《Life Before Legend (Legend #0.5)》


 Page 1

    I¡¯M TWELVE YEARS OLD.


    I live in the Republic of America.


    My name is Day.


    My name used to be Daniel Altan Wing, younger brother to John, older brother to Eden, son to a mom and dad who lived in Los Angeles¡¯s slum sectors.


    When you¡¯ve been poor all your life, you never really think it could be any other way. And sometimes you¡¯re even happy, because at least you¡¯ve got your family and your health and your arms and legs and a roof over your head.


    But now I¡¯m without most of those things. My mother and brothers think I¡¯m dead. I have an injured knee that might never heal. I live on the streets of Lake sector, a slum sitting along the shore of Los Angeles¡¯s giant lake, and every day I manage to do just enough to survive.


    But things could always be worse, yeah? At least I¡¯m alive; at least my mom and brothers are alive. There¡¯s still hope.


    This morning I¡¯m perched on the balcony of a three-story, torn-up apartment complex that has all its windows boarded up. My bad leg dangles over the edge while I lean casually on my good one. My eyes are fixed on one of the piers lining the lakeshore, its waters glittering through the haze of morning smog. All around me, JumboTrons on the sides of buildings broadcast the latest Republic news above the steady, never-ending stream of Lake sector¡¯s factory workers. Several streets over, I can see a crowd of boys and girls heading off to the local high school. They seem like they¡¯re around my age¡ªif I hadn¡¯t failed my Trial, I¡¯d probably be walking with them. I look up and squint at the sun.


    Pledge is about to start any second. I hate that goddy pledge.


    The newsreel running on the JumboTrons pauses for a second, and then a familiar voice rings out across the city from every building¡¯s speakers. Along the streets, people stop whatever they¡¯re doing, turn to face the direction of the capital, and then raise their arms in salutes. They chant along with the speaker¡¯s voice.


    I pledge allegiance to the flag of the great Republic of America, to our Elector Primo, to our glorious states, to unity against the Colonies, to our impending victory!


    When I was really little, I¡¯d say this pledge like everyone else, and for a while I even thought it was pretty cool, declaring my undying love for our country or whatever. Now I just stay silent throughout the whole thing, even though all the people on the streets recite the lines obediently. Why bother playing along to something I don¡¯t believe in? It¡¯s not like anyone can see me up here, anyway.


    When it¡¯s over and the streets¡¯ bustle returns, the JumboTrons switch in sync back to a newsreel. I read the headlines as they roll:


    TWELVE-YEAR-OLD TRIAL PRODIGY JUNE IPARIS BECOMES YOUNGEST STUDENT EVER ADMITTED TO DRAKE UNIVERSITY, TO BE OFFICIALLY INDUCTED NEXT WEEK.


    ¡°Ugh,¡± I snort in disgust. No doubt that girl¡¯s some goddy rich trot living the sweet life farther inland, in one of LA¡¯s upper-class sectors. Who cares what she scored on her Trial? The whole test is rigged in favor of the wealthy kids, anyway, and she¡¯s probably just someone with average smarts who bought her high score. I turn away as the headline goes on, listing the girl¡¯s gaggle of achievements. The whole thing gives me a headache.


    My attention wanders back to the pier. One of the boats has workers bustling along its deck. They¡¯re unloading a bunch of crates that probably have canned food inside, stacks of beef hash and potatoes and spaghetti, sausage and pygmy pig hot dogs. My stomach rumbles. First things first: stealing breakfast. I haven¡¯t eaten in almost two days, and the sight of the crates makes me light-headed.


    I inch along the side of the apartment complex, careful to stay inside the building¡¯s early-morning shadows. A few street police are patrolling the pier, but most of them look bored, already exhausted by the day¡¯s humid heat. They usually don¡¯t pay attention to the street orphans that sit on practically every corner of the Lake sector, and on a good day, they¡¯re too lazy to catch all the ones that attempt to steal food.


    I reach the edge of the building. A drainage pipe runs along the side, shakily bolted to the wall. Still, it seems strong enough to support my weight. I test it first by tentatively putting one foot against it and giving it a good push. When it doesn¡¯t budge, I grab the pipe and slide all the way down into the building¡¯s narrow alley. My bad leg hits the pavement wrong¡ªI lose my balance, then fall backward onto the ground.


    One of these days, this stupid knee will get better. I hope. And then I¡¯ll finally get to shimmy up and down these buildings the way I want to.


