ¡°Not much,¡± he confessed. ¡°But I figure anything¡¯s better than what we have now, right?¡±

    What Solomon was telling her was pretty close to sedition in the red zone, where the approved narrative was that liberals had made America unlivable before the Great Splintering. But if there was anyone 100% safe to tell his heretical thoughts to, it was a blue zone citizen. Then again, he remembered learning that they had their own rules about sedition here, too.

    ¡°Careful now,¡± she told him, as if reading his mind. Her tone was light, but from the steadiness of her gaze, he didn¡¯t think she was joking. ¡°We¡¯re not allowed to say that kind of thing. I learned that the hard way.¡±

    ¡°What happened?¡± he asked.

    In response, she pulled back a little. Her shoulders shifted imperceptibly, a guarded gesture. ¡°I spent three years in the camps.¡± Her eyes flickered, momentarily distant. The corners of her mouth tightened. ¡°And I wouldn¡¯t wish it on my worst enemy.¡±

    Solomon thought he knew what she was talking about. Manal had mentioned this, and he had learned some about it in boot camp. Blue zone citizens got in trouble for saying racist, sexist and phobic things. Before the Great Splintering they would just lose their jobs, afterwards it had gotten more intense. The woke were pretty communist in their thinking, and Solomon remembered one of the books he¡¯d read while stationed at the border about Article 58 of the Russian SFSR Penal Code, how the communists had used it to arrest just about anybody for anything. You could make a political joke to friends at dinner and if someone reported you for it, bam, a ten-year sentence. Even if you heard a political joke, you could get arrested for not reporting the person who made it.

    ¡°You got sent to the camps because you said something politically unorthodox?¡± he asked.

    She shook her head. ¡°No, it was more complicated than that. One of my neighbors at the time wanted my house, she¡¯d been wanting it for years. So at the height of one of the purges, she reported me for writing an article where I argued that lesbian women had the right to not be attracted to trans women. That it wasn¡¯t right to call us turfs if we don¡¯t want to have sex with women who have penises.¡±

    It took Solomon a moment to process what she was saying. Women who had penises? What did that even mean? And turfs? Was that some kind of blue zone slur?

    ¡°I thought I was standing up for the rights of women to love women,¡± she continued, and this time there was pain in her voice. ¡°But when it¡¯s purging time, it¡¯s purging time, and if you get caught up in it, you get caught up in it.¡± She glanced at him. ¡°Are there purges in the red zone too?¡±

    Solomon had to think for a moment. He¡¯d actually learned about this in school. ¡°Usually they get started because some political leader is losing power, so he initiates a purity spiral to consolidate his hold on authority, right?¡± he asked. ¡°It¡¯s a way to get rid of his opponents.¡±

    She scoffed lightly. There was no trace of a smile left on her lips. ¡°Or maybe it¡¯s not some distant leader. Maybe it¡¯s someone you used to call a friend, running for a local council seat on a platform of ¡®diversity and tolerance.¡¯ Then, he starts stirring things up, making accusations about people he¡¯s known his whole life. One minute, my next-door neighbor, old Mrs. Jenkins, is just the sweet lady who bakes for the whole block. But because she¡¯s the mother of his rival, the next minute she¡¯s being denounced for not flying the right flag. Suddenly, she¡¯s a bigot and a danger to the community.¡±

    Her voice was getting sharper. Solomon managed a nod.

    ¡°And it doesn¡¯t stop there,¡± she continued. ¡°The fruit stand guy at the crossroads who gave kids free fruit? The same guy who didn¡¯t want anything to do with politics and who would say so ¨C now he¡¯s too ¡®traditional.¡¯ Next thing you know, the pest control company employees are being dragged out in cuffs because their boss once said something negative about my ¡®old friend¡¯s¡¯ main supporter.¡±

    She shook her head. ¡°People start turning on each other after that. My neighbors, the same people who used to smile and wave at me, started pointing fingers, making sure they weren¡¯t the next target. Everyone trying to prove they¡¯re more ¡®pure¡¯ than the next person. You can lose your home, your family, everything over one accusation. Doesn¡¯t even matter if it¡¯s false.¡± Her tone flattened. ¡°Nobody¡¯s interested in evaluating opinions or assessing viewpoints calmly. In purging time, all they care about is purging.¡±

    Solomon swallowed, remembering what he¡¯d read about the purges in communist Russia, about how those who hadn¡¯t been arrested kept living their lives like nothing was wrong ¨C until it was their turn. ¡°I haven¡¯t noticed anything like that yet,¡± he said quietly, ¡°but I bet it happens in the red zone too.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re still young,¡± she replied. ¡°If you survive your next few decades, you¡¯ll experience much more than you ever wanted to. Certainly I did. I got to go through losing my house, for one. I would be homeless if it weren¡¯t for my partner.¡± She glanced at him. ¡°She¡¯s not happy about you being here. For me, she¡¯d risk everything, but she¡¯s less sure my principles are worth it.¡±

    Partner. That was a blue zone term if he¡¯d ever heard one. Hearing it, and hearing about how nervous the other woman was, made him feel as if he needed to get out of there. But he couldn¡¯t yet. It was going to take at least a day or two before his ankle healed up enough for him to even walk normally again, let alone run if he needed to. So what should he do? Act as if he¡¯d fled the red zone because he¡¯d thought life would be better in the blue zone? Pretend he¡¯d thought the red zone was too racist or whatever?

    She¡¯d been too kind to Solomon for him to want to trick her though. Well, he wasn¡¯t going to tell her he was a red zone soldier or anything, but it didn¡¯t feel fair that she was risking her freedom for his sake when he wasn¡¯t sure she would if she knew the truth about who he was, particularly if she knew he was a phobe.

    ¡°It¡¯s getting late,¡± she replied into his silence, getting to her feet. ¡°I¡¯ll turn off the lights now.¡±

    Solomon nodded. He heard her walk up the stairs where he guessed the light switch was because then he was plunged into darkness. It was just him and the stillness and a dull ache in his ankle and his thoughts going back and forth between what he¡¯d learned growing up in the red zone and what he was experiencing now.

 Chapter 22: "I was raised by phobes."

    Chapter 22

    Solomon fell asleep thinking, and he woke up thinking. He couldn¡¯t tell how much time had passed, but the lights were still turned off so it probably wasn¡¯t morning yet. He used the makeshift toilet and ate and drank in the darkness. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the African woman would not shelter him if she knew he was as orthodox as they came with regards to sexuality. Tolerance wasn¡¯t a virtue in either zone. On both sides of the river people accepted what they thought was good and rejected what they thought was bad whether it was being gay or being a phobe.

    Although it wasn¡¯t quite accurate to say that it was considered bad to be gay in the red zone. The secularists certainly didn¡¯t care. Anyone can have sex with anyone, and anyone can think anything they like, that kind of thing was what they believed. Keep your sermons about sexuality to Sundays, keep your sexual activity to the bedroom, nobody needs to hear about either because nobody cares.

    And in all honesty, Solomon wasn¡¯t even sure he cared that much. Well, of course he agreed with Manal that God got to decide when sex should happen and with whom, that was what he meant when he said he was orthodox about sexuality, that was what he meant when he said he was a phobe, but as long as nobody was shoving it in his face, he was pretty indifferent too. Just be gay, if you¡¯re gay. No need to bring him into it. Non-Christians believed non-Christian things. What a surprise. The end.

    Then again, maybe the reason he had this stance was because that was what he¡¯d been taught growing up in the red zone? That the real problem was people pushing and preaching, and not what they were pushing and preaching about? He remembered hearing so many times back home about how the issue with the alphabet lobby was how they¡¯d insisted not just on being accepted but on being celebrated. That they¡¯d been the ones to thrust the culture of America further and further left, using colleges and corporations and media to stuff their lifestyles down everyone¡¯s throats until you were choking from it.

    Solomon didn¡¯t know how much of that was true, but it was what he¡¯d been told. He did know for sure that there was a whole lot of anger against non-heterosexuals in the red zone. Maybe that was the reason not many of them had stayed. During boot camp there¡¯d been only one gay guy in his entire platoon, hailing from one of the more secular areas of the Westsylvania zone. He hadn¡¯t had a great time. Solomon had felt bad for him, but he also had had enough on his plate trying to make it through on his own.

    It¡¯d be stupid to tell her you¡¯re a phobe, he told himself. It¡¯d be so stupid. People in the blue zone think phobes are disgusting, don¡¯t they? Don¡¯t risk giving her the chance to make a more accurate decision about whether or not it¡¯s worth sheltering you. You shouldn¡¯t care that it feels dishonorable, somehow, to hide the truth from her.

    But the conviction that Solomon ought to tell her kept burning in his mind. When she visited him again, later that day, with more water and more food and another ice pack, he had to bite his tongue to stop himself. Don¡¯t be stupid, don¡¯t be stupid, if you¡¯re going to come out to her as a phobe, you might as well tell her you¡¯re a red zone soldier, and then you can say goodbye to ever going back home! Back and forth he went the whole day, and even through the night.

    It was the next morning when the African woman came back with yet more to meet his needs that he found himself unable to hold it back any longer. He was still cautious, though. The White woman had come halfway down the stairs too, this time, and he waited until she went back up and it was just him and the African woman before he started to speak.

    ¡°It¡¯s very different in the red zone,¡± Solomon said to her as she stood to take his empty water bottles. ¡°In terms of norms. Sexual norms.¡±

    That was as far as he found himself able to go. But once again it was as if she could read his mind. She stood there, studying him, then said, ¡°Lots of phobes there.¡±

    Hesitantly, he nodded. It was as if she could tell he was confessing that he was one to her even though he hadn¡¯t put it in so many words. He found himself feeling embarrassed to meet her gaze. Maybe he was getting impacted by the blue zone again, by their belief that being a phobe was wrong, in the same way he¡¯d been impacted by the blue zone sense that distance from Whiteness was better. He forced himself to lift his eyes, however, and he saw that she had a small, sad smile on her face. ¡°I was raised by phobes,¡± she said softly. ¡°I know them well. I learned from a young age how to ¨C what¡¯s the saying? ¨C hate the sin, yet love the sinner? I would have never survived my childhood if I hadn¡¯t learned how to do that.¡±

    Solomon understood exactly what she was saying. She was telling him he was wrong. That she did know how to shelter him, give him food and drink, bind up his injury, even though he was committing what was, to her, the sin of being a phobe.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he whispered.

    And suddenly, his mind was made up. Whether what he¡¯d learned in the red zone was true or not, it was this woman¡¯s attitude that he wanted to adopt.

    ***

    That night, Solomon tested his ankle, and found he could put weight on it without it hurting. He was torn between wanting to make sure it was completely healed before he headed out, and feeling that he needed to leave soon before they moved Rithvik and Wilson and everyone else to another spot, if they hadn¡¯t already.

    He was also aware that every second he spent there put his hosts at risk. Although Solomon now believed the African woman wouldn¡¯t turn him in, he wasn¡¯t sure the other woman¡¯s nerves would last too much longer with him hiding in her basement. It was better for everyone if he got going. He folded up the blanket, put the pillow on top of it, then stacked everything else he¡¯d been using in a neat pile in front of the pillow. A minute later he was outside the house, carefully closing the bulkhead doors. He was relieved that the house didn¡¯t seem to have any motion detectors or door alarms. The two women must have never retrofitted it with any modern security features.

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    All Solomon had on him was a water bottle, some snacks, the compression bandage around his ankle, and the same clothes he¡¯d been wearing since he¡¯d gone to the camping cabin with Manal. That was where he wanted to go next, to re-arm himself although he would have to be careful because he was sure someone would be watching it. He didn¡¯t know how to get there since he didn¡¯t know where he was, but he actually preferred it that way. Instead of going back down the hill to the walking trail, Solomon circled around to the front of the house, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. Once he was on the sidewalk in front he began jogging blindly, taking random streets left, right and forward, until he was lost enough to not know how to get back.

    He knew Manal had said that the blue zone antifas weren¡¯t that organized, and that if he got caught interrogation would be the least of his worries, but he couldn¡¯t shake Wilson¡¯s paranoia. The least he could do to say thank you to his hosts was to make it harder to trace his way back to them if he did end up getting caught and questioned.

    He kept up his random turns through blue zone suburbia until he stumbled across a creek. It was about fifteen feet across and deep enough to swim in. Deep enough to boat in too, from the upturned canoe pulled up on shore a few feet downriver from him. It was dark, so he took his time making sure nobody was around before reaching for the canoe, turning it over, and sliding it into the water. Whoever had failed to put this canoe up had left the paddles in the grass underneath the vessel; he grabbed one and got into the boat. He didn¡¯t like stealing but he wasn¡¯t sure he had much of a choice. He could tell his ankle still wasn¡¯t at 100% and he wanted to put as much distance as he could between him and the two women who had sheltered him.

    Solomon pushed against the current and headed north. Pittsburgh was literally surrounded by rivers so he¡¯d done this a few times with his parents before they¡¯d disappeared. It was a relief not to be on his feet. He thought he might really be in luck because if he remembered correctly there was a waterway that passed by the camping ground that Manal had taken him to. He thought it might be this exact creek he was on. Even so, his shoulders were tense as he paddled. Every rustle in the underbrush, every shadow flitting through the trees crowding the shore had him on edge. He didn¡¯t like it when he had to get out and haul the canoe through shallow spots. The sound of the hull scraping on rocks before dipping back into the water was way too loud.

    Maybe thirty minutes passed before Solomon started to see cabins, tents and RVs through the trees on the southern bank. He got his canoe as close as he could to the shore before climbing out, hands on the gunwales. Once he was on solid ground he pulled it up over tree roots and entered the campground.

    The paddle Solomon almost kept with him. It was not a weapon he¡¯d been trained on, it was not a weapon at all, but he wanted something in his hands in case he was attacked. When he saw two rocks half-buried in the dirt, however, he put the paddle back into the canoe. He approached the campground office he¡¯d gone to with Manal less than a week ago with a rock in each hand. It was locked. Nobody was here this late at night but he could see through the glass doors that Cabin D4¡¯s key was hanging on the pegboard still.

    His pulse quickened as he approached Cabin D4. The commons was empty. There was nobody by the fire pit. Moonlight cast eerie shadows across the landscape, and he gripped the rocks more tightly. He was standing on the front porch in front of the log cabin when he smelled it: something chemical leaking out of the crack underneath the door.

    Solomon¡¯s first instinct was to don a gas mask, but he didn¡¯t have one. His next instinct was to back away. But now his senses were screaming at him that he was in a trap, and so instead of scrambling to get away from Cabin D4 he turned to look down the two-step staircase that led up to the front porch in front of the cabin. He was glad he did. He swung his fist at the shadowy figure on the bottom step. The rock connected with a satisfying thud, and a grunt of surprise and pain confirmed his hit. The figure stumbled back, momentarily disoriented.

    In the dim light Solomon caught a glimpse of a startled expression on the man¡¯s face, just before he regained his footing and started to recover from the blow. Then he heard the door open behind him. Solomon turned and threw the rock in his hand at a gas-masked figure standing in the doorway. It clipped the man on his shoulder but he barreled toward Solomon. Now his adrenaline was really soaring. He had to end this quickly, though, he wasn¡¯t in good enough shape to take on two attackers at once. He pivoted, pulling his body to the side of the porch as the gas-masked assailant lunged. The man¡¯s gloved hand scraped against the wooden railing where Solomon had been standing an instant before, and he seized the opportunity to launch himself at the man from the side. It kind of worked. His assailant collided with the other man still on the stairs, although neither of them fell down. Taking a last deep breath of non-tainted air, Solomon dove through the open door and then turned around and locked it on them.

    As soon as he was inside the cabin he was glad he¡¯d gotten Manal out so quickly. The place had been ransacked since they¡¯d last been there. Knowing he could probably only last in this gas-filled cabin for a minute at most, he didn¡¯t dawdle. Actually, from the pounding on the door, he probably had even less than a minute. He did a quick check to make sure he was alone, then headed to the weapons chest underneath the bed. 4233791. Nobody had found the chest, at least. Solomon pulled on a gas mask and let himself breathe again as he grabbed a black windbreaker and a backpack. Then he took all the small arms and knives he could fit into the backpack. He grabbed the dumbphone, too, but it was dead so he dropped it back into the weapons chest.

    His pistol he kept in his hand. The pounding on the door had stopped but that made him more uneasy, not less. His mind was racing as he tried to think of a way out of this. He wanted to shoot them and be done with it but he was sure the sound of a firearm would attract exactly the kind of attention he didn¡¯t need. Besides, they didn¡¯t seem interested in killing him either. Probably they wanted to interrogate him. So was there another way out of this cabin, a way he could avoid them?

    Solomon went back to the weapons chest and grabbed a headlight. His house in Pittsburgh had a crawlspace. He¡¯d had an extremely difficult time getting a family of rats out of it the winter after Umma and Dad had disappeared. Maybe¡­ but no, a log cabin like this one wouldn¡¯t have one. But it might instead have a roof hatch¡­

    It took him a moment to find it. His headlight cast wild, jittery beams around the cabin¡¯s interior as he scanned the ceiling. There, in a corner above a stack of firewood! Covered in the same rough-hewn logs that made up the cabin¡¯s walls, the hatch blended seamlessly into its surroundings. Solomon grabbed a chair and dragged it, its legs creaking against the wooden floor in a silence that was starting to creep him out. What were they planning outside? His ankle felt as if it were about to give out. His fingers fumbled with the hatch¡¯s latch, a series of clicks finally giving way to the night sky above. Clenching his jaw, he pulled himself up and through until he was on the roof.

    He pulled off his gas mask and headlamp as quietly as he could and stuffed them into the very top of his backpack. He really was in luck tonight. They were on the other side of the cabin, talking in low voices, probably figuring out how to flush him out. The log cabin wasn¡¯t too tall, Solomon could slide off and onto the front porch without hurting himself. He was halfway through the commons when he heard their voices again; he ducked down onto his knees behind the fire pit, praying they wouldn¡¯t see him. Then the voices passed, and he was on his feet again. He moved fast, despite his ankle, and within minutes he was at the canoe and pushing it back off into the water.

 Chapter 23: â€œI canâ€™t leave him here."

    Chapter 23

    The creek was not the most direct way to the safe house. But Solomon was sure that the two men who¡¯d attacked him back at Cabin D4 had found out by now that he was no longer there. They were hunting him, and it was more likely that they thought he was on foot. So he stayed on the water for another half hour at least before deciding to stop and climb into the woods lining an empty road that he remembered from the maps they¡¯d studied during training. If he had it all correct in his head, he would be able to follow it to the safe house.

    Before he went, Solomon knelt and washed off with creek water every part of the canoe on which he¡¯d left fingerprints, then shoved it back into the stream. Maybe when it was eventually found it would be returned to its owner. Or so he hoped.

    The blue zones thankfully didn¡¯t have a curfew the way the red zones did, so he was able to walk the thirty minutes to the safe house without worrying about getting picked up for being out at night. He went more slowly the closer he got as the forest on either side of the road started to thin out. It was hard to shake his red zone sense that he was doing something wrong by being out so late. There were houses every once in a while, along the side of the road, and he started to look at the numbers on their mailboxes. He was getting close. A few minutes later, he saw a single-story house made of pale pink stones. A car was in the driveway. He could just make out the address, and it matched what Manal had given him.

    Now it was time to wait. He got as close as he could while staying hidden within the nearest stand of trees, then got down to take cover from the undergrowth. He¡¯d slept a lot while in the African woman¡¯s basement so even though his body was stiff from lying on cement, he felt alert, especially after his recent escape from Cabin D4. The hours passed, and he waited, and watched, and waited and watched.

    Then he saw someone. Someone getting out of the house and going to the car. It was nobody he recognized, and he¡¯d at least recognize him if he were one of the fifty soldiers he¡¯d trained with. So the blue zone had taken over the safe house. Rising to his feet, Solomon crept, half bent over, across the small road between the trees and the house¡¯s lawn, then got behind a tree about fifteen feet away from the house. There was a window that he wanted to look through.

    When he looked through it from around the tree trunk, he was stunned. Everyone was right there. He could see Rithvik and it looked like everybody else, too, from the other figures lying prone in the room. The lights were off so he couldn¡¯t quite tell whether or how they were restrained but they had to be, based on what Manal had told him. He didn¡¯t get it. Had the blue zone really put a squad of captured red zone soldiers in a room with a window? A window made of ordinary easy-to-break glass? Why?

    Because it was a trap.

    Solomon took a deep breath, and mentally inventoried what he had on him. A hand grenade. A sound grenade. His pistol. Several other pistols. A multi-tool. A few knives. His headlamp. There was an exterior crawlspace door near him at a corner of the house, with a lock on it. He put on the headlamp, pulled out the flathead screwdriver attachment to his multi-tool, then crawled over to the crawlspace door and positioned the attachment in the lock¡¯s mechanism. He applied pressure, wincing when the lock yielded with a click. Hopefully nobody was around to hear it.

    The crawlspace was tight and he could barely fit into it. Should he try? Maybe he was being deeply stupid. Maybe he was literally crawling into a trap. But after a few minutes, he found himself through the crawlspace and in a dimly lit area underneath the house. Dust particles floated by his face and he had to stop himself from sneezing. A duct was attached to a floor vent nearby. As silently as he could, he detached the duct from the vent. When he peered through the grate, it was a bathroom. He tried again with another duct. This time, he saw someone¡¯s hands cuffed behind his back.

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    ¡°Hey,¡± he whispered. ¡°It¡¯s me, Solomon. I¡¯m here to help.¡±

    He pulled out his multi-tool. He could push the grate up and out of the way from below but it was too small for him to get his arm through so he slid his multi-tool across the floor toward the hands in front of him. Good, another hand, with a cuff on it, was picking it up. Solomon pushed a knife in, then a pistol, and kept going until all he had left was his own pistol. He started crawling back outside, with his pistol in his hands in front of him. He was almost out when he heard the crash of a window breaking. His entire body froze. Ahead of him, framed by the open exterior crawlspace door, was grass and the dim shadow of the tree trunk. He waited for what felt like forever, his breath bated, his pistol aimed in front of him. When a face popped into his field of vision, he was only able to stop himself just in time.

    ¡°I almost shot you,¡± he whispered to Rithvik.

    ¡°I thought it would be you,¡± Rithvik whispered back. He stepped back to let Solomon finish crawling out into the night. When he was finally out, he saw a broken windowpane, an empty room through it, and nobody else.

    ¡°Did everyone else leave?¡± he asked Rithvik as they started moving toward the trees. Rithvik nodded. One of the pistols Solomon had slid into the room was in his hand. He looked exhausted, his clothes were torn and filthy, and he still had an intact cuff around one of his wrists. It was thicker and a closer fit than a normal metal police handcuff, as if it were made of some sort of smart plastic. Maybe the multi-tool had only been able to break the other cuff off.

    ¡°We got the guys who were guarding us,¡± Rithvik added. ¡°That¡¯s why it took a while. Then I told everyone to find a way back home. We should go too.¡±

    ¡°You told them to go?¡± Solomon asked. ¡°What about Wilson? What did he say?¡±

    ¡°He wasn¡¯t with us.¡±

    ¡°Do you know where he is?¡±

    Rithvik shook his head. They were down into the woods by the side of the road, and Solomon was moving as fast as he could despite his ankle. Then he hesitated. ¡°When did you last see him?¡±

    ¡°At Hershey Park,¡± Rithvik replied. He was looking up at the stars, trying to orient himself. Then he glanced at Solomon. ¡°They knew he was in charge, Solo. They took him somewhere else.¡±

    What should he do? Rithvik was clearly waiting for him. And this time Solomon had no reason not to return to the red zone. He¡¯d already succeeded beyond his wildest imaginations. It still felt as if it had been too easy. Why couldn¡¯t he just take the win and go? He didn¡¯t even like Wilson. Who cared if he stayed behind in the blue zone? Solomon had gotten everyone else out, did he have to try to go and find Wilson too?

    He knew what the problem was. His memory of when he¡¯d first met Wilson was what was giving him so much grief. It wasn¡¯t easy to escape from one zone to another. Wilson had done that as a civilian, by himself, when he was only a little older than Solomon was now. That was desperation. Solomon knew exactly how much it had to be killing him to be back here and once again unable to get out.

    ¡°I can¡¯t leave him here,¡± he found himself saying. ¡°You¡­ you go ahead. Go back.¡±

    Rithvik shot him a look as if he were crazy, just the way he¡¯d used to do in basic training. ¡°I¡¯m not leaving you,¡± he snorted. ¡°Let¡¯s go to the park then.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t show it, but he was intensely relieved. ¡°It¡¯s west of here,¡± he told him. ¡°I ¨C¡±

    He was cut off by the sound of an explosion not too far from him. It was followed by another one a little closer. This late at night, the sounds were clear and sharp. Solomon immediately got next to a tree and held up his pistol, and he sensed Rithvik was doing the same thing. Was some sort of skirmish breaking out? Then he heard Rithvik start to scramble away from him. ¡°Get away from me, Solo, run, my cuff, it¡¯s ¨C¡±

    Solomon ran. He was barely in time. If it hadn¡¯t been for the tree in front of him, shielding him, the detonation coming from where Rithvik was standing would have killed him. Even so, it was like the sound grenade all over again, and this time he was knocked off his feet by the blast. His face was in the dirt, and everything went black.

 Chapter 24: â€œDrink. Donâ€™t stop until I tell you to.â€

    Chapter 24

    When Solomon opened his eyes he immediately wished he hadn¡¯t. His head was aching. He felt groggy. He was lying flat on his back, but the floor underneath him was moving, jostling, as if he were in a truck. Actually, based on the metal surface he was lying on, maybe he was in a truck. He tried to pull himself to his feet but managed only to get to a sitting position. From the dim light filtering through the gaps in the truck¡¯s cargo area he could tell he wasn¡¯t alone. He was in the back, and there were maybe twenty other people seated in front of him on what appeared to be crates lining the cargo area¡¯s perimeter. Other than a plastic wristband someone had put on him while he was knocked out, there wasn¡¯t anything else on him; he wasn¡¯t restrained in any way.

    It smelled like a field latrine. It took him a moment to figure out that that was because there was a bucket half-full of waste in the back corner, its smell permeating the entire truck. The stink was so strong it was distracting. Solomon felt as if he could only distantly hear the rumble of the truck¡¯s engine. When the truck swayed unexpectedly, he was sent sprawling into the crate nearest him. He grasped its edges to steady himself, then pulled himself up on top of it like everyone else. He scanned their faces as he did so. Nobody he recognized was there.

    Rithvik wasn¡¯t there.

    Solomon closed his eyes as memory flooded through him. Rithvik, shouting at him to get away. The blast from his cuff. The explosions right before, one, two. The devices that had to have gone off shortly after he¡¯d been knocked unconscious, killing the other soldiers he¡¯d helped free.

    Manal had been right. It had been a trap. And he was the one who¡¯d set it off.

    Shame was too weak a word for what he felt. Along with it burned an intense regret. I should¡¯ve listened to Manal. I should¡¯ve gone to the red zone with her and reported to the militia what happened, so they could send someone competent to rescue them, someone not stupid like me. I shouldn¡¯t have insisted on doing it on my own. The cuffs must have been a failsafe, a last resort if a rescue attempt actually succeeded. Why didn¡¯t I see that coming? The blue zone was never going to be okay with us just walking away. They were never going to let that even be an option.

    Now Solomon was living out the nightmare he¡¯d been afraid of ever since Umma and Dad had disappeared, stuffed into the back of a truck, headed to God knows where, completely by himself. He was still dressed in the same clothes he¡¯d been wearing, his windbreaker and jeans and civilian sneakers. He pulled his hood over his head and buried his face in his hands. His backpack was gone. No pistol, no water bottle, no tools. Nothing but the weight of his own mistakes around his neck.

    Get up, he tried to tell himself. Don¡¯t wallow now. Do it later, after you¡¯ve at least looked around the truck. But he couldn¡¯t move. Instead, a proverb came to him, Proverbs 18:14. A man¡¯s spirit will endure sickness; but a broken spirit who can bear? It fit. Solomon didn¡¯t think he¡¯d known what real brokenness was until now. He didn¡¯t even want to pray, didn¡¯t want to do anything but regret every single choice he¡¯d made that led him to the moment he¡¯d set Rithvik up to die.

    But beneath his feet he could tell the truck was coming to a stop, and despite himself his militia-trained body was instinctively preparing to take advantage of whatever change was about to happen. He got up and began walking down the aisle between the crates, brushing past knees and legs. One man snapped at him when Solomon stumbled into him. Almost everyone else in the truck was a woman.

    From the scrapes he could feel on his skin he must have slid down to the back after being placed up front. The fact that nobody in the truck had bothered to help him meant they were either terrified, callous, or both. He hoped it was the former. Certainly nobody tried to stop him from making his way up front where they were opening the truck doors and shoving someone in.

    The doors closed again when he was a few feet away from whoever-it-was. His heartbeat quickened when he saw short blond hair. It was probably another White guy, but just in case, Solomon turned him over onto his back.

    It was Wilson.

    Relief rushed through him. He knew it¡¯d be better for both of them if Wilson were free and able to rescue him, but for the moment the release Solomon felt from being alone was overwhelming. He knelt at Wilson¡¯s side and put his mouth to his ear. Normally he¡¯d call him Lieutenant Wilson to his face, but he wasn¡¯t stupid enough to announce to the truck that they were red zone soldiers. ¡°Sam,¡± he whispered instead. ¡°Wake up, wake up!¡±

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    Without warning, Wilson¡¯s right hand was clutching his arm, while his left hand was rising up to cover his mouth. ¡°Shh, shh,¡± he was saying, pressing his palm into Solomon¡¯s jaw. He was blinking and looked dizzy. ¡°Shh, shh.¡± The truck started moving again. He helped Wilson to his feet and guided him to the crate he¡¯d been sitting on in the back. Now that the truck was speeding up, it was harder not to slam into the legs of the mostly women sitting on their crates along the way. When they finally did sit down, Wilson didn¡¯t say anything. He was looking at the other people around them, staring at them, as if he could see something Solomon couldn¡¯t see in the flashes of light that shone through the edges of the truck¡¯s doors. Then Wilson tapped his arm with his knuckles. ¡°Follow me,¡± he said.

    Solomon obeyed. Wilson led him back up front, right next to the door where there was the most light. He stood a little bit behind Wilson who looked down at the middle-aged White woman sitting on the crate closest to the door. ¡°I want to sit here,¡± he told her. He pointed. ¡°Get up and go back.¡±

    She gave him a single terrified glance and then gave up her seat. Wilson turned and said the same thing to the younger, brown-skinned woman sitting on the opposite crate. When she vacated her seat, Wilson sat down, then told Solomon to take the other spot. He did. There was a Black girl next to him, really young, almost Adah¡¯s age. She scooted the tiniest bit away from him when he sat down, as if she wanted to give him all the room he demanded, but without making it obvious that he was demanding it.

    But he wasn¡¯t demanding it. He didn¡¯t like bullying girls. He wouldn¡¯t do it to Adah. But he knew better than to speak up and undercut Wilson even in private, let alone in public. So he stayed silent and waited for his next order.

    It came the next time the truck door opened. A plastic gallon jug was thrust into the cargo area; murmurs of relief rose up. Wilson grabbed the jug before anyone else could touch it, pulled off the cap, and handed it to Solomon. ¡°Drink,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t stop until I tell you to.¡± He even had his knife hand out, as if they were back in boot camp and Solomon was draining his canteen slower than he liked. After Wilson told him he was done, Solomon handed the jug back to him. Wilson drank then gave it to the Black girl next to Solomon. ¡°Pass it back and forth across the aisle,¡± he said.

    Everyone listened to him. Solomon felt better after having had some water, although, as usual, having one need met now meant he was intensely aware of all the other unmet ones. He started to catalog them in his mind in order of urgency so that he didn¡¯t have to waste time thinking if the opportunity came up to meet one of them when he heard shouts coming from the back of the truck. ¡°Everyone drank all the water!¡± a woman cried out. ¡°It¡¯s empty!¡±

    ¡°Shut up,¡± Wilson barked. ¡°They¡¯ll bring more later.¡±

    But they didn¡¯t. Not until the next day, after several more people were thrust into the truck and a recyclable pill container labeled HRT was handed to one of the prisoners. Wilson did the same thing again when the plastic gallon was shoved in, told Solomon to drink first, and to not stop until ordered to. It was harder this time to obey, but he¡¯d been conditioned to do so for over a year and a half now, conditioned to ignore what he was feeling in favor of what he was being told to do. His body reacted immediately to Wilson¡¯s spoken command. He drank until Wilson told him to stop. He could hear complaints rising but Wilson told them once again to shut up, that they¡¯d get their turn. Someone started to cry. ¡°If you¡¯ve got the tears to cry, you don¡¯t need more water,¡± Wilson snapped.

    Solomon didn¡¯t like this. He didn¡¯t like any part of this. He wanted to cover his ears when the crying increased after the water jug again ended up empty before the end. He wanted to beg Wilson to let them share more equally. He knew Wilson was looking out for him, that the man was trying to take care of the one soldier he had left, but did he have to do it like this? Maybe in blue zones they thought you should treat women the same as men or whatever, but hadn¡¯t Wilson been in the red zone long enough to know better?

    That night, Solomon again fell asleep sitting up, listening to the whispers of the other passengers stuffed into the truck with him. He got up once to use the bucket in the back. It was too dark to see so it felt as if he ended up bumping into every single person along the way. At one point, he even tripped over someone lying in the middle of the aisle. From the strength of the stench he was close to the bucket, so he muttered an apology and tried to get around whoever-it-was. But whoever-it-was didn¡¯t respond. Didn¡¯t even shift. Solomon tried again, feeling his way through the darkness with his feet, to get around the person sleeping in the aisle, but it was as if she was sprawled out horizontally. He had to step over her, so he did.

    It wasn¡¯t until Solomon was done and about to turn back that it occurred to him to help her move out of the way so someone else didn¡¯t step on her. He knelt and touched her shoulder. The truck lurched, and his hand ended up pushing against her throat. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he whispered, but she still didn¡¯t move.

    That was when it hit him. Steadying himself against a crate, he checked her pulse. He felt nothing under his fingers, no throb, no distant beat.

    If she was seated in the back, that meant she had to have been one of the women who hadn¡¯t gotten any water. And who knew how many days she¡¯d already been in the truck before him. Maybe she¡¯d been sick when she¡¯d come in, and not getting any water had tipped her over the edge.

