Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Wren

Of course I come back.

Peering through the hole at the bottom of the wall, I search on hands and knees as far as my limited view will allow. I have to know what happened to him. Nightmares plagued most of my sleep, which leaves me tired and frustrated when I don’t see the boy.

“Why did you run, then! It was your fault!”

Propped on one palm, I thunk my temple with the other, drumming the dull ache that’s since blossomed there. “Go away,” I whisper. “Not today. Not today. Not today.”

My head tells me to give up and find a place to hide where I can chide myself for scaring him off. My head tells me he’s dead and that it’s my fault. I try not to listen to my head, if I can help it, though, because it doesn’t always tell me to do the right things. Sometimes, it tells me to hurt others, or myself, and right now, my head wants me to find the roughest bark in this forest and rub my wrist against it until it’s bleeding and raw. Punishment for frightening the boy.

If I do, though, Papa will start asking questions, and I don’t like to disappoint him, because he’s the only person in this place who doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy.

I’m not crazy. I can’t help the thoughts that run through my head, and it’s not as if I think about them all the time. It’s only when I feel hurt, or sadness, the way I’m feeling for that boy.

It’s the black moments that scare me most, though. When I can’t remember anything I’ve said, or done. Only the voices fill the void, telling me I’m still alive, and to wake up. When I do, there’s usually a cold, sick feeling in my gut, my skin covered in sweat, and a blankness hanging behind my eyes. I’ve kept the blackness away for a while now, but the ache means the darkness is coming. My head feels light, along with my stomach.

I sit clutching my head for what seems like an hour, waiting for that black hole to suck me in, when I hear the gravel shift over the low hum of the Ragers on the other side of the wall.

On hands and knees, I crawl closer to the opening and peer through. My heart suddenly feels bigger, pushing against my ribs. I don’t even understand the relief washing over me at the sight of the boy’s profile.

Inked below his shaved head, right at his hairline, above the band of his collar, is the sequence of numbers that I noticed before, only this time, I see they disappear around the base of his skull. From this angle, I can make out a large scab behind his ear, and the zigzag of another poorly-sewn scar on the edge of his nape, below his hairline. His jawline is sharp and strong, in spite of the frailty of his body, as he sits with his knees tucked into himself.

When his eyes find me, my heart leaps in my throat at how I forgot their striking effect. I’ve never seen the ocean myself, only in books, but I imagine it so vividly in those eyes.

“I thought you were dead. I thought the Ragers had killed you.”

As usual, he doesn’t answer, but his glance toward the Ragers and back tells me he isn’t ignoring me on purpose.

“Are you hungry?”

He nods in response, and just like the day before, I gather up figs and berries, more than yesterday’s, shoving them through the small hole. When he reaches for them, I recoil at the odd shape of his finger, which looks as if it’s been broken. Yet, the boy scoops up the fruit, untroubled by the deformity, and devours the proffered food.

So many questions swirl inside my head, but I’m hesitant to ask most of them, for fear he’ll run off again. Instead, I watch him eat, admiring the way he looks at the food before every bite, as if he’s grateful for it.

Minutes pass, and I gather more fruit, sucking on the flesh of a split open fig.

Once again, I lie on my stomach, musing over the oddity that I could watch him eat for hours without boredom.

“You still can’t tell me your name?”

He shakes his head, smashing a handful of berries into his mouth.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

Shakes his head.

“Well, which is it? You won’t?”

At the third shake of his head, I begin to think he’s patronizing me.

“Can’t?”

Then he nods.

“Surely, they must call you something there. The others. Do they have a name for you?”

He nods again.

“What is it?”

Abandoning the fruit in his palm, he lifts his hands—five fingers on one, the broken index finger on the other. Six. He gestures a sequence of numbers that strike me as familiar.

“The number on your head?”

He nods and goes back to eating his stockpiled fruit.

“That’s way too long to remember. I’ll just call you Six.”

His broken finger catches my attention, the way he favors the others around it, and I know it must hurt. I merely twisted my ankle a few months back and could hardly walk.

“Did the others do that to your finger?”

He holds his hand out from his face and bends the digit that’s begun to turn black and blue, squinting at an undoubtedly painful movement. He nods.

What kind of hospital breaksbones?

“Are they doctors there?” I tread carefully with my questions, not wanting to frighten him again.

His nod only drums more confusing thoughts inside my head. Ones I know the boy won’t answer. Perhaps if I frame the question right, I can ask Papa without rousing his suspicion.

I find there’s little room in my heart for compassion, or love, as a general rule, but my soul aches for this boy. “How old are you?”

Finished with his fruit, he glances over at me and reaches beyond my view. With a thin twig, he draws a one and a nine in the dirt. Nineteen. The nineteen-year-olds on this side of the wall are big, with muscles and small minds, dreaming of the day they can wear the black suits and become one of The Legion. Some are only sixteen when they venture out on the other side of the wall—lively, if not privileged, little shits who are never seen again. They occasionally march through town, like a herd of drones, their height being the only distinguishable feature.

A sounding horn startles my muscles.

Six scrambles to his feet and, like the day before, dives through the crowd of Ragers, leaving behind a few fruits.

Only this time I don’t worry.

I have a feeling I’ll see him tomorrow.