    It¡¯s a warm day. The smells of smoke, street food, grease, and ocean salt linger in the air. I can feel the heat of the pavement through my threadbare shoes. Hardly anyone notices me as I limp toward the pier¡ªI¡¯m just another slum sector boy, after all¡ªbut then a girl heading off to school meets my gaze. She blushes when I look back, then quickly glances away.


    I pause at the water¡¯s edge to adjust the cap on my head, making sure all my hair is tucked underneath it. The orange and gold light reflecting off the water makes me squint. Out along the pier, workers are stacking the food crates right next to a little office where an inspector is typing up notes about the shipment. Now and then he looks away and talks into an earpiece. I stay where I am for a while, watching the pattern of the workers and the inspector. Then I glance down the street that runs along the shore.


    No street police in sight. Perfect.


    When I¡¯m sure no one¡¯s looking, I hop down the edge of the bank and limp into the shadows beneath the pier. Beams crisscross the pier¡¯s underbelly, supporting it as it juts out into the water. I grab some rocks from the mud near the water and shove them into my pockets. Then I pull myself up into the maze of beams and start climbing through them toward the crates. Salt water sprays me. The sound of waves lapping against the pier mixes with the voices above.


    ¡°You hear about that girl too, yeah?¡±


    ¡°What girl?¡±


    ¡°You know. The girl, the one that got into Drake at, what, twelve¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, that one. She must have parents with a deep wallet. Hey, where¡¯d you get sent to again?¡±


    Some laughter. ¡°Shut up. At least I got some schooling.¡±


    The waves drown out their conversation again. Several muffled thuds sound out from the planks over my head. They must be stacking crates here. I¡¯ve reached the spot right under the little office and the shipment of goods. I pause to readjust my footing. Then I climb up several beams, grab the edge of the pier¡¯s walkway, pull myself up, and peek around.


    The office is right over my head. The inspector stands on its far side, his back turned to me. I scramble quietly up onto the walkway and huddle in the shadows of the office¡¯s wall. The rocks in my pocket clack against each other. I take one of them out while keeping my eyes turned toward the workers. Then I fling the rock toward the boat as hard as I can.


    It hits the side of the boat with a loud thud, loud enough to get the attention of the boat workers. Several of them turn toward the sound¡ªothers head over to it. I take the chance and dart out from my hiding place, then make for the stack of crates. I manage to skid right behind it before anyone catches sight of me. My heart thuds frantically in my chest.


    Every time I steal Republic supplies, I imagine myself getting captured and dragged off to the local police headquarters. Getting my legs snapped, like what happened to Dad. Or maybe I wouldn¡¯t get taken to the headquarters at all. Maybe they¡¯d just shoot me dead right on the spot. I can¡¯t make up my mind which would be worse.


    Time¡¯s running out. I pull my pocketknife from where it¡¯s tucked neatly against my shoe, and then jam it into the side of one of the wooden crates until it breaks through. I hack away in silence, careful to keep an eye on which direction the guards are looking. Most of them have wandered away by now, thankfully. Only two still remain, and even they stand a good distance away from the crates, lost in mindless chatter.


    This shipment¡¯s definitely stuffed with canned goodies. My mouth waters as I fantasize again about what I might find inside. Hot dogs and sardines. Meats of all kinds. Corn, pickled eggs, beans. Maybe even peaches or pear slices. I¡¯d once managed to steal a fresh peach, and it was the best thing I¡¯d ever eaten in my life. My stomach lets out a loud rumble.


    ¡°Hey.¡±


    I jump. My eyes dart up to see a teenage girl leaning against the crates, chewing on a toothpick and watching me work with an amused grin on her face. All my food fantasies vanish. Instantly I yank my knife out of the crate and make a run for it. The other men on the pier see me, shout something, and give chase.


    I run as fast as I can down the pier. My bad knee burns from the sudden movement, but I ignore it. Bad knee won¡¯t matter if I¡¯m dead. I brace myself, waiting for the searing agony of a bullet in my back.


    ¡°Charlie!¡± one of them yells. ¡°Get that little con!¡±


    The girl replies with something I can¡¯t hear.


    I stumble through a pair of bewildered port workers, reach the pier¡¯s end and the beginning of Lake¡¯s streets, and run toward the closest alley I can see. Behind me, I can still hear the sounds of my pursuers. Stupid, so stupid. I should¡¯ve been quieter, or waited until nightfall. But I¡¯m so hungry. Now I just hope I can lose them in the maze of Lake¡¯s alleys. My cap flips off my head, but I¡¯m too scared to stop and go get it. My white-blond hair tumbles down past my shoulders in a wild mess.