    Solomon took a shallow breath. With both hands, he gently pushed the body to the side so that there was enough room in the aisle to get to the latrine bucket. Then he fumbled his way back to his seat at the very front. He closed his eyes. This time, when he finally fell back asleep, he found himself dreaming of Rithvik.

 Chapter 25: "...while we get to stay here in a re-education camp."

    Chapter 25

    It was getting hard to think about life outside the truck but Solomon didn¡¯t think they were in Pennsylvania anymore.

    It had been days since he¡¯d been stuffed into this metal grave, sometimes driving for hours, sometimes parked the whole day in the heat. It was getting more and more packed with people until they were sitting on top of each other in the aisle between the crates and pushing against each other, pressing him into the metal brackets on the inside of the truck door. The brackets looked as if they were fusing together into the metal door. It was all one solid inside-of-a-coffin that only opened to swallow up another body, and another, and then another.

    Solomon was sweating and filthy hot inside his windbreaker but when he tried to take it off Wilson told him not to, that he had to keep it zipped up. The stench from everyone¡¯s bodies and from the waste bucket sitting there slopping over was unbelievable and they still hadn¡¯t been given any food the entire time.

    Just water.

    Which he always drank first.

    Even when they put in two gallons of water as their numbers grew, Wilson waited to drink from his jug until after Solomon had what he wanted him to have.

    He dreamed of Rithvik every night so he couldn¡¯t tell which night it was that Wilson woke him up and whispered to him, ¡°You see this slip of plastic inside your wristband¡¯s sleeve? With the barcode printed on it? Trade your barcode slip with hers.¡±

    It was so dark Solomon could barely see. But there was only one girl next to him, the Black girl around Adah¡¯s age. So just as Solomon had drank the water when Wilson had told him to, he took out his barcode slip and started to ease the girl¡¯s out without waking her up. One tiny tug at a time on the end of the plastic sleeve built into their wristbands like a pouch on a kangaroo, and the barcode slip the joey ¨C

    Her eyes fluttered open.

    Solomon froze. His fingers were on her wristband. He¡¯d already made a tear in her plastic sleeve. Wait, wait, all he had to wait until she was still again¡­ good. He slipped her barcode out and slid his barcode into her wristband which took less time and then he was done, he¡¯d obeyed, he¡¯d done what Wilson had told him to do.

    The faces of the other prisoners started blurring for him even in the daytime, looking like a giant multi-headed monster digested into a single form. Solomon was almost at the point where he thought it might be better to die than to have to be in this truck for a single second longer when it stopped and the doors opened, to stay open this time.

    Wilson was on his feet at once, grabbing Solomon¡¯s arm. He didn¡¯t let go of him even as they climbed down into a sunlight that was dazzlingly bright after being in darkness and shadow for so long. He felt as if he couldn¡¯t see anything, that he was being guided only by Wilson¡¯s grip on his arm.

    People in uniforms were shouting things at them but their words were like a series of overlapping drum beats in Solomon¡¯s ears, ba bam, ba bam, ba bam. Maybe they were telling them to squat? Wilson was pulling him down, at any rate, and then he let go of Solomon¡¯s arm and Solomon saw that Wilson had put his hands behind his head so Solomon copied him and saw that next to him, in front of him, behind him, were prisoners from their truck also squatting, also putting their hands behind their heads.

    Where were they? Solomon couldn¡¯t really see from the position he was in, face turned down by his own hands behind the back of his head. There was a cement floor underneath his feet. Maybe they were in an above-ground parking garage though because he could feel some wind but to his side there was a cement column the kind that held up a roof and he was under some sort of shade.

    He focused on the wind, taking in gasping breaths. It felt as if he were breathing for the first time since being stuffed into that truck. Wilson grabbed his arm again and pulled him to his feet. They were walking forward, a platoon of them, not marching in step by any means, but still grouped together.

    Wilson stayed by his side when their sad mimicry of a platoon was pushed into a single line; he was right behind Solomon. It was an above-ground parking garage they were in, and at the end of it was a row of what looked like self-checkout kiosks from a grocery store. Solomon thought it was the second to last one on the left that Wilson and he were in line behind, but he wasn¡¯t sure. They looked like copies of each other, as if someone had gone control + v ten times on the first kiosk. Solomon watched as the prisoners ahead of them, one by one, put their wristbands up to the barcode scanner as directed by an armed guard standing beside it. The kiosk had some sort of slot where people were pulling out what looked like small circular swabs that they placed in their mouths before dropping them down into another slot.

    Suddenly Solomon knew where they were.

    This was what Wilson had described to him the very first time they¡¯d met.

    He was in a processing center.

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    He watched the screen flash green after an elderly Asian man put his swab back into the kiosk. The man was pointed to a flight of concrete stairs built into the side of the parking garage. Next up was the Black girl who¡¯d been sitting next to Solomon in the truck. Her screen flashed red, and she was pointed back to the truck.

    Someone else went and then another person and then it was his turn.

    He didn¡¯t want to go up. Red or green he didn¡¯t care, he was sure both choices sucked, but Wilson was shoving him from behind and so even though he was reluctant Solomon stepped forward and held up his wristband for the barcode he¡¯d taken from the girl to be scanned, and then he swabbed his mouth and put it into the slot.

    His screen flashed green. He took a few steps forward, but slowly because he was terrified that Wilson¡¯s screen would go red and that they¡¯d be separated, but Wilson was fast, and only moments later he was behind Solomon again, urging him down the stairs.

    Solomon had trouble on the stairs. He kept thinking they were crumbling into each other, that they were turning into a slide, and so it took him a long time to get all the way down to the first floor of the parking garage. There were a few guards around shouting at them to keep going until they exited the parking garage onto the sidewalk outside it, and then they were out in the sunlight with nothing overhead.

    Solomon blinked, his head spinning as the world tilted around him. The rectangular towers thrusting into the sky seemed to warp in his vision, their edges sharp and unsteady. He tried to focus on the ground beneath his feet, but the torn and crumpled road wavered, the jagged surface making it impossible to tell where to step. His body felt disconnected, his legs stumbling forward only because Wilson¡¯s grip on his arm was pulling him along. The soaring buildings blurred together as the crowds pressed in, and Solomon could barely register the rusted playground to his left or the field of mud-covered tents that flashed by. Every step felt unsteady, his senses overwhelmed by the chaotic landscape.

    Wilson didn¡¯t stop. They walked past what had to have been trees planted along the sidewalk. They¡¯d all been cut down so that only stumps and trunks were left. He moved Solomon past what might have been a church but its steeple was broken and its roof caved in. It looked as if it had been damaged by fire.

    Along the bases of more sky-high buildings were long empty storefronts with smashed glass doors and windows. And people. People everywhere, thousands of people, dirty, gaunt people with plastic bands around their wrists. Some glanced at him and Wilson but most ignored them.

    Solomon was guided across the plaza that the burnt-out church was in, around another two towers, and then onto a path. To its west he saw a fence topped with barbed wire. Through the fence a river as large as the Susquehanna shone through the gaps. Were they on an island? On the far side of the river he saw a cityscape that looked as if it were reaching for heaven. Towering skyscrapers of glass and steel gleamed in the sun, endless cars and delivery drones darted around them.

    Wilson didn¡¯t even look across the river. He walked Solomon along the path for a few minutes, then he found a sky walkway, like a ten-foot covered bridge made of bricks that connected two towers on either side of them. He pulled Solomon in under it, and only then did he finally let go of his arm.

    And it was only then that Solomon realized Wilson had been barely holding it together the entire time. Because he was gasping now, sinking to his knees on the uneven dirt. Solomon sat down next to him. ¡°We were extremely lucky,¡± Wilson finally whispered. ¡°If either of the two barcodes we took had already been processed, they would¡¯ve shot us on the spot.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t understand. ¡°What?¡±

    Wilson tapped his wristband. He was still whispering. ¡°We both got civilian barcodes and passed off our combatant barcodes to other people. Now those people are getting shipped to the hard labor camps, while we get to stay here in a re-education camp.¡±

    His words hit Solomon like a sledgehammer. The little girl whose barcode I took¡­ Wilson¡¯s saying that as red zone soldiers they tagged us for delivery to the hard labor camps¡­ but since I took her barcode and gave her mine¡­

    Her screen flashed red.

    Now Solomon was the one having trouble breathing. He felt sick to his stomach even though he hadn¡¯t eaten anything for days and there was nothing inside him to throw up. He couldn¡¯t believe he¡¯d done something that terrible. From the water he¡¯d drank first every single time, to this, he couldn¡¯t believe ¨C

    Maybe Wilson could tell where his mind was going because he grabbed the back of Solomon¡¯s neck and forced him up onto his knees. He was pulling Solomon¡¯s forehead to his, he had another hand on his left shoulder, and he was gripping it tightly. ¡°Nobody gets out of the camps clean, okay?¡± he whispered, his face in Solomon¡¯s. ¡°Nobody.¡±

    But it wasn¡¯t okay and although Solomon hadn¡¯t cried since basic training he thought he might be about to now ¨C

    ¡°Listen, listen,¡± Wilson said quickly as if he could tell what Solomon was feeling. ¡°It¡¯s not your fault. You didn¡¯t know. You didn¡¯t know what switching the barcodes would do. And you don¡¯t have to know. What happens to you is my responsibility. I will get you out of here, I swear it. All you have to do is keep obeying orders.¡±

    Solomon knew what Wilson was offering him. He was offering to absolve him of responsibility. He was feeling such incredible guilt that for a moment he was tempted, desperately, to take him up on it, to be able to retreat to a place where he could stand on his feet and say he did his duty and obeyed as he was supposed to and that nobody could ask anything more of him. But one day at the end he would stand before God at the Great White Throne Judgment and he would have to answer for how he¡¯d lived his life here. What was he supposed to say to God then? That Wilson had told him to do it?

    Solomon didn¡¯t know the answer. He didn¡¯t know how he was supposed to balance his oath to obey orders with his searing sense that he ought not to have obeyed this last one. And yet, underneath it all, he was ashamed because he was glad he had. He was glad he wasn¡¯t the one on his way to a hard labor camp. He knew nobody stayed alive for very long in one of those, and he¡¯d promised Adah that as long as he was alive he would come home to her.

    ¡°I will get you out of here, Solomon,¡± Wilson repeated and Solomon found his fingers were clutching Wilson¡¯s clothes, that he was clinging to him.

    He hoped Wilson could.

    He hoped Wilson would.

    But in the meantime Solomon knew that the little girl whose barcode he¡¯d taken was going to join Rithvik in his dreams tonight.

 Chapter 26: â€œYou forgot the cis. Cisheterosexist. Say it again."

    Chapter 26

    Something was wrong with him.

    When Solomon looked around the re-education camp the edges of the towers rising overhead seemed to blur together as if they were melting in the heat of a blazing sun neither they nor he could escape from. Even the sun looked different. Yellow sun, blue sky, white clouds, gray steel, brown mud, the colors were all faded, muted, lost in shadow. The faces of the other prisoners in his confession circle blended together when they spoke. He could understand them only every so often.

    He could only hear Wilson clearly and he didn¡¯t do anything unless he heard Wilson directing him to. Stand here, sit down, eat this, drink that, move up, don¡¯t ever take your windbreaker off, not even once, because someone will steal it the second you put it down, and that piece of cloth is the only thing you will have between you and the cold when winter comes.

    ¡°What the hell is wrong with you?¡± he asked Solomon more than once. ¡°Come on, whatever this is, snap out of it.¡±

    But Solomon didn¡¯t know what it was and he didn¡¯t know how.

    I think Wilson is frustrated. I think he wants me to work with him on our escape. But Solomon kept slipping in and out of a fog that came and went without warning. Even when the fog left, he couldn¡¯t 100% shake the effects off, as if he were looking at the path by the sky walkway they¡¯d been sleeping under and it was rippling as if it were made of water but he knew it wasn¡¯t but it looked like a slow-moving current of asphalt and if he stepped onto it he would sink down down down down ¨C

    It wasn¡¯t made of water, though. Solomon knew it wasn¡¯t. The river was made of water. The river that surrounded this island they were on. This island that was ? of a mile wide and 1? miles long with a path going around the perimeter and thirty large buildings that he thought used to be apartment towers filling up most of the space between. Bookended by a lighthouse at its north end and a park with statues of giant faces at its southernmost tip.

    I think the statues are real. I don¡¯t think they¡¯re part of the fog.

    One time, after it felt as if he¡¯d been gone for a while, Wilson grabbed him by his arms and shook him, shouting at him to wake up. Solomon didn¡¯t know what to say. He didn¡¯t know what to do. He looked at him, his mind blank, and then Wilson seemed to realize something. Maybe. At least after that he didn¡¯t touch Solomon again, except to put scavenged mulberries in his hand to eat, or to guide him to wash where the rainwater had collected in the abandoned dog park.

    And that wasn¡¯t all he did for Solomon. Most of their time, Wilson spent preparing him for the daily confession circle.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    Solomon was there now, sitting near the sun-wilted second base of a former baseball field, alongside the other prisoners in his confession circle. Off to his right, the asphalt path that wound around the whole island gleamed black in the sun. On the other side of the path was the barbed wire fence, shining metal-bright. And on the other side of the barbed wire fence was the rush and the roar of the river.

    Someone was saying something. There were a dozen of them in the circle. Or so he thought. It was hard to count when their faces and forms kept blurring into each other. Solomon was pretty sure it was the stack-keeper who was talking, though. He was an older Black man, one of the prisoners too, but he was supposed to lead them in their confessions while the counselors, that was what they called the guys with the guns, walked around from circle to circle to listen in and take notes on their tablets to add to everyone¡¯s files.

    Solomon kept clenching his fists whenever a counselor walked near. Seated to his right, Wilson muttered at him to knock it off. ¡°Don¡¯t be nervous. Just do your confession like you practiced this morning.¡±

    Wilson didn¡¯t seem to need to practice ahead of time. He was able to rattle his confessions off the top of his head. Solomon, on the other hand, had to laboriously memorize his in advance. Ever since Wilson had realized something was wrong with Solomon, he¡¯d been patient, feeding Solomon one line at a time to learn. Every morning, he gave him something to say for the evening¡¯s confession circle. ¡°Repeat after me. As a male assigned to male at birth, I am complicit in our cisheterosexist patriarchal society.¡±

    Solomon tried to. ¡°As a male assigned to male at birth, I am¡­ um¡­ complicit in our hetero¡­ heterosexist patriarchal society.¡±

    Wilson corrected him. ¡°You forgot the cis. Cisheterosexist. Say it again. I am complicit in¡­¡±

    ¡°Remember,¡± he added, after Solomon tried again, and got it wrong again, ¡°The trick is to be detailed, but not specific. Pack in as much jargon as you can about how you¡¯re an insufficiently zealous ally without actually admitting to doing anything to any actual person, because they will punish you for that.¡±

    Over and over again he told Solomon that they would escape, that of everyone in this camp, they had the best chance of it. When Solomon was able to think about it, he thought Wilson was right. Solomon thought he remembered reading about escapes from communist camps, and the only ones who were able to were soldiers, like them, in the prime of their lives, and in their first year of imprisonment.

    But lately Solomon wasn¡¯t able to hold many thoughts together in his head.

    ¡°Add details,¡± a counselor was saying to his circle. ¡°Show us that you mean it by sharing more about how you were complicit.¡± Nobody argued back. Which was good. The other confession circles on the baseball field were near enough that you could hear the girl screaming over by the home plate, as the butt of another counselor¡¯s rifle came down on her body again and again. What a waste of a good rifle. Solomon had to stop himself from staring at every single one that came into his view. His fingers were hungry for lock, stock and barrel.

    Maybe that was because he knew that without Wilson feeding him lines, it would be his face and back and arms being struck. Even so, Solomon hoped the counselor would never ask him to elaborate on what he was saying, because he had no idea what the words cisheterosexist patriarchal society meant ¨C

 Chapter 27: â€œThatâ€™s what happens when you donâ€™t gender segregate in a carceral system."

    Chapter 27

    What are you in for?

    What¡¯d they get you for?

    All the prisoners wanted to know. That was the question they asked every newcomer. But Solomon didn¡¯t say anything when they asked him. He didn¡¯t say anything ever unless Wilson told him to. Was he going insane? He was afraid he might be. Wilson seemed to be afraid he was too. ¡°Keep it together, keep it together,¡± Wilson kept telling him. ¡°The hard labor camps are worse, this is only a transit prison, they don¡¯t even make you do anything here, just re-education.¡±

    Solomon believed him. But it only made him feel even more on edge, his heart pounding in his chest in an uneasy rhythm that wouldn¡¯t slow. Each minute that passed felt like a ticking bomb, the pressure inside him building up as the chances increased of them figuring out Solomon was not a blue zone civilian caught up in one of their purges but the real thing, the enemy, a red zone soldier. The blue zoners might live in constant fear that their sentences would be prolonged for what they said in their confessions, but detection was what Solomon feared, and that fear was overwhelming him.

    It kept pushing him into the fog.

    Why did the cafeteria room have posters with children on them? Children of all races, smiling next to speech bubbles about the benefits of exercise. The table was rectangular, with attached benches. That was where he was sitting. On the bench. Next to Wilson. Across from him was a prisoner who Solomon thought was also in their confession circle, a Black guy younger even than he was. The Black guy and Wilson and some other prisoners, including a White-looking woman who seemed to be in her mid-thirties, were talking over their trays of cornmeal mush. Talking quietly. They stopped whenever a counselor came near.

    The cafeteria was the only place other than the baseball field that Solomon actually saw the other prisoners in his confession circle. During the lectures they were segregated by race, gender, sexuality, etc. he didn¡¯t know what else. All he knew was that he had to sit away from Wilson. It was supposed to help prisoners of color feel more comfortable or something like that, he couldn¡¯t remember.

    ¡°What did they get you for?¡± the woman asked the teenager.

    ¡°Carjacking,¡± he responded. ¡°It went wrong. I was just trying to take the car, but someone got killed. So I ended up here.¡±

    Someone else at the table smirked. ¡°Regret it, huh?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. The gangs here are pretty bad,¡± the teenager replied. ¡°I try to stay away from them but they run all the apartment towers. So I sleep outside. The gangs charge you too much to sleep inside anyway.¡±

    ¡°You got it right,¡± Wilson told him. ¡°Don¡¯t catch the criminals¡¯ attention. In a place like this, you either skate under the surface, or you get up every day ready to prove that you¡¯re not somebody worth the trouble to mess with, and the one day you fail to prove that, is the day you stop calling your life your own.¡±

    ¡°Didn¡¯t he just say that he was here because he killed someone?¡± the woman interjected. ¡°What do you mean, don¡¯t catch the criminals¡¯ attention? How is he not a criminal too?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s criminals, and then there are sick, power-hungry crazies,¡± Wilson shot back. ¡°We¡¯re all here in the same place. Which one are you? What did they get you for?¡±

    She shrugged. ¡°I wrote an article comparing the modern totalitarianism of the blue zone to the historical totalitarianism of Jim Crow.¡±

    The other prisoners sitting on the attached benches of the table jeered. ¡°What makes you think someone like you could write ¨C¡±

    The noise stopped short. Solomon felt the hair rising on the back of his neck. There was a counselor nearby. He was walking back and forth between the short ends of the tables. Solomon was on the end, the edge, next to the aisle where the counselor was walking. Walking, walking, getting closer, closer, and overhead the cracked bulb diffuser was mixing with the late summer sunlight streaming through the window in the wall, turning the floor into a shine that grew and grew and grew ¨C

    No, that was wrong, that was wrong, that wasn¡¯t real, it was happening again, right before he went into the fog something he knew wasn¡¯t real started to become real.

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Solomon forced himself to look at the cornmeal mush on his tray. That was real. It was about a cup, 8 ounces, 250 milliliters, but no, wait, that was only if it was liquid, which this mush wasn¡¯t, but actually, kind of? Whatever it was, it was more than what Wilson got. Unlike Solomon, the barcode Wilson had stolen on the truck had been from an Asian woman, and rations in the re-education camp were apportioned out by race, gender, and sexuality. They had to scan their wristbands to pick up a tray, and then up popped on the screen of the robotic server the amount that should be ladled onto that tray.

    Solomon thought Wilson had said the apartment towers were also divided up the same way. The ones with better facilities were reserved for what they called BIPOC prisoners, Black and Indigenous only. Solomon wasn¡¯t sure if he counted or not according to their rules. He also wasn¡¯t sure whether the gangs that ran the apartment towers were very strict about using the barcode scanners to keep everyone segregated correctly. Hadn¡¯t Wilson said if you paid them enough they let you go wherever?

    ¡°First, as an Indigenous woman, I¡¯m personally very aware that America has always been totalitarian,¡± Solomon heard the woman say. ¡°The current camp system in both zones is just the latest manifestation of it. And I¡¯m not talking just about Jim Crow. The reservation system for Indigenous people, the Chinese exclusion act, the Palmer Raids, the Japanese internment camps during World War II, COINTELPRO, the Red Scare and McCarthyism of the 1950s, the War on Drugs targeting Black communities, post 9/11 policies which greatly expanded the government¡¯s surveillance powers, the Family Separation Policy implemented at the Mexican border, any number of anti-LGBTQ+ laws¡­ our history is literally pockmarked by government targeting of the powerless.¡±

    Solomon grabbed onto her words. He pulled himself away from the pool of light lapping at his feet. He tried to think about what she was saying. Dad had said something like that to him once, hadn¡¯t he? About how America had defined itself for a long time as anti-Black, and then it had started to try to define itself as anti-racist.

    Maybe this lady is right. Maybe the tools we used to define ourselves as a nation always sucked, no matter what the definition is that we settled on. Maybe I¡¯ve been stupid to long for the old America my whole life.

    ¡°The woke response was a correct one to historical grievances, but they¡¯ve become the monster they hunted. Don¡¯t get me wrong,¡± she added very quickly. ¡°I believe in the movement. I always have. I believe we¡¯ll find our way out of America¡¯s historical patterns of repression and control. I heard from a very reliable source that the blue zones have a plan to shut down all the hard labor camps within the decade.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re not counselors, you don¡¯t have to reassure us,¡± another prisoner, a White man, replied sarcastically. ¡°Unless you mean it, in which case you¡¯re an idiot. If they shut down the hard labor camps in ten years, it¡¯ll be because they¡¯re losing money on them, and not for any other reason. And what does it matter, anyway? Everyone here is still going to go on to hard labor within the decade.¡± He paused, and studied the woman for a moment. ¡°Unless you got a re-education-only tag on your file. Because of some political connection.¡±

    The woman looked away. Solomon could feel the anger coming off the other prisoners at the table, he could feel it jumping like a beast up into their faces and throats and fists. Even Wilson, next to him, his beast was snapping. Solomon heard the other prisoner, the White man, snarl, ¡°Your life is the definition of privilege. To me, coming here is a death sentence, but for you it¡¯s like a camping trip. I bet your family sends you nice, fat packages every week so you don¡¯t even care when they cut back on rations. I bet you got an arrangement with the gangs to let you stay in whatever apartment tower you want in exchange for a high bribe that your family pays for you. I bet after your release you go right back to a cushy life.¡±

    ¡°Why do you think I write?¡± she snapped back. ¡°Anyone else, the price is too high to risk it. Since I can pay the price, because it¡¯s lower for me, I do.¡±

    ¡°So this is how you fill up the hole in your life? Going to re-education camp every few years? You like listening to lectures and confessing your privilege?¡±

    ¡°What else am I supposed to do? Put on my visor and thumbs-up all the right comments above other people¡¯s heads and amplify all the right voices in my feed? Keep my head down, don¡¯t let myself think a single wrong thought?¡±

    ¡°Nobody read your article anyway,¡± Wilson sneered. ¡°Nobody was allowed to.¡±

    She shrugged again. ¡°The censor board did.¡± Then a small smile touched her lips. And just like that, the beast in everyone¡¯s faces and throats and fists suddenly relaxed. Another prisoner, the teenager maybe, even laughed. Then a chime went off and breakfast was over. Or maybe it was dinner. Solomon didn¡¯t know. If it was breakfast then now it was time for the lecture, if it was dinner then now it was time for the confession circle.

    ¡°Still,¡± Wilson said, even as they were getting up to go, legs pulling out over the too-short too-small bench. ¡°You know your experience here is different from everybody else¡¯s. Especially the other women. The ones who don¡¯t have money and political connections like you. The ones who have no idea what they¡¯ve gotten themselves into by self-reporting for re-education. You know who I¡¯m talking about, the kind of White women who are obviously women but who walk around with name tags that say she/her.¡±

    ¡°I know.¡±

    But Wilson wasn¡¯t done. ¡°Everyone is always told re-education is only going to be for a few days and by the time these women find out it¡¯s not, and that their new role is to be used as currency by the gangs, too bad, it¡¯s too late for them.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what happens when you don¡¯t gender segregate in a carceral system,¡± she replied quietly.

    Wilson snorted. ¡°Yeah, saying shit like that, no wonder you¡¯re in here.¡±

 Chapter 28: â€œIt all evens out in the end, so itâ€™s sexist to treat them like theyâ€™re different.â€

    Chapter 28

    When they got back to the covered walkway they¡¯d been sleeping under ¨C Solomon wished the bricks would stop wiggling, he felt as if they were going to fall on top of them ¨C Wilson told him he wanted to rob the woman, the one in their confession circle, the one who¡¯d written the article. ¡°She¡¯s a woman, so she¡¯ll be easy to knock down. Rich enough that her family won¡¯t stop sending her packages just because we start taking one every once in a while. Ideological enough that she won¡¯t report us. She¡¯s the perfect mark. Got it?¡±

    The way Wilson was looking at Solomon, it was as if he were afraid of getting a refusal. Maybe he knew Solomon wasn¡¯t going to want to knock down a woman to steal from her even though Solomon supposed he was still technically under orders from Wilson. Having said that, the militia had been feeling pretty far away these days. In fact, all Solomon could think about right then was a recent lecture on the patriarchy that he remembered being somewhat alert during.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that sexist?¡± Solomon asked.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t what sexist?¡±

    ¡°Taking her package because she¡¯s a woman.¡±

    ¡°No, no, women can do fewer push-ups than men, but they can do more situps. They can¡¯t carry as heavy loads as us, but they can run for longer distances,¡± Wilson replied. It sounded as if he were reciting something he¡¯d learned when he was younger. ¡°It all evens out in the end, so it¡¯s sexist to treat them like they¡¯re different.¡±

    But Solomon wasn¡¯t so sure.

    I wish Adah could send me a package or just a letter but she doesn¡¯t even know I¡¯m here. Nobody knows we¡¯re here.

    The next time Solomon was aware of himself he was in the gymnasium, and he recognized it, it was where they listened to the lectures. He was glad it was indoors. The few trees that still had their branches were sprouting orange and yellow leaves. Inside the gymnasium there were yellow lines all over the floor but they didn¡¯t make sense to him at all. He was sitting cross-legged on the court in a row to the left of a long line. In front of him and behind him were rows of prisoners.

    Solomon thought maybe it was his rash that had brought him back this time. He didn¡¯t know where it had come from or what it was. He just knew it was all over his legs and arms and back and that it made him want to scrape his skin off. Wilson said not to scratch but when Solomon was in the fog he didn¡¯t know what he was doing. He only knew that he¡¯d been coming to awareness with blood under his nails, and usually also Wilson in his ear telling him off. ¡°Leave it alone, you¡¯ll only make it worse!¡± Solomon wished he could wash but the bathrooms were all inside the apartment towers too, it was rainwater or nothing for them.

    The bot search agent the camp used to deliver the lectures through the gymnasium speakers was talking about toxic masculinity. ¡°Toxic masculinity, a set of cultural norms and expectations that emphasize traditional male traits like dominance, stoicism, and toughness, can significantly impact interpersonal relationships, particularly in the division of household chores. This harmful ideology often perpetuates outdated gender roles and expectations, placing undue pressure on both men and women.

    ¡°In such scenarios, men might feel compelled to avoid ¡°feminine¡± tasks like cooking or cleaning, viewing them as emasculating. Conversely, women may be burdened with the majority of domestic responsibilities, reinforcing the notion that their worth is tied to their ability to manage the home. This not only creates an unfair distribution of labor but also fosters resentment, stress, and tension within relationships. Breaking free from toxic masculinity¡¯s grip means challenging these stereotypes and fostering more equitable partnerships, where household responsibilities are shared based on mutual understanding and respect rather than gendered expectations.¡±

    Hearing that, Solomon thought he might be sexist. In fact, it almost sounded as if everything he¡¯d ever done for Adah was sexism. Hadn¡¯t he come home from sentry duty and let her cook everything without even thinking about it once? Maybe even fixing things around the house was sexist, because he¡¯d assumed she couldn¡¯t do it herself. That was sexism. Right?

    Hm. Did being anti-sexist mean treating women as if they were different from him, or treating them as if they were the same as him? Was Wilson right that it was sexist if they didn¡¯t rob the woman from their confession circle? Couldn¡¯t be. It had to be that Solomon was supposed to treat women the same as him sometimes and treat them as different from him other times and he had to listen more to find out when he was supposed to treat them the same and when he was supposed to treat them different.

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    Which would be fine except he was tired. Thinking about all that he still had to learn made him feel even more tired. The lectures and confessions were wearing him down. He didn¡¯t know why though. Wilson was right, it wasn¡¯t as if they had to do anything but sit and listen and sometimes talk.

    Maybe it was because even though this camp was all blue zone civilians, the lectures were all directed as if the audience were a bunch of red zoners. After hearing every day for months on end about how Solomon was disgusting for thinking that, say, kink sexuality was disgusting, it was starting to get to him. He thought often about the lesbian couple who¡¯d sheltered him, and he wondered if maybe he was a horrible person to believe that God and not people got to decide the limits on sex. Maybe he deserved to be in this open-air prison, to be given a ration of only 1500 calories a day. Maybe he was a worthless bigot.

    He couldn¡¯t focus. His rash was killing him.

    At least he wasn¡¯t in a red zone labor camp. The red zone didn¡¯t play when it came to punishment. They didn¡¯t care about offering you a chance to rehabilitate, which meant there was no re-education part. It was just straight to hard labor.

    The bot search agent was still talking but the words were slowing down, the voice distorting, echoing, and Solomon was sliding away, the rows of prisoners in front of him and beside him coming together and ¨C

    ¡°Where¡¯s Darryl?¡± Wilson was asking, but he wasn¡¯t asking Solomon. They were standing on the road that ended in a black asphalt cul-de-sac outside the gymnasium. Wilson was talking to the teenager from their confession circle, who looked behind him first then shook his head.

    Wilson slowed down, so Solomon did too, until nearly everyone else was ahead of them on the broken-up road. Now they were on the cul-de-sac with the last of the crowd leaving the gymnasium. Only then did the teenager reply. ¡°You didn¡¯t hear? He¡¯s in a punishment cell. Someone reported him for what he said about how if they shut down the hard labor camps in ten years, it¡¯ll be because they¡¯re losing money on them, and not for any other reason.¡±

    Someone had reported him? But it had been only people in their confession circle who¡¯d heard what Darryl had said. There¡¯d been nobody else at the table.

    Solomon looked at Wilson¡¯s face, and from his wide eyes he could see he¡¯d realized the same thing. The people in their confession circle¡­ are they spying on us?

    ¡­ are we spying on each other?

    Now Solomon was thinking about the metal shipping containers he¡¯d seen scattered throughout the island. Wilson had told him each container had a metal bar running along the inside length of it, to lock in prisoners¡¯ feet. ¡°They pack in as many people as they can fit, shackle them to the bar, then they stay there for as long as their punishment sentence lasts, days, weeks, months. You get half-rations delivered to you, and a can to piss in.¡±

    Not all of the shipping containers were the same size. Solomon had lost a lot of weight since he¡¯d come to this re-education camp, but if he got put into one of the smaller ones, and wasn¡¯t allowed to come out for even a month, he¡¯d come out crippled.

    Wilson didn¡¯t say anything in response. He didn¡¯t speak at all until they were back beneath the wiggling bricks of the walkway. The undergrowth pushing its way through the cracks of the cement was starting to die, meaning it wasn¡¯t as comfortable to sleep there anymore, especially as it was getting cooler at night. But Wilson tonight didn¡¯t seem to notice. He was kneeling and ripping out the stems one at a time. His brows knit together, forming a deep furrow, while his lips pressed tightly together. The color was drained from his cheeks, leaving them pale, and his eyes, still wide, were darting from side to side.

    ¡°I have to hand it to her,¡± he said abruptly. ¡°She knows what she¡¯s doing, and knows how to protect herself. She might be idealistic, but she¡¯s not naive. Not a good mark after all. I was an idiot to speak so frankly to her. I should absolutely know better. In the hard labor camps, you can say whatever you like, because there¡¯s nowhere worse they can send you, but in a re-education camp you have to be so much more careful. Especially if you¡¯re a White man.¡±

    ¡°You think she¡¯s the one who made the report?¡± Solomon asked.

    ¡°A hundred percent,¡± Wilson replied. His hands were clenched now but Solomon could see he was trying to stop them from shaking.

    Solomon¡¯s stomach knotted, his breath catching in his throat. He sat down and closed his eyes and tried to breathe but all he could feel were the hives on his skin going up his neck and before he could stop himself he was scratching and scratching but Wilson wasn¡¯t looking at him he was staring at the ground and God Solomon wished he wasn¡¯t in this camp he wished he was anywhere but living this miserable life that he found himself hating more and more each and every day ¨C

 Chapter 29: â€œI have always been an anti-racist."

    Chapter 29

    Wilson¡¯s shout woke him up. Solomon was on his feet at once, stumbling into the chaos. Or maybe the chaos was stumbling into him. A beclouded moon hung overhead while several bodies closed in on him, their faces lost in the darkness. His own body knew what to do, though, and that was good, because his mind was even now not all there. It was a blur of faces, some snarling, others desperate, but none truly clear. He hit something, someone, and they went down with a thud. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and he wasn¡¯t sure if it was his or theirs.

    The world shifted, and he was running, ragged shoes scraping against the pavement. Wilson¡¯s hand touched his shoulder. ¡°Keep moving! Don¡¯t look back!¡± he urged. The clouds had passed on so the moonlight was casting eerie silhouettes of the towering structures that surrounded them, but they kept running, running from the darkness, running from the blurred faces ¨C

    ***

    The abandoned dog park was so much worse of a place to sleep. There was nothing to cover them from the rain or wind. Solomon¡¯s hair, which was longer than it had ever been in his life, was even filthier now, as was Wilson¡¯s. But Wilson didn¡¯t seem to care about any of that. He was far more focused on how Solomon had started to mess up his confessions.

