Part 7 (1/2)

”I'll tell you while we pollinate,” he says. He slings one strap of the black backpack over his shoulder. Next, he gets a rifle and slings it over the other shoulder, making an X across his chest with the straps. He eases out of the tent, and I follow.

We walk past the campa”everyone stares at mea”and then go to the base of the wall. And I see the first living plant I have seen since I saw Jacqui's mom painting corn. Many plants, actually, in an a.s.sortment of mismatched potsa”terracotta, plastic, clay, a few even grow in dirt piled in the interior of old car tires, or in paint cans.

I step up to a plant and trail my fingers over the pulpy green leaves. Tears sting my eyes and my throat constricts. ”It's beautiful,” I whisper. ”What kind of plant is it?”

”A tomato,” Bowen says, looking at me like I'm nuts. ”Are you crying?”

I sniffle and shrug. ”It reminds me of a the world I used to know.” The world I belong to, where I am thirteen and Jonah is normal and plants grow. And I have never seen a pair of electromagnetic cuffs, not to mention been forced to wear them.

”Here.” Bowen holds out a fine-bristled paintbrush, and I take it. ”We need to pollinate them or they won't produce any fruit.”

Like Jacqui's mom painting the corn.

”What you do is stick the paintbrush into the little yellow flowers, like this.” Instead of watching his little demonstration, I stare at his profile, wondering if he misses the old world as much as I do, wondering if he misses his family. ”And then move to another flower. Until we've done it to all of the flowers. Got it?” He looks up and I nod.

I stick the fine bristles of my paintbrush into the flower. Tiny, pale grains of dust cling to ita”pollen. I move to the next flower and do the same, brus.h.i.+ng the dust from the first flower into the second, while taking dust from the second to place in the third.

”You asked me what it means to turn,” Bowen says, his voice warm and deep and grown-up. I pause and watch him move his paintbrush from flower to flower, his strong, callused hands gentle and precise. ”Your tattoo. Do you remember getting it?”

I look at my hand and can remember the needle darting in and out of my skin faster than I could see. I remember the sound, a grinding buzza”like getting a tooth drilled. I remember crying. ”A little,” I say.

”Well, that tattoo was given to the kids who were lucky enough to get the bee flu vaccine,” he says, looking at me. ”Only problem was, they didn't know about the vaccine's long-term effect. So everyone who got it, even one dose, is infected. If they haven't turned into a beast, like the Fec you came here with, they will before long. But the Fec was a Level Three. You are a Ten.”

I stare at the tattoo. ”So what does Level Ten mean?”

”It means you were one of the special kids, one of the very first to get the vaccine. Our nation's hope for the future.” He says this last part with bitter sarcasm. ”Probably because of your father's military connections and your musical talent, you qualified for the earliest possible dose. And because of that, you got ten months of the vaccine. The highest dose given.” Bowen points to my tattoo. ”Each of those marks,” he says, motioning to the legs coming out of the circle, ”represents a dose of vaccine. Ten months was the longest anyone took it. Because after ten months, every kid who'd been lucky enough to qualify for the shots started showing signs of insanity.”

My brother's animal-crazed face flashes into my mind. ”What do you mean, insanity?” I whisper.

He takes a small step away from me, hand on the remote, eyes wary. ”You know the thing that attacked you last night?”

I nod. My body still hurts.

”That was a Level Eight. Totally insane.”

Anger flares in my chest. My brother can't be insane. ”He didn't look insane to me. He looked like a wild animal,” I snap.

”Yeah. Insane wild animals that ma.s.sacred their own families and neighbors and friends. And then ate them if they couldn't find anything else to eat!” Bowen glares at me, and his jaw muscles pulse.

I think of my brother trying to catch me as I slid through the bathroom window. Did he catch the rest of my family? My stomach starts to hurt, and I can hardly hold the paintbrush in my trembling fingers. ”Dreydena””

”Don't call me that,” he growls, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one's around.

I look at my feet. ”Sorry. Bowen. What happened to my family?” Did my brother eat them or kill them? That is what I'm really asking. I stare at the scuffed toes of his brown army boots. When he doesn't answer, I look at him.

He studies me for a long minute, searching my face with his wary, uncertain eyesa”eyes that know more than a seventeen-year-old's should. ”Lissa lives inside the wall. I saw her a couple of years ago. She looked good. Your mom a”

I hold my breath, my entire body tingling with hope. ”Is she alive?”

He frowns and looks away. ”I saw her once inside the wall. At least I think it was her. She was old, right? She had you and your brother when she was, what, forty?”

She couldn't get pregnant after she had Lis. After trying to have a baby for seven years, Jonah and I were her in vitro miracles. ”She was thirty-nine.”

”She'd be over the government-enforced age limit. Most likely she'sa”” His mouth snaps shut, and he begins furiously painting flowers.

”Can you take me to her? On Sunday?” My voice is desperate. I know that if I find her, she'll be able to fix everything. I ache for my mother.

He shakes his head, glaring at the paintbrush in his fingers. ”No. She's gone by now. The Sunday after she turned fifty-five, theya”can we not talk about this?” he snaps, scowling at me.

I shake my head. ”I need to know. What happened to my mom?” I whisper, sick with dread. Already I can tell what he knows isn't good.

”Are you sure you want to know?” he asks.

I nod.

”Life inside the wall has rules.” His mouth puckers, as if the word rules leaves a bad taste on his tongue. ”No one with physical disabilities is allowed inside the wall. No one's allowed inside who suffers from any type of mental illnessa”even depression. If you are an unmarried male age fifteen or older, you are a.s.signed to work in the militia unless you have an invaluable skill, like farming, engineering, or medical expertise. The inner-wall age limit is fifty-five. After that people are too old to be much worth, so they a” He sweeps his hand through his hair, moving it from his forehead. ”After that they're either kicked out or a” Bowen mumbles something so fast I can't understand him.

”Kicked out or what?”

The color drains from his tan cheeks and he whispers, ”Offered medically a.s.sisted suicide. Put to sleep. Terminated. They say it's painless.”

Heavy numbness settles over me. My mother is dead. That's why he didn't want to tell me. ”And my father? Would they let him inside the wall even though he was disabled?”

Bowen tilts his head to the side and frowns. ”Your father? I thought that a” He clears his throat. ”No wheelchairs inside.”

I turn to the plants and quietly pollinate, letting the reality settle in, letting silent tears wash over my face. My mom and dad are dead.

A long time pa.s.ses, maybe hours. Bowen and I have pollinated nearly all the plants, and my tears have finally stopped falling. ”What is the lab?” I ask, sticking my paintbrush into a flower.

”The lab is the place where they test different strains of antivenin in search of the cure. On, you know, the beasts. Sort of like animal testing.”

My eyes grow round, and I look up from the tomato plant. ”Wait a sec, I'm going to a lab to be their human guinea pig?”

”They test insane, beastly humans, Fo. Not regular people.”

”But I am a regular person. I'm not a beast!” I say, panicked.

He studies the paintbrush in his hands as if it's the first time he's seen it. ”You're a Ten. You could turn any second. Break my arms from my body. Shatter my skull with your bare hands.”

”Tear your beating heart from your chest and eat it?” I say.

”Yeah. That, too. Charlie, my old friend, was torn in two by a beast.”