 Page 2

    Someone tackles me from behind. I squirm right out of his grasp, then try to make a leap for the wall and get a grip on the second-floor ledge. But my bad knee¡ªalready weak from my hurried escape¡ªfinally gives way, and I collapse to the ground in the shadows of the alley. All the breath in my lungs gets knocked out in one whoosh, but I still twist around and bare my teeth, ready to sink them into whoever¡¯s grabbing me.


    ¡°Hey, chill out!¡± It¡¯s the girl who had first spotted me. She has a nonthreatening face, but she pins me firmly to the ground. ¡°It¡¯s just me. I told my dad¡¯s crew that I¡¯d track you down. They¡¯re all still back at the pier.¡±


    I keep struggling.


    ¡°Look, we could do this all day.¡± The girl tilts her head at me and gives me a frown. I keep expecting her to slide a knife against my throat. But she doesn¡¯t. After a few long seconds, I calm down. She nods at me when I do. ¡°What were you trying to steal from my father¡¯s shipment?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Just some food,¡± I reply. I¡¯m still having trouble catching my breath, and the pain in my knee isn¡¯t helping any. ¡°I haven¡¯t eaten in two days.¡±


    ¡°You from the Lake sector, cousin?¡±


    I give her a smile. I hope she can¡¯t see how nervous I am. ¡°As much as you,¡± I say, noting her slang. ¡°You¡¯re probably even from the same neighborhood as me.¡±


    She studies me for a moment. Now that I finally get a good look at her, I can see that she¡¯s kind of pretty, with brown skin and frizzy black hair pulled back into two haphazard braids. She has a light smattering of freckles on her nose, and her eyes are golden brown. Her eyebrows look permanently set at an amused angle. She¡¯s probably somewhere in her mid or late teens, although she looks small. A grin spreads on her face as she notices the way I¡¯m checking her out. She carefully lets me sit up, but she doesn¡¯t release my arm.


    ¡°You gonna let me go anytime soon?¡± I ask. ¡°Or are you gonna drag me back to your dad and his pals?¡±


    ¡°That depends.¡± She clicks her tongue against the inside of her cheek in an unconscious gesture. ¡°You were out to steal food from our shipment. If you¡¯d succeeded, my father would have to explain to Republic port authorities why he didn¡¯t meet quota. You think we like paying extra fines? Or getting arrested?¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m sorry. You think I like going hungry?¡±


    The girl laughs at me. ¡°Listen to you, tough boy. You¡¯re so adorable, I could pinch your cheek right off.¡± I blush at her taunt, but I don¡¯t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she got to me. So I glare at her without blinking. She stops laughing, chews thoughtfully on her toothpick, and then says, ¡°So what if you¡¯re hungry? What if I just drag you back to my dad right now? I could tell them to toss you into the lake. Or I could tell them to take you to the police station. My dad¡¯s crew loves me. They¡¯ll probably agree to whatever I tell them.¡±


    I swallow hard at the thought, then put on a brave face. ¡°Oh, come on, cousin.¡± I hold my palms up to her and give her as innocent of a look as I can. ¡°You¡¯re really gonna do that to a starving street boy? Just pretend I escaped. I won¡¯t come back, I promise. You can even take my pocketknife, if you want something in return. It¡¯s all I got.¡±


    ¡°How old are you?¡±


    ¡°Almost thirteen.¡±


    ¡°Aw, you¡¯re just a baby.¡± She grins at me, and then hesitates for a good minute. ¡°Look. I know how you feel,¡± she finally says, ¡°and believe me, there¡¯s nothing worse than the pain of an empty stomach.¡±


    ¡°You still thinking about turning me in, then?¡± I let my hopes rise. ¡°Anything I can do for you to keep myself out of a Republic jail?¡± I ask.


    ¡°What are you willing to do?¡± she replies.


    I give her a practiced smile. ¡°Whatever you want me to do, sweetheart.¡±


    The girl¡¯s eyebrows lift in surprise¡ªthen she throws her head back and laughs. I can¡¯t decide if I¡¯m flattered or insulted. I thought I sounded pretty cool.