    For a while now Wilson had been letting him come up with confessions on his own, making Solomon recite them to him during the daytime until he was happy that Solomon would pass muster that evening, and then in the night after the confession circle met, reviewing how Solomon could¡¯ve done better. One day when Solomon started to recite for Wilson a confession on how he¡¯d been closeting his religious beliefs on sexuality, Wilson stopped him and told him it was incredibly dangerous to compare what he was going through with what an LGBTQIA+ person went through.

    ¡°They¡¯re going to say it¡¯s the suffering of the marginalized that matters, how dare you act like you can even compare your experiences.¡± Wilson gave him another look, the same look he¡¯d been giving Solomon since they¡¯d arrived at the re-education camp. ¡°Your problem is that there has never been a gap between what you say and what you mean. You are going to have to get better at bullshit.¡±

    Wilson, certainly, was good at bullshit. He didn¡¯t seem affected at all by either the lectures or his confessions. He always had plenty to say at the latter, maybe because there were so many more things you could confess to if you were White.

    To be honest, Solomon didn¡¯t know how he did it. The kinds of things they said about White people, the kinds of rules they had for White people, he didn¡¯t know why a single White person would stay in the blue zone.

    He asked Wilson about it later, about why White people stayed in the blue zone at all, and Wilson laughed. ¡°What else? Join the racists? This is all blue zone White people have, that they¡¯re better than the White person who is a bigoted Christian. If being better means they have to confess endlessly about how they shouldn¡¯t be allowed to speak unless it¡¯s to amplify minority voices and how they haven¡¯t sufficiently used their White privilege to teach other White people about the barriers to success for people of color, well, that¡¯s the price you pay to be better. At least you¡¯re not your Republican brother!¡±

    Solomon¡¯s nerves twisted into a knot as Wilson¡¯s words cut through the night air. He stole a glance at the rusted metal rail fence behind him, its remnants barely holding together, and wondered if anyone near the dog park had overheard. At the same time, his jaw tightened. He remembered one of the lectures talked about how White people did something called White denial when they refused to acknowledge the full extent of the historical harms done to Black people. The red zone did that. Solomon had lived with it his entire life although he hadn¡¯t had the words for it until he¡¯d come to the blue zone. It was White people trying to be the good guys, no matter the cost to the nation, a nation they all used to be part of.

    From what Wilson was saying, it sounded as if the blue zone was the exact same: White people trying to be the good guys except through politics instead of race. Again, no matter the cost to the nation.

    One thing Solomon would admit: it had been useful learning these new terms. He was able to name realities he¡¯d experienced all his life but had never been able to put a finger on before. He wished that the blue zone wouldn¡¯t teach it in such an absolutely terrible way though. Treating everyone who thought differently about any part of it as the enemy.

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    ***

    Solomon was so glad the baseball field where his confession circle met wasn¡¯t shadowed by any apartment towers nearby. The sunlight made it warm enough to get through without shivering. Still, he didn¡¯t think he and Wilson could stay in the dog park at night for very much longer.

    Oh, there was a new White woman in their confession circle today. She was sitting with her back to the backstop. They were on the home plate today which meant wet sand was going to get into the lining of his jeans through the fraying threads on his knees. The woman was heavyset, wearing glasses, middle-aged. Solomon could tell she was fresh off a truck. Her bewildered face mirrored exactly how he¡¯d felt when he¡¯d first come to the camp.

    They were supposed to be discussing the lecture from earlier that morning, but Solomon hadn¡¯t been able to keep track of what the bot search agent had said about all the different types of gender identities and all the ways they were systematically oppressed. Most of the time it didn¡¯t matter though. Everyone else was always scrambling to get added to the stack because they wanted a chance to speak, to show off how much of their re-education they¡¯d already internalized in the hopes of reducing their camp sentence. So Solomon almost never had to go.

    And if he had wanted to go, he¡¯d get bumped up to near the top of the list. He remembered in some lecture the bot search agent had explained it to them. The progressive stack is a method used to prioritize marginalized voices and perspectives in discussions or events; it involves giving those who are typically underrepresented or oppressed a chance to speak before others, creating a more inclusive and equitable platform. It amounted to Solomon speaking before Wilson, and a gay person speaking before Solomon. Although he wasn¡¯t sure how the stack-keeper would decide between a White gay person and him. Did gayness count more than race?

    Solomon was still trying to puzzle things out when the stack-keeper¡¯s voice broke through his thoughts. ¡°What did you think?¡± he asked.

    The man¡¯s eyes were locked on Solomon, waiting for a response. Uh oh. Maybe Solomon had gone too many days without speaking up, and the stack-keeper had noticed. The man wasn¡¯t a counselor, but he had the authority to lead the confession group. Ignoring him would be stupid.

    Panic set in as Solomon tried to recall the lecture. What were the terms again? Genderqueer, agender, bigender, genderfluid¡­ The definitions were a blur. Somewhere in the distance, someone was crying. He could hear counselors shouting, the hum of chanted confessions. Did the noise ever stop? The sharp crunch of a rifle butt hitting someone¡¯s face nearby made him freeze for a moment, but he managed to fight his urge to flinch.

    Then, a loud burst of weeping came from directly across the circle. The new woman, the White one, had started sobbing uncontrollably. But she wasn¡¯t just incoherently crying. She was repeating the words, over and over again, in a moan, ¡°I have always been an anti-racist. I have always been an anti-racist. I have always been an anti-racist.¡±

    Her anguished confusion was unbearable. Solomon closed his eyes, but Wilson jabbed him in the side with his elbow so he opened them again and stared at his worn out civilian sneakers that he hadn¡¯t taken off in months. He didn¡¯t know why he felt so ashamed. He hadn¡¯t done anything to her. Why was she so loud? Stupid fat White bitch.

    ¡°I have always been an anti-racist. I have always been an anti-racist. I have always been an anti-racist. I have always been an anti-racist ¨C¡±

    ¡°Shut up,¡± someone else in the circle hissed. ¡°A counselor is coming this way. Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!¡±

    ¡°I have always been an anti-racist. I have always been an anti-racist. I have always been an anti-racist ¨C¡±

    Solomon sensed a different prisoner rising to his feet as the counselor approached. ¡°I¡¯d like to make a report that this White woman is weaponizing her tears in order to¡­uh¡­ she¡¯s, uh, weaponizing her tears.¡±

    Someone was shouting, someone was sobbing, but the sounds were growing muffled, as if he were hearing them through a thick layer of cotton. The lines of the towers around him were losing their sharpness again. Beneath his feet the sand felt unsolid, as if it could dissolve into nothingness at any moment. He didn¡¯t know for how long he sat there, and it was only when Wilson touched his arm that he realized he had to move.

    ¡°Hey,¡± Solomon heard Wilson say. ¡°Hey. Solomon. Jesus Christ, not this again. Solomon!¡±

    He looked at Wilson. He listened to Wilson tell him to hold out the tray so they could pour cornmeal mush onto it. He did so.

    He went back to listening to Wilson¡¯s voice telling him what to say for his confessions, telling him where to go, telling him what to do. He never in his wildest dreams thought he¡¯d ever think of Wilson¡¯s voice as a lifeline, but that was what it is. Solomon was drowning in a torrent of noise, and Wilson¡¯s voice was the only thing there to hold on to ¨C

 Chapter 30: â€œThatâ€™s who you killed to get out?â€

    Chapter 30

    Someone was speaking to him. Solomon felt Wilson¡¯s knee nudging his leg. He tried to focus and slowly, too slowly, he realized it was one of the counselors, the one Wilson called his twin. Other than having his exact skin tone, Solomon didn¡¯t think they looked anything alike, but they were about the same age. What was the counselor saying?

    ¡°The only real way to engage in politics,¡± Solomon heard, ¡°is to point out something you disagree with. What¡¯s something you disagree with from today¡¯s lecture?¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t need Wilson¡¯s knee against his to immediately recognize that this was a trap. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the lecture was about. He didn¡¯t even remember attending it. Wilson must have dragged him there in one of his fogs. ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t disagree with anything.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t really mean that,¡± Solomon was told. He watched as the counselor pulled out his tablet. He tried to breathe. Every single time something was added to his file, he was terrified they were going to realize that he was not who had originally been given the barcode in his wristband. ¡°The point of re-education is to sincerely examine your implicit biases so you can be freed from them. You have to dwell with the discomfort. You can¡¯t do that if you refuse to engage with the material.¡±

    He was looking at Solomon. Wilson was too. Solomon had to say something. But what? He was trying to think, but he had nothing.

    Then he heard Wilson. ¡°Look, he clearly doesn¡¯t know ¨C¡±

    The counselor was on Wilson at once. His powerful backhand connected with Wilson¡¯s cheek with a resounding crack, violently knocking his gaunt face to the side. Out of the corner of Solomon¡¯s eye he could see a red mark forming on Wilson¡¯s skin. His eyes were still open and he was staring at the ground in front of him. The counselor ignored him, and turned back to Solomon. ¡°What¡¯s something you disagree with?¡±

    If only Solomon¡¯s mind would stay clear for ten minutes so he could have paid attention to the lecture. Now he was going to end up pissing the counselor off, and after that little demonstration, he really didn¡¯t want to do that. ¡°I think¡­¡± he started. ¡°I thought¡­¡± But the only thing he could think of was the counselor finding something suspicious in his file and starting an investigation into his real background.

    Then he heard Wilson speak up again. ¡°He needs more time to ¨C¡±

    Before Wilson could finish his sentence, the counselor lashed out once more, this time using the butt of his rifle. The impact landed squarely on Wilson¡¯s torso, causing him to double over, gasping for air. The force of the blow reverberated through the confession circle. Then the counselor was lifting his rifle and Solomon could hear the sickening thuds as it connected again, and again, and again. He sensed Wilson¡¯s body trembling, could see his face contorting in agony, but he refused to cry out. Not once did he look in Solomon¡¯s direction.

    Finally the counselor was done beating Wilson. He didn¡¯t skip a beat in turning back to Solomon. ¡°What¡¯s something you disagree with?¡±

    Solomon was going to answer this time, with anything, if only to stop Wilson from trying to rescue him again and getting shot for his efforts. ¡°I¡­ I think we could be given more food.¡±

    The counselor was staring at him. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°I think¡­ I think we could focus better on the lectures if we were given more food.¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    It was the wrong thing to say. He figured that out when the counselor brought his rifle to his shoulder, its muzzle end aimed at his face. Solomon held very still. ¡°You think your comfort matters more than the lives of those more marginalized than you, is that it?¡±

    For some reason, the rifle in his face helped unmuddy his mind a little. When he tried to think about what the counselor was saying, he was able to. Maybe the counselor was right. Solomon had taken the spot of the little girl in the truck, and she had been more marginalized than he, and he was glad that he was enjoying as a result the relative comforts of the re-education camp. ¡°Yes,¡± he found himself saying. ¡°Yes, I think that¡¯s right.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s my confession,¡± Solomon added hurriedly. ¡°I care more about my comfort than the lives of those more marginalized than me.¡±

    The counselor was silent for a moment. Then he raised his rifle. ¡°It¡¯ll be noted in your file that you admit to prioritizing the comfort of the privileged over the safety of the marginalized.¡± He glanced at Wilson who had pulled himself into a slightly hunched position. Thankfully, it was no more than a glance before he moved on from their circle to another one.

    Later that night, in the dog park, Solomon turned to Wilson. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯ve been messing up.¡±

    The left side of Wilson¡¯s face was marked by an angry red welt. A series of bruises mapped a path along his collarbone, his arms, every visible part of his skin. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he said. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t put you through a private criticism session every night too, it¡¯s bad enough to go through it once.¡± Then, to Solomon¡¯s surprise, he started laughing. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you said you needed more food. Your file is going to get so marked up. If you were a civilian you¡¯d be screwed.¡±

    Solomon couldn¡¯t believe Wilson was actually laughing after getting the hell beaten out of him. He really could find humor in almost any situation. Seeing it gave Solomon a glimpse of how Wilson had to have survived the camps before ¨C because he had definitely been to the camps before. He knew way too much about how to navigate the environment here to not have already experienced it.

    ¡°How long were you here last time?¡± Solomon asked.

    Wilson looked out at a pile of old orange¨Cred leaves blown by the wind into the base of the fence that surrounded the dog park. His gaze shifted to the barbed wire fence set a few feet into the water that surrounded the island that the re-education camp was placed on. ¡°I¡¯ve never been here before, not this exact re-education camp. I think it¡¯d be harder for me if I were right back to my old one.¡±

    ¡°What happened?¡± Solomon asked. ¡°How did you end up in the camps?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, man, I made a joke but nobody took it as one, and I was told I should self-report for re-education for a few days because I¡¯d committed a racist microaggression. So I self-reported, and ended up at a re-education camp like this one, but I didn¡¯t realize that everyone has to confess, that that¡¯s the point, so I refused to, because I didn¡¯t think I¡¯d done anything wrong enough to deserve this, and I kept refusing at every turn, kept saying I¡¯d done nothing wrong, but that just convinced all the counselors that I was determined to hold on to my notions of White supremacy. All my refusal earned me a four-year sentence, so after I¡¯d spent about a year at the re-education camp, I went to hard labor.¡±

    ¡°How old were you when you self-reported?¡±

    Above his sunken cheeks, Wilson¡¯s eyes were bright. ¡°I was sixteen. But that wasn¡¯t the worst part. The worst part was that my parents disowned me to save their own skins. ¡®I don¡¯t know how he ended up so racist, we did everything right.¡¯ I didn¡¯t get a single package, a single visit. I survived on my own without them. So when I got out, after a few years, I found that manifesto I sent to you and published it under my father¡¯s name. My dad was so dumb he never changed his password. So he got executed. Then, after my mother self-reported, I robbed their home and used whatever they had to help me run to the red zone.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s who you killed to get out?¡± Solomon asked, remembering what Wilson had said the first time they¡¯d met.

    ¡°Yep,¡± Wilson said. ¡°And my mother¡¯s probably dead, too. I¡¯m sure she eventually got sent to a hard labor camp. There they give higher rations to women than to men, just like here, but the work quotas are exactly the same.¡±

 Chapter 31: â€œIâ€™ve gotten more shit from Black people for being Asian than I have from anyone else.â€

    Chapter 31

    According to Wilson they usually shifted people on to the hard labor camps by the end of a prisoner¡¯s year in a transit prison. That meant they needed to escape by next summer. ¡°If your barcode number is ever called during a lecture or even when we¡¯re doing confessions, do not respond, let them think you failed to attend that day because you were too sick or died in your sleep or something. It¡¯s better to get in trouble later for not responding to a call to get moved to another camp than it is to go up when your number is called.¡±

    It still wasn¡¯t easy for Solomon to think clearly about escape, or anything else. Sometimes he was able to push through and the world was there again, more often he couldn¡¯t. He did notice there was someone new in their circle, an Asian guy about his age. This was a re-education camp so it was pretty transitory. Someone was always coming and going. Maybe Solomon had noticed him because the guy¡¯s posture was upright, his shoulders squared. When the stack-keeper looked at his tablet to see who was next to speak, the guy spoke up. ¡°I have a question.¡±

    ¡°You can go next,¡± the stack-keeper said. ¡°There¡¯s a trans woman of color ahead of you.¡±

    Solomon watched the Asian guy¡¯s eyes flash. His lip curled. His contempt was striking. It was obvious he didn¡¯t think much of the whole thing. He didn¡¯t just accept it, as Solomon had been doing.

    And when it became his turn to ask his question, Solomon¡¯s observation became obvious to everyone else, too. ¡°Why should I prioritize fighting anti-Blackness instead of focusing on my own struggle against anti-Asian racism?¡± the guy asked. ¡°I¡¯ve gotten more shit from Black people for being Asian than I have from anyone else.¡±

    The stack-keeper put down the tablet in his hand, and looked around to make sure a counselor wasn¡¯t within earshot. ¡°Come on, man,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m just trying to get home to my family like you. If I put a question like that down they¡¯re going to mark it on my file. So if you¡¯ve got a problem with me, hit me or something, but don¡¯t try to make me put that question down, because I¡¯m not going to.¡±

    It was so unexpected of a response, Solomon almost laughed. Normally the stack-keeper was as closed-mouthed as they came. ¡°Someone else say something,¡± he said. ¡°We¡¯ve cleared all the people of color, and there are no White women who wanted to be added to go after them. You,¡± he pointed at Wilson. ¡°You¡¯ve always got something.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t listen to what Wilson was saying. Instead, he pushed his dirty hair out of his face and looked across the circle at the new guy. Their gazes met. Solomon felt closest to his old self for the first time in a while. It might have been literally the first time since his arrival at the camp that he¡¯d seen open resistance during a confession circle. It made him want to go talk to the guy afterward.

    On top of that, it was something Solomon had wondered about too. White people weren¡¯t subject to enforced solidarity along racial lines, so why did they subject people of color to it? From what he could remember, the rule was that Black and Indigenous and Asian and whatever other people were supposed to have solidarity with other Black and Indigenous and Asian people, or be branded race traitors.

    Which Solomon didn¡¯t want to be. Anything but a race traitor. The bot search agent lecturing made it sound as if a conservative person of color was the worst thing in the world to be. At the same time, he couldn¡¯t figure out where the rule of enforced solidarity was coming from, and why White people weren¡¯t also considered race traitors when they didn¡¯t have solidarity with other White people.

    It didn¡¯t end up mattering because Wilson wouldn¡¯t let him talk to the guy. When Solomon got up after the confessions were over and started to cross to the other side of the circle, Wilson grabbed his arm and jerked him back, practically dragging him home to the abandoned dog park. Solomon tried to pull away after they arrived but he didn¡¯t let go even then. ¡°Do not go near that guy,¡± Wilson said, his grip on Solomon¡¯s arm tightening. ¡°He¡¯s either an informant or if he isn¡¯t, with that attitude, he¡¯s going to get sent to a punishment cell in three seconds. Do not go near him.¡±

    The next time they got together on the baseball field, the guy wasn¡¯t there.

    Shortly after that, Solomon started to bite his hands in his sleep. It might have been because of an infection, although he¡¯d been constantly itchy since coming to this camp so maybe it was something else. He didn¡¯t know, they were all so filthy there that he didn¡¯t even notice the lice crawling all over his emaciated body at all times.

    Maybe it was Solomon¡¯s dreams, dreams he kept having where he was trying to escape out a small narrow corridor, only his hands were in the way, his hands were blocking him, they were trapping him in and in the dreams he was digging dirt around his hands with his mouth but when he woke up he¡¯d just been biting his hands ¨C

    Wilson kept telling him he had to stop. Solomon wanted to, but he was asleep when it happened, so it wasn¡¯t as if he was doing it consciously.

    It had gotten cold enough at night that they¡¯d moved into the basement of a building that looked as if a wrecking ball had demolished only one side of it. Wilson told him he thought that the blue zones hadn¡¯t been purging as much recently, or even this building, which looked as if it might fall down on top of them with a strong breeze, would be overrun by other prisoners, and consequently taken over by the gangs. As it was, it was empty. Even then Wilson was still cautious, and they only sneaked into it at dusk to sleep, and left it at the first crack of dawn.

    The only insulated place in the whole building was the stairwell beside a jammed fire door, and even there the temperature dropped to freezing at night. They slept close together for warmth, especially since Wison had only managed to find a single blanket for them both to use.

    ¡°It¡¯s not gay if you¡¯re otherwise going to freeze to death,¡± Wilson said, although Solomon wasn¡¯t sure why he¡¯d brought that up. Maybe blue zone men were more insecure about being gay or something. As far as Solomon was concerned, it was being gay that made something gay, and since neither of them were, whatever. All Solomon cared about was how miserably cold he was. If a tactical cuddle was the only way to get warm enough to be able to sleep at all, he was all for it.

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    In addition to being unheated, the stairwell was also pitch-black. That meant it wasn¡¯t until they stepped outside that Wilson could examine his hands. Angry red marks covered his skin. Wilson wasn¡¯t happy. ¡°I told you to stop. If you can¡¯t, I¡¯m going to tie your hands down.¡±

    What? That¡¯s ridiculous. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you liked it like that,¡± Solomon snapped at him as sarcastically as he could.

    Wilson¡¯s reply was flat. ¡°I¡¯m not kidding, it¡¯s going to get you noticed by the counselors.¡±

    Solomon was too tired and hungry to respond further. Besides, he didn¡¯t actually think Wilson meant it until they came back to the building and were about to go in. The sun had set so there was barely enough light to see by, but Solomon definitely saw it when Wilson pulled out a length of rope he kept on him at all times that he used when he made rat traps. Solomon pulled away from him. ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not asking,¡± Wilson retorted.

    They were both getting worn down. Solomon could tell Wilson¡¯s patience was wearing thin with him, with his inability to consistently stay out of the fog. But if there was anything that Wilson had impressed upon him for however long they¡¯d been in this hell, it was that danger was everywhere, that he had to be ready for the blow to strike from any direction, and that nobody would help him when it came.

    Solomon¡¯s hands were the only thing he had to protect himself if they were attacked. He would not let Wilson tie them down. At Wilson¡¯s command, he had guarded for twelve hours straight a half-built water fountain, he¡¯d flung himself out of a plane at 20,000 feet, he¡¯d tackled a blue zone guard giving up his own chance to return to the red zone, he¡¯d drank more than his fill of the only water given to them in the truck, he¡¯d sent a girl to a hard labor camp in his place. But this, he would not let him do. He would not let Wilson tie his hands down.

    Wilson made as if he were going to wrap the rope around his wrists but Solomon pulled away from him again. ¡°What are you going to do if someone attacks us at night again?¡± he spat. ¡°We¡¯re sleeping and someone jumps us, and what, I¡¯m supposed to just watch because you tied me to the stairwell?¡±

    Wilson wasn¡¯t fazed for even a second. ¡°What are you going to do if a counselor sees your hands and says, hey, they look injured, oh, have you been digging, you¡¯ve been digging, haven¡¯t you, trying to escape, confess it, confess it, confess it, confess it, oh, you won¡¯t confess it, into a punishment cell with you, oh now that it¡¯s been a month you¡¯re willing to confess it, aren¡¯t you, good, into a punishment cell with you for trying to escape! What are you going to do then?¡±

    Solomon closed his eyes. The fear was back, the overwhelming panic that he was constantly having to push off to be able to breathe at all. He could feel himself cracking. He was going to end up doing as Wilson wanted, he was going to end up having to have his hands tied down, and he didn¡¯t want to, he didn¡¯t want to, he didn¡¯t want to, I don¡¯t want to ¨C

    He opened his eyes and looked down to the side. He held out his hands. ¡°I¡¯m not going to be able to sleep,¡± he muttered.

    He expected Wilson to ignore him and to immediately start tying his wrists together but at that, Wilson hesitated. They stood there for a moment in the cold air, Solomon¡¯s hands out, Wilson¡¯s rope still knotted in his fingers. Then Wilson put it away. ¡°Let¡¯s go in,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll think of some other way.¡±

    Wilson¡¯s other way turned out to be Solomon sleeping on his back while Wilson lay on his side with his arm draped over both of Solomon¡¯s. It wasn¡¯t as warm as spooning so Solomon was still lying awake on the concrete floor when Wilson fell asleep. He couldn¡¯t see a single thing in the stairwell. It was pitch black, dark as night, dark as death, a death that loomed everywhere around him, a death that was waiting, waiting, its maw open wide, its eyes gleaming, watching him, and Solomon couldn¡¯t run, couldn¡¯t hide, couldn¡¯t get away ¨C

    If only he had a light, a light, a single flame to ward it off ¨C

    A light.

    It had been a long time since Solomon had thought about God. But lying there in the utter blackness with Wilson¡¯s arms around him, thinking about light, some verses started coming to him. He remembered Umma¡¯s face as she would read Adah and him one of her favorites. The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned. But there were more. He didn¡¯t know how he was remembering them. While he¡¯d read different parts of the Bible plenty of times, he¡¯d only ever memorized a few verses, yet they kept coming to him, as if someone was reading them aloud to him.

    Do not gloat over me, my enemy! Though I have fallen, I will rise. Though I sit in darkness, the LORD will be my light.

    You, LORD, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.

    The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

    The LORD is my light and my salvation ¡ª whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life ¡ª of whom shall I be afraid?

    Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me¡­

    Solomon repeated the last one, because if there was anything this prison was, it was a valley of pain and sorrow and death. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me¡­

    The part of him that had started freezing up ever since he¡¯d tripped over the dead body in the back of that truck was coming dislodged. He could feel it melting, and then a dam of his emotions burst out into ragged gasps that he tried to keep as quiet as possible so as not to wake Wilson up. As Solomon looked at death in the face, at death all around him, at death inescapable, he found what he felt most of all was pity. Pity for the poor pathetic blue zoners he was imprisoned with. Pity for every pathetic soul in the union they used to have.

    Pathetic wasn¡¯t the right word, though. There was a Korean word, bulsanghe, which meant the same thing but without any connotations of contempt; in fact the opposite. It was a word full of compassion. Umma had used it often when Solomon was a kid after he¡¯d bumped into something and gotten hurt, poor, poor Solo, bulsanghe, bulsanghe. And he was reminded of another verse Umma had often shared with them, this time from the end of the Bible. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away¡­

    Solomon closed his eyes briefly, a slow breath leaving his lungs. No matter what horrors still lay in store for him, sooner or later, they would end. Death would come. Then death itself would end. And through it all, God would be with him.

    I¡¯m not leaving you, he heard, and it was a whisper like fire in his heart.

 Chapter 32: â€œTheyâ€™ll pin a â€œdue for re-educationâ€ bubble above your AR head..."

    Chapter 32

    After that, Solomon stopped biting his hands at night. He didn¡¯t know if he was completely back to himself, but he was better. He could tell Wilson was extremely relieved. He would say so, over and over. ¡°You were losing it. For a while there, I thought you might lose it completely.¡±

    ¡°I think I might have, yeah,¡± Solomon replied. It still wasn¡¯t great. No more fog meant he was now cognizant of all the threats they skirted on a daily basis. Even walking twice a day down the island to the morning lectures and evening confessions, which in the winter were finally also being held in the old gym several hundred feet south of the baseball field, was dangerous. Lining up to get rations in what used to be an elementary school building put them in contact with thieves. He couldn¡¯t believe Wilson had carried him through all of it, for the past seven months, on his own.

    It wasn¡¯t just Solomon¡¯s awareness that was returning. His curiosity was too. He wanted to learn from Wilson how he scavenged the camp, so he could pull his own weight instead of just sitting around waiting for him in the cold and the dark. And his sense of humor was coming back as well; it was even stronger than before. Maybe it was his new way of coping. At any rate, he spent a week straight ribbing Wilson, jokingly accusing him of thinking he was a White savior. ¡°That¡¯s the reason you put up with me going crazy for the last seven months! Confess that at the circle tonight!¡±

    But Wilson was too blue-zone ingrained to be able to joke about race. He only ever responded with, ¡°No, I did it because you¡¯re under my command, so I¡¯m responsible for your well-being. I would¡¯ve done the exact same thing if your ass was White.¡± Solomon told him he was no fun, although that wasn¡¯t really true. Wilson had quite a sense of humor, too, and it was coming up more these days, maybe now that Solomon was alert enough to actually respond to it.

    Or maybe he was noticing it more because there wasn¡¯t much to do in the wintertime other than starve and talk to each other. Lately it had been so cold that even in the daytime, unless they had to be out for a mandatory discussion or to eat, they¡¯d stay huddled together in the stairwell under the blanket, relying on each other¡¯s body heat to keep them from hypothermia. That was when they talked, and when Wilson answered his questions about the blue zone.

    One of the first things Solomon wanted to know about was self-reporting. Wilson explained that almost nobody got arrested in the blue zones for hate speech, that instead you got social pressure to self-report. ¡°They¡¯ll pin a ¡°due for re-education¡± bubble above your AR head, so everyone can see, and then they let everyone start to harass you to go self-report. You wake up in the morning, put your visor on, and you get flooded with all these people filling up your feed all night long yelling at you about it.¡±

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you just not wear your visor?¡± he asked into the darkness. They were leaning against the wall of the stairway next to each other, the blanket over their laps. The covering was too small to cover both of them entirely while they were sitting up. ¡°Are you required to, in the blue zone?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what the rules are in every blue zone, but in mine you didn¡¯t have to, but you also really couldn¡¯t live a normal life without one. Like you couldn¡¯t go to school. My school used AR visors for everything, interacting with historical figures, seeing detailed models of 3D organs¡­ and money, yeah, you use visors to pay for everything, so even if you skipped school, if you wanted to buy anything, you¡¯d have to put on your visor. And if the cashier or vendor or whoever saw that you had a re-education tag on you, they could refuse to sell to you. So eventually everyone caves and self-reports.¡±

    ¡°And they always say re-education is just for a few days?¡± Solomon asked. ¡°What about the people who come back from the camps, don¡¯t they let people know that that¡¯s not true?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t dare,¡± Wilson replied. He shifted under the blanket. ¡°All that would get me is pressure to self-report again for failing to have internalized any of my re-education. You can¡¯t say anything negative about your experience in the camps. So nobody talks about it. If you know better, you act like you don¡¯t. Because even if you share with only one other person, what if that person is an informant?¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s the deal with informants? Don¡¯t the blue zones have the technology to constantly surveil their citizens if they¡¯re so worried about people saying something racist? Why are they relying on people spying on each other?¡±

    ¡°Because the point is not to regulate us, it¡¯s to make us into true believers. Their ideal society is everyone holding everyone else accountable because we all just care that much. So people don¡¯t tell each other what they really think. They keep it to themselves.¡±

    Solomon tried to imagine that for a moment. If he were in this re-education camp by himself, unable to talk openly with anyone the way he did with Wilson, because he was afraid that whatever he said would end up getting reported on¡­ he would feel so alone. In fact, he knew exactly how alone he¡¯d feel, because that was how he¡¯d felt growing up in the red zone.

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    Especially after Umma and Dad had disappeared. Before, he¡¯d been able to talk to them at least about things the red zone normally considered seditious. But when it had been just Adah and him, it had been hard. Adah had been too young to dump all his thoughts on, and he hadn¡¯t wanted to burden her, anyway. The point had been to minimize how much her life was going to suck, not lean on her to make his life better.

    ¡°Makes it hard to be real with anyone,¡± Solomon replied.

    ¡°Yeah, actually, it¡¯s even worse than what I just said. They don¡¯t even let themselves think too hard about what it is they really believe. They don¡¯t just keep it to themselves, they keep it from themselves, too.¡±

    It helped to hear that from Wilson. Because even though Solomon hadn¡¯t hallucinated again since coming back, he still struggled sometimes not to take the lectures to heart. Like, did it mean there was something wrong with him that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn¡¯t take seriously the notion that you could misgender someone? That he couldn¡¯t figure out how it was his responsibility to make sure someone else¡¯s feelings about themselves were validated? Should I be ashamed that I think this way? he would wonder.

    If he¡¯d been alone, he might have ended up concluding yes, just because it was hard not to let what he was hearing daily get to him. And without Wilson around, he would¡¯ve kept his doubts to himself. Maybe he would have suppressed them entirely. Because Wilson was there, Solomon was instead able to confide in him.

    Although it was interesting; while Wilson never refused to answer any of his questions, Solomon had noticed that for all his hatred of the blue zone he didn¡¯t really have much to say when it came to his own opinions on the orthodoxy they were being taught. Wilson knew all the right answers, but Solomon wasn¡¯t sure Wilson cared a whole lot about engaging with the material. He was beginning to think that to Wilson, the rules appeared more like obstacles to navigate, something to be well-versed in to exploit any loopholes, akin to a force of nature that he needed to work around, rather than something he took personally. It was less about ¡°true or not¡± and more about whether it would harm him or not.

    A few nights later, they were lying down back-to-back on a piece of cardboard Wilson had found, with the blanket tucked in all around them in an effort to keep as much of their body heat trapped inside it as possible. Thinking about a lecture from earlier that day, Solomon asked him what centering Whiteness was.

    Wilson explained by analogy. ¡°Let¡¯s say you¡¯re arguing with a girl you¡¯re seeing, and she accuses you of being an asshole, and so you¡¯re defending yourself, trying to point out all the ways you¡¯re not an asshole, but does that work? No, she just gets angrier. Because you¡¯re making it about yourself when you defend yourself. You¡¯re supposed to make it about her and her feelings.¡±

    ¡°Maybe if she wants it to be about her feelings, and not about you, then she should make it about her feelings,¡± Solomon replied.

    ¡°Yeah, maybe, I don¡¯t know, the point is, when White people are told they¡¯re being racist, and they try to argue about all the ways they¡¯re not racist, they¡¯re centering themselves instead of focusing on the Other and what the Other is experiencing. I mean, there are other ways to center Whiteness, but that¡¯s one of them.¡±

    Interesting. It sounded kind of like what Dad had taught Solomon about marriage, about how in Ephesians 5 a husband was commanded to love his wife as he loved his own body, and how no one ever hated his own body but fed it and cared for it, just as Christ does the church. It was that high of a level of identification with someone else¡¯s needs, someone else¡¯s pain. But in the Bible that only applied to the relationship between one husband and one wife, it wasn¡¯t men to women at large and it certainly wasn¡¯t one racial group to another.

    It was only then that Solomon was able to finally articulate to himself what he¡¯d been puzzling over. The woke did have valuable things to say about some aspects of reality, but that didn¡¯t mean they had any authority over him. Not like God did. The rules the woke made up weren¡¯t the Bible. Solomon didn¡¯t have to feel worthless because of his relative position in their hierarchies, because it wasn¡¯t their hierarchies that gave him worth, it was God who gave him worth, by finding him worth dying for. And Solomon didn¡¯t have to feel that he was a bigot for disagreeing with them, because it wasn¡¯t their rules that mattered, but God¡¯s law. He could decide who was in charge of his mind, and he didn¡¯t have to pick the woke. They were trying to make it seem as if their way was the only way, the only choice, but they were wrong. It was just their way. It was just their choice. It didn¡¯t have to be his. And it wasn¡¯t his.

    Solomon repeated the words to himself like a mantra, wearing them like a protective garb. Their rules for how cishet people should act are for their cishet people. Their rules for how Black people and Asian people should act are for their Black and Asian people. Their rules for how men should act are for their men. The woke have a lot of rules, and have a lot of people they¡¯re in charge of, but they¡¯re not in charge of me. God is.

    These rules that they make up say something about them, and who they are, how good they are. They say nothing about me, and who I am, how good I am. They don¡¯t have that kind of power.

 Chapter 33: "I finally just told them I was Jewish.â€

    Chapter 33

    Solomon didn¡¯t know how many weeks it had been, but one time, he actually paid attention to one of Wilson¡¯s confessions as he talked about how White silence was violence. ¡°White people need to stop denying the reality of systemic oppression while simultaneously benefiting from it. To be silent is to allow the status quo to continue,¡± he heard Wilson recite. ¡°To choose White comfort and privilege over racial equality. In fact, I would say White silence is foundational to the persistence of racism.¡±

    Afterward, when they were alone in the stairwell, he turned to Wilson, and said, ¡°Wow, White people are so powerful that even when they don¡¯t say anything it sends shockwaves through the universe. Wish I had that superpower.¡±

    Wilson snorted. ¡°Don¡¯t let me catch you saying that kind of thing outside.¡±

    The warning made sense. At the same time, it didn¡¯t help ease Solomon¡¯s frustration. It was emasculating to hear that no progress could be made on racial issues without White people somehow being involved. It felt as if Solomon were being put in a position of racial dependence when he didn¡¯t think he needed it. Not that he wasn¡¯t extremely dependent on Wilson right now ¨C he was. But that was because of Wilson¡¯s extensive knowledge of life in the camps. It had nothing to do with anyone¡¯s racial background.

    They climbed up the stairs, settled down onto the cardboard, back-to-back again, and pulled the blanket over them. It was difficult to get right so it covered both of them as much as possible. They kept having to adjust it. Once they finally got it down, Solomon asked something he¡¯d been wondering about for a while. ¡°Why didn¡¯t the militia include any of this language stuff in our training for the undercover mission? I feel like I came in here blind.¡±

    He heard Wilson sigh softly. ¡°They should¡¯ve included it. I should¡¯ve included it.¡±

    After that, their conversations started to get personal. Wilson shared about how at sixteen he had been planning on joining an antifa, and that he would have if he hadn¡¯t ended up in the camps first. He asked Solomon if he¡¯d ever worried about offending White people by talking to them about them as a discrete racial group and Solomon was somewhat surprised Wilson knew enough to even ask that question. ¡°I learned about that in fourth grade,¡± Wilson replied. ¡°That¡¯s the kind of thing they teach you in blue zone school.¡±

    He also asked why Solomon had accused him of racism. ¡°When?¡± Solomon demanded.

    ¡°When you came in to get the orders for the mission into the blue zone. You asked me why nobody White was being assigned to go in.¡±

    ¡°How is that an accusation of racism?¡±

    Behind his back, Wilson was silent for a moment. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ in the blue zone, whenever any racial disparity occurs, it¡¯s always attributed to racism. So I thought¡­ I thought you were saying I was treating soldiers of color like they were expendable.¡±

    ¡°Did you pick the team?¡± Solomon asked. He¡¯d be able to see his breath if there was any light in here at all, it was that damn cold. ¡°I thought someone else was picking it for you. I was trying to warn you that maybe this wasn¡¯t an ordinary mission but someone with a personal agenda sending us in. I thought an ordinary mission would be mixed race. I didn¡¯t realize racial status in the blue zone was so inverted. Why didn¡¯t you just explain that to me instead of threatening to accuse me of sedition?¡±

    ¡°More training I should have included, I guess.¡± Regret filled his voice. ¡°It was an ordinary mission, just one that I messed up. Really messed up.¡±

    From there they started talking about boot camp. Lately Solomon had been wishing he was back there. All they¡¯d made them do was exercise and eat, and they¡¯d given them beds to sleep in, and if they were cold, it was only for portions of the day, instead of all the time. He¡¯d been reminiscing, and Wilson had too, telling stories about his time in basic training. It was funny to think of Wilson as a recruit just like Solomon less than a year before he¡¯d showed up. ¡°How did you end up a drill instructor so quickly?¡± he asked. ¡°You went straight from basic to drilling?¡±

    ¡°No, I did one stint of sentry duty, and then they asked me if I wanted to be a drill instructor, and I said sure, why not, so they trained me for it, and then I started. Your platoon was my first batch and I didn¡¯t even start on time because of some miscommunication from higher up. The Westsylvania militia is seriously disorganized. They¡¯re always about to run out of money. Anyway, I think they asked me because I was already twenty-two when I did basic so I was a little older than the typical teenage recruit. And they were short-staffed. Nobody wants to be a drill instructor. Nobody ever volunteers.¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s too much work. You have to be awake preparing before the recruits get up, then on top of them all day, and then you have to check up on everything after they go to sleep. And like I said, we were short-staffed, so we almost never got a break. That¡¯s why I was around all the time. If you¡¯re married, or you have a kid, or want a life at all, you can kiss all of that goodbye for as long as you¡¯re drilling. I didn¡¯t have any of that, though, so it didn¡¯t matter. I¡¯m just glad I recovered quickly from my four years in the camps. Otherwise I don¡¯t think I would¡¯ve had the stamina to do the job.¡±

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    ¡°I really hated you during boot camp,¡± Solomon told him.

    Wilson laughed outright, shifting a little under the blanket. ¡°Good. That means I did my job right. Besides, I was so soft on you.¡±

    Solomon was filled with disbelief. ¡°Like when?¡±

    ¡°So many times. Like when you made fists in front of everyone after I read your letter from your sister, what was that all about?¡±

    ¡°You asked me if my sister was hot!¡±

    ¡°So?¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s my little sister! She was fourteen! What should I have said?¡±

    ¡°You should¡¯ve said yes, sir. That would have been hilarious! Then I would¡¯ve smoked you and yelled about how you were so terrible that your sister would no longer be impressed with you after I went home to her that night, and then I would¡¯ve let you go sit back down with her letter. I would¡¯ve kept the candy, of course. But you had to make fists, seriously, Solo, in front of the platoon? Undercutting my authority in front of everyone? I should¡¯ve made you eat that candy twice as fast, made you drink twice as many canteens, smoked you until you puked right in front of me, and then told you to write your name in it with your finger.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t know why he was laughing. He certainly wouldn¡¯t have found it funny if that was what Wilson had actually done. ¡°You¡¯re sadistic, you know that?¡±

    He could feel Wilson shaking his head behind his. ¡°You have no idea. I was your fairy godmother, your guardian angel, whatever you Christians believe. After your battle buddy ran, the other drills wanted to bring you in for questioning, and it wasn¡¯t going to be the polite kind. They wanted to blame you, said you should know something if you¡¯d been keeping an eye on him like you should¡¯ve been. I told them no, that I¡¯d talked to you and that you knew nothing about Rithvik¡¯s plans.

    ¡°And as soon as I found out Rithvik had run, I went looking for you to send you somewhere else. I probably would¡¯ve had you do something stupid all day, like paint rocks in some corner of the base where nobody would think to look for you, but you made it easier for me by being sick, so I sent you to sick bay instead and submitted the code to the nurse to keep you there. You weren¡¯t that sick that you needed to be there all day. You didn¡¯t even need to stay there at all. You could¡¯ve taken some ibuprofen and come back.¡±

    Solomon couldn¡¯t deny that it was interesting hearing things from Wilson¡¯s perspective. Apparently Wilson wanted to know how it was from Solomon¡¯s point of view, too, because he asked, ¡°So did you know about Rithvik¡¯s plans?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­¡± Solomon said.

    Wilson started laughing. ¡°Son of a bitch! You did know! I stuck my neck out for you so far they almost took my head off, and you knew the whole time!¡± His delight was infectious, but Solomon didn¡¯t like thinking about Rithvik, so he was glad when Wilson changed the subject. ¡°Look, I will admit, about your sister, I might have been a little jealous.¡±

    ¡°Jealous of what?¡±

    ¡°That you had a sister who wrote to you every damn day. I got no mail while going through basic training. I never got called up.¡±

    After hearing about his parents Solomon wasn¡¯t surprised, but he did feel bad for him. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± Wilson said. ¡°My life is fine. I mean, right now it¡¯s not, but the militia was good. Only annoying thing about it were the All-Whites, it¡¯s like they¡¯ve got nothing to do, spend all their time harassing you to join them if you¡¯re White. I finally just told them I was Jewish.¡±

    ¡°Are you?¡±

    ¡°Nope. But it worked. They started hating me for that, of course, but I didn¡¯t care as long as it ended the non-stop recruitment campaign.¡±

    Solomon was laughing again. Wilson had a way of expressing himself that was funny even when he couldn¡¯t see his face. For a moment he was even able to forget how cold he was as Wilson kept going. ¡°It was the All-White drills, actually, who really wanted to bring you in for questioning. One of them kept getting in my face about it. So don¡¯t tell me I never did anything for you, Solo!¡±

    ¡°I did something for you during boot camp,¡± Solomon said, adjusting the blanket again. ¡°I never told anyone about how we met before.¡±

    Wilson didn¡¯t speak for a moment. When he did, his voice changed. It was softer, more serious. ¡°I did notice that. There were zero rumors going around, and I know if you¡¯d told even one person, it would¡¯ve flown around the base.¡± He paused. ¡°Thank you.¡±

    Solomon turned his head slightly to the side. ¡°I¡¯ve forgiven you, by the way, for ripping up my dead father¡¯s Bible.¡±

    ¡°Shit! He¡¯s dead?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Probably. He left it behind when he disappeared.¡±

    ¡°Who was that picture of? The one you used to get me to meet you?¡±

    ¡°My mother, and if you say anything, I will turn around and choke you, we are not in boot camp anymore.¡±

    Wilson laughed softly. Then he was silent for a moment. ¡°They were the ones you were looking for? When you first met me?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°And you never found them?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Solomon said. It hurt to say it. But it was true. And he didn¡¯t think he would ever see them again, in this life at least.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Wilson said, and he sounded as if he really meant it. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for ripping it up. I was trying to help you stay alive.¡±

    They were silent after that. Solomon started thinking about Umma, about Dad, about how angry he¡¯d been with them for not coming back. He didn¡¯t think he¡¯d ever say he was glad to get sent to a camp, but it had allowed him to forgive them. Seeing this place, being here, knowing the hard labor camps were even worse, it made sense why they hadn¡¯t been able to return. Without Wilson, he would have never made it as far as he had either.

 Chapter 34: "...they want us to complete our re-education through productive labor.â€

    Chapter 34

    ¡°If we can survive February, we¡¯ll be okay,¡± Wilson said.

    ¡°How far are we?¡±

    ¡°About a week into the month.¡±

    They¡¯d spent most of that week talking about which zone was better, red or blue. Wilson declared the red zone to be better in every way except for two things: the sex norms, and the red zone prison camps. ¡°You know what the problem is, it¡¯s you damn Christians are so serious about sex, you make it hard for everyone else. When I first started I remember there was another drill who was a Christian who you couldn¡¯t even talk about rubbing one out around without him sniffing about how we should really be keeping our minds on the mission. Jesus Christ, he was annoying. That is the only thing I miss about this place.¡±

    Solomon had to bite his tongue. It didn¡¯t help that tonight was one of the coldest he¡¯d experienced yet. Maybe it was because they¡¯d gotten caught out in a rainfall that had turned into snow as soon as they got back to their building; his clothes were still damp and he was sure, tactical cuddle or not, that he was going to catch a cold. Hopefully it wouldn¡¯t kill him. ¡°You miss everyone around you being a whore?¡± he asked wryly.

    Wilson laughed from behind his way-too-long hair. ¡°Yes, exactly!¡± Solomon rolled his eyes. He¡¯d heard enough hazing stories from other guys in the militia to think God might have had a good reason for being so strict about even just sexual contact, but he didn¡¯t say anything to Wilson, as the man had moved on to talk about how the red zone prison camps were worse as well.

    ¡°How do you know what red zone prison camps are like?¡± Solomon asked.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t they just about making as much money as possible off a prisoner before he dies? Squeeze as much work out of him as you can until it kills him?¡± Wilson asked him. ¡°That¡¯s what I learned in blue zone school.¡±

    ¡°No, that¡¯s what I¡¯ve heard too,¡± Solomon said. ¡°Is that worse than the blue zone hard labor camps?¡±

    ¡°Nah, in the blue zone they try to get as much work out of you as possible too. But it¡¯s not¡­ I don¡¯t know how to put it. It¡¯s not the point. The point is still re-education, they want us to complete our re-education through productive labor.¡±

    ¡°What does hard labor have to do with re-education?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s because you hate poor people, who all work hard with their hands, so you¡¯ll learn how to not hate them by being one of them.¡±

    Typical communist logic. Which Solomon had learned about growing up, the way Wilson seemed to have been taught about the red zone. Although blue zone schools did appear more explicit in teaching about the present-day red zone, while Solomon had been given more of a sense of history, about how in most blue zones the woke managed to wrest power to themselves over the center left by using purges to get rid of anyone to their right in the same way communists in other countries used to do.

    ¡°I also learned that red zone prison camps don¡¯t respect anyone¡¯s declared gender identities, and that the red zone also segregates prisoners by biological sex. That¡¯s another reason the blue zone camps are better,¡± he added. ¡°Because gender is a social construct, all blue zone camps are required to be unsegregated. So the gangs prey on the women first. It makes it easier for guys like us.¡±

    ¡°That sounds about right,¡± Solomon said. He leaned back closer against Wilson, trying to catch some more of his body heat. He really didn¡¯t want to get sick if he could at all help it. ¡°Nobody ever told me so, but honestly, before coming here, I wouldn¡¯t have even thought there was any other way to do it. I mean, you can¡¯t have a man claiming to be a woman and then being let loose in a women¡¯s prison. That doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡±

    ¡°Are there even women prison camps?¡± Wilson replied into the darkness behind his ear. ¡°I was taught that captured blue zone women soldiers, at least, get sentenced to brothels.¡±

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    Solomon winced. Just when he¡¯d thought he was finally getting used to how low America could sink in terms of how everyone treated each other. He hoped it wasn¡¯t true, that it was just blue zone propaganda. But he could believe it. He still stood by what he¡¯d told Wilson a lifetime ago that people were people and politics were politics, and the only difference that mattered between people was how they treated the person in front of them, and not what opinion they had in their heads. That meant he was sure the red zone and the blue zone both were made up of people, fallen people, evil people who wanted to use oppressive tactics to get their way instead of using persuasion to win others to their side.

    Like in the camp, where he was, so many of the tactics he was encountering horrified him. He felt so bad for the blue zone civilians who were browbeaten into making confessions about how much they deserved even death, only for the camp sentences they were eventually given to be justified using those same confessions. Even worse, if that was possible, everyone was required at various points to write down assessments of their family members and their political misdeeds, to inform on those very same people who were keeping them alive through their packages and visits.

    Solomon had his personal reasons for hating the family reporting requirement. All it took was one counselor reading through his made-up stories on all the made-up racist, sexist and phobic things his made-up family said, and getting suspicious¡­ he found himself increasingly eager to escape. He and Wilson talked about how they might, a lot. ¡°The trick is to find the camera map,¡± Wilson said. ¡°There have got to be blind spots. Then, if we see a guard change happen in one of those blind spots, we can take the new guard down as soon as he starts his shift, giving us the time we need to get out of here before the next guard shift happens. Otherwise they¡¯ll find out we escaped right away and catch us before we¡¯ve swum two feet.¡±

    Wilson also told him that the times he left Solomon in the building by himself, he wasn¡¯t just scavenging, he was also gathering intelligence. ¡°I want to go with you,¡± Solomon replied.

    ¡°That¡¯s not a good idea,¡± Wilson replied.

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    ¡°It just isn¡¯t.¡±

    Solomon frowned. Wilson was usually good about explaining everything and including Solomon in what he did. Then again, he had no energy these days so being allowed to conserve it didn¡¯t seem too horrible, although he didn¡¯t like how cold it got in the stairwell with just him and the blanket, even during the day.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± Wilson said. ¡°I¡¯ll have stuff I¡¯ll need you to do soon. Until then, rest as much as you can.¡±

    One particularly freezing cold evening, as they were walking back from confession circle in the swirling snow and the wind was howling in Solomon¡¯s face, and he was hating his life and thinking about how much he wished he¡¯d taken a parka out of that wardrobe in cabin D4, Wilson turned to him. ¡°Hey, happy belated birthday. It was in October, right? I thought I saw that in your file.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Solomon said. He¡¯d forgotten that his birthday had passed.

    ¡°How old are you now?¡±

    ¡°Twenty.¡±

    Wilson¡¯s face lit up. ¡°Oh, I turned twenty in the camps too! It was my last birthday there. And it¡¯s going to be your last birthday here too.¡± He looked around to make sure nobody was near, then lowered his voice. ¡°I found a hotel job.¡±

    Suddenly Solomon was able to forget for a moment that his hands were numb. ¡°The hotel ¨C you mean the building where the counselors live? Someone offered you a position there?¡±

    Wilson laughed at him. ¡°They don¡¯t give jobs in the hotel to White people. This is for you. I¡¯ll tell you more inside the stairwell.¡± When they were back in the darkness, he explained that he didn¡¯t have the position secured yet, that they needed a bribe to seal the deal. ¡°All these other prisoners, they get money from their families to bribe the counselors all the time. Do you have anything?¡± he asked Solomon as they climbed up the steps. ¡°Rings, coins, gold teeth?¡±

    He had to be kidding. He knew Solomon didn¡¯t have anything. Maybe he just wanted to make sure. ¡°My windbreaker,¡± Solomon said.

    ¡°No, they¡¯re going to want something better than that. You know what, don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ll figure it out.¡±

    ¡°How?¡± Solomon asked, feeling around in the dark for where they¡¯d left their blanket. ¡°You don¡¯t have anything either.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll figure it out. Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t take something from someone else.¡±

    Solomon hadn¡¯t thought he would, but now that he¡¯d said so, it did make him worry ¨C worry that Wilson was lying to him. Maybe that¡¯s why he¡¯s been refusing to take me out on his intelligence gathering. He doesn¡¯t want me dissociating again, and whatever he¡¯s doing requires something he thinks I can¡¯t handle. It¡¯s either that, or he¡¯s not lying, and I don¡¯t know which one is worse.

    What does Wilson have to give of his own? How could he possibly figure this out?

 Chapter 35: â€œAccess to knives?â€

    Chapter 35

    Somehow he did. A week later, Wilson told Solomon to go to the hotel and report for work in the kitchen at midnight that very night. ¡°You¡¯ll be cleaning it.¡±

    It was the first time Solomon had gone anywhere alone in the re-education camp but he knew where the hotel was: past the defunct tram station, under the bridge that passed over the entire width of the island from Manhattan to Queens. ¡°Do not talk to anyone on the way, do not tell anyone where you¡¯re going,¡± Wilson told him right before he left. ¡°And do not try to sneak food out when you leave. I don¡¯t want you to be seen as a regular mark. Don¡¯t bring out a crumb. Don¡¯t bring out anything but the camera map, and bring that out as fast as you can find it. If it¡¯s anywhere, it¡¯s in a computer somewhere inside that hotel.¡±

    Trying not to shiver from the night¡¯s chill, Solomon made his way down the island then waited by the back of the hotel at the service entrance. The counselor standing guard scanned his wristband then let him go in. ¡°Follow the corridor. It leads straight to the kitchen.¡± Solomon pulled open the service door and blinked at the warmth that hit him. The gym where they did their confessions and the school where they got their rations were heated, but not that much; this, this was like being back in the civilian world. And it only got warmer as he headed through the double doors into the kitchen.

    As soon as Solomon stepped in, every single one of his senses screamed. He saw decayed ends of piled vegetables, their edges curled, their normally bright hues faded. He smelled spilled sauces, burnt puddles on the cooktop. He touched discarded scraps of lettuce and onion skins clinging to countertop corners, while stray kernels of rice littered the floor underfoot. There was even a plate of chicken bones with meat still on them. He took an involuntary step toward it when a robotic kitchen aid wheeled toward him.

    Like the robotic nurse that had treated him back in boot camp, the kitchen aid had four wheels and a screen that came up to his shoulder. Its body mostly seemed to be made up of a pole with attached containers holding various different types of cleaning solutions and supplies. As it approached him, Solomon wondered why the hotel had requested a prisoner to come in and clean if it already had a kitchen aid. Then he realized it was damaged. Half its retractable arms were missing, while several others were bent, as if someone had tried to remove them but been stopped halfway through the process.

    The aid stopped in front of him. ¡°Present your barcode.¡±

    Solomon held up his wristband for it to be scanned. After the red light disappeared, the kitchen aid told him it would scan him now, then emitted a beeping sound. ¡°Unhygienic status detected,¡± the kitchen aid said. ¡°Disinfection required before commencing cleaning duties.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± Solomon replied, trying to keep his voice steady. Not that the robot was going to care whether his voice was steady or not, but he didn¡¯t want it to decide to kick him out before he had a chance to even look around. ¡°Where can I disinfect?¡±

    The kitchen aid directed him into a disinfection pod directly to his right. From its location it was probably used frequently. Maybe everyone who came into the kitchen had to get scanned by the aid and then disinfected if they were deemed unhygienic. Solomon opened the door and stepped into it fully clothed. Would it be able to handle how filthy he was? Thankfully the rashes on his body, while not better, hadn¡¯t gotten worse in the last month. He still had lice all over him though. As he stood inside the enclosed pod, its door sealing shut with a faint hiss, he was torn between fear that the pod would report him as too dirty to disinfect and hope that he might actually get clean for the first time in over eight months.

    A soft mist enveloped him, gradually intensifying as tiny droplets of disinfectant solution descended from above. The mist clung to his skin, to his hair. Then the pod¡¯s interior lights illuminated, bathing him in a gentle blue glow. Photocatalytic lamps lining the walls came to life.  Solomon could almost sense the lice squirming, the mites in his arms dying, the incessant itching that had been tormenting him receding as if all the parasites he¡¯d been carrying with him were finally being forced to relinquish their hold on his body.

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    There was a display on the door of the pod. A progress bar, showing him how far along he was in the disinfection process. Minutes passed, and the hum of the lamps gradually faded. The blue lights dimmed, and a soft chime resonated. The pod door opened with the same hiss that it had closed with. Solomon stepped out and looked at the kitchen aid. Would it scan him again? Would it say the disinfection pod hadn¡¯t worked?

    But it didn¡¯t. ¡°Your disinfection process is complete,¡± the kitchen aid told him. ¡°You may now proceed with your cleaning duties.¡±

    ¡°Can I use the supplies you¡¯re carrying?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Yes,¡± the aid said.

    ¡°I¡¯ll start by cleaning up the food waste,¡± Solomon said, wanting to get a sense for how tightly the robot was going to control his steps. He also wanted to get his hands on every scrap of nutrition that he could.

    ¡°Yes,¡± the aid said. ¡°You can wipe down the countertops after you¡¯re done.¡±

    The robot didn¡¯t have to tell him twice. Solomon asked for a cloth and spray bottle, and headed immediately to the plate of chicken. Keeping his back to the kitchen aid, he put an entire leg in his mouth. He chewed off every miniscule piece of meat and gristle with his teeth, and then he cracked the bone and scraped out the marrow. He did that with every bone on the plate, sucking on them until the bones themselves were glistening. He moved on to the lettuce and onion skins, putting them into his mouth. The rice kernels he¡¯d seen on the floor earlier, into his mouth. The white ends of several leeks, into his mouth. The burnt potatoes he found inside a pot, into his mouth. By the time Solomon was done going through the kitchen, there was no food waste to throw out other than the bones and even those he wished he could find a way to simmer to get them soft enough to chew down.

    Meanwhile, the robotic kitchen aid was navigating behind him. The two working retractable arms it had left made quick work of the side of the dishwasher. After getting enough to eat for the first time in months, Solomon was even more desperate not to get kicked out, so he focused on nooks and crannies that the aid might find difficult to access, wiping away residue and grime with his cloth. The kitchen aid gave him whatever materials he asked for, even fetching him a broom when Solomon said he was ready to clean the floor.

    It took about four hours to finish. Solomon had been tired to begin with, and even with the extra calories he was exhausted now. He still didn¡¯t want to leave the warmth to go back outside into the night but then he thought about Wilson who had probably spent the last four hours shivering in the stairwell while he stuffed his face. He wished he could bring him something. Since he couldn¡¯t, Solomon instead told the kitchen aid he was leaving, and then he lingered outside the double doors to see whether or not it would check up on him. It didn¡¯t, but the service entrance down the corridor opened. Solomon immediately walked toward it. The robot had to have sent an alert to the counselor on duty when he¡¯d finished.

    Solomon stepped outside into the freezing air. He was searched extremely thoroughly before being told to go. Hoping everybody else was asleep and that no one attacked him on his way back, he went straight to the stairwell where Wilson was waiting for him.

    Solomon could tell Wilson was cold by how he reached out for him at once. When Solomon lay down next to him, facing him under the blanket, Wilson grabbed him as if trying to steal as much heat off his body as he could. His fingers were icicles. ¡°Pull your hands in and put them against my side so they can warm up,¡± Solomon told him.

    ¡°Tell me what happened,¡± Wilson said.

    ¡°They had me go from the service door to the kitchen then straight back,¡± Solomon said. ¡°A robotic maid watches me inside the kitchen. Half its arms are broken so I think I¡¯m there temporarily until they can order replacement parts. It had me go through a disinfection pod before I started.¡±

    ¡°Access to knives?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I¡¯m searched thoroughly by the counselor before I¡¯m allowed to leave though.¡±

    ¡°You got to eat something?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Good. Sleep now. You¡¯ll be tired tomorrow. I¡¯ll get you up in time for breakfast.¡±

    Solomon was falling asleep even as Wilson spoke the words. Tomorrow he would test the robot again to see what he could get away with. He also wanted to study it more closely. Maybe if he could find a way to disable its messaging system, he could buy himself some time to go around the hotel¡­

 Chapter 36: "Try to look a little less alive.â€

    Chapter 36

    Solomon had never been happier about how slowly things shipped since the Great Splintering. He prayed daily that the truck the robot aid¡¯s retractable arms were in would get delayed. He prayed that the truck would be pulled aside to be randomly searched by a militia, any militia, in whatever zone it was going through. He prayed whoever had placed the order had gotten the part numbers wrong and that they¡¯d have to put in a new order for a new shipment.

    In the meantime, he was a human garbage disposal. He ate seeds, peels, everything. The kitchen robot commented through its speakers on how environmentally friendly he was and how with Solomon¡¯s help it was able to better meet its objective to avoid food waste. In just a week there was a difference in how he looked. Wilson could tell too. He told him dryly on their way down to confession, ¡°Try to look a little less alive.¡± Between the disinfection pod, getting to warm up for four hours a day, and having enough to eat, Solomon was able to think almost half as clearly and easily as he used to.

    One of the things he thought about was how impossible the mission that Wilson had given him was. Find the camera map in a computer somewhere in the hotel. Somehow he was supposed to manage that when he wasn¡¯t even allowed to set foot outside the kitchen during his four hours there. He didn¡¯t sweat it, though; everything Wilson had told him to do so far in his life had been impossible right up until the moment he pulled it off.

    He started by taking the mop out of the kitchen. It took him a few tries, as the robot noticed the first few times he turned to leave with it in his hand. Solomon always surrendered it immediately. He didn¡¯t know whether or not the robot was sophisticated enough to get suspicious, but he knew there was no point in arguing with it, it wasn¡¯t going to deviate from its programming because of anything he said to it. The one day he did manage to take the mop without it noticing Solomon decided to consider it a miracle, and wasted no time in starting to mop the corridor that connected the service door to the kitchen. He¡¯d done maybe a two-by-five-foot rectangle when the service door opened. He glanced up, as if confused. ¡°I was told to do the floor out here.¡±

    The counselor standing at the end of the corridor looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. He closed the door. Five minutes later, he opened the door again to check on him. Solomon was about halfway done. He decided the polished concrete floor was clean enough and that it was more important to hide the mop so he placed it into a utility closet set in the wall filled with shelves of face masks, first aid kits, safety signs, and other personal protective equipment: things like gloves and goggles, and even fire extinguishers.

    Seeing so many potential weapons gave him hope. Not that Solomon was for sure going to use any of them, but the fact that they had heavy blunt objects just sitting behind an unlocked door accessible to a prisoner like him meant this hotel wasn¡¯t designed with security in mind. At the very least, it wasn¡¯t tailored to handle prisoners coming and going regularly, which meant things weren¡¯t always going to be locked up.

    He shoved the mop in behind the row of fire extinguishers. Just in time. The counselor opened up the service door as he was walking toward it. He searched him like normal but didn¡¯t say anything, and when Solomon returned the next day the mop was still hidden behind the extinguishers.

    He began adding a minute each night to condition the counselor into waiting just a little bit longer. After eighteen days, the counselor was no longer opening the door to check on him and he¡¯d stretched out the time to fifteen minutes. Time to take a risk: Solomon began leaving the corridor to go to other parts of the hotel, mop in hand, so that people could get used to seeing him around. Everybody would probably assume that someone else was in charge of him. It still felt as if he were holding his breath the entire fifteen minutes he wasn¡¯t in the corridor but nobody stopped him.

    Slowly, Solomon was able to fill out a map in his head of which hotel rooms were being used as sleeping quarters for the counselors and which had been converted into offices. Most of the offices were used by non-uniformed contractors who worked through the night. Their conversations were what he focused on while mopping. ¡°I¡¯m going in to process today¡¯s family reports,¡± he heard one woman tell another in front of the elevators, and he watched the screen above the elevator to see which floor she went to afterward. ¡°The projector is down for maintenance, you¡¯ll have to go to the security monitoring room if you want to watch the feeds live,¡± he heard from another woman while cleaning the corridor behind her.

    That woman he watched out for very carefully, and a few weeks later he was able to follow her up the stairs after she came out for coffee at the lobby cafe. Deliberately staying several paces behind, he barely caught a glimpse of her going into a second floor room whose normal hinge doors had been replaced by a heavy metal sliding security door that closed and locked automatically.

    Although he was excited about the progress he was making, it was still hard knowing that Wilson was starving and freezing while he was eating and warm. It was March now, but it was still cold, especially at night, so Solomon tried to give him his windbreaker, telling him he¡¯d run to stay warm. Wilson shoved it back, angrier than Solomon had seen him be in a long time. ¡°Do you see any other prisoners here running?¡± he hissed. ¡°Don¡¯t screw this up by not thinking, Solo!¡±

    Solomon pushed it back to him. ¡°I won¡¯t do anything to stand out, but I¡¯m not going to eat all night in a warm kitchen while you freeze and starve to death out here.¡± He left the windbreaker behind when he went to the hotel. Wilson was wearing it when he returned. As always, he stirred when he entered. Solomon gave him a progress update, he asked questions, then handed the windbreaker back to him. Solomon slept until Wilson woke him up a few hours later for breakfast and the rest of the day proceeded like normal, drowsily attending morning lectures and the confession circle. Wilson usually wanted him to rest during the daytime and so he did, only waking for the evening meal, which he discreetly slipped to him, passing on all of his rations.

    But it wasn¡¯t enough. Even with Solomon sneaking him his camp rations, Wilson was fading. Maybe the last bit of winter had broken him down, maybe his four years in the camps had set him up to be weaker this time around, maybe he¡¯d gotten infected with something, but whatever it was Solomon was getting worried. Wilson had told him not to sneak out food, but he¡¯d noticed that while the counselor searched him pretty much everywhere, he wasn¡¯t a dentist, he didn¡¯t tell Solomon to go ¡°Ah¡±, so one day he put the top section of a carrot into his mouth and held it on his tongue while the counselor finished patting him down.

    Wilson scolded him when he spit it out to give it to him, when he realized in the darkness of the stairwell what Solomon had just handed to him. But his fingers closed around it even so. Solomon heard him put it into his mouth, but then after a minute realized that he was struggling to break down the carrot, that he couldn¡¯t even chew it. That wasn¡¯t good. Was Wilson that far gone? From gum disease? Or maybe it was straight up malnutrition.

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    They¡¯d been relying on each other so much that Solomon¡¯s first instinct was to chew it for him. Which he knew Wilson would hate, because Solomon would hate it too, if it were him. ¡°Give it back to me,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll make it smaller.¡± He spat it back out, and Solomon used his stronger jaw muscles to break the carrot crown down until it was like toddler food, easy to swallow. He carefully scraped it off his tongue with his fingers, then transferred the bits of carrot into Wilson¡¯s hand.

    In a way, it was good they couldn¡¯t see each other. It would have made it harder for both of them. Solomon felt bad enough for him already that he needed this kind of help. But he did. So after that, Solomon always brought him back something that wouldn¡¯t dissolve in his mouth on the way home, and he chewed it for him, too, all the while wondering what it said about how much time Wilson had left¡­

    Solomon¡¯s nightly fifteen minutes of mopping around the hotel and overhearing more snatches of conversation finally convinced him that it was the room behind the sliding metal door that he wanted to break into, that there was a computer in there he wanted access to. But fifteen minutes wasn¡¯t enough time, and he wasn¡¯t sure he could push the counselor to wait any longer without triggering his suspicions.

    Time to tackle the robot, then, so he could leave the kitchen earlier. He didn¡¯t want to destroy it because he was sure that would trigger an alarm or send out an automatic alert, so instead he was going to disable its ability to charge. A dead battery wouldn¡¯t immediately show signs of sabotage the way a ripped-off arm might. Solomon wished he could hack into its admin settings instead, but the kitchen aid wasn¡¯t going to hold nice and still for him if he started tapping on its screen. It did have a solar panel array on its back, however, and while it was folded up, there were seams Solomon could drop chemicals into when he was returning cleaning supplies to or taking them from its body.

    He asked Wilson if he knew what chemicals to use, but he didn¡¯t. ¡°I never finished high school,¡± he reminded him. Technically Solomon never had either, but from Wilson¡¯s stories about when he was young it was pretty clear Solomon had been more into school than he¡¯d been. He tricked the robot into helping him, asking whether the ammonia-based cleaner in his hand was safe to use on the burners; the robot corrected him and told him that he wasn¡¯t holding the ammonia-based cleaner, but the muriatic-acid-based cleaner. Muriatic acid is the same as hydrochloric acid, he remembered learning. And it¡¯s extremely damaging to electrical components.

    One April night, almost May, the first warm night of the year, he was searched by the counselor with an apple core tucked into his mouth. He¡¯d gotten lazier about it so after a few pats he told Solomon to go. It only took him the time from when he left the hotel service door to when he walked past the defunct ferry station to realize he was being closed in on. To his right was the chain-link fence along the edge of the Queens side of the river, to his left was the old baseball field, in front of him was leftover scaffolding that choked the path he was in down to a single lane, and behind him his path was blocked off by two men whom he immediately suspected were part of a gang.