    Another moment passes before the girl finally calms down, stands up, and hauls me to my feet. Now that we¡¯re both up, I can tell that she¡¯s only a few inches taller and just as lean. She nods in the direction of the pier. ¡°Tell you what. You¡¯re going to work for my dad for three days, and in exchange, I¡¯ll give you three cans of food. You can pick any three cans¡ªno fruits, though.¡± She shakes her head when she sees my disappointment. ¡°Sorry. Three days of work won¡¯t earn anyone a can of fruit.¡±


    Working in one spot for three days. The thought makes me a little anxious¡ªI don¡¯t like staying anywhere for that long. There are Republic eyes all over the place. But I don¡¯t really have a choice, and it¡¯s about as good of an offer as I¡¯ll get.


    I give the girl a hesitant nod. ¡°All right. Fine. You got yourself a deal.¡± I reach my free hand out to shake hers.


    She doesn¡¯t take it. Instead, she tilts her head a little, spits out her toothpick, and grins at me. ¡°I¡¯m not finished,¡± she says.


    My hand wavers. ¡°What else do you want?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a bold one in front of ladies, aren¡¯t you? Ever kiss a girl before?¡±


    Kiss a girl? What does that have to do with anything? For all my flirting, I¡¯ve never gotten that close. Well, I¡¯ve kissed a couple of girls on the cheek, and vice versa¡ªbut right on the lips? I was trying to work my way up to that. My eyes wander to her mouth, now dark and smiling, and I feel my face growing even hotter than it already was.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a no.¡± She laughs. ¡°Well, give it a shot, kid. Let¡¯s see if you can back up your smooth talk.¡±


    When I still don¡¯t make a move, the girl leans toward me, closes her eyes, and presses her lips against mine. I stiffen. They¡¯re much softer than I expected¡ªI don¡¯t know what I expected, actually. Of course they would be soft. A tingly feeling shoots down my spine. What should I do? Should I move? Eyes open or closed? For a while, I just stay completely still and keep my lips frozen. Maybe I¡¯m supposed to follow her lead. So I try that instead. Gradually, I start kissing her back. It doesn¡¯t seem so hard after a while . . . I even relax into it, letting my mind wrap around the fact that I¡¯m lip-locked with an older girl. My hands are numb. I can¡¯t feel my legs.


    She pulls away. Although she doesn¡¯t take her hand off my arm, her grip is less ironclad. I¡¯m still trying to catch my breath. ¡°Not too bad for your first try,¡± she says cheerfully. Her nose brushes against mine. ¡°Are you trembling?¡±


    I cringe. I¡¯d hoped she wouldn¡¯t notice.


    To my relief, she laughs before I can say anything embarrassing. ¡°Boy, you are just cute as a goddy button.¡± She taps my nose and leans away from me. ¡°All right, we got a deal. Back to the pier. If you behave yourself the whole time, I might even give you another kiss.¡±


    For the next three days, I work alongside her on her father¡¯s Republic-assigned boat. Her name is Charlie, I learn, and she just turned sixteen. She tells me about her life working the piers as we load and unload shipments from dawn until dusk. Her mother had died a few years ago in a factory accident. She has a sister who actually got a Trial score high enough to get her assigned to a college. She loves the lake area, even if it means she smells like the ocean all the time. She¡¯s happy that the Republic at least assigned her to work the piers with her father, instead of sending her off to the warfront to clean up after the troops. I don¡¯t bother telling her that that¡¯s what my father does¡ªdid, I mean¡ªbefore he stopped coming home. My hands get splinters from dragging crates back and forth, and by the second day, my back feels like it¡¯s going to break into pieces. Charlie¡¯s dad¡ªan enormous, bearded, pale-skinned man¡ªignores me completely, although sometimes he¡¯ll nod in approval if I¡¯m working really hard.


    I like the job. The girl gives me two cans a day instead of just one, which means every day I get to eat a can as well as save one for future meals. I also get a chance to stash trinkets that might be useful later on¡ªsharp splinters of wood I could use as weapons, a couple of abandoned burlap sacks, a round tin good for carrying water.


    Charlie catches me as I walk along the pier, snatching up stray nails and stuffing them in my pockets.


    ¡°What are you doing, preparing for battle?¡± she asks with a grin.


    I shrug. ¡°I haven¡¯t survived this long without some self-defense.¡±


    Charlie laughs, but she lets me carry on.