    He didn¡¯t run even though the half-destroyed building he and Wilson had been using was only five hundred yards ahead of him. He didn¡¯t want to lead anyone to where they¡¯d been sleeping, especially as they¡¯d managed to avoid attention so far, and he was pretty sure that no matter what this was going to end up in a fight. Or more likely, Solomon was going to get his ass handed to him from the movement he was seeing all around him. Better to stop while he was still beside the baseball field. Whatever was going to happen, he didn¡¯t want it to happen inside an enclosed area ¨C like under the scaffolding above.

    It ended up not mattering. He was surrounded in a matter of moments. Instead of a wall, they threw him against the chain-link fence. They were brown like him but speaking a language he didn¡¯t understand. One of them had him by the throat, the others were searching his pockets, his clothing, every part of him that the counselor hadn¡¯t bothered to check. Solomon tried not to choke on the apple core in his mouth as the pressure on his throat increased. Then he felt fingers on his face, prying his jaws open, and the core was gone.

    They were laughing as if they¡¯d discovered something great, but he didn¡¯t know why, they all looked well-fed enough to him. It was just people like Wilson and him who had been doing the re-education camp in hard mode, without packages or any help from the outside. Then one of them turned to him. ¡°What else can you bring out? From the hotel?¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t want to reply, but they hadn¡¯t released him yet, they were still holding him back against the chain-link fence. So he thought very carefully about his next words. ¡°The counselor searches me very carefully, searches me everywhere but my mouth.¡±

    The one who¡¯d spoken to him first gave his cheek a light slap. ¡°Put it in your mouth, then.¡±

    Solomon was beginning to see why Wilson had them try to survive the winter in an unheated building alone rather than bump into any of the gangs here. ¡°Okay,¡± he said. ¡°All I can take out is leftover food.¡± He waited as they talked amongst themselves and then abruptly he found his arms were free, and that they were backing away from him. Nobody said anything to him as they left but they didn¡¯t need to; they¡¯d clearly been watching him for long enough that they¡¯d be able to find him tomorrow when they wanted to.

    Solomon took his time returning to the stairwell, wanting to make sure that nobody was following him. Wilson was asleep when he came in but woke up when Solomon touched his shoulder. Expecting food, no doubt. Angry that he didn¡¯t have anything to give him, Solomon told him what happened. Wilson got to his feet. He was furious, cursing, and for a second Solomon thought he might actually try to hit him. Instead, he grabbed him by the arms with both hands, and Solomon couldn¡¯t tell if he was ordering him or pleading with him when he said, ¡°Get the camera map tomorrow.¡±

    But Solomon couldn¡¯t. The nights went on, and the robot aid was still watching him in the kitchen, it was still alive despite all the drops of acid he¡¯d surreptitiously leaked into its solar panel creases. With all the pressure he was facing he wanted to move faster, but if he moved too fast he could wipe out all his efforts to date. He had to move at exactly the right speed but there was no way to know whether he was. Dear God, please help me¡­ He started praying every time he dipped his rag into the acid and brushed it against the robot on the right spot. The gang was searching him every night, the shipment for the robot¡¯s retractable arms could arrive any day now, summer was coming and they were going to be shipped to hard labor soon, discovery was still possible, the counselor he¡¯d built up a fifteen-minute buffer around could be shifted to a different position, Wilson was wasting away¡­

    It was the gang that was causing him the most immediate trouble. It¡¯d been a week now and he hadn¡¯t been able to get anything for Wilson. And just last night, they¡¯d told him to bring them a knife. What was he supposed to do, swallow a blade?

    He was beginning to lose hope. Wilson had said he would get him out of the camp, but Solomon asked him the other day if he¡¯d tried to escape last time and he¡¯d said no, that it had taken him three years to get over being confused that his imprisonment was actually happening to him and then his last year it had taken all he had to simply survive. So Wilson had never even tried to get out of a camp before. Without every piece Solomon had put into place so far working perfectly together ¨C without a-part-the-Red-Sea level miracle, in other words ¨C he was beginning to think they weren¡¯t going to get out either.

    Then he walked into the kitchen and the robot aid was slumped, shut down, in its corner.

    Solomon didn¡¯t hesitate. He turned on his heel, grabbed the mop out of the utility closet and headed straight for the stairs. He had four, maybe four and a half hours. It was tonight or it was never.

 Chapter 37: â€œI had to break it.â€

    Chapter 37

    Solomon was mopping the polished concrete around a hallway rug beside the room with the heavy metal sliding security door when it opened and a woman stepped out of it. He kept mopping but he had it in his peripheral vision. It would take ten seconds to close, he¡¯d timed it before. 10. 9. 8. The woman was walking down the hallway. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3.

    She was gone. Around a corner. Solomon wanted to jam his mop handle into the space but it was already too narrow and he had one second left. He did the only thing he could do: he thrust his left hand into the crack. The door was trying to seal on him, it was trying to get through his hand, it was crushing it. But he didn¡¯t move. One time in basic when Wilson decided the bolt on his rifle was too dirty, he¡¯d told Solomon not to move then began drilling it into his stomach. Even though he¡¯d started bleeding and it had hurt like hell, he hadn¡¯t moved a muscle until Wilson had told him he could. If Solomon could go through that, he could go through this. He didn¡¯t care if all the bones in his left hand broke, he¡¯d type with his right.

    The door kept on grinding away when suddenly, it felt as if his hand had shattered like glass. He could barely see. There were nothing but white spots in his vision, nothing in the world at all but his hand screaming at him.

    He was inside the room. Somehow. He¡¯d used the mop handle. He¡¯d levered the door. He¡¯d pushed it open and squeezed his body inside. Computer was there. Display dimmed slightly. He threw the mop at the mouse. It brightened! He followed it. Frantic. God, the pain! He had to close his eyes. Had to stop himself from crying out. Even his fingertips were on fire. But he was here, he was in, the display was still logged in. Taskbar and icons. He knew he wasn¡¯t going to be able to sit and guess the woman¡¯s password. But he thought: maybe she lets her display time out on its own. Maybe God will give me my Red Sea miracle.

    My hand my hand my hand my hand my hand

    God had said no to so many of Solomon¡¯s prayer requests for the past several years that he could barely believe it. His mop had actually managed to move the mouse in time before the login timed out. But he wasn¡¯t done. He couldn¡¯t move the fingers on his left hand. It was holding a live coal. He gritted his teeth, hoping the adrenaline surging through him would get him through before he started to feel it even more intensely.

    With his right hand, he reached for the mouse. After about thirty seconds of clicking on random applications, he stumbled on one that revealed a multi-page interface. The initial page unveiled a detailed map of the camp¡¯s outer edge, with embedded links that, when clicked, led to live camera feeds. His heart sank. They were placed a few feet away from each other all along the barbed wire, tightly encircling the camp with their unblinking gaze. There was no part of the prison perimeter they didn¡¯t cover.

    It¡¯s hurting, it¡¯s hurting, I can feel it, I can see it, red when I blink, red from my hand, red dots for each camera on the map of this prison that¡¯s been drowning me for months and months and months, its hands around my throat, and now around my shattered hand, tightening, tightening ¨C

    Solomon had to focus. He had to find a way out. He clicked on a red dot and then saw a black screen. A broken feed. Oh! They still hadn¡¯t gotten the parts to fix the robotic maid. Maybe the broken feeds were coming from non-functional cameras that nobody had been able to replace yet? Yes, must be, had to be, please, let it be. He pushed the pain out and started drawing in his head a map of the cameras all around the island, mentally marking the blind spots in his visualization, crossing out in his brain all the cameras that were duds.

    Finally, he had it in his mind. He wanted to keep the aching in his hand at bay though, so while he knew Wilson said they could watch to see if any guard changes happened in a blind spot, he decided to look up the guard schedule. He used the keyboard ¨C right hand only ¨C to search through the files, then double-checked, then triple-checked to make sure the date he was looking at matched the date he wanted: May 1. Then he was done. He had everything memorized. He turned to go and saw the ID scanner next to the shut and sealed door.

    He was locked in.

    Solomon took a deep breath. His left hand was hanging by his side. It was throbbing, each pulse of pain echoing up his arm like a relentless drumbeat. He picked up the mop with his right hand. His instinct was to go back to the display to see if he couldn¡¯t find anything else useful, but he didn¡¯t want the door to open with him sitting at the desk typing away. He walked over to examine the ID scanner, but there was no way out. He tried to swallow back his frustration. Finally he had the information he needed, and he couldn¡¯t get out to use it?

    He began looking through the office for a misplaced ID, a tool, anything. He knew it used to be a hotel room, so he looked for a window too, only to find it had been permanently sealed with what appeared to be a layer of some thick, opaque material. He went into the closet, the bathroom. Maybe if he unscrewed the vent cover, he could use it to wedge the door open. Probably not though. Besides, he wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d be able to; his left hand felt as if it was trapped in a vise.

    Solomon started repeating the guard schedule to himself while he continued to look, this time through the shelves that had been installed on the wall beside the door. Then he blinked. There was a Bible there between several other books on the shelf. And not just that. A framed picture, maybe 5¡± by 8¡±, was propped up next to the books. The words ¡°Racial Justice Prayer Conference¡± were stamped across the bottom. He recognized some of the faces from boot camp classes, fairly high up in terms of the political leaders of the blue zones.

    He heard it before he saw it. The door was starting to open. His right hand was gripping the mop already; he forced his left hand into position above it, using every ounce of self-control he had to stop himself from cursing. His eyes were already on the floor. He began pushing the mop across the polished concrete at his feet. Even the slight pressure on his left hand felt as if someone was stabbing it.

    ¡°Who ¨C what ¨C what are you doing in here?¡±

    He looked up, as if he hadn¡¯t already heard her coming in. Her face stood out to him, from the photograph on the shelf. ¡°Uh, someone told me to clean in here,¡± he said.

    ¡°Who?¡± she demanded.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Someone told me to, so I did.¡±

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    She stared at him. He could tell she was suspicious. The pain in his left hand was getting so bad that he felt as if it was contorting his face, even though he was trying with all his effort to keep it blank. Hopefully he looked pathetic with his ripped and worn-out clothing that wasn¡¯t going to last much longer. Hopefully she dismissed him as a threat. She had to have seen him before. Maybe she had only glanced at him mopping, but Solomon was familiar to her subconscious if nothing else.

    At least, that¡¯s what he was telling himself as she continued to stare at him¡­

    Then abruptly she shook her head. ¡°Get out,¡± she told him. Solomon was only too happy to obey. His body felt as if it was on the verge of shaking uncontrollably; he needed to do something about his hand. He went straight to the double doors outside the kitchen. He saw a clock on his way down. It had been three and a half hours since he had arrived, which was not too early for him to leave, especially as leaving early meant he might be able to avoid not having a knife in his mouth to deliver to the gang. He put the mop into the utility closet, then opened the service door as he usually did. The counselor glanced at his watch when he came through. ¡°Finished early?¡±

    ¡°There wasn¡¯t as much to clean today.¡±

    ¡°The maid didn¡¯t send me an alert,¡± he commented as he started searching Solomon. Solomon shrugged, and bit down on his tongue, hard, when the counselor brushed his left hand. He forced his thoughts toward the guard schedule, running through it in his mind again, comparing it against the camera map he was still holding in his head. There was a shift change at 0400 hours in the southern end of the island by the ruins, and it was happening at one of the blind spots. It was 0330 now. Solomon was so close to getting out of this camp he could taste it. If the counselor tried to detain him, he would kill him.

    The counselor didn¡¯t try to detain him. As soon as he was out of the man¡¯s sight, Solomon began running. The gang that had picked him out probably didn¡¯t get together until closer to when he was usually done with his shift because he was able to make it back to Wilson without anyone stopping him. His left hand was howling at him the entire time. With his right hand, he hauled Wilson to his feet and started dragging him down the stairs. From Wilson¡¯s shout it took him a second to realize he wasn¡¯t being attacked. He didn¡¯t demand an explanation, though, even after he recognized it was Solomon.

    ¡°Did you hurt your hand?¡± was the only thing Wilson asked him. Probably Wilson could tell he was favoring it.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Solomon said. ¡°I had to break it.¡±

    He had been leading Wilson along the western side of the prison to the blind spot he had picked out. It was very early in the morning, so nobody was around as they followed the river path south, past the cherry blossom trees, past the hilltop park filled with tents and sleeping prisoners. There wasn¡¯t much moon to see by, but Wilson stopped him beside a low stone wall that surrounded the base of the hilltop and pulled a worn compression bandage out of his pocket.

    After a moment, Solomon recognized it as the one he had come into the prison with. He had forgotten about it. Wilson must have taken it off him after his ankle healed. Wilson looped it around Solomon¡¯s forearm, just above his wrist, and wrapped it tightly around his hand, securing it in place. Then he pulled it taut and tied it off. The pain was still there, but Solomon was able to be less distracted by it.

    Which was a good thing because now they had to wait at a pile of rubble that used to be a pre-modern insane asylum, or so someone in their confession circle had told them once. They crouched between the shadows and the stones. Hopefully they were in time for the guard change. Solomon focused on the light about twenty feet away, hanging off the barbed wire fence. A guard was beneath it. He moved cautiously, his gaze scanning the surroundings. When he drew nearer, he held his breath, praying that the guard wouldn¡¯t notice them.

    He didn¡¯t. He walked right past them, and relief washed over Solomon like a wave. He and Wilson remained hidden, watching as another guard approached, as the guard change occurred under the low hum of the electrified wires. He was glad Wilson had wrapped his hand because he thought he could do it now. He could pull off a blood choke. The new guard¡¯s back was to him, and he was small. And better him than Wilson; even with his broken hand, he was still stronger than Wilson from months of eating better.

    He touched Wilson¡¯s arm, then pointed at himself and made a gesture pointing forward. Wilson nodded, then mouthed, ¡°Now.¡±

    Solomon went. In a few minutes, he was done; the guard¡¯s body was dead in his arms. It was suspiciously easy¡­ why was the guard so weak? Although he supposed he didn¡¯t really care why, as long as it worked. Wilson came out from among the rocks and helped him place the body on his shoulders in a fireman¡¯s carry. Four hours until the next guard came. Without this blind spot, they would probably already have been caught by a smart camera trained to pick out the difference between a guard patrolling in front of a fence and prisoners climbing it. Especially as Solomon wasn¡¯t even able to climb that quickly. Eating food waste in the kitchen wasn¡¯t the same as getting full rations. His body was straining against the weight of the guard¡¯s body, and his bandaged left hand could barely cling to the chain links without sending stabbing sensations up his arm each time it moved up.

    Thankfully, Wilson was already at the top, and he hoisted the guard up and over the electrified barbed wires so that they could use the body as a bridge. It was much easier to climb without carrying anything, so he was pretty much already on the ground when Wilson pulled the guard¡¯s body back over the fence and sent it flying down to the cement.

    There was a loud crack as the guard¡¯s head hit the pavement; Solomon winced at how loud it was. But there were no alarms, no signs that anyone had noticed them, and so he agreed with Wilson when he whispered that they needed to hide the body. He moved to pick up an arm with his right hand so they could toss the body into the river when a broken shaft of moonlight lit up the guard¡¯s face and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought it was Umma.

    But no, it wasn¡¯t her, he saw that at once. It was someone else¡¯s mother Solomon had killed. And as he looked down the length of her body, he saw that she had an ankle shackle on, just like the one he¡¯d worn when he¡¯d wanted to go back to Adah during his leave.

    ¡°Pick her up,¡± Wilson whispered.

    ¡°We can¡¯t put her in the water,¡± Solomon whispered back. ¡°She¡¯s wearing an ankle shackle. Water will damage it and it¡¯ll send out an alert.¡±

    ¡°Can you disable it?¡±

    ¡°I never tried to mess with mine, so I don¡¯t know.¡±

    Wilson was searching through the guard¡¯s weapons as he spoke. When he found a serrated knife, he pulled it out and started hacking at her leg right above the ankle shackle. When he was done, he tucked the leg behind one of the rocks lining the island¡¯s edge, then started dragging her body into the water below. Solomon helped him. It was about ten feet down into the black river. ¡°Our turn,¡± Wilson said.

    He stared at the dark waters. The body was already bobbing away. Nobody gets out of the camps clean, Wilson had told him on his very first day there.

    ¡°Solo, move.¡±

    At his command, Solomon half-slid, half-crawled feet first down the ten-foot slope until he was at the water¡¯s edge. Wilson signaled for him to follow. He did. They were headed toward the city lights on the Queens side of the island, toward the ferry station he had seen from inside the prison, the one he estimated was not too far away, maybe a thousand  yards. Wilson had said it was called Long Island City, and that they were going to steal a ride on a ferry from there to Manhattan, all the way back across the river, to the west, where they would work their way north to a red zone.

    Solomon braced himself as the water crept into his shoes. With each step, he felt the chill seeping through his bones, a stabbing cold that intensified as he went deeper into the murky depths until he finally dived headlong into the bitter brine that surrounded them.

 Chapter 38: â€œOn your feet, soldier."

    Chapter 38

    Solomon¡¯s hand was a bar of fire chained to the rest of his shivering body. The ferry was coming down from north of them; he could hear it and see it now that they were tucked into the water beside the dock that was lit up by the civilian world it jutted out from. He would hear ambulance sirens constantly while inside the camp. He could hear them even more clearly now. He thought there were some people out walking along the river¡¯s edge, but it was hard to tell given that he was at least ten feet below them in the water.

    It had to be close to 0500 hours now. They would be catching a ride with the first early morning commuters, and hopefully, there wouldn¡¯t be many of them. If anyone saw them, it would be back to re-education for them. Solomon was hoping there would be something on the outside of the ferry for them to hold on to while it pulled them forward. Better that than risk climbing up into the boat.

    It was still too dark out to be able to make out anything but the vague outlines of the ferry, but he could tell it was coming closer by how much the water around them was moving up and down, pushed out by the ferry until he was having to rapidly tread water to stay afloat as it pulled into place next to the dock. His shoulders relaxed when he saw ladder rungs on the hull. He even allowed himself a brief smile when he listened and heard only one, maybe two, people walking up the metal ramp to get into the ferry.

    But then he looked at Wilson. He could tell at once that Wilson wasn¡¯t in good shape. Whatever burst of adrenaline had given him the strength to climb the fence had since faded. Was Wilson even going to be able to hold on to the rungs while the ferry pulled them forward? For that matter, was he? The ferry¡¯s wake was strong enough for Solomon to wonder whether it was going to go faster than he¡¯d originally thought.

    They both had enough in them to swim the few feet to the ladder rungs. But Wilson didn¡¯t stop there; he started to climb up. Solomon followed. Maybe Wilson was also worried the ferry would be too fast for them to hold on to the rungs while in the water. Thank God it was a warm May night. It would not have been fun climbing up from the water otherwise, to say the least.

    Slipping over the rail into a tiny outdoor deck, Solomon was able to see that most of the ferry was taken up by an indoor compartment, the door to which was less than two feet away, facing the railing they had just climbed over. There was a set of metal stairs next to the door leading to what he thought was an open-air seating area. Finally, there was a chest of some sort tucked right up against the back railing. He opened it to see a few life jackets pushed inside.

    He met Wilson¡¯s sunken gaze, and then looked at the chest again. There was only enough room inside it for one of them. The other would have to go back into the water to hide. But the way the ferry was starting to go already, it was going to be a matter of minutes before it got too fast to hold on while in the water.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    Solomon had an idea though. It was risky, but everything was these days. It was either risk and die or don¡¯t risk and die anyway. ¡°Give me your rope, then get in,¡± he said to Wilson, gesturing at the life jacket chest. Wilson handed it to him at once, and Solomon climbed back over the railing to the rungs. They were both just in time ¨C he could hear the door to the deck they were standing on open as he clung to the lowest rung with his right hand, his body half-submerged.

    He gasped as he forced his left hand to cooperate, but he managed to do a handcuff knot, tying his right hand to the rung at his wrist. His grip tightened as the ferry began racing through the choppy waters, its engines churning. He fought to hold on. The river surged all around him, threatening to rip him away from the ladder rung. The waters lashed against his body, and with each crashing wave he gritted his teeth and clung tighter. A deafening rush filled his ears, drowning out all other sounds, as the world became a wet blur of swirling chaos.

    Then Solomon felt his grip wrenched free, and his body violently yanked downward. He could feel the immense force of the water pulling him underneath the ferry, dragging him into the river¡¯s depths. Panic surged through him as he struggled against the powerful current, his heart pounding in his chest. The rope around his wrist was still connected to the ladder rung, but it was coming loose in the worst way possible, keeping him tied up with enough slack that in the underwater darkness he couldn¡¯t immediately find the rung again.

    Desperately Solomon tried to loosen the knot around his wrist, but between the turbulent waters and his left hand still out of commission, it was impossible. So with every ounce of strength left in him, he pulled himself upward, using the rope still around his wrist as leverage. His muscles ached, and his lungs burned for air. Was he going to make it? Was his risk going to pay off? He was beginning to think not. He could feel the ferry slowing down above him, but the water was in his mouth, his nostrils, his throat, and he was no longer struggling.

    Then he felt a tug on his wrist, as if someone was pulling on the rope that was tied to it, as if someone was pulling him out.

    ***

    Solomon woke up retching. His ribs ached, and Wilson was kneeling next to him, rolling him onto his side so he could finish throwing up. He didn¡¯t think they were on the ferry anymore; it felt solid and still beneath him. After he was done vomiting up about a gallon of river water, he put his head down as if he were hugging the ground. He closed his eyes. He had been awake for almost twenty-four hours straight. If Wilson let him, he would go to sleep right there on whatever these pebbles were that he was on top of right now.

    But Wilson apparently didn¡¯t think this was the best place for him to catch his breath. He was pulling Solomon up by the arm. ¡°On your feet, soldier,¡± he said, then pointed ahead at a jungle of steel and concrete, towering skyscrapers looming above, their windows reflecting the muted hues of a soon-to-come dawn. ¡°We have to get through that, and fast.¡±

    Solomon staggered to his feet and followed Wilson forward, his feet shuffling against the pavement as they began passing through streets lined with garbage bags piled chest-high. They weren¡¯t safe yet, not in any sense of the word, but for the first time in a long time, he let himself think about his promise to make it back to Adah as long as he was alive. I¡¯m coming, he told her silently. Just wait a little bit longer. I will be home as soon as I can.

 Chapter 39: â€œHe never wanted to join the militia. But he wouldnâ€™t have run away.â€

    Chapter 39

    Adah

    When the doorbell rings I hope it¡¯s Solo. I¡¯m always hoping it¡¯s him. Ever since he surprised me by coming back from militia duty that one time, I run to open the door, which opens perfectly now that he fixed it. I run this time too, and open the door, which I guess I should¡¯ve locked when I left for school this morning, oops, Solo would scold me if he knew I forgot. But it¡¯s not like there are random thieves running around or like I have anything worth stealing. And at any rate, it¡¯s a dark-haired woman in a cute black dress suit and bright blue cape standing on the front porch. She looks like she might be a little older than Solo. Her hair is gorgeous, thick and wavy, and her eyebrows are perfectly plucked.

    ¡°Can I help you?¡± I ask.

    ¡°You¡¯re Adah Williams?¡± she asks.

    ¡°Yes,¡± I say, a sliver of unease worming its way into me. She knows my name ¨C does that mean she¡¯s from the militia? Did something happen to Solo?

    ¡°My name is Mary Khouri,¡± she says. ¡°I work with the militia, and I was assigned to a task that involved your brother. Can I come in?¡±

    She¡¯s polite but her question lands like a lead weight in my gut. I manage a nod, my mouth suddenly dry. ¡°Sure,¡± slips out, quieter than I intended. I step back and let her come into the house. Solo told me earlier this summer that the militia was going to have him do some work that didn¡¯t let him send me any letters for a while, so I haven¡¯t heard from him since June. It¡¯s October now, almost Solo¡¯s twentieth birthday. I¡¯ve been doing more nails since people seem to like how I do them, so I have enough saved to send him a package, but I haven¡¯t since he told me not to, that they don¡¯t let anybody keep what¡¯s sent to them. Which I think is very mean. I told Solo that, and he laughed, and said he agreed with me that the militia is not nice.

    We¡¯re sitting down, her on our off-white couch that¡¯s backed up against our front window and me across from her in a chair I drag in from the kitchen. ¡°Did something happen to Solo?¡± I ask as soon as I sit down.

    ¡°He¡¯s not dead,¡± Mary immediately replies. ¡°I¡¯m not here in any official capacity. The militia hasn¡¯t sent me. I¡¯m doing this as a favor to your brother, whom I got to know a little as we were working together over the summer. He¡¯s been declared missing since I last saw him.¡±

    Declared missing? Like the militia lost him? I¡¯m extremely confused. How can the militia have lost him? Did he run away from them or something? That doesn¡¯t sound like Solo. He told me he was going to stick it out until God let him go, and at any rate, if he had run away from them, wouldn¡¯t he have run to me?

    ¡°The militia can¡¯t find him?¡± I ask.

    Mary makes a face that says kind of. ¡°I can¡¯t share any details, but yes, essentially. The militia is working on recovering him so that he can return to you as soon as possible.¡±

    Well, it doesn¡¯t sound like Solo ran away from the militia then. I think he¡¯d be in trouble and they¡¯d be sending him to a prison camp instead of letting him come home to me. I still don¡¯t understand how he can be missing, though. I know Mary said she can¡¯t share any details, but can¡¯t she tell me something that makes sense, at least?

    ¡°He was drafted,¡± I tell her. ¡°He never wanted to join the militia. But he wouldn¡¯t have run away.¡±

    Her eyes flicker, and suddenly I realize that she¡¯s trying not to cry. A knot forms in my stomach. Why does she look so sad? Is it for Solo, or for me? As Mary gets up to leave I follow suit, holding the door open. She walks away, and I''m left with a mess of thoughts, none of them making sense.

    I turn to go back inside when I notice there¡¯s a pile of mail out on the front porch that the mail drone keeps adding to. I pick everything up and bring it all inside, my hands feeling very cold. Most of it is junk but there¡¯s this one letter that¡¯s got all this complicated legalese in it that I don¡¯t understand, something about some Policy #4291 by the militia council, something about the empty houses in this neighborhood, the ones which belonged to people who fled a while ago to the blue zone or who got arrested right after the Great Splintering.

    I start to cry. If Solo were here, he¡¯d read it and figure it out for me. But I¡¯m by myself, and Solo is missing¡­

    That night, I watch a filmed production of the musical Miss Saigon. The next day, I listen to the songs on repeat, especially Kim¡¯s Nightmare and the Fall of Saigon which are about a Vietnamese girl getting left behind by an American soldier during the war the old US military had there. It¡¯s easier for me to feel things through music. It¡¯s easier if I¡¯m able to push it onto characters on a screen. And I love musicals, I always have.

    It¡¯s not until Solo¡¯s birthday comes and goes, and the weeks stretch into months, and it¡¯s cold outside all the time, and I miss him so much I can¡¯t breathe that I start to truly realize what being missing means. It means nobody knows where Solo is. It means he¡¯s not home. It means¡­ he¡­ he might not ever¡­

    ***

    By my last day of school in June, I still haven¡¯t heard from Solo or anyone else in the militia. Solo¡¯s militia pay is still continuously getting deposited into my account, though, so I know he must still be missing and not confirmed dead. I¡¯m thinking about going to the militia base to try and find out what I can now that school is over, but when I come home and open the door I see a White couple, a man and a woman, closer to Umma and Dad¡¯s age than mine, sitting in my living room. They don¡¯t have very good fashion sense but they don¡¯t look ratty or anything, they look normal except why in the world are they on my couch?

    I stare at them. They stare back at me. I don¡¯t even know what to say. Did I leave the door unlocked again when I went to school? Why are they even here? Who are they?

    To my surprise, the man asks me the exact questions running through my head. ¡°Who are you? Why are you here?¡±

    ¡°I ¨C this is my house,¡± I respond. ¡°I live here.¡±

    ¡°No, this house is ours,¡± he replies. He seems as confused as me. ¡°Under the reclamation policy of the Westsylvania Militia Council, we own it now, because it¡¯s empty. You need to leave right now, young lady.¡±

    What? That¡¯s crazy. I step inside and push the door shut behind me. I¡¯m not going to leave my house I¡¯ve been living in since birth just because some random person told me to. These White people aren¡¯t in charge of me. But it¡¯s so weird to have them sitting there, it feels like a violation or something, so I run past them to go upstairs to my room. Once inside, I shut the door and lock it. The next thing I know, I hear fists pounding on my door and I jump to my feet, my heart racing. It¡¯s the man, he¡¯s shouting at me, telling me I need to leave their house right now, but that¡¯s crazy, who even are these people?

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    ¡°My brother¡¯s in the militia!¡± I shout at him through the closed door. ¡°He¡¯s going to come back and make you leave!¡±

    At that, he lets off. Once I¡¯m sure he¡¯s gone back downstairs and isn¡¯t listening at my door, I call Alice. She doesn¡¯t pick up, so I text her. This crazy couple came into my house saying the militia council¡¯s reclamation policy means they can take it over bc it¡¯s empty, but it¡¯s not, I literally live here, do you know what they¡¯re talking about?

    Alice texts back. sorry I¡¯m at work I can¡¯t talk but what? the reclamation policy stuff is true, my mom told me about it, but they¡¯re only supposed to take over empty houses

    I don¡¯t want to bother her at work, I know her family¡¯s been struggling lately with bills so I send her a few emoticons :go work: :talk later: :love you: before calling Nadia who I befriended at school last year. ¡°Do you know about the militia¡¯s reclamation policy?¡± I ask her as soon as she picks up. It looks like she just got home from school too. Her bedroom e-poster that rotates through different photos from musicals ¨C that¡¯s how I got to know her, through theater class ¨C is next to her head halfway inside her camera¡¯s shot.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t until like four months ago,¡± she replies, yawning. Her pale face is backlit by the sun shining in the window behind her. ¡°Our neighbor¡¯s house was empty for a long time, and then like four months ago this family showed up to move in but the crazy thing was that this other couple showed up two weeks after that, claiming that the house was actually theirs, that the militia had given it to them and not the first family. They all had this huge screaming fight about it in the street. Both of them waving papers around claiming that their paper was the one that was the real one.¡±

    For some reason, my palms are getting sweaty. ¡°What do you mean, papers?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. They both had papers from the militia or something, I guess.¡±

    Now my mind is racing. I¡¯m thinking of that letter I got from the militia months and months ago, the one I didn¡¯t understand, the one I put down somewhere and now have no idea where it is. I probably threw it out by accident. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d even remember it now except I do remember opening it after Mary came and told me Solo was missing.

    Did I mess something up by losing that letter?

    My insides feel tight, squashed, and I¡¯m breathing heavily. I guess Nadia can tell that something is wrong, because she asks, ¡°Why are you acting like someone just hit you?¡±

    ¡°Sorry,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ I¡­¡± I hesitate. Should I tell her? I¡¯m not that close friends with Nadia. ¡°Someone came to my house and is claiming it¡¯s theirs¡­ they said they got it through the reclamation policy.¡±

    Nadia sits up in her bed. Her eyes bore into mine through the display. ¡°The militia must¡¯ve made a mistake! Call their police line! Tell them!¡±

    Call the militia¡¯s police line? No, I¡¯m not going to do that. They wouldn¡¯t listen to me anyway, I¡¯m just a girl, and not even White, although I¡¯m not going to tell Nadia that, I don¡¯t talk to any of my White friends about race. And besides, I¡¯m beginning to think it wasn¡¯t the militia that made the mistake, but me. I think maybe I was supposed to respond to that letter they sent me but I didn¡¯t, and so now maybe this house legally or something belongs to the couple sitting downstairs in my living room?

    ¡°I have to go,¡± I tell Nadia. My stomach is churning and it¡¯s not just because I¡¯m hungry. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about me, I¡¯ll text you if they don¡¯t leave.¡±

    ¡°Oh, okay,¡± she says. ¡°My family is going up to Lake Erie for the summer so I won¡¯t be around but yeah, text me.¡±

    We say goodbye then hang up but I stay sitting on my bed that I made this morning. I don¡¯t know what to do. All I can think about is how much I wish Solo was here to make things better. And also about how I don¡¯t think I can tell anyone else about this problem because I feel like if they find out about the letter I didn¡¯t reply to, that they¡¯re going to tell me it¡¯s my fault and that I have to leave the house, and I won¡¯t, I won¡¯t, I¡¯ll die before I do that.

    I just won¡¯t go. I don¡¯t care what they do to me. I won¡¯t go. It¡¯s my house! And the couple downstairs should know that! Even if they got a paper from the militia granting them this house, even if I did mess up when I didn¡¯t answer that letter, when they saw me they should¡¯ve been like oh, sorry, we didn¡¯t realize someone already owned this house and was living here, we¡¯ll go back to our old place and try to apply for another house. That¡¯s what I would do! Instead of trying to steal someone¡¯s home from them!

    I stay in my room until it¡¯s dinnertime, and then I go downstairs, steeling myself. When I get to the kitchen I see that they already cooked and ate. There are dishes everywhere, the kitchen is a mess. I can¡¯t believe it. I bought those groceries yesterday, did they really use the food that I bought to cook themselves dinner? I move aside the dirty dishes and begin to make my own dinner, and while I¡¯m making it, I hear behind me an irregular thumping sound, and I look and see that it¡¯s the woman standing in the open dining room looking at me in the kitchen. ¡°You need to leave,¡± she says.

    ¡°Look, lady, I¡¯m not leaving, this is my house,¡± I reply. I look her up and down, and notice that she¡¯s got a twisted foot, that she can¡¯t really even stand up straight without holding on to something. It must be a post-Splintering injury because she doesn¡¯t have a bionic replacement.

    ¡°You can call me Mrs. Bole,¡± the woman replies. ¡°And if you¡¯re not going to leave, you have to do the dishes and clean the kitchen to earn your keep.¡±

    I can¡¯t believe what I¡¯m hearing. This lady is telling me I have to earn my keep? Like she thinks this house is really hers? Why doesn¡¯t she just call the militia¡¯s police line to throw me out then?

    Wait a second. There has to be a reason they haven¡¯t called the police line either. Maybe they think the militia made a mistake, like Nadia said. They must think that or they would¡¯ve already called the police line to have me thrown out. They must be worried that if they contact the militia someone will look into it and find out that I live here and cancel their claim. They don¡¯t know I didn¡¯t answer that letter!

    My insides feel just the tiniest bit less tight. I¡¯m able to breathe again. Maybe if I¡¯m stubborn enough and refuse to leave then they¡¯ll give up and go back to their hotel or wherever they were staying before they applied for a house under the reclamation policy. Maybe they¡¯ll realize they shouldn¡¯t try to take someone¡¯s home from them even if they have papers that say they can.

    I look at her. ¡°Mrs. Bole, this is my house. I¡¯m not doing anything for you.¡±

    She approaches with a limp, and suddenly her hand flies out, connecting sharply with my cheek. A moment of shock is quickly replaced by a swell of anger in my chest. She wouldn¡¯t dare hit me if Umma and Dad were here. She wouldn¡¯t dare hit me if Solo were here. And then the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. ¡°You¡¯re only trying to steal my house because I¡¯m an orphan, but God loves orphans, He punishes those who take advantage of orphans. He¡¯s going to get you back for me, He¡¯s going to make you burn in hell.¡±

    Mrs. Bole¡¯s face gets extremely red. ¡°How dare you say that to me!¡± she screams. I hear footsteps thumping down the stairway and then Mr. Bole is in the kitchen, he¡¯s grabbing me by both arms, and I think he might actually physically throw me out of the house on the sidewalk, and I¡¯m so mad, I feel myself doing what I always do when I get mad, I stop thinking and just want to scream, so I do, I scream at him, ¡°You¡¯re going to go to hell too, and my brother¡¯s going to send you there, I told you my brother¡¯s in the militia and when he comes back home he¡¯s going to kill you for doing this!¡±

    Mr. Bole lets go of me at once. He pulls back out of the kitchen, and although Mrs. Bole glares at me, and neither of them leave the house, they don¡¯t bother me while I slowly pull myself together to finish my dinner and eat it. I leave my dishes out too, because screw them, and then I go back to my room and play Les Miserables¡¯ Castle On A Cloud on my vintage CD player as loud as I can on repeat until it¡¯s time for me to go to sleep.

 Chapter 40: â€œYou donâ€™t need this big of a house all to yourself.â€

    Chapter 40

    Adah

    The next morning they¡¯re still there. I call Alice again, and this time she picks up, but not on video, which is normal for her since her family doesn¡¯t have a good data plan. I tell her what happened, but not about the letter I didn¡¯t reply to. ¡°You should come stay with us,¡± she immediately says. Her voice carries a subtle strain. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to get hurt. I know you don¡¯t want to give up your house to them, but what if they do something to you?¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t your brother home injured right now, though?¡± I reply. ¡°Do you even have room in your house?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine, you can share with me and my sisters and Loala.¡±

    I¡¯m not sure it¡¯s fine, though. I¡¯ve been to her house, it¡¯s the size of mine except with even more people. Alice¡¯s mother has been super nice to me but I know she¡¯s stressed out, she already took in Loala when her parents died, and with Alice¡¯s brother back from the militia on convalescent leave, I can¡¯t just show up and demand she take care of me too.

    And besides all that, I don¡¯t want to just run away and give my house to these people. They don¡¯t deserve it, no matter what papers they have! Umma and Dad worked hard to buy this house. I grew up here. It¡¯s the only part of them that I have anymore. I can¡¯t let them win this way.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be stubborn, Adah,¡± Alice tells me, when I explain all this to her. ¡°This isn¡¯t a game, you could get really hurt.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think they¡¯re going to hurt me,¡± I reassure her. ¡°I told them last night that Solo was in the militia and that he was going to come back and kill them and they left me alone after that.¡±

    Alice sighs. ¡°Okay, well, that¡¯s good at least, maybe they¡¯ll leave if they¡¯re scared of him. But it¡¯s been a long time that he¡¯s been gone, right?¡±

    We talk a little bit more, but then Alice has to go, she has work again. I take a deep breath. I can¡¯t let myself feel scared or I¡¯m going to crack. I can tell with these people that I can¡¯t show them a single bit of anything I might be feeling. I go downstairs and it¡¯s a mess, the kitchen is a disaster, they ate almost everything. I manage to find a handful of food that I gulp down before going back to my room.

    When I come back down later in the afternoon, though, the kitchen is clean, and Mrs. Bole is putting away groceries in my fridge. ¡°You¡¯re not allowed to eat these,¡± Mrs. Bole tells me.

    I ignore her. ¡°You¡¯re not allowed to steal my house.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re not stealing it. We¡¯re reclaiming it under the militia¡¯s policy.¡±

    ¡°This house isn¡¯t empty!¡± I yell. ¡°I live here! My parents bought it! It¡¯s mine and my brother¡¯s!¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t need this big of a house all to yourself.¡±

    ¡°What, are you a blue zoner or something?¡± I shout. ¡°You don¡¯t get to decide that for me, my parents bought it, it¡¯s my house!¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s your proof?¡±

    Proof? Like I need to show them some sort of house receipt? I don¡¯t know anything about that kind of thing, my parents took care of it when I was younger, and then Solo after they disappeared. I was taught that girls don¡¯t need to worry their pretty heads about that kind of stuff, so I didn¡¯t. All I know is that the house is paid off, it was supposed to be some sort of equity thing, something to help Solo and me when we got older, like passing money down to us. ¡°You give me proof that you have the right to be here!¡± I demand.

    And then Mrs. Bole does: she pulls out of her purse some kind of document with my address stamped right at the top. I stare at it, my heart sinking. ¡°This is my house,¡± I say again, trying to keep my voice from wavering. ¡°Look at the family pictures on the walls! I was at school when you came in! You know that I live here! It doesn¡¯t matter what that paper says!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s our house now.¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not. It¡¯s mine, you¡¯re stealing it from an orphan, and God is going to send you to hell for it.¡± It¡¯s the only thing I can think of to say to her. It¡¯s the only thing I can think of to say to myself. And I have to keep on saying it. It¡¯s all that¡¯s blocking out the whispers in my heart that keep going, this is your fault, you were stupid, you¡¯re a stupid girl, you lost your house by not answering that letter, you deserve to lose it for being a stupid girl¡­

    Mrs. Bole hobbles closer, her eyes shining with rage. I think she¡¯s going to slap me again so I duck, but instead she grabs my hair and yanks on it. I jerk away from her. I almost hit her back. I could do it, she¡¯s got that twisted foot, even though I¡¯m only sixteen I¡¯m taller and bigger than she is. Why shouldn¡¯t I hit her? She keeps hitting me!

    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    But I don¡¯t. Good girls aren¡¯t supposed to hit back, they¡¯re supposed to be nice, and I¡¯m already not being very nice by telling her she¡¯s going to hell all the time. So instead I run back up the stairs to my room. I spend the night hungry, wishing I knew what to do. I¡¯m not like Solo, always reading some book, always thinking, always having some reference to something that happened in some historical period. I like to sing, I like to dance, I like looking cute, and Umma always told me that¡¯s fine, that every girl is allowed to be herself, and that she might not be like that but it¡¯s okay if I am, God loves me just as He made me.

    Should I give up and go to Alice¡¯s house? But I don¡¯t want to! That¡¯s not the kind of girl I am either.

    That night, I listen to Masquerade from Phantom of the Opera. Thank God it¡¯s summertime, so I don¡¯t have school. Otherwise the Boles would probably change the locks on me when I go out.

    ***

    At one in the morning I sneak out, trying to walk quietly down the stairs. The Boles are sleeping in Umma and Dad¡¯s room, and I¡¯m so angry at them for it, it feels disgusting, but I go straight to the kitchen. I start cooking, moving as quietly as I can, not wanting any pots or pans to clank and wake the Boles up. After I eat, I clean up after myself, then I go back to bed. I¡¯m tense the whole time, anxious that they¡¯re going to wake up and start screaming at me.

    In the morning I¡¯m woken up by pounding on my door again, which I locked when I went to sleep. Mr. Bole is cursing at me, calling me all sorts of names. ¡°You stole our food, we¡¯re going to call the militia¡¯s police line!¡±

    ¡°You stole my house!¡± I scream back at him from where I¡¯m sitting up in my bed. I think he¡¯s bluffing. If they haven¡¯t called the police line yet, they¡¯re not going to now. ¡°You¡¯re going to hell, my brother is going to kill you when he gets back!¡±

    It worked last time, so I think it¡¯s going to work again, but Mr. Bole shouts at me that he doesn¡¯t believe me. He¡¯s banging on the door so hard I think it¡¯s going to break, so I get out of bed, get the framed picture of me and Solo in his militia uniform, and slide it under the door crack.

    The pounding stops. A little while later, Mrs. Bole comes to the door. ¡°We have to work this out, you can¡¯t eat our food, you have to pay us for it.¡±

    I¡¯m shocked at her utter hypocrisy. ¡°How about you pay me for my house?¡± I snap.

    She¡¯s quiet for a second. Then she says, ¡°How about you cook and clean for us, and we share our food with you? That¡¯s fair, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    She¡¯s absolutely insane. She¡¯s suggesting that I work for them for free, in my own house? And all she¡¯ll cover are my meals? That sounds like slavery to me. And even during slavery nobody tried to act like it was fair! It¡¯d be one thing if Mrs. Bole was just like I don¡¯t care about you, I¡¯m going to make you work for me, but from her tone of voice it sounds like she thinks she¡¯s doing me a favor!

    So why in the world am I considering taking her up on the offer?

    Maybe it¡¯s because I know I can¡¯t keep this up. I¡¯m too afraid they¡¯re going to find out that I didn¡¯t reply to that letter, too afraid that they¡¯re going to realize they do legally own my house. The only thing protecting me right now is them thinking that the militia made a mistake, them thinking that if the militia gets involved, they¡¯re going to lose their claim. I can tell they¡¯re scared of Solo, too. I think Solo is the only reason Mr. Bole hasn¡¯t physically thrown me out yet. But Solo¡¯s missing. If he weren¡¯t I¡¯d laugh in their faces and rest easy knowing he was coming back but I have no idea when or even if he¡¯s returning, and I can¡¯t let them know that because otherwise they might really hurt me. They don¡¯t care that God is going to punish them but they do care that Solo might. If I make it too difficult for them they might dig deeper into where Solo is, and if they find out he¡¯s missing, I¡¯m really in trouble.

    ¡°I¡¯ll think about it,¡± I tell her.

    I wish I had answered that letter. I should have taken it to Alice¡¯s mom when I got it instead of ignoring it. But I didn¡¯t. I was stupid, and now I can¡¯t tell anyone about the Boles. Although it¡¯s not like I have a ton of people to tell, anyway. My grandparents on Umma¡¯s side were living with Eemo and Eemobu and my cousins in Chicago. They tried to flee to a blue zone after ethnonationalists took over that area but we haven¡¯t heard from them so we don¡¯t know if they made it. And my grandma on Dad¡¯s side died before the Great Splintering, and my grandpa at the start of it.

    As for my friends, well, I know even if I do ask some other friends from school for help they¡¯re just going to say the same thing as Alice, that I should leave the house. Especially if they find out that I didn¡¯t reply to that letter. Maybe my next door neighbors who we were close to would¡¯ve been able to figure out a way to get the Boles out. They were the type to fight back. I know they would¡¯ve jumped to help me. But they were Jewish Democrats, so some of the first to get arrested when the militia took over this area.

    After about an hour, I get up. I go downstairs and pan fry chicken breast and roast carrots, making enough for three. I eat while standing in the kitchen right after I¡¯m done cooking, since I don¡¯t want to sit down with them. When I¡¯m done, I leave everything on the stove for them to serve it up to themselves. I don¡¯t clean up, I just go back to my room. At least I won¡¯t be using any of Solo¡¯s money anymore for anything, I tell myself. Let the Boles pay the water bill. I¡¯m going to take as long of a shower as I like.

    And I do. But when I get out, fully dressed, Mrs. Bole is outside waiting for me. ¡°You didn¡¯t clean up. That was the deal. So I took your phone from your room and broke it, to teach you a lesson.¡±

    Heat floods my face, and a hard knot forms in my stomach. I burst into furious tears. It takes all my self-control not to put my hands around her neck. ¡°Okay,¡± I sob, gasping for breath. ¡°I¡¯ll clean up. And God will make hell just a little bit hotter for you.¡±

    She slaps me again, and again. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare talk to me like that.¡±

    But I don¡¯t back down. Like I said, it¡¯s one thing to do wrong to someone, it¡¯s another thing to ask the person you¡¯re doing wrong to to act like it¡¯s fine. They¡¯ve got power over me so okay, I¡¯ll cook, I¡¯ll clean, I won¡¯t get kicked out of my house, but I¡¯m never going to pretend it¡¯s anything but evil what they¡¯re doing to me, and I¡¯m never going to hide that from them.

 Chapter 41: â€œYour brotherâ€™s dead.â€

    Chapter 41

    Adah

    And I don¡¯t hide it from them. Mr. Bole starts tuning me out almost immediately. As long as I¡¯m working, he doesn¡¯t care what I say. He says to his wife that the blue zoners called them all sorts of nasty things: deplorables, bigots, racists. ¡°Don¡¯t listen to her, it¡¯s all the same talk.¡± That¡¯s when I get why he¡¯s doing this. He thinks because I¡¯m not White I¡¯m the same as a blue zoner, and so anything can happen to me and it doesn¡¯t matter.

    But it bothers Mrs. Bole a lot. She starts crying once after she remarks how nice the kitchen table is and I tell her she¡¯s going to hell for stealing it. ¡°I was giving you a compliment,¡± she sobs. ¡°Why do you have to be so hateful?¡±

    ¡°Are you serious right now?¡± I exclaim. ¡°You took over my house! How would you like it if someone just came up into your house and started acting like it belonged to them?¡±

    It¡¯s like she can¡¯t hear me. She keeps alternating between hitting me and weeping. One time she lunges for me and I move out of the way because I¡¯m tired of getting hit and she falls down onto the kitchen floor. She can¡¯t get up because of her foot, she¡¯s screaming for Mr. Bole but he¡¯s out at work, and a real big part of me wants to leave her there, crying.

    But another part of me actually feels bad for her. I can¡¯t believe I do, that I feel bad for someone who¡¯s been slapping me every other day for telling her the truth about what¡¯s going to happen to her for taking my house from me, you¡¯d think she might have the sense to be grateful for the heads up, but no, she does not, and now she¡¯s lying on the floor sobbing while I stand over her. Finally I kneel and help her sit up. I go and get her a glass of water. I hand it to her.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± she gasps. ¡°I knew you¡¯d see that I¡¯m trying my best with you.¡±

    I sigh. I think she might actually be stupid. Gently, but firmly, I reply, ¡°You¡¯re not trying your best with me. You¡¯re stealing my house, and you¡¯re doing it because I¡¯m an orphan who has nobody to defend me, and God will punish you for taking advantage of me. The only reason I¡¯m not punishing you is because God says to leave vengeance to him, that it¡¯s His job to take revenge, and my job to love.¡±

    I have to choke that last bit out. The absolute last thing I want to do is love Mrs. Bole. But since I don¡¯t have my phone anymore, I¡¯ve been reading the Bible a lot when I¡¯m in my room by myself, and recently I read the story about the Israelite girl who got taken as a slave to Syria and how instead of taking revenge on her master who had leprosy she tells him how he can get healed, by going to a prophet of Israel. I don¡¯t know how Mrs. Bole can be healed of her twisted foot but I for sure know how she can be healed of her twisted heart, and it¡¯s got to start with her realizing that what she¡¯s doing to me is wrong.

    But I also know that Jesus came full of both truth and grace, that¡¯s what I read this morning, and I remember Umma saying to me that grace is like a bridge that lets the boulder of truth be carried across to be used in building something, and that without that bridge of grace, the truth getting chucked across the river is just a big rock smashing someone in the face. I¡¯ve been doing plenty of truth-telling, and I¡¯m not going to stop, but I can help her get up to her feet and sit her down at the kitchen table.

    ¡°I knew you¡¯d understand,¡± she repeats, when I fill her glass again. ¡°I knew you¡¯d see we¡¯re just trying to help you.¡±

    I close my eyes. I¡¯m remembering another story Umma told me now, retold from when I was younger, about how a grasshopper played his fiddle all summer, and then in the wintertime, when he was cold, the ants who had been working hard all summer and had enough stored for the winter took him in as an act of mercy. ¡°And then,¡± Umma would say, winking at Dad, since this was a joke she used to say for him, ¡°the next summer, the grasshopper did it all over again, because he realized the ants would just take him in over the winter if he played around the whole summer instead of working.¡±

    That night I play the Les Miserables CD again, but this time it¡¯s the Epilogue I listen to over and over again. Umma loved this song, too. We would play it together non-stop and Solo and Dad would protest and Solo would claim that at night that song would play in his dreams that he could never escape it no matter what, it was always in his head, and then I¡¯d ¨C

    I have to stop thinking about him. It hurts too much. I¡¯m crying as silently as I can into my pillow. Why, God? Why are you letting this happen to me? Why won¡¯t you bring Solo home?

    ***

    I don¡¯t know how but it¡¯s almost August. Has it really been over a month since the Boles moved in? I¡¯m getting tired. I wish I had my phone, I miss school, I miss my old life, and I¡¯m getting discouraged. My efforts aren¡¯t working. Mrs. Bole is too good at lying to herself. Every act of grace of mine she interprets to mean that I¡¯m appreciating how nice she¡¯s being, when it has nothing to do with her, because she¡¯s not nice to me. Every time I speak truth to her, she interprets it as me being ungrateful. I¡¯ve been praying for her, even, but she¡¯s determined to keep her head in a bucket even if it kills her.

    Mr. Bole is determined to keep being himself too. So far I¡¯ve only been doing dishes and cleaning the kitchen but he wants me to start cleaning the rest of the house too. When I tell him no, he gets furious and drags me outside onto our back porch. The sun¡¯s set already, it¡¯s dark. ¡°You can stay out here for the night,¡± he tells me, and then he closes and locks the sliding door.

    The deck feels empty without the furniture that used to be here, another thing Solo sold off. I huddle against the house, thankful at least for the mild night. Lately, it seems tears come more easily, and they slip out again, blurring my vision. A thought crosses my mind, bitter and stinging. If I were a White girl, they wouldn¡¯t treat me like this. They¡¯d think of me as someone precious. They¡¯d think of me as someone worth protecting.

    The next morning he opens the door. ¡°Ready to work?¡±

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    I don¡¯t want to answer him. But it¡¯s getting hard to keep on resisting. ¡°Yes,¡± I say, and then he moves aside to let me in. I start to clean, and I think about Alice. She¡¯s probably wondering why I haven¡¯t texted her or called her. I know she was going to be busy this summer, that everyone in her house has to work for them to be able to afford their expenses, but I¡¯m kind of hoping she¡¯ll drop by.

    Or maybe I don¡¯t want that. I can feel it flaring up inside me again, my determination not to give in. I know Alice will make me come with her back to her house, and I don¡¯t want to, I don¡¯t want them to win like this!

    ***

    But two weeks later, when I come downstairs to cook breakfast, I find both Mr. and Mrs. Bole sitting at the kitchen table, an open letter in front of them. I don¡¯t even have time to feel angry at them for opening my mail when Mr. Bole says, as soon as he sees me, ¡°Your brother¡¯s dead.¡±

    Disbelief courses through me. I instinctively reach for the letter, my hands shaking. Each word I read tears at my heart. ¡°No, no, no!¡± I exclaim, my voice choked. My vision is spinning. I can¡¯t believe it. The world around me feels like it¡¯s shattering into a million pieces. I look up from the letter at the Boles. Now they¡¯re definitely going to kick me out. Mr. Bole has been wanting to, I know, he¡¯s tired of my mouth. God, I can¡¯t believe it, I can¡¯t believe they won, I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m about to lose Umma and Dad¡¯s house, I can¡¯t believe I lost Solo too. It¡¯s not true, it¡¯s not true!

    ¡°We found out about the church opening a nunnery for girls who don¡¯t have homes,¡± Mrs. Bole says. ¡°Dave very kindly agreed to drop you off there tomorrow. You can do your usual chores today.¡±

    I¡¯m biting my lip, trying not to cry in front of them. When I can¡¯t stop myself, I run up the stairs. I sob into my bed. I don¡¯t want to leave my home. I don¡¯t want to leave all my memories behind. I want Solo to come back, I want my parents to come back, I want my life to come back! Solo can¡¯t be dead, he can¡¯t be, I can¡¯t be left all alone, I can¡¯t, it can¡¯t be happening!

    I get to my feet and force myself to stop crying. I wash my face, then I go downstairs, I cook breakfast, I eat while cooking like I have been doing, I clean up, then I go back to my room. I pack everything I can fit into a suitcase and backpack.

    Then I wait until Mr. Bole is out of the house for work, and I go downstairs with what I packed. There¡¯s no way I¡¯m getting into a car with him. I¡¯m sure the only reason he hasn¡¯t done worse to me already was because he was afraid if he did Solo would tear him apart with his bare hands when he came back, but now that he got that letter saying Solo¡¯s dead, I¡¯m not going to be safe from him for even a minute. I go to the front door. There¡¯s nothing in the living room I want to take with me. Mrs. Bole took down all my family¡¯s pictures and burned them when I didn¡¯t clean something as well as she wanted, so I open the door to leave.

    ¡°Where are you going?¡± she asks from behind me.

    Slowly, I turn to face her. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry,¡± I say, my voice trembling. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. You had every chance to stop, and you blew them all. I¡¯m so sorry that you want so badly to go to hell.¡±

    A sharp look crosses her face. I see her hobbling toward me, she¡¯s going to try to hit me again, no, she¡¯s picking up a poker from the fireplace, and I see at once that I was smart to pack to leave now, that without the threat of Solo hanging over their heads, neither of the Boles are going to practice any restraint at all. Thankfully, Mrs. Bole is slow, so I am able to get out the door and onto the sidewalk before she can reach me. All she can do is scream at me from my front porch as I start walking to the bus stop.

    ***

    I don¡¯t go to Alice¡¯s house or the nunnery. Instead, I make my way to the militia base, taking the 231 and then transferring to the 19, and finally to the 29 which takes me all the way there. I¡¯ve done this route dozens of times before. When I arrive, I head straight to the visitors center, where a soldier is stationed. I approach him and I explain, desperation in my voice, that I received a letter stating that my brother who was with the militia is dead. I tell him my name, then ask, ¡°Is it true?¡±

    The soldier¡¯s fingers stall midway on the keyboard, his focus shifting to something on the display that holds his gaze. ¡°Wait here,¡± he instructs, before stepping away through a door at the back of the center. I¡¯m left alone, the silence pressing in. There¡¯s nobody else in the visitors center. Without letting myself stop to think about it, I sneak around the desk to look at the display. My eyes land on Solo¡¯s file, and my heart skips a beat when I read the words: ¡°Killed in Action.¡±

    It feels as though the air has been sucked out of the room. I struggle to catch my breath. Desperately, I keep scanning his file, and I see the note beneath it, which states that his death ought to be attributed to Samuel Wilson. I see that Samuel Wilson¡¯s file is pulled up next to Solomon¡¯s, and so I read it, about how Samuel Wilson was a defector who is going to be officially marked down as defecting back to the blue zone in order to explain the failure of the mission into the blue zone. And then I remember what Mary said to me, and my hand flies to my mouth as I understand for the first time what she meant when she said my brother was missing: she meant missing in the blue zone.

    ¡°Hey! Hey!¡±

    The soldier is back. He¡¯s pulling on my shoulder, yelling at me for looking at the display. I know the right thing to do right now is to cry, and since that¡¯s what I feel like doing anyway, it¡¯s easy. ¡°The militia killed my brother,¡± I scream at him. ¡°You killed my brother and all you did was send me a letter!¡±

    Now he looks awkward. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he says. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m sorry. But you have to go now. You can¡¯t stay here.¡±

    Still sobbing, I leave the visitors center. I get back on the bus, my face all wet, and I cry all the way back. At one point I realize that the bus is going through the North Shore and since that¡¯s where the church is, I stop and get off. I go to the information desk with my suitcase and backpack and ask where the nunnery is, and she tells me that it¡¯s across the street, and then gets up and helps me with my suitcase to cross to the building. I guess I¡¯m not the first girl to show up at the church crying looking for the nunnery, and after the lady at the nunnery takes my name down and shows me to the dormitory, I see there are lots of other girls here too.

    That evening, as I lie down in my bunk bed I listen to the sounds of the other girls in the dormitory. Most of them are talking quietly, some of them are laughing and joking with each other. I¡¯ve been crying all day, and now I¡¯m tired, like I¡¯m all cried out. The other girls have been nice to me about it, one of them told me it took her a week to stop crying after she came here when her stepfather kicked her out because she wouldn¡¯t have sex with him. As for the nunnery itself, it was nice to eat food that I didn¡¯t make, and to clean up afterwards with help instead of alone. I¡¯m grateful that I don¡¯t have to beg Alice to take me in when I know that would burden her family. I¡¯m glad that the church started this place for girls like me.

    I¡¯m still really upset that I lost the house, and even more upset that I lost Solo. I can¡¯t think about him too hard or I¡¯ll start to lose it again.

    I do notice one thing about me, though. Even though I¡¯m so upset, and even though this summer has been the literal worst, I think one thing that happened is that I really believe now. Maybe it¡¯s just because I said it over and over again to Mr. and Mrs. Bole, but I really believe that God is going to come back and avenge me. I really believe that I¡¯m not only going to get my house back, but that I¡¯ll be restored a hundred times over. I really believe I will see my parents again in heaven, and Solo too. I¡¯m angry, and I¡¯m upset, but I¡¯m not hopeless. I know that I¡¯m not alone.

 Chapter 42: â€œIt would be racist to call the police on you, so nobodyâ€™s going to stop you..."

    Chapter 42

    A knot tightened in Solomon¡¯s stomach as he followed Wilson through the already-crowded streets of Manhattan. He couldn¡¯t help but dart glances at the passersby. Their soaked clothes, tattered and clinging to them, Wilson¡¯s hollow cheeks, and his own hand wrapped in a stained bandage¡­ they looked like re-education camp escapees.

    If we were in the red zone, we¡¯d be picked up by the milita¡¯s police force in T minus two seconds for being so ragged out in public, he thought. All the more so since he couldn¡¯t seem to get his hacking cough under control. He was trying, but a dull ache gripped his chest with every breath, as if his lungs had been squeezed too tight by the river.

    He was so anxious about getting caught that he was still able to steadily put one foot in front of the other despite not having slept in twenty-four hours. He could tell, though, that he was going to crash if he didn¡¯t get a chance to close his eyes soon. Wilson, too, was stumbling. They both needed to eat, at least, if they were going to be able to keep going. ¡°Hey, where can we find food?¡±

    ¡°This way,¡± Wilson nodded, and they ducked around a parked water delivery truck to cross a street that was busier than the others, and busier than Solomon had anticipated this early in the morning. Pittsburgh had a decent downtown, but this place felt as if it was a downtown replicated in every direction for miles on end. An army of delivery drones buzzed overhead, and an entire parking-lot-worth of cars honked at every intersection. After a few blocks of this, he started to notice Korean lettering on the building signs around him. Wilson stopped in front of a set of sliding glass doors. ¡°Go in and help yourself.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t have any money,¡± Solomon replied.

    Wilson shrugged. ¡°It would be racist to call the police on you, so nobody¡¯s going to stop you, especially if you¡¯re just taking food. It¡¯s just a property crime anyway, it doesn¡¯t actually hurt anyone. Don¡¯t get into a fight with someone or try to rape anyone, that¡¯s all.¡±

    Wilson had to be kidding him. Then again, he didn¡¯t look like he had the energy to joke. Still, Solomon¡¯s shoulders were tense as he entered the grocery store through the sliding glass doors. There were quite a few people inside already. It was surreal when their gazes slid right over him. He was dripping water everywhere and almost slipped and fell next to a stacked row of egg cartons.

    He couldn¡¯t find a plastic bag, so he took a mesh laundry bag laid flat on a shelf next to ceramic pans for sale, used his right hand to twist it so that it was upright, then moved back to the produce section and started filling it with strawberries, spinach, oranges, anything that could be eaten raw. In the freezer section, he found a packet of pre-cooked shrimp, which he added to the laundry bag. There were no water bottles for sale, so he took bottles of juice instead.

    He wanted to take some cans too, but then he¡¯d have to also take a can opener, and he was nervous enough about stealing like this. He¡¯d stick to Wilson¡¯s instructions and just get food. He was too tired to be able to think independently anymore anyway.

    Finally Solomon finished loading up and was ready to leave. Would they really just let him walk out of there? He started making his way back to the sliding glass doors, avoiding eye contact with anyone. His left hand had been throbbing the entire time, but he was getting better at ignoring it, using his right hand only for everything. He was ten steps away, then nine, then eight. Was anybody going to say anything to him? Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the one cashier overlooking the robotic checkout centers rolling his eyes, but that was it. He knew Wilson wouldn¡¯t send him anywhere to get caught, but this experience felt the most different from the red zone out of everything Solomon had seen so far.

    He went through the sliding glass doors and was outside on the sidewalk again with Wilson. Wilson didn¡¯t even look at him; he looked at the laundry bag of stolen food and reached out to pick up one of the handles. There was no way it was okay to start eating right outside the store he had just robbed, and for once Solomon¡¯s instincts about the blue zone were correct, as Wilson told him they should move down the street.

    Up ahead, built into the sidewalk, was a set of stairs going down underground. A girl was sitting halfway down the stairs, throwing up. They navigated around her. Wilson directed him to hop over a turnstile at the bottom of the steps, and he did so and walked onto an open tunnel platform with train tracks running along below it. The benches were filled with blue zone civilians, so it was the floor for them, which was fine. Solomon didn¡¯t want to be near anyone else and accidentally catch their attention.

    Wilson¡¯s hands were shaking as he reached into the laundry bag. Solomon¡¯s mouth was watering too, even though he had been getting enough in the kitchen to not feel hungry all the time. Neither of them said anything as they ate through almost everything he had taken until the laundry bag felt light again. They didn¡¯t eat the orange peels, although Solomon did save them; he had been in the camp for too long to be able to throw out anything technically digestible.

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    Several times while they were eating, low rumbles reverberated through the ground, the sounds growing louder as faint glows emerged from deeper in the tunnel. Solomon had seen trains before, but the wind tugging at his hair and clothes while he was only a few feet away from headlights bearing down on him was new. Faces appeared in the windows of the train; some got off, and others standing around them got on. Wilson ignored them all. He was focused on the food.

    Solomon, on the other hand, was getting extremely sleepy. He was still coughing, but it was a little better. He watched another train come and go, this time exchanging only a few passengers. There was nobody around them anymore. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but he found himself reviewing each step he''d taken that had led them to escaping, as if he wasn¡¯t sure they had actually happened. I went to the kitchen and the robot maid was shut down, I went up to the office with my mop, I broke my left hand to get inside, I memorized the guard schedule and camera map, I realized I was locked in, I found a Bible and a photograph of blue zone political leaders attending a Racial Justice Prayer Conference ¨C

    He stopped. ¡°Sam.¡±

    ¡°Hm?¡±

    There was nobody around them. He thought they could talk. Still, he lowered his voice to tell Wilson what he¡¯d seen inside the office with the automatically sealing door. Wilson was listening, but Solomon could tell he wasn¡¯t that interested, that his mind wasn¡¯t on politics.

    Solomon cared though. A lot. He¡¯d always known that the power behind the throne in the red zone was Christians. And now he was wondering, was it the same in the blue zone? Maybe they were closeted Christians the way Manal had described, maybe they only talked about things like racial justice and not about abortion, but there was no other explanation for why there¡¯d been a Bible in that woman¡¯s office.

    Solomon¡¯s words were trailing off. His chest was tight. It had been such a long time since he had thought about anything other than either surviving or escaping the re-education camp that he didn¡¯t even recognize at first how upset he was. Then the words burst out. ¡°Why are we doing this to each other?¡±

    ¡°Doing what?¡± Wilson asked.

    ¡°We¡¯re supposed to be the same family, the same body. Why are we fighting each other?¡±

    He wanted to say more but he couldn¡¯t think; he was about to lose it from lack of sleep. He wanted to find a way to tell Wilson, tell anyone who would listen, that this was wrong, that they shouldn¡¯t have allied themselves with anyone but each other, that they should have picked each other first in any conflict. He wanted to cry out against the fact that they hadn¡¯t.

    Wilson gave him an extremely confused look. ¡°Who are you talking about?¡±

    ¡°Christians,¡± Solomon responded.

    Wilson glanced around and confirmed, again, that nobody was near enough to overhear them talking. ¡°Why would they be different?¡±

    Another train was coming, and it was too loud when they roared in to hear anyone say anything, so Solomon had a few minutes to try to come up with a response to Wilson¡¯s question. It was hard when he was this tired. All he could feel was this searing sense of wrongness, this conviction that it shouldn¡¯t be this way. But when the train left, Wilson was still looking at him, as if he was actually curious ¨C maybe he felt better having eaten and drunk ¨C so Solomon struggled for the words, struggled to put into shape what Umma and Dad had taught him about identity and self-worth and the love of God.

    ¡°The whole point of being Christian is that you believe God found you good enough to die for, even though you¡¯re not. You believe that God loved you enough to die for you even though you didn¡¯t deserve it. And that changes everything. You don¡¯t have to prove yourself anymore, you don¡¯t have to be better than anyone else anymore, don¡¯t have to be more righteous, richer, don¡¯t have to be smarter, don¡¯t have to be more successful, more powerful, higher status because who you are is good enough by God¡¯s grace.

    ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be secure in that, secure enough to be free to let go of having to be enough, because you already are enough. You¡¯re supposed to be able to love people because you have the space to, having been freed from having to spend your life in pursuit of being enough.¡±

    There was more he wanted to say. He wanted to tell Wilson that there had been many kings who had required their people to die for them, but rare was the king who had died for his people. That gratitude, not conditioning, undergirded the obedience Christians owed to God. Yet they were so terrible at it! And God wasn¡¯t even stupid the way the militia was! Maybe the Church needed a boot camp to learn how to obey the most basic of commands: love one another.

    But when he opened his mouth to continue, Wilson cut him off. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize you were going to give me a sermon. Now is not the time. You almost drowned, you need to sleep, and I need to fix the bandage on your hand. Let¡¯s get on the next train.¡±

    The next train was already pulling up into the tunnel, the wind tugging at Solomon''s clothes as he got to his feet. He was still upset, but he followed Wilson into a nearly empty car. Wilson had them sit down in a corner where there were only two seats next to each other. Their clothes were still wet from the river. The bandage on Solomon¡¯s hand was also waterlogged. He had to grit his teeth when Wilson untied it, and it was even worse when Wilson wrapped it back onto his hand after wringing it out. He wanted to close his eyes, escape from the pain as best as he could, but when he looked at Wilson he thought Wilson should take his turn first. The man looked like death.