    In the evenings she sits with me while her father¡¯s crew gathers farther down the pier. I watch, with a little jealousy, the way she flirts with the workers whenever her dad¡¯s not around. She was right about one thing¡ªshe¡¯s their darling, and if she ever told them to throw me overboard, they¡¯d probably do it without hesitating. Slowly I grow used to the sound of the lake lapping against cement pillars and the unusual comfort of sleeping out in the open, knowing that in the morning I¡¯d have a can of food waiting for me. What a luxury. Sometimes I¡¯ll glance over at Charlie when she¡¯s not looking, and I¡¯ll try to replay our kiss in my head. I wonder if it meant anything to her. And whether or not she was serious about giving me another.

 Page 3

    On our last night together, Charlie leans back and regards me over the glow of our dim lamp. We¡¯re sitting together at the far end of the pier, watching the skyscrapers of downtown light up one by one. Pretty nice evening. Even the humidity doesn¡¯t seem as bad as usual, and now and then I can feel a cool breeze.


    ¡°So, you paid off your debt. What are you going to do tomorrow?¡± she asks me.


    I shrug. ¡°Don¡¯t know yet. I usually take things one day at a time.¡±


    We eat in silence for a few more minutes before she speaks up again. ¡°You haven¡¯t told me much about yourself,¡± she says. ¡°I don¡¯t even know your name.¡±


    I put down my half-eaten can of sausage and beans, then lean back on my elbows. ¡°Ed,¡± I reply, blurting out the first name I can think of. ¡°What else do you want to know?¡±


    She studies me. In the flickering lamplight, her eyes take on a honey-colored tint. ¡°How long have you lived in Lake?¡± She takes another bite of food and then tosses her can aside. ¡°What happened to your family? And how¡¯d your knee get that way? You always lived on the streets, or what?¡±


    I¡¯m quiet throughout her questions. It¡¯s only fair that she¡¯s asking, of course, since she¡¯s told me so much about herself. But if there¡¯s one thing I¡¯ve learned from living on the streets, it¡¯s to keep details about myself secret. Where would I even start? My name¡¯s Day. My family lives about thirty blocks northeast of here. I have a mother, an older brother, and a younger brother. All of them think I¡¯m dead. Republic doctors sliced open my knee while experimenting on my body. I was shipped to them after failing my Trial, and they¡¯d left me for dead in a hospital basement. I stumbled around, bleeding, for weeks afterward. I always travel alone, because if the Republic ever finds me, they¡¯ll snuff me out like a candle. I keep my head turned away as the memories fill me up and threaten to burst out of my chest. So many stories to tell.


    But I fold them away one by one.


    Charlie sobers at my silence. ¡°Well,¡± she starts, looking a little awkward for the first time since she¡¯s known me. She fiddles with one of her braids. ¡°All in good time, whenever you¡¯re ready.¡±


    I smile at her over the lamplight.


    ¡°If you want, you know, you can stay for a few more days,¡± she says. ¡°My dad says you¡¯re a good worker and proved your worth . . . he¡¯d be happy to keep you around a little longer. He might even give you some wages under the table. And, well, you¡¯re a nice kid. The streets are a harsh place to live¡ªI dunno how long you¡¯ll make it out there on your own.¡±


    Her offer¡¯s tempting. My heart warms, and there are unspoken words of gratitude on the tip of my tongue. I soak in her freckled face and rumpled braids, and in this moment I¡¯m completely ready to say yes. I can see myself working here beside her and making some sort of life for myself. I ache to belong to a family again, to become friends with this girl. Wouldn¡¯t that be something, yeah? I close my eyes and lose myself to the fantasy.


    ¡°I¡¯ll think about it,¡± I finally reply. It¡¯s a good enough answer for now.


    Charlie shrugs, and we both go back to finishing our dinners. We sleep side by side out on her boat¡¯s deck that night, close enough that our shoulders touch and I can feel the warmth coming from her body. I spend most of the night looking up at the sky. It¡¯s clear enough for me to make out about a dozen stars. I count them over and over again until they lull me into a light sleep.


    A shriek jolts me awake.


    I instinctively hop to my feet, then wince as my bad knee twists and forces me to sit back down. My pouch of random trinkets pokes me uncomfortably in my side. What¡¯s going on? What happened? Is it morning? All I notice in my confusion is the dim light of dawn that paints everything bluish gray.


    ¡°No! You can¡¯t!¡±


    Another shriek. This time I hear it come from farther down the pier, where the crew¡¯s crowded around something. Curious passersby have started accumulating along the street. Don¡¯t get close. Stay away. My instincts flare up, and instead of joining them, I hurry over to a nearby stack of crates and crouch in the shadows.