    ¡°You sleep,¡± Solomon said.

    Wilson shook his head. ¡°You¡¯ve been up for a lot longer.¡±

    Solomon was too tired to argue with him. ¡°Fifteen minutes,¡± he told Wilson. And then he closed his eyes, and was out.

 Chapter 43: "Wake up!â€

    Chapter 43

    When Solomon woke up, he could tell it had been much longer than fifteen minutes. From how much better he felt, it had to have been hours. They were still in the subway car, in the same seats, only Wilson was slumped over. Solomon blinked. They¡¯d both been sleeping at the same time? Why hadn¡¯t Wilson woken him up? He was usually pretty strict about security.

    A chill ran down Solomon¡¯s spine as he looked at Wilson. He was breathing; Solomon could see his chest rising and falling, but it was short, fast, and labored, and he seemed paler than usual. ¡°Sam,¡± Solomon whispered, putting his hand on Wilson¡¯s arm. The man didn¡¯t respond. ¡°Sam!¡±

    A sudden crackle echoed through the subway car, through some sort of speaker system. ¡°Folks, we apologize for the inconvenience. This train will be discontinued at the next station due to maintenance work. Please gather your belongings and exit the train. Thank you for your cooperation.¡±

    Startled by the announcement, Solomon glanced around and realized that everyone was starting to stir. There were a lot more people on the train than there had been when they¡¯d first gotten on. One of them was cursing, rolling his eyes, but most of the passengers were silent. His heart began pounding. Was this maintenance work a lie? An excuse to arrest them? No, that didn¡¯t make sense. They weren¡¯t important enough to make up a whole scenario for. Right? He wanted to ask Wilson, but he was still slouched over, not responding. ¡°Sam,¡± Solomon said again, shaking his shoulder this time. ¡°We have to get off the train. They¡¯re saying there¡¯s some maintenance issue. Wake up!¡±

    At that, Wilson blinked, his eyelids opening slightly as he muttered something. Solomon couldn¡¯t catch it with the noise of the train screeching to a halt. He tried to think through how he was going to do this. He looped the laundry bag¡¯s handles over his left hand, then put his right arm around Wilson¡¯s torso and hauled him to his feet. Thankfully, Wilson wasn¡¯t so far gone that Solomon had to literally carry him, because he didn¡¯t think he could, and so he was able to half-drag him out of the doors, the rush of the other passengers sweeping past them.

    Frantically scanning the platform, his eyes fell on a nearby bench. Every spot was once again taken up, so he propped Wilson up against the wall a few steps away. Wilson¡¯s body sagged backward, his head resting heavily on his chest, his eyes closed. No, no, Solomon wanted to shout at him. Don¡¯t you dare quit on me!

    In a flash, he realized that what he was feeling now had to be exactly what Wilson had felt toward him when they¡¯d first arrived in the camps. Remembering that, he crouched down and tried to think. What could he do? What was wrong with Wilson? He was more than just tired; he was sick, but from what? It could be anything!

    And then Solomon remembered. Hadn¡¯t he read something at one point about concentration camp survivors dying after being fed by American GIs? He racked his brains, trying to recall what else he¡¯d read about them, but he couldn¡¯t remember any other details. He wished he had a phone; he could look this up, he could ask a bot search agent in a heartbeat. But he didn¡¯t, and he had no idea how to help Wilson. All he could do was try to think through how Wilson¡¯s body might be being affected. He wasn¡¯t eating, he must have adjusted to the lack of nutrients, and then all of a sudden, he had to metabolize them. His body¡¯s chemistry must be getting messed up. How long does he have?

    Solomon was trying to frantically piece together a plan when Wilson suddenly convulsed forward, doubling over as he vomited uncontrollably. Solomon caught him, holding him steady as he emptied his stomach onto the platform. People glanced at them then looked away, not saying anything.

    What could Solomon give to Wilson to help him? Fruit juice, maybe. That was all they had that contained electrolytes. Pulling out one of the orange juice cartons he¡¯d stolen, he uncapped it. Wilson¡¯s eyes were open but he looked disoriented. He wouldn¡¯t lift his hand to take the carton, so Solomon had to push him back against the wall and bring it to his lips. Wilson took a sip, then closed his eyes again.

    Solomon spent the next hour kneeling next to Wilson and his puddle of vomit, coaxing him to take more. They had not gotten this far only for Wilson to die. He finally got Wilson to finish the carton, but as soon as he was done, he slumped back against the wall. Solomon wanted to get him out of there but didn¡¯t know where to go. Wilson was the expert on the blue zone, not him. All he knew was that every time someone even glanced their way, he felt a spike of fear that it was the police who¡¯d been warned by the counselors in the re-education camp about their escape.

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    The longer they stayed in one place, the more likely it was they¡¯d be recaptured. God, he couldn¡¯t bear the thought of returning. It was only a punishment cell waiting for them and a quick trip to the hard labor camps, and with the state Wilson was in, he was sure the man wouldn¡¯t last. It would be Solomon going by himself.

    Before he knew it, he was on his feet. The station was a busy one; he could melt into the crowd in a moment. He wasn¡¯t suffering from whatever had hit Wilson ¨C maybe eating the hotel kitchen food waste for several months had increased his caloric intake enough so that his metabolism had readjusted in time. He could find his way out.

    He could leave Wilson behind.

    Solomon stood there for what felt like a long time, holding his swollen left hand with his right, looking at Wilson huddled against the wall. Memories flooded his mind. He remembered Wilson under the Schenley Oval Tent in the leftover April winter, answering his questions about processing centers until the sun went down. He remembered Wilson sending him to sick bay, now knowing that it was to keep him from something worse. He remembered Wilson grinning at him right before he jumped out of the airplane to parachute into the blue zone. He remembered Wilson grabbing him by the back of his neck and swearing that he¡¯d get him out of the camp. He remembered Wilson putting a mulberry in his hand and telling him to eat it.

    They weren¡¯t all good memories. He remembered Wilson repeatedly hitting him on the side of his head when he¡¯d broken down crying at boot camp. He remembered Wilson ordering him to do push-ups, then stepping on his fingers as he did them, taunting him all the while about how worthless he was. He remembered during a phase when they had to have their rifles on them at all times, Wilson beating the crap out of him for something or other, and him being so brainwashed that even as he was being pummeled, all Solomon could think of was how he¡¯d better not drop his rifle. He remembered how every time Wilson came near him, he¡¯d tense up in anticipation of abuse.

    Solomon understood, though, that from Wilson¡¯s perspective, there¡¯d been no other way. Solomon understood that the harshness was supposed to make you stronger, initiate you into a group, turn you into a man. And it had. It had worked on Solomon. He wouldn¡¯t go back and change how boot camp had gone down. But he wouldn¡¯t want to go through it again, either, not at Wilson¡¯s hands.

    The memories bled together in his mind, shifting and mixing. Wilson was the reason he hadn¡¯t frozen to death in the camp. Wilson was the reason he¡¯d been sent to the camp at all.

    So what did Solomon owe him? Why shouldn¡¯t he leave now and try to return to Adah as he¡¯d promised her he would? Hadn¡¯t he asked her to go through enough already? She had to be crazy with worry, not having heard from him for over a year. She had to be afraid he was dead. But he wasn¡¯t. Didn¡¯t he owe it to her to make it back? If there was anything he had learned from this last year, it was that the young were the most vulnerable, and that was what Adah was: young and without protection. Why should he give what protection he had to offer to Wilson when he could give it to Adah instead, who had never hurt him and needed it so much more?

    Slowly, Solomon crouched back down on the floor next to Wilson. In the end, the question wasn¡¯t what he owed Wilson or what he owed Adah, but what he owed God, and although he wasn¡¯t that good at sensing His direction, there was a still, small sense in him that made him think God didn¡¯t want him to abandon Wilson right then.

    Despite the stakes. Despite the consequences.

    Solomon mustered what little strength he had left and, with his only functioning hand, pulled Wilson to his feet so that Wilson¡¯s arm was slung over his neck. Hobbling under Wilson¡¯s weight, he stumbled to an elevator he had noticed earlier. When it took them straight to the surface, and they stepped out of the box-like car into the hot afternoon sun, he let out a long, shaky breath, the warmth on his face a welcome contrast to the underground chill.

    Solomon wasn¡¯t sure where to go next, but while he was scanning for threats or for anyone approaching them, he noticed there were other people who looked as terrible as they did wandering the streets. One of them, maybe a woman, was moving with slightly more purpose than the others, so he decided to follow her. Thankfully she was still pretty slow, so he was able to half-drag, half-carry Wilson down the crowded sidewalk without losing her.

    His instincts were right. Pretty soon, he saw up ahead some green space covered with tents, like the encampment in the transit prison except with no barbed wire surrounding it. Exhausted from the effort of hauling Wilson along, he nearly stumbled as he finally put Wilson down on the grass. He took a deep breath, enjoying the release in his muscles. Then it was time to go again, to pull Wilson deeper into the tent city where he was pleased to see that everyone around them looked like re-education camp escapees, and that a good many of them were also passed out on the mud-trampled ground. They fit right in.

    Now there was nothing left he could do for Wilson but pray. And so he did. He prayed for healing, for God to fix whatever was wrong with Wilson, but after he was done, he found himself feeling empty.

    No, not empty, angry. He felt angry. And not just angry, either. He was furious.

    It took Solomon a moment to realize that he was furious at God.

 Chapter 44: â€œWhy is your hand on my face?â€

    Chapter 44

    Solomon didn¡¯t feel bad about it, at first. God wants your honesty, Umma had taught them growing up. He can handle it. He prefers it to you not caring, to you being lukewarm toward Him. But maybe a part of him had shied away from laying into God, even after everything started unraveling with Umma and Dad disappearing. Maybe he¡¯d needed too much to feel as if God was there for him, maybe he hadn¡¯t trusted Him enough to feel as if he could be explicit about how angry he was with Him.

    Because now that he was letting himself recognize it, he was realizing that he had been angry at God for a long time. And it was only now, while Wilson lay dying next to him, that he was finally able to find the words that had been inside him all this time.

    How dare you, Solomon prayed to God. How dare you allow so much shit to happen.

    He wasn¡¯t even thinking just about himself, although he was definitely thinking about himself. He was thinking about how much he had prayed for that damn robotic maid¡¯s charging panel to die, and he wanted to know why he¡¯d had to be put into a position where his life depended on how much acid he leaked onto a robot programmed to watch him slave away such that all he could do was pray for it to die. He was thinking about how much he had prayed during boot camp for Wilson to leave him alone only for it to never happen, and he wanted to know why. He was thinking about how one day he¡¯d had parents and a life and a future and then all of a sudden everything he had had gotten swallowed up by America¡¯s ridiculous inter-zone conflict, and he wanted to know why.

    Solomon felt like a traitor, seditious even, having these thoughts. He tried to remind himself that he¡¯d been going crazy in the re-education camp and only sensing God¡¯s presence had brought him back. He tried to remember that God was in charge, not him, and that His job description was not his happiness but his holiness. But even that sent him further into helpless rage.

    The point of suffering was sanctification ¨C the bettering of his character ¨C that was what Umma had taught him, but how was that any different from the blue zone re-education camp¡¯s proclamation that the torture they put them through was for their sakes, so that they could be freed from their implicit biases? What was it that Wilson had called it? Re-education through productive labor?

    And now that he was thinking about it, wasn¡¯t that exactly what he¡¯d been told at basic training too? This training is for you, it¡¯s for your benefit?

    Was that all life was, someone stamping a boot in your face and then demanding a thank you?

    Solomon was starting to feel that God was the dictator of the universe and that all He did was put them in a giant prison camp called Earth that they couldn¡¯t escape except through death. He didn¡¯t know how else to put it but to tell Him that he felt betrayed by Him. That the same bewilderment Solomon had seen on every civilian face inside the blue zone camp, he felt toward God, and he felt it all the time.

    At the very least, he demanded silently, can¡¯t you come back and burn it all down already? Two thousand plus years we¡¯ve been waiting! When is the Kingdom coming in its fullness? When will the agony be over? When will death finally die forever?

    He knew all the right answers. He knew what he¡¯d been taught. He could spit out 2 Peter 3:9: ¡°The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.¡±

    But he didn¡¯t care. Maybe God was patient, but he wasn¡¯t. He didn¡¯t care just right then for every evil bullying counselor to get a chance, or for every pathetic leader who started this conflict to be given one either. He wanted death to end, and he wanted it to end right now.

    Trembling, he got onto his knees next to Wilson¡¯s prone body. Whether or not it was Wilson¡¯s fault that he¡¯d ended up where he was in the first place, Wilson had never once abandoned him through this whole awful year when he so easily could have. Wilson had put his life on the line for him so many times. Solomon cared about him. He cared for him. He didn¡¯t want him to die.

    All around him, the homeless camp suddenly seemed to hold its breath. The distant murmurs and shuffles faded away. Even the wind stilled, leaving only the echo of Solomon¡¯s ragged breathing. In that heavy silence, he was reminded of what he¡¯d wanted to tell Wilson: There have been many kings who have required their people to die for them, but rare is the king who dies for his people.

    Solomon was a soldier. He knew what it meant to be required to die. Two and a half years in, and he had yet to find the militia or the red zone to be worth dying for. Was God? Was God worth suffering this life for, worth suffering in obedience for?

    He closed his eyes. He held out his uninjured right hand and placed it on Wilson¡¯s face. Who else can I go to, Lord? You have the words of eternal life. So look at me. I¡¯m still here. Despite everything, I still believe.

    Look at me!

    ¡°Why is your hand on my face?¡±

    Solomon immediately removed it. ¡°You¡¯re alive,¡± he breathed. ¡°I thought ¨C I was sure ¨C¡±

    He gave him the same hand to help Wilson sit up. Wilson¡¯s hand, however, was noticeably swollen. He still wasn¡¯t breathing well. Even when he was sitting upright, he closed his eyes and clutched his middle as if fighting nausea.

    ¡°Where are we?¡± he managed.

    Solomon explained. ¡°Good,¡± Wilson replied. ¡°Tent city is good. But we need to cross.¡±

    ¡°How did you do it last time?¡±

    Wilson blinked. ¡°I¡­ I got under a truck. One of the AI-driven delivery trucks. After it was searched. Hung on until it was over. But it¡¯s not the best way. Best way is to bribe a border guard.¡± Then he laughed a little, and Solomon found himself encouraged. If Wilson was laughing, surely that meant he was okay, that he¡¯d be okay. ¡°I owe so much money. In the camp.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± Solomon asked, and then he pieced it together. ¡°That¡¯s how¡­ that¡¯s how you got me the hotel job¡­¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Wilson replied. ¡°That¡¯s how I got anything. At all for us. Made a whole lot of promises.¡± He chuckled again. ¡°If they ever catch me¡­ find out I¡¯m not good for it, oh, boy. I¡¯m going to wish I¡¯m doing hard labor instead. But I figured, hey, pretty soon I¡¯m either dead. Or in the red zone. Can¡¯t reach me either way.¡±

    ¡°So that¡¯s why you never took me with you,¡± Solomon said slowly.

    ¡°Yeah. Don¡¯t want them to know. I¡¯m with someone. Just transfer my debt. Over to you. If I can¡¯t pay it or if I die. Better if they don¡¯t know. That you exist.¡±

    Wilson looked as if he were about to fall over. ¡°Lie down,¡± Solomon told him.

    Wilson curled up on his side, nestling into the flattened grass of the park. His eyes were closed. Then they opened. ¡°Rob a store,¡± he said. ¡°Jewelry, whatever. For the bribe.¡± His eyes closed again.

    Quietly, Solomon reached for Wilson¡¯s wrist to check his pulse. Da-dum. Da-da-dum. Solomon wasn¡¯t a doctor, but he thought it was off, irregular. Touching Wilson¡¯s hand, he could tell it was even more swollen than he thought.

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    His heart sank. Wilson might be alive, but he wasn¡¯t better. Even if Solomon were inclined to rob a jewelry store ¨C which he wasn¡¯t; stealing food was one thing, but robbing a jewelry store was dumb; the blue zoners were Americans too, they couldn¡¯t love money so little they covered their eyes no matter what the crime ¨C he didn¡¯t think Wilson had the ability anymore to find the right person to bribe. It was starting to feel as if Wilson had used every bit of himself to get them out of the re-education camp, and now there was nothing left.

    When it came down to it, Wilson needed medical attention, and he needed it fast. Solomon couldn¡¯t do it Wilson¡¯s way, he wasn¡¯t going to be able to figure out in time before Wilson died who and how to bribe. Solomon was going to have to do it his own way. So he started thinking. They weren¡¯t in prison anymore, which meant he should be able to get a message to someone in the red zone that they were trapped here. Who should he contact?

    The answer was obvious: Manal. Solomon should contact Manal. How, though? He was trying to think through how he might access a computer or a phone when he remembered seeing a public kiosk on their walk here from the subway, about nine feet tall, with a built-in display. Someone had been tapping on it when they passed by. That was exactly what he needed.

    He got to his feet, then hesitated. He didn¡¯t want to leave Wilson here alone, especially in this half-aware state he was in. Half their neighbors in this tent city seemed strung out, what if they attacked him? He glanced around and saw someone in tattered clothes peering at him intently from inside a dirty tent. He crouched back down. ¡°Sam,¡± he said. Wilson didn¡¯t respond. ¡°Sam.¡± He reached out to shake his shoulder. ¡°Wake up.¡±

    Wilson didn¡¯t even move. Solomon took a deep breath. If Wilson was unable to at least stumble along with him, he didn¡¯t think he could carry him there and back. Time for another risk.

    With Solomon¡¯s left hand out of commission, it was difficult, but he managed to move a few rocks to prop Wilson up so that if he started to throw up, he¡¯d stay on his side. Then Solomon took the nearly empty laundry bag with their food and headed back into the city.

    At least it was warm. His clothes were almost dry. He moved as quickly as he could, wanting both to get a message to Manal and return to Wilson before anything happened to him. The first public kiosk he came across was broken and covered in feces, and the second one¡¯s display was cracked, but he was able to tap on the touch-keyboard with his right hand. His left hand at this point was a constant dull ache that he did his best to keep still.

    He didn¡¯t know Manal¡¯s real name, so he opened up the web browser version of FaceSeek. This was one of the things he¡¯d done to look for Umma and Dad when they¡¯d disappeared. Hopefully, he would have more success this time around. He didn¡¯t have any photographs of Manal, so he typed in a description: easynegative:0.2, ng_deepnegative_v1_75t:0.2, (best quality, high quality:1.3), (sharp focus, clear:1.2), (full color, vibrant:1.1), uncropped, highres, no text, no jpeg artifacts, no signature, no watermark, single view, adult Arabic woman, age 24, short dark hair.

    FaceSeek popped up ten images. He tapped on the ones that were close and added long eyelashes. He repeated the process with the next ten images, and then the next ten, until he was looking at almost-Manal¡¯s face.

    FaceSeek did the rest from there. The facial recognition algorithm scanned the blue zone nets, sifting through countless images to find matches with the face Solomon had crafted. It took a while, so he finished the rest of their raw spinach while he waited.

    Eventually, FaceSeek found her social media page. Her hair was different, it was longer, but it was her. Her name wasn¡¯t Manal, though; it was Mary. He clicked on her profile and was surprised to see not a series of posts from the perspective of a blue zone civilian, but rather a series of re-pins from another profile. When he tapped on the other profile, he was confronted with a header picture of four people: an older Black man, a young brown-skinned man, an Asian woman, and Manal. Hyperlinked underneath were the words: FIRST DIPLOMATIC ENVOY TO A BLUE ZONE.

    He tapped on the link and scanned the article as quickly as he could. It was about a new diplomatic initiative set up by the Westsylvania Militia Council, to send an envoy on a tour through the blue zones to the east of them. The article talked about how this was just the start of new relations, that a permanent embassy might even be built. There was no phone number, though, no email. Not that he¡¯d use anything printed officially, he was sure it¡¯d be highly monitored by the blue zone. He didn¡¯t even want to post anything on her profile page as the blue zone was almost certainly watching it for any activity.

    But he bet they weren¡¯t watching the owner of cabin D4.

    Solomon found another kiosk and looked up the campground he and Manal had stayed at. He found the phone number and set up a voice packet to repeatedly robocall the number, asking whoever picked up to send the key to cabin D4 to an email address Solomon created at yet another kiosk. He was glad there were so many of them around, although it was taking him more time than he liked to do all this. He didn¡¯t want someone to put all the pieces of what he was doing together, though, so he thought it was worth leaving Wilson alone for a little longer.

    A steakhouse near the last kiosk Solomon was using had a sign that said ¡°Open at 5pm.¡± It was just beginning to welcome diners for the evening. Mouth watering, he had to force himself not to stare.

    After he finished setting everything up, he went back to Wilson. Good. He was still alive. Solomon didn¡¯t know whether he should try to get Wilson to eat or not, so he gave him more juice instead, which Wilson barely swallowed, his eyes closed the entire time. Solomon couldn¡¯t get him to chew any shrimp, so he put a few pieces in his own mouth, then went back to the kiosk.

    The sun was starting to dip down below the tops of the skyscrapers to the west. He started thinking of what else he could try to get a message to Manal. It was kind of fun to puzzle it out. It made him realize that one thing he really regretted about getting drafted was that he hadn¡¯t been able to go into a field he was actually gifted in.

    He liked learning in general, and he¡¯d done plenty of that in basic training, but it wasn¡¯t what he¡¯d hoped to learn, and he was beginning to think his chance to study at a higher level what he¡¯d always been interested in was gone. He still had a year and a half left of his sentence, and after that, four years of reserves which were always active and always getting called upon, so a total of five and a half years before he was freed.

    Maybe there¡¯d be a chance after that to do something he actually cared about.

    It turned out he didn¡¯t need to use any of his other ideas. When he checked again the account he¡¯d created, there was an email waiting for him. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    Solomon replied in code, in case it was a blue zone spy. ¡°I had fun with you at Hershey Park, I¡¯m sorry I was shy then, want to meet up at Central Park and take a look at the tent city?¡± He didn¡¯t like giving away his location, but it was the best he could do. If it was Manal, she would know it was him, and now she knew where to come find him. If it wasn¡¯t her, well, the tent city was big, and whoever it was might still come but wouldn¡¯t know it was him out of the thousands of other homeless people encamped there.

    Before going back to Wilson, Solomon opened up a bot search agent and typed: What happens to people who eat after being on starvation rations?

    Bot search agents tended to go on and on, and this time was no exception.

    Refeeding syndrome is a potentially life-threatening condition that occurs when food is reintroduced after prolonged starvation. It causes dangerous shifts in fluids and electrolytes, leading to symptoms such as fatigue, muscle weakness, nausea, swollen hands and feet, irregular heartbeat, heart failure, seizures, and in severe cases, coma or death. Immediate medical intervention is required to manage the condition and prevent further complications.

    Solomon¡¯s heart sank as he read through the symptoms. Then the agent continued, mentioning a historical study showing the average death occurred within 1.9 days of refeeding, and panic gripped him.

    Taking a deep breath, he typed, How do you treat refeeding syndrome? The bot search agent spilled out a long list of steps: manage electrolytes, administer vitamin supplements, monitor vital signs and fluid balance, address underlying concerns, and provide specialized nutritional support.

    Solomon felt his shoulders tightening. He couldn¡¯t do any of that for Wilson. He checked his email again, tapping on the screen harder than he technically needed to. His breath caught when he saw he had a response. But as he began to read it, it was as if someone laid an ice-cold hand on his shoulder.

    They¡¯re looking for you. You¡¯re on all the watchlists I have access to. They¡¯re hunting you everywhere! Hide until midnight tomorrow then come to the Chief of the Lenape Circle. I will come get you then.

    His mouth suddenly dry, Solomon pulled up a map of Central Park to check where the Chief of the Lenape Circle was. Once he had it in his head, he hurried back to Wilson, who was still alive, and still unresponsive.

    He dragged him a little deeper into the tent city, over the uneven ground smashed flat by a million footsteps. The night air grew thick with the mingling scents of smoldering campfires and overripe food, and flickering shadows danced across the ripped plastic walls, cast by dimly glowing lanterns. All around them, the low murmur of hushed conversations filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clatter of pots or a sharp, wild cry. He wanted to cover his ears; it sounded like the re-education camp.

    He pushed Wilson to his side so they could sleep back-to-back. He found himself waking up throughout the night to check on him.

    Every time, it was the same. Still alive. Still unresponsive.

 Chapter 45: â€œIt got crushed by a sealing door."

    Chapter 45

    The next morning, Solomon saw movement in the tent city further south, people walking toward them with their collapsed tents in their arms or shoved into their carts if they were lucky enough to have one. He asked a woman who seemed cleaner than the rest what was going on, and she spat and told him some important people were here to look at them.

    That was enough to send his heart rate through the roof. Had someone hacked into his email account? Did they know Wilson and he were here? Or did this have nothing to do with them? Solomon tried to pump her for more details, but she turned away from him, and he was left with nothing but a cold knot of fear in his stomach.

    Manal¡¯s email had told him to hide. He felt so paranoid that he was now questioning whether it had been sent by Manal or someone else, but there was nothing else he could do. He looped his arms under Wilson¡¯s armpits, grimacing as the pressure intensified the pain in his left hand, then started to drag him.

    Each passing figure felt like a potential threat, their disheveled silhouettes casting long shadows that merged with the gray dawn. He kept his head down. He avoided looking toward the aid workers in blue uniforms, ousting people who had taken up residence on the street that cut through Central Park, barking at them to move onto the grass. Every rustle of a tent flap had him turning, every curse directed at an aid worker made him flinch.

    His arms started to shake. He wasn¡¯t as strong as he¡¯d used to be; he had managed to pull Wilson twenty feet, maybe. He saw a partially collapsed tent, its fabric torn enough to reveal that it was empty. Getting to his knees, he half-rolled, half-pushed Wilson toward it, then with one final, desperate effort, he jerked him inside, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

    He pressed himself into a corner, his eyes fixed on the ripped tent wall, every muscle tensed. The thought of being found sent waves of panic coursing through him, each beat of his heart as loud as a drum in his ears. But he was at the end of his rope.

    Surely they couldn¡¯t force all of them to leave the park. Where else was there to go? The aid workers were clearing the street, that was all, and they weren¡¯t on the street. There were other tents around them. They would be okay. Please, let them be okay. Please, please, please let them pass over us.

    The laundry basket. He¡¯d left it behind.

    Solomon closed his eyes. Don¡¯t risk it, he told himself. Just let it go. You¡¯re not going to die if you don¡¯t eat today. As for Wilson, well, midnight tonight, if Wilson could make it until midnight tonight, then he had a shot at coming back. Solomon had nothing left to give him. He kept his eyes and ears open for anyone approaching them, and went back to praying.

    ***

    Somehow the rest of the day passed. Somehow they weren¡¯t found. Somehow Wilson was still alive by sunset. Solomon had no idea how to tell if it was midnight or not, so right before it got too dark to see, he propped Wilson up against the side of the tent and crawled over and through the ripped flap. He traced his steps backward, but there was no sign of their laundry bag.

    Pointing himself southwest, he began walking. He was hungry, but he¡¯d managed to sleep some inside the tent while the sun was out, so he found he only had to stop a few times on the way to the Chief of the Lenape Circle. The benches were all taken up, but rocks and grass were good enough for him.

    Despite his exhaustion, there was a gnawing thought that he couldn¡¯t shake off: was he walking into a trap once again? The familiar burn in his left hand was flaring up, clouding his thoughts even more. He wanted to assess the risks, assign percentages to the different scenarios in front of him, but all he could hold in his mind was to put one step in front of another. Just one more. Just one more. Just one more. Until the park opened up and he saw ahead of him the Chief of the Lenape Circle, the statue of the Chief rising above the traffic flowing steadily around it.

    The soft glow of bioluminescent lights hanging in lanterns at the base of the statue bathed the area in an otherworldly aura. They looked like ghosts to him. Further out, towering skyscrapers stood like silent guardians, their illuminated windows studding the night with light.

    Solomon didn¡¯t cross the street. He sat down next to a tree within the park, close enough to be able to see the cars driving down the avenue in front of him. Occasionally, he stood to check the time on a large, octagonal clock at the top of one of the westward-facing buildings. The backlit hands crawled forward. Wilson was dying back in the tent city, waiting for him to pull this off. He didn¡¯t know yet if he would, but he did know that one way or another, things would be over, midnight, tonight.

    The two hands were almost overlapping when Solomon saw a red car with an open top, its sleek design cutting through the night. A driver, focused on the street ahead of him, guided the vehicle while a woman in a hooded purple cloak sat in the back. The car moved smoothly amid the steady flow of traffic, its bright color a stark contrast with the muted tones of the cityscape.

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    He leaped to his feet, his heart in his throat. Manal¡¯s eyes were going back and forth, but they slid right over him. The car circled the Chief of the Lenape Circle, the bioluminescent lights casting reflective glimmers on its polished surface. He forced himself forward to catch the car on its return. Then he found himself almost hesitating, almost wanting to fall back. His face flushed. He could feel the torn clothes on his body, his body itself broken and starved, his hair long and dirty. An acute sense of shame flashed through him. He didn¡¯t want Manal to see him like this.

    But that was what he needed. He needed her to see him. Mustering his last bit of strength, he strode through the ornate blocks of stone marking the entrance into the park. Each step drew him closer to the street¡¯s edge. He positioned himself strategically, timing his movements to intersect with the car¡¯s anticipated return around the circle. A current of anticipation shivered down his spine. Right behind Manal¡¯s car was a newer model cybertruck with tinted windows.

    Wait. Was the blue zone tracking him down through her?

    Manal¡¯s convertible was coming back around. Solomon was close enough to see her fingers gripping the edge of her car door. Her eyes blinked, then locked on his. Without breaking eye contact with him, she pulled out a phone. She was calling someone. She was nodding. She was gesturing, as if to someone behind her. She was only a few feet away from him. Her gaze was fixed on his ¨C and then the red vehicle flashed past him and he was left alone on the sidewalk, staring at the ghosts blinking around the statue on the other side of the street.

    He didn¡¯t have time to wonder what just happened. The cybertruck was pulling up next to him, and the door nearest him was opening upward like a wing. ¡°Get in,¡± he heard the driver say.

    Get in? Was this ¨C who ¨C

    The brown-skinned man in the driver¡¯s seat looked back at him. ¡°I¡¯ll take you to the safe house.¡±

    Still Solomon hesitated. But the cars behind the cybertruck were starting to honk their horns, and even though he couldn¡¯t think clearly enough to be able to tell what was going on, he knew he could trust Manal. He slid in under the wing-shaped door and with trembling hands buckled himself in. The car lurched forward, then stopped, then lurched forward again. Solomon winced as his left elbow banged into the seat back, the pain in his hand reverberating through his body.

    ¡°We have to pick up someone else,¡± he said out loud. ¡°I had to leave him in the tent city.¡±

    ¡°Where?¡± the driver asked.

    It was hard for Solomon to shake off his paranoia. He had to force himself to tell the driver where Wilson was.

    The driver took the newly cleared road through Central Park, then parked when Solomon told him they had arrived. He stumbled as he rushed to get to the ripped tent where he had left Wilson. Would Wilson still be there? Had someone moved him? Had the blue zone found him while Solomon was gone?

    His questions were answered quickly: yes, no, no, but Wilson had shifted so that he was lying flat on his back and his face was stiff. His heart pounding, Solomon checked Wilson¡¯s pulse. It was so faint he could barely feel it.

    He was glad the driver was healthy and young and could carry Wilson in a fireman¡¯s hold back to the car. ¡°He¡¯s very sick,¡± Solomon said as soon as they were inside and the doors were shut. ¡°He needs a doctor right away.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve got one waiting,¡± the driver replied, starting to drive. ¡°There¡¯s food and water in the pocket in front of you, help yourself.¡±

    There was an electrolyte drink Solomon forced into Wilson¡¯s mouth. He was able to angle Wilson so he wouldn¡¯t choke, but even so, it was as if he was trying to feed someone in a coma; he wasn¡¯t even sure if Wilson was swallowing.

    After he¡¯d had as much as Solomon thought he would take, he drank the rest, then began opening with one hand the protein bars tucked into the pocket. He was still feeling fine, but after what had happened to Wilson, he found himself eating slowly. He couldn¡¯t help but keep looking out the window. Was he actually finally safe? Could he let go of looking over his shoulder? He trusted Manal, but a year of imprisonment had given him habits that were hard to shake.

    The windows were tinted enough to mute the night lights of the city outside. Solomon didn¡¯t think anyone was following them, but that didn¡¯t stop him from spending the next hour peering at each car beside their cybertruck or at the people walking on the sidewalks underneath the towering buildings hemming them in from all directions.

    He wasn¡¯t able to relax even when the driver had the car park itself while he walked them up into a dingy second-story apartment. A robotic nurse was speaking to a woman whom Solomon assumed was the doctor. When they carried Wilson in, the woman broke off talking to the robot and helped them place Wilson onto a couch in the main living area. She lifted Wilson¡¯s arm, and the robot angled itself so that his arm could fit into the cuff it had in front. At the same time, the doctor began asking Solomon questions. He answered them as best he could. He told her his thoughts about refeeding syndrome. She nodded, then asked about his hand. ¡°It got crushed by a sealing door,¡± he explained.

    ¡°When?¡±

    It took Solomon a moment to work it out. ¡°About two days ago.¡±

    ¡°Good, I might not need to rebreak it then. Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯ll get that hand all fixed up, we do it all the time.¡±

    She turned back to Wilson, which Solomon was happy about because between the two of them it was obvious whose situation was most urgent. But then she glanced back at him. ¡°Go get clean, there are clothes for you in the bedroom. Take off the bandage before you shower but be careful with your hand, don¡¯t use it.¡±

    The man who¡¯d driven them there pointed at a door in the apartment. Solomon went through to see new clothes laid out on a bed. There was another door inside the bedroom, and it led to a bathroom. Outside, he heard the driver tell the doctor he was heading out, but Solomon was so focused on getting into the shower that he didn¡¯t pay attention to anything but shedding his filthy clothes and turning on the hot water.

    Once inside the shower, Solomon found himself thinking, This must be what it feels like to die and go to heaven. He took his sweet time. He had just finished washing his long hair when he heard a knock on the door, and he was struck by the sudden anxiety that Wilson had died out on the couch while he was in there.

    He turned off the water at once, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around himself. ¡°I¡¯m coming,¡± he told the doctor. He opened the door, but it wasn¡¯t the doctor.

    It was Manal.

 Chapter 46: â€œYour father is dead. Thereâ€™s no way he survived the camps. Go back. Please.â€

    Chapter 46

    A surge of emotions overwhelmed Solomon, making it difficult to find the right words to say. ¡°Manal,¡± he finally managed, even though he knew it wasn¡¯t her real name.

    ¡°Solomon,¡± she whispered.

    So she knew his real name. She had looked him up afterward. He couldn¡¯t believe she was there, right in front of him, that she was looking at him. Especially with eyes that were brimming with concern and a flicker of something else that he couldn¡¯t quite decipher. Then she took a step back. ¡°I should let you get dressed.¡± She retreated back into the main room, and he could hear her speaking softly with the doctor. He pulled on the t-shirt and exercise shorts, and for a moment, he wasn¡¯t thinking about Manal, it was such a relief to be done with his rags.

    He opened the door when he was dressed. She stopped talking to the doctor at once and rejoined him inside the bedroom. Before he knew what was happening, she was embracing him. She had never done that the entire time they were undercover together. He hugged her back, her body against his the best feeling in the world. When she loosened her grip to look up at him, it was with tears in her eyes.

    ¡°Wilson¡¯s stabilized,¡± she told him. ¡°The doctor said that he¡¯ll be OK. You did good. You brought him through.¡±

    Suddenly, Solomon found himself gripping her arm. He couldn¡¯t with his left hand, so it was just her right arm he was clutching. A shudder ran through him, and tears began to blur his vision. His palm felt damp against her skin. He tried to let go, to step back and compose himself, but his breath came in short, ragged gasps. It was as if his body was learning to breathe again after being submerged underwater for too long. Dizziness washed over him, and he found himself clinging to her for support instead. And as he held on to her, as he looked at her eyes filled with concern and understanding, he shuddered again. She shouldn¡¯t be here. She shouldn¡¯t be working in the blue zone. It is not safe here.

    ¡°Please,¡± he whispered. ¡°Go back to the red zone. Don¡¯t do any more missions here.¡±

    Manal closed her eyes briefly. ¡°I¡¯m not here undercover. I left that line of work. I told them to put me with the new diplomatic envoy. I knew I wouldn¡¯t be able to get access to the kind of information I needed to find you unless I had official status.¡±

    The fact that she¡¯d come back to look for him made it even worse. Solomon let go of her arm and knelt at her feet, bowing his head. Her skirt was long, and it brushed up against his face. ¡°Please go back,¡± he begged. ¡°Your father is dead. There¡¯s no way he survived the camps. Go back. Please.¡±

    At that, she winced. ¡°That bad?¡±

    ¡°Sam said I didn¡¯t even see the worst of it,¡± he managed to reply.

    Manal sank to the floor so that they were face to face. She was crying openly now. When she spoke, her words were bitter. ¡°I should¡¯ve begged you to accompany me back to the red zone. I should¡¯ve said I was too scared to cross the border alone. I should¡¯ve wept and clung to you.¡±

    His own tears were slowing. Gently, Solomon took her hand. ¡°I would¡¯ve had a hard time believing that.¡±

    It was a feeble attempt to make her laugh, and it didn¡¯t work. The look on her face was scornful. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have overdone it. I would¡¯ve acted hesitant and unsure about being able to make it across the river alone and you would have tripped over yourself to find another way to take me back to the red zone. Instead, I gave you all the information you needed to go straight to the camps. God, I will never be that stupid again.¡±

    Solomon could tell from the way she was saying it that this wasn¡¯t the first time she had rethought their last conversation in Cabin D4. She¡¯d repeated over and over again in her mind what she ought to have said to him, how she might have done things differently so that he¡¯d gone with her instead.

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    ¡°Please go back,¡± he whispered. ¡°Please don¡¯t put yourself at risk. You don¡¯t know what¡¯s waiting for you if you fail. And I found you online so easily, just by remembering your face. If there¡¯s even a single photograph of you in someone¡¯s shared cloud from when you were in the blue zone, they can pick up on the fact that you were here before, undercover.¡±

    Manal¡¯s hand tightened around his. ¡°What else can I do, Solomon? You know that if the blue zone takes us over they will do to us what they¡¯re doing to themselves. You just came back from a camp. You know how bad it is. You want to see Adah in one?¡±

    At the sound of his sister¡¯s name, Solomon closed his eyes and bowed his head. Fear stabbed through him at the very thought of Adah going through even a fraction of what he had just endured. He heard Manal¡¯s next words distantly. ¡°I visited her last fall, after you were reported missing in action. She told me about how you were drafted. I get it. I get that you never wanted to do this. And look, I don¡¯t love every aspect of the red zone either. I know they will never make me a diplomat because I¡¯m a woman, but I have to do this work anyway.¡±

    Solomon opened his eyes. ¡°You will die,¡± he whispered.

    ¡°If I die, I die,¡± she replied. ¡°Death is not the end, and some risks are worth taking.¡± She put her other hand on his cheek, and he met her gaze. ¡°Solomon, what other choice do we have? It¡¯s either fight or die. There is no tower in the deep for us to run to. America is gone.¡±

    She spoke with such conviction that for a moment Solomon wondered if she was right. Maybe Manal was exactly where she was supposed to be. Maybe he wanted her to play a role for him, safe at home, so that she would never have to go through what he¡¯d just gone through, so that his own suffering would have meaning. But she was telling him that wasn¡¯t the role God had called her to play, and in the end, he still believed that it was what God said and not what he said that mattered.

    Yet he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that the real problem was America¡¯s conflict itself: her inter-zone hatred, her terrible divorce that left the nation¡¯s children to bear the consequences, all while being told to stay resilient.

    Suddenly he remembered a story Adah and he had been told of a time pre-Splintering, when he was very young, back when they had neighbors who were White liberals. Umma had been annoyed because every time they¡¯d stepped into their backyard, the neighbors would start talking to them from their deck, which had been built high enough to see over the fence around their small city backyard. ¡°I can¡¯t even open the screen door without them trying to tell me what they¡¯re eating later for dinner.¡±

    Dad had jokingly told her to blast Black Christian rap whenever she went out and that their neighbors would never talk to them again. Umma had laughed and laughed, but then she¡¯d gone and invited them out on a double date. ¡°Jesus says to love our neighbors and they are our literal neighbors; if I have to talk to them all the time, we might as well become friends so I can at least enjoy it when it happens.¡±

    And he remembered again how Dad told him that for a long time America had defined itself as anti-Black and then it had started to try to define itself as anti-racist, but that they didn¡¯t have to frame things as a negative. They could define being an American not as someone who was red or blue but as someone who loved a fellow citizen across a political line. Whoever your neighbor is, don¡¯t try to change his mind. Just love him. The best American is the one who best loves his politically opposite neighbor.

    As the blue zone African woman had loved him¡­

    Solomon tried to tell Manal this. She removed her hand from his face and listened intently, but shook her head after he was done. ¡°It¡¯s half a century too late for that. Go create a time machine and tell our ancestors to figure out how to get along, but we¡¯re locked into this conflict now.¡±

    She sighed, and when she spoke again, it was more to herself. ¡°Maybe I¡¯m more like Wilson than I like to admit. Although I never thought they should¡¯ve chosen him to lead that mission. They really should not let White people work undercover in the blue zone. I¡¯ve seen it happen so many times now, it drives them all crazy.¡± She reached to take Solomon¡¯s other hand, his left hand, but it was unbandaged now, and he stiffened when she touched it. ¡°You¡¯re hurt,¡± she said, realizing.

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he told her. He didn¡¯t want her asking about the details because he thought she¡¯d cry, so he tried to give her a bare-bones summary instead. ¡°I had to break it to get out of the camp.¡±

    It didn¡¯t work. Solomon disentangled his right hand from hers to wipe her tears away with his thumb as she sobbed. Then the doctor knocked on the door, and they got to their feet. ¡°I can¡¯t come see you again,¡± Manal told him as the doctor looked at his hand. ¡°But once you¡¯re both fit to travel, I¡¯ll arrange for you to discreetly cross back. It won¡¯t be through militia channels, though, it¡¯ll be through my own personal contacts.¡±

    Solomon looked up at her and met her gaze. Even after everything she¡¯d said, after everything he¡¯d said, all he could feel was dread that this was the last time he would see her, that all that was waiting for her in a week, a month, a year, two years, ten, was a camp sentence. Maybe she was thinking the same thing because she was silent. Then she touched his arm. ¡°Goodbye,¡± she whispered, and then she was out the door, she was gone.

 Chapter 47: â€œWhat are you doing in my house? Whereâ€™s my sister?â€

    Chapter 47

    In the end, getting across to the red zone with Manal orchestrating it was the easiest thing in the world. They got into a car, and after several hours of driving north into upstate New York, their driver was waved on by presumably bribed border guards. The driver left them at that point, but before he did, he handed them two coach tickets and programmed the AI to take over driving them to a nearby bus stop where they would catch an overnight bus to Pittsburgh.

    Not straight there, of course; the bus would stick to the northern counties near the Great Lakes and come down south only when they were well west of the Susquehanna, but as far as zones were considered, they were back in the red.

    Outside, the weather was crisp and cool. Wilson had taken a long time to recover, the rest of the summer and half the fall. Solomon was enjoying being outside for the first time in months, and he thought Wilson was too. For a while, they both gazed out the window at the trees decked in red and gold before sleeping through the rest of the bus ride to the station in downtown Pittsburgh.

    It was when they got off that the trouble started. Solomon had no money on him, so he couldn¡¯t buy a city bus pass, but that was okay, he could walk the two hours it took to get from downtown to his neighborhood. But Wilson didn¡¯t want to let him. ¡°We have to return to the militia base,¡± he said.

    Solomon laughed. ¡°I¡¯m not doing that. I¡¯m going to see Adah.¡±

    ¡°No, you¡¯re not,¡± Wilson said. ¡°You¡¯re coming with me.¡±

    They were standing in the parking lot of the bus depot. A line of trees with their leaves turning orange and red grew next to the sidewalk Solomon had been headed to before Wilson had stopped him. He looked at Wilson, incredulous. The man thought after a year and a half of being gone with no contact with Adah whatsoever that Solomon was going to go back to the militia base first? So what, they could detain him indefinitely while they interrogated him about his time in the blue zone camps? Or worse, accuse him of only having escaped by agreeing to become a double agent?

    No thanks. They had been away for long enough. Solomon could see Adah first, and then think about the best way to face the music.

    But Wilson was standing in front of him. He didn¡¯t say anything, but it was clear from the way he¡¯d positioned himself that he wasn¡¯t going to let Solomon just walk past him. Looking at Wilson, all Solomon could think about was how naive the man was to believe the red zone militia would just accept him back, no questions asked, no problems raised.

    Wilson must have felt the same way about Solomon in the transit prison, watching him take every aspect of re-education so seriously. Solomon had been defenseless at first against their lies. But not here. He had grown up in the red zone and knew exactly how they lied on this side of the river.

    Solomon tried to move around him, but Wilson actually shoved him back. He was furious at once. Was he actually going to have to fight him about this? Because he would. It was a cool pre-dawn, and once the rest of the passengers from the bus left the depot, there wouldn¡¯t be anyone around to call the militia¡¯s police line. It would have to be fast as the red zone didn¡¯t tolerate even half a percent as much disorder as the blue zone seemed to, but that was fine, he could take him down fast. Wilson wasn¡¯t on death¡¯s door anymore, but he was still not even close to 100%. Most of the fall had been Solomon reading books and doing stationary exercises inside the apartment while Wilson slept. Wilson had had to come back from a much worse position than Solomon.

    Remembering that gave Solomon pause. They hadn¡¯t been able to keep the robotic nurse, so it had been Solomon caring for Wilson, helping him eat, helping him to the bathroom, helping him wash until he was strong enough to do it by himself. Maybe Wilson was remembering that too, because Solomon could see his stance softening.

    Neither one of them wanted to fight each other. They both owed each other too much.

    ¡°I just want to tell Adah I¡¯m alive,¡± Solomon found himself saying. ¡°I¡¯ll go back to the base with you after that.¡±

    Wilson still didn¡¯t like it, Solomon could tell, but he finally shrugged. ¡°Okay,¡± he said. ¡°Let¡¯s go get my car, then.¡±

    ¡°You have a car?¡±

    ¡°Yes, I bought it after I joined the militia. There¡¯s a parking garage the militia took over that I was allowed to keep it in. Hopefully they didn¡¯t remove it when I went missing.¡±

    Solomon doubted it. From Wilson¡¯s stories about the militia¡¯s administrative problems, he bet nobody had even noticed Wilson¡¯s car sitting there gathering dust for over a year. And he was right. It was a very old car, pre-AI, but not so old that it didn¡¯t have a passcode option to unlock and start up. They did have to wait for it to charge a little, but once it had enough juice, Wilson got into the driver¡¯s seat, and Solomon got in front next to him. Instead of having to walk two hours, it took them less than fifteen minutes to go from the faster commercial streets to the sleepier residential ones.

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    Solomon didn¡¯t talk to Wilson on the way other than to tell him how to get there. He was extremely eager to see Adah, to reassure her, to make sure she was okay. He knew he had told Wilson he would go back to the base with him after speaking to her, but he wanted to see if there was a way he could delay it further. He doubted Wilson would listen to anything he had to say about how they couldn¡¯t trust the red zone militia to do right by them, though.

    It was still pretty early in the morning when they finally got there, and there was nobody else outside when Solomon was finally standing on the sidewalk in front of his house. Every inch of it looked achingly familiar. There was the little lawn he used to mow with a push mower. There was the tree out front that he would take dead branches down from with a rope. There was Adah¡¯s bedroom window up above the garage.

    He was anticipating what she was going to say to him, he was anticipating seeing her joy, he was anticipating getting to eat some childhood meal with her. How old was she now? Sixteen, almost seventeen? He went up to the front door, rang the doorbell, and stepped back, relishing the moment she would appear.

    But she didn¡¯t. Instead of Adah¡¯s head peering out around the door, there was a man opening it, a White man. Solomon stared at him, confused. This was his house. This was where he last left Adah. What was this man doing inside it?

    ¡°Can I help you?¡± the man asked.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± Solomon demanded. ¡°What are you doing in my house? Where¡¯s my sister?¡±

    A look of incredible fear flashed across the man¡¯s face. He tried to close the door on Solomon, but Solomon moved faster and shoved it open even farther with his shoulder. The man stepped backward, trying to get away, and Solomon saw all the furniture he¡¯d grown up with was still there in the living room: the off-white couches, the rugs, the dining table farther back. A White woman was sitting at the table, her left hand frozen around a coffee mug that she was apparently drinking from, her right hand gripping her phone.

    What was going on? Where was Adah?

    ¡°It¡¯s the militia¡¯s reclamation policy,¡± the man was babbling, backing away from Solomon. ¡°To take over empty houses, houses left empty by those who fled to the blue zones.¡±

    ¡°This house wasn¡¯t empty,¡± Solomon told him, still unable to understand what was going on. ¡°My sister was living in it. Where is she?¡±

    He could hear Wilson stepping in through the front door behind him. He didn¡¯t turn around to look at him. He wanted to know where Adah was. He wanted to know what happened to her. Had this man done something to her? Solomon moved toward him, wanting to shake an answer out of him.

    The man blanched. ¡°We thought you were dead!¡± he squealed. ¡°She got a letter saying you were dead!¡±

    At that, Solomon reached for him with both hands. ¡°What did you do to her?¡± he snarled. The man was backing away from him, the dining table stopping him from escaping any farther. Then he felt Wilson at his side, pulling him back, putting himself between Solomon and this man who he couldn¡¯t look at without seeing shafts of red coloring the air.

    ¡°He just wants to know where his sister is,¡± Solomon heard Wilson say. ¡°If you tell us that, we¡¯ll leave you and never come back. We just want to know where she is.¡±

    ¡°We didn¡¯t hurt her. We dropped her off at the nunnery, the new one, the one the church just opened,¡± the man was saying. ¡°She¡¯s fine, we didn¡¯t hurt her, we helped her, we took care of her, we ¨C¡±

    Before he knew it, Solomon was cursing at the man in a way he¡¯d never done before, not in boot camp, not out on mission, not even in the re-education camp. He knew the man was lying. You don¡¯t kick a girl out of her own home because you¡¯re taking care of her. Solomon could already tell what had happened. They¡¯d seen his house, they¡¯d liked it, they¡¯d stolen it, and they¡¯d thrown Adah out.

    And he was going to kill them for it.

    He could do it. He didn¡¯t need a weapon. He could kill them both right now, he could do it so quickly and so easily. He shifted to move around Wilson, but Wilson had turned around and was facing him now, putting his arms out. That was fine, there was no way he could stop Solomon. But then Wilson put his arms around him and his face in his, speaking in low but clear tones.

    ¡°We are not in the blue zone anymore, Solo. That lady is on the phone with the police right now, and they will come, and they will arrest you. Come out to the car with me so we can go get your sister.¡± Then he added, a little louder, ¡°We can always come back and kill them later.¡±

    Solomon¡¯s chest was heaving. Only the thought of Adah still out there allowed him to let Wilson pull him away. Wilson took him back to his car, which he had parked out front. He was standing by the driver¡¯s seat, unlocking it, and Solomon was about to get into the passenger¡¯s seat again when Wilson looked past him, behind him, and snapped, ¡°Get in the back and get down.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t hesitate. He was too tall to lie down straight, so after he threw himself in and pulled the door shut, he folded himself on his side while Wilson took off. Solomon saw him looking in the rearview mirror several times, but he guessed the police or whoever it was that had shown up wasn¡¯t following them because after several uphill turns, Wilson relaxed.

    ¡°What¡¯s a nunnery?¡± he asked Solomon.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Solomon replied, his jaw clenched. He was still seething. ¡°He said the church set it up, so go get on the parkway; the church is on the north side of the Allegheny River.¡±

    Wilson did, and Solomon told him where to turn when he needed to. It was a Tuesday morning, so the church parking lot was empty enough to pull into easily. They got out, and Solomon caught a glimpse of Wilson¡¯s face. It was troubled. ¡°He said your sister got a letter saying you were dead?¡±

    Solomon could still barely manage to keep his voice steady. ¡°I guess.¡±

    ¡°A letter from the militia?¡±

    ¡°Maybe.¡±

    Wilson closed his door. He didn¡¯t speak to Solomon as they crossed the parking lot to enter the church. Solomon wasn¡¯t thinking about him, though, he was focused on one thing. If he didn¡¯t find Adah safe and unharmed, nothing would save that couple from his fury.

 Chapter 48: "...Iâ€™d like you to come back tonight at midnight. Do you have a car?â€

    Chapter 48

    Before they entered the church, Wilson told Solomon to take a breath. He was right. Solomon couldn¡¯t storm in and demand the nunnery¡¯s address, so he forced himself to relax before entering and explaining that he was looking for his sister. ¡°Someone said she was taken to a nunnery set up by the church. I¡¯ve been away, I¡¯m a militiaman, and I haven¡¯t been able to get hold of her.¡±

    He was directed to the building across the street, so he headed there with Wilson. They crossed the street to the apartment complex, and Solomon repeated his story to the White woman in the lobby. He was looking for his sister, Adah Williams; someone had told him she was there.

    ¡°You say you¡¯re her brother?¡± she asked.

    Solomon¡¯s heart leaped into his throat. ¡°She¡¯s here? She¡¯s okay? She¡¯s not hurt?¡±

    The woman observed him. Then she glanced at Wilson. Solomon knew at once he had made a mistake not asking Wilson to wait outside. He¡¯d been so used to going everywhere with him for over a year now that he¡¯d forgotten their presence together, especially in a context like this one, would require an explanation. He wanted to tell her, ¡°He¡¯s my militia officer,¡± but that would just make her wonder, ¡°And why did you bring him?¡±

    He couldn¡¯t exactly say, ¡°Well, we recently escaped together from a blue zone camp and decided to extend our absence from the militia to look for my sister.¡± That would lead to nothing but a phone call straight to a civilian liaison on base.

    Solomon met the woman¡¯s gaze. ¡°Please, can you just tell me if she¡¯s here or not?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I can¡¯t,¡± she replied. ¡°Some of our girls fled bad situations, so we have a policy of not confirming their whereabouts. Can you provide some identification for me? And a custody order?¡±

    Solomon¡¯s heart sank. Anything he might have was in his house. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t have anything on me.¡± At that, her eyebrows went up, and he started racking his brains for a way to convince her to at least tell Adah he was here, if Adah was here. ¡°Can you take a picture of me? And show it to Adah, if she¡¯s here?¡±

    ¡°I will take a picture of you, but then I¡¯m going to have to ask you to leave, and if you don¡¯t, or come back, I will give that picture to law enforcement.¡±

    At that, Wilson stepped forward. ¡°Hold on,¡± he started, but Solomon cut him off.

    ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± Solomon said, still focused on meeting her eyes. ¡°I am who I say I am. I¡¯m glad you care so much about keeping the girls here safe. I went through a¡­ rough time recently, which is why I don¡¯t have anything on me. Take my picture, and I will leave.¡±

    Her face softened a little, which was what he¡¯d been hoping for. She used her phone to take his picture, and then he headed out, Wilson in tow. Outside, on the sidewalk, Wilson turned to him. ¡°Why did you let her do that?¡±

    ¡°I think she¡¯s lying to be protective,¡± Solomon told Wilson. There was a park next to the church, and it was empty. He suggested to Wilson that they wait on a bench there, so they crossed the street. ¡°I think Adah¡¯s there, and she¡¯s showing Adah my photo, but she can¡¯t tell me that in case I¡¯m not actually her brother.¡±

    Wilson gave him a look, as if he sounded delusional. Maybe he was. Maybe he had to believe Adah was here. If she wasn¡¯t, what was he going to do?

    ¡°Are you hungry?¡± Wilson asked. Now that he mentioned it, Solomon realized he was. He nodded, and Wilson told him to wait there, that he would get something for them. Solomon watched him head down the street. Pretty soon, he returned with breakfast, some kind of egg sandwiches and coffee.

    When Solomon asked him how he had paid for it, Wilson explained that he¡¯d technically been homeless during his time with the militia, that he¡¯d either slept at the base or in his car, so he had left a set of identification and bank cards in his car when he¡¯d gone on the blue zone mission.

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    ¡°It¡¯s strange, though,¡± he said. ¡°They don¡¯t stop paying you if you go missing in action. They¡¯re not supposed to. I thought I¡¯d have more money in my account than I do have.¡±

    Solomon didn¡¯t even want to think about money. Even if Adah was in the nunnery, without a house already paid for, he had no idea how he was going to provide for her. His militia sentence had always felt like a ball and chain around his neck, and after going to the blue zone and becoming convinced that it was their inter-zone conflict that was the real problem, he wanted to stay in the militia even less.

    But he couldn¡¯t leave. Not for any reason, not to find a job that made more, not to stay with Adah. He could only hope they counted the last year he¡¯d spent imprisoned in the blue zone as part of his time. Because there was no way to get fired. He had researched it while on sentry duty. The militia didn¡¯t do discharges the way the pre-Splintering US military had. They had enough other ways to compel specific performance if someone started slacking.

    There had to be a way to get his house back. They couldn¡¯t just steal it and get away with it!

    He was back to seething. He needed to look up this reclamation policy. He wasn¡¯t hopeful about it though. Things had been an upside-down mess since the Great Splintering, and he had no idea how he might go about proving that the house had actually belonged to his parents. He might be better off physically throwing the couple out as they had Adah and letting them try to come at him.

    ¡°Hey,¡± Wilson said. ¡°She¡¯s out. The lady from the nunnery, she¡¯s outside.¡±

    Solomon was on his feet at once. God, he hoped she was looking for him. She was scanning the street around them as if she were, and then she saw him and waved him over. He was back on the sidewalk outside the nunnery before Wilson had the chance to say anything else. ¡°You showed it to her?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Come inside,¡± she replied.

    He followed her in. This time she took him back around to an office and had him sit down in front of a desk. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± she asked him, as she sat down and plugged her phone into a display in front of her.

    ¡°Solomon Williams.¡±

    ¡°When were you born?¡±

    He told her.

    ¡°When did you get custody of Adah Williams?¡±

    Solomon answered her, and then answered her next question, and then her next. She was typing as he responded. Not his answers; she was typing too much to simply be filling out a manual form when she could hand him a single-use screen and have him enter this information himself. Maybe she was using the information he was giving her to verify his story, comparing what he was saying to what was in publicly available databases.

    Or maybe not, but whatever she was doing, it wasn¡¯t kicking him out, it wasn¡¯t calling the militia¡¯s police line on him, it wasn¡¯t telling him Adah wasn¡¯t there. In fact, she stayed with him for the next several hours, working through lunch, as she asked him questions and typed.

    It was mid-afternoon when she finally stopped. ¡°Okay. I have enough evidence to submit to the board that you are indeed who you say you are and that you indeed have custody of Adah Williams. But,¡± she said, when Solomon was about to jump to his feet, ¡°it¡¯ll take a few years for them to approve it. They have a big caseload and due to trafficking concerns, they¡¯re very careful about underage releases.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Solomon almost shouted. ¡°Adah¡¯ll be eighteen before then!¡±

    ¡°Then she¡¯ll be allowed to leave at that point.¡±

    No, no, no! He looked pleadingly at her. He was about to beg. She believed he was telling the truth, he could tell. Surely she didn¡¯t mean that he had to wait to see Adah until she was eighteen!

    ¡°I can put you on her visitors list. That¡¯ll be approved faster.¡±

    Solomon closed his eyes. He tried to tell himself he was glad they were being so strict, that it was what he would want if he weren¡¯t alive. He tried to tell himself that at least this nunnery was a place for Adah to stay while he finished his time with the militia. But try as he might, he couldn¡¯t bring himself to believe what he was saying. He couldn¡¯t help but feel that if he turned around and went back to the militia now, he and Adah would never see each other again.

    Solomon didn¡¯t know why, but he found himself, haltingly, telling this woman the truth about where he¡¯d been. Maybe it was the fact that she had spent the last several hours helping him at her own expense when she could have not cared and let them slip into a bureaucratic hole. Maybe it was that she was clearly extremely principled about keeping the girls in this nunnery safe. Maybe it was that he knew she must be a Christian to be working there and so he trusted her as a result. He watched her listen to him, and then her expression changed, as if something she¡¯d been confused about suddenly made sense.

    ¡°I can¡¯t release anyone without the approval of the board,¡± she told him after he was done. ¡°But I¡¯d like you to come back tonight at midnight. Do you have a car?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± he said.

    ¡°Park it on the street right outside here at midnight, and wait there until I come get you.¡±

    It was a strange request, but he would take it. ¡°I will. I¡¯ll be back tonight.¡±

 Chapter 49: â€œIâ€™m not leaving you.â€

    Chapter 49

    Once Solomon was back in the park, he told Wilson what had happened. Wilson seemed distracted, although he said he was fine, and yes, sure, they could park the car on the street until midnight, but that was past curfew, so he should be the one to drive. Solomon thought endlessly about how he might push for an accelerated review of his custody appeal. He thought equally as endlessly about how to convince Wilson to push off returning to the militia until Solomon had at least visited Adah. Wilson was uncharacteristically quiet, but Solomon¡¯s thoughts were enough to fill the silence for him and more.

    Finally it was almost midnight. A few minutes ago they¡¯d both ducked down into their seats when a curfew patrol went through the road, which was good; it meant they had some time until the next one. Solomon was sitting in the back seat, waiting for the woman to come and rap on the window, when he saw a girl dressed in green wearing a backpack, running down the sidewalk to the car.

    His heart stopped. Despite the curfew patrol only a few minutes past them, he opened the car door and saw her ¨C it was Adah, racing toward him. He got out, opened the car door even wider, and when she was almost to him, he told her, ¡°Go, go, get in, get in!¡± She dove into the open door and he followed her, and then Wilson took off, spinning around to go the opposite direction from the patrol.

    Adah was laughing, as if she were having the time of her life. ¡°Mrs. Stinson told me she couldn¡¯t let me go to you but then she asked me if I could climb, and when I said yes, she told me she thought the second-floor balcony door would be unlocked at around midnight, and that she thought there might be a car with you in it parked right outside the nunnery. Then she told me she absolutely could not let me go to you unless the board approved your custody paperwork.¡±

    Solomon was breathless with joy. He put his arm around Adah¡¯s shoulders and drew her in for a hug. ¡°Oh, Solo,¡± she was saying, and now there were tears in her eyes. ¡°I thought you were dead. I got a letter that said you were killed in action. Oh, Solo, I was so sad, and I knew when Mrs. Bole saw the letter she would kick me out. The only reason she hadn¡¯t earlier was because I kept telling her you were in the militia and that when you came back you would kill them and ¨C¡±

    ¡°Mrs. Bole?¡± Solomon interrupted.

    ¡°Yes, the woman who took over our house, her name was Mrs. Bole.¡±

    ¡°She¡­ they didn¡¯t kick you out right away?¡±

    Adah shook her head. ¡°No, they wanted to, but I refused to leave, and they were nervous about you, so Mrs. Bole said I could stay if I cooked and cleaned for them. But I kept telling them they were going to hell for trying to steal my house, so she got tired of me and was glad when the letter came about you being dead.¡±

    White hot fury descended on Solomon. He was going to have to find a better way to handle hearing about what had happened to Adah while he was gone because he didn¡¯t think God wanted him to think of murder every time she shared a story with him. ¡°They made you work for them?¡±

    ¡°It was because Mrs. Bole didn¡¯t like that I ate the food in the house, she wanted me to pay for my own food, but I wouldn¡¯t, so then she said I had to work if I was going to eat their food.¡±

    ¡°They¡­ they were in the house with you at the same time?¡±

    Adah nodded. ¡°Almost the whole summer.¡±

    ¡°Did¡­ did the man¡­ did he¡­¡± Solomon stopped and looked at Wilson, who was pulling into a hotel parking lot. Wilson had arranged a room for them that evening, after Solomon had come out of the nunnery. He decided not to ask her now ¨C he would ask later.

    Thankfully, Adah didn¡¯t seem to have heard his half-question. Her gaze instead followed his. When Wilson turned to greet her after parking, she seemed surprised, as if she recognized him.

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°Oh!¡± she cried. ¡°You¡¯re the defector who defected back!¡±

    Wilson stiffened as if she¡¯d struck him. ¡°What do you mean?¡± Solomon asked.

    ¡°When I got the letter saying you¡¯d died,¡± Adah said, ¡°I didn¡¯t believe it. I went to the militia base and yelled at them about it, and the soldier at the visitors center left for a minute, so I went around to look at his display. I saw that he¡¯d pulled up two profiles: one of them was yours, it said you were declared dead, and the other one was his,¡± she pointed at Wilson, ¡°and it said he was a defector who¡¯d gone back to the blue zone. Underneath it said that was the official reason some mission into the blue zone had failed, because he¡¯d sabotaged it.¡±

    Wilson didn¡¯t say anything, he just opened the car door and left. That was how Solomon knew he was upset. That was how he knew Wilson believed her.

    After being separated from Adah for so long, Solomon really didn¡¯t want to leave her alone, but Wilson had also become his brother, so he touched Adah¡¯s hand. ¡°Stay in the car. I¡¯ll be right back.¡±

    Wilson was in the alley next to the hotel, facing away from Solomon. When he heard him, he turned, and for a moment he looked like the young man Solomon had first met in Schenley Park all those years ago. Fear and misery were etched into his face. ¡°I guess they needed someone to blame for the mission going to pieces,¡± he choked. ¡°And it was my fault. They could¡¯ve just said I screwed up, though, they didn¡¯t have to invent ¨C¡±

    Wilson stopped abruptly. Solomon could see his hands were balled up. He reached for him, put his arms around him, and at first, he thought Wilson was going to attack him because there was nobody else for him to attack, but after a moment of resistance, Wilson accepted the hug.

    Solomon wanted to tell him so many things. He wanted to tell him not to put his hope into political institutions, that there was no permanent home for them here on Earth, and that that was okay. That one day Jesus would come back, and that after every barricade fell, they would one day live in freedom in the garden of the Lord, that they would walk behind plowshares and put away their swords, that every chain would be broken, and all men would finally have their reward¡­

    But while theology comforted Solomon, he didn¡¯t think it would comfort Wilson right now, so instead he told him, ¡°I¡¯m not leaving you.¡±

    Wilson¡¯s grip on Solomon tightened, and Solomon didn¡¯t let go of him until Wilson released him.

    And then, as they turned back to the car, it hit Solomon. The militia had declared him dead. It had written him off its rolls. He was no longer bound to them, and with Wilson declared a traitor, he had no reason to go back, no reason to inform them that he was actually alive. His sentence, which he had been dreading not even hours ago, was over.

    He was free.

    Solomon knew it made no sense for him to feel happy right then. He had no house, no job, and with the militia¡¯s declaration, he might not even have a legal identity. Still he found himself almost wanting to weep. It was as if a massive weight had been lifted off his shoulders, a burden he had carried so long he¡¯d forgotten how heavy it was. His heart was singing. I will walk about in freedom, for I have sought out your precepts. I will praise you, Lord, with all my heart; before the gods I will sing your praise!

    And with that song, a different weight began to settle in. Something lighter, but deeper. Solomon couldn¡¯t help but feel that God had given him this chance for a reason, and if he was right about that, he wanted to make the most of it. He didn¡¯t want to just get his house back, although he did want to do that. No, as crazy as it sounded, what he wanted was to get his nation back. America is gone, Manal had told him. But what if it didn¡¯t have to be that way? What if they could find a new way to be American?

    He heard Dad¡¯s voice again. We¡¯ve always been divided. We¡¯ve always fought about what it means to be American. Nowadays the liberals think it means to be blue, while the conservatives think it means to be red. But being American means being divided, and getting together despite that. Whoever your neighbor is, don¡¯t try to change his mind. Just love him. The best American is the one who best loves his politically opposite neighbor.

    The pieces of Solomon¡¯s country lay splintered before him. He had nothing but the clothes on his back and Wilson and Adah beside him. He had no idea where to start. What did it mean to love the couple he wanted to kill for having stolen his house? What did it mean to love a re-education camp counselor? Was what he wanted even possible?

    He didn¡¯t know. But what he did know was that with God, all things were possible, and that was good enough for him to go for it. If the last few years of his life had taught him anything, if boot camp and the reeducation camp had given him anything at all, it was the conviction that he could, and should, act on his long-lingering sense that unity was worth fighting for.

    ¡°Come on,¡± he said out loud. ¡°It¡¯s late. Let¡¯s find the door.¡±