    At first I can¡¯t tell what¡¯s going on. Then, as I squint closer at the scene, I realize what¡¯s happening. A few Republic soldiers dressed in the attire of a city patrol¡ªnot street police, an actual city patrol¡ªare shouting questions at a large man. Charlie¡¯s dad. The shrieks come from Charlie, whom several of the crew members are holding back.


    One city patrol soldier punches her father squarely in the jaw. He falls to his knees.


    ¡°You damn dogs!¡± Charlie shouts at the patrol. ¡°You liars! We¡¯re not behind on shipments¡ªwe¡¯re not even in charge of that! You can¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Calm down,¡± one of the soldiers snaps at her. ¡°Or you¡¯ll feel the bite of a bullet. Got that?¡± Then he nods to his companions. ¡°Confiscate their shipment.¡±


    Charlie screams something I can¡¯t make out, but her father shakes his head at her, giving her a firm warning. A trail of blood leaks from the edge of his mouth. ¡°It¡¯ll be okay,¡± he calls out to her even as the soldiers hurry along the end of the pier and load crates onto their truck.


    I wait quietly in the dark as they fill their truck. If they take Charlie¡¯s whole shipment, then that means they won¡¯t get paid for at least two weeks. Some of them would go hungry for sure. A memory rushes back to me of when the city patrols had once taken my dad away for questioning, how they¡¯d brought him back bloodied and broken. Anger and recklessness rush through my mind. I narrow my eyes at the soldiers, then dart quietly from the shadows to the edge of the water. As the chaos continues to unfold at the end of the pier, no one notices as I slip soundlessly into the water and make my way off along the shore. My bad knee protests as I paddle, but I grit my teeth and ignore it.


    When I¡¯ve swum far enough to reach the next set of piers, I make my way up to the banks, crawl up to street level, and melt into the early-morning crowds. Water drips down my chin; my soggy boots squish with each step I take. The soldiers will probably take another few minutes to finish loading everything up and checking off the crates¡ªby the time they head back out this way to Lake¡¯s police station, I¡¯ll be ready for them. As I limp through the crowds, I reach down to my belt and tug open the pouch of trinkets. I¡¯ve got a good stash of nails. I scatter them all across the street until I¡¯m confident that I¡¯ve covered a large swath of the road. Then I turn a corner, dart into a narrow alley, and crouch behind a large trash bin. My knee throbs in protest. I rub wet strands of hair impatiently away from my face.


    I gingerly stretch out my leg, wince, and rub at the old scar that runs across my knee. Gotta move fast if I want this to work. I check to make sure my pocketknife¡¯s tucked securely against my boot, then settle in to wait.


    A few minutes later, I hear what I¡¯ve been hoping for¡ªthe sound of a city patrol truck approaching from farther ahead, its recognizable beeping alarm ringing out down the street. My body tenses.


    The truck draws nearer. People clear to either side as it honks its way through the morning rush.


    Then¡ª


    Pop!


    One of the truck¡¯s tires bursts¡ªit skids, then careens haphazardly to one side, sending up some shrieks from the crowd. It crashes to a halt several feet from where my alley is. I struggle to my feet. The back of the truck has popped open in all the chaos, and a dozen or so crates lie open and spilled on the streets.


    Two soldiers hop out from the truck right as crowds of people gather around the truck, some already eagerly picking up cans of meat that have rolled out of the broken crates. ¡°Back up!¡± one soldier shouts in vain at the crowd. The other soldier pushes people back with his rifle.


    I rush in with the pack. If I could grab even one of the crates and bring it back to Charlie, I¡¯d call that a win. The people tower over me, jostling me back and forth as everyone tries to snatch a small portion of the food. I duck my head, fold myself down as small as I can, and push doggedly on. Finally, I see the truck before me¡ªand the spilled contents all over the ground.


    I reach down and shove two tins of meat right into my pockets. Then I grab the edge of one crate, pull back with all my might, and start dragging it along the ground. Several other soldiers have arrived to back up the original two; I try to work faster as they begin pushing people back from the scene. I clench my jaw and pull harder.


    ¡°Hey¡ªget away from that!¡±


    A soldier catches sight of me, grabs me by the collar of my shirt, and tosses me unceremoniously back against the throngs. My bad knee buckles¡ªI cry out in pain and land in a weird position. The soldier grabs the crate I was dragging and shoots me a furious glare. ¡°Damn baby street cons,¡± he spits at me. ¡°Go back to your alley. Keep your hands off Republic property.¡±


    That¡¯s mine, I scream silently. That¡¯s for Charlie. To my surprise, an urge to cry surges up from a deeper part of me. That¡¯s for my family. For people I care about.


    But there¡¯s not much I can do now. I¡¯m too late, I¡¯m too small, and I¡¯m too weak. The scene I¡¯ve caused is useless to me now¡ªenough soldiers have arrived that the people no longer have the guts to grab for the crates¡¯ contents.

 Page 4

    I scramble to my feet, then shove my way through the people as the soldiers gather to inspect the burst tire of their truck. At least I banged up one of their precious vehicles, I think darkly.


    I make my way back to the pier where Charlie¡¯s crew works. By the time I get there, my knee¡¯s sore. I¡¯m sweaty and exhausted. Charlie sees me from a distance, jumps down from the stack of crates she¡¯s sitting on, and rushes over. ¡°There you are,¡± she says. She seems to have composed herself since her earlier outburst. Her eyes run over my damp clothes. ¡°Where¡¯d you go?¡±


    I just shrug. I pull the two tins of meat out of my pockets. ¡°There was some sort of commotion down the street,¡± I reply, handing her the tins. ¡°Truck overturned. I grabbed these. Sorry¡ªthey wouldn¡¯t let us get any closer. How¡¯s your dad?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s okay. He¡¯s taken harder hits before.¡± Charlie gives me a wry smile of thanks, but hands the tins back to me. ¡°You keep these. Two tins won¡¯t do us much good.¡± She looks over her shoulder at the crew. Then she bends down, leans toward my ear, and whispers, ¡°That was you, wasn¡¯t it? You saw the whole thing this morning. You found some way to mess that truck up, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    I blink at her. ¡°I¡ª¡±


    Charlie grins when she sees my guilty expression. ¡°Yeah, we were out there too. Your little stunt let some of my dad¡¯s crew get in there and grab a few of our crates back.¡±


    The weight on my chest lifts a little. I look at her in surprise, and then break into a small smile. ¡°You guys were there? You saw the truck?¡±


    Charlie¡¯s eyes study mine. For a moment, it¡¯s as if she can see right into my heart. ¡°You got a death wish or something?¡± she finally says. She reaches up to ruffle my hair. ¡°I¡¯ll hand it to you¡ªyou¡¯ve got some nerves of steel, running off like that and messing up a city patrol¡¯s truck.¡±


    I blush, then look down at my feet. ¡°Just got lucky,¡± I mutter. But deep down, I can¡¯t help feeling a spark of pride. They¡¯d gotten some of their supplies back. Maybe my stunt hadn¡¯t been useless after all.


    Charlie¡¯s expression softens. Her hand lifts my chin so that I meet her stare. She leans down and gives me an affectionate peck on the lips. ¡°Thank you,¡± she says. ¡°You¡¯re a good kid. I bet the Republic hasn¡¯t seen the last of you.¡±


    I sleep on the boat¡¯s deck with the crew that night. But early the next morning, when dawn has barely reached the water¡¯s edge and Charlie¡¯s eyes are still closed, I get up and sneak quietly away. I take nothing with me except my few trinkets and tins of food. I don¡¯t look at her one last time, and I don¡¯t leave her any notes or say good-bye. The air is cool, nipping at my cheeks and lips, a reminder of the empty space around me. I keep my hands in my pockets and my head held high. My hair is loose.


    I can¡¯t stay here. If anything, yesterday¡¯s events reminded me very clearly of why I wander the streets alone, why I don¡¯t dare let myself get tangled up in relationships with anyone else out here in Lake. Soldiers had attacked Charlie¡¯s dad just for falling short on a shipment¡ªwhat would happen to them if the soldiers found out that they were harboring a boy who¡¯d escaped from the Republic¡¯s labs? A boy who¡¯s supposed to be dead? Dad had always told me to move forward, never backward.


    So I keep my toes pointed away from the pier and inland toward the slums. Best to be alone out here. I¡¯m a floating soul, a phantom . . . I belong nowhere. Charlie¡¯s words echo in my mind.


    I bet the Republic hasn¡¯t seen the last of you.


    I smile. No, I sincerely hope that they haven¡¯t.


    My feet feel heavy, but they don¡¯t make a sound.