The two women stared at one another, inches from falling over a ledge with no hope of recovery. The younger begged the older, and the older broke first.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, just a breath. She moved slow around the room, preparing to leave, and Esma's gaze followed her movements. When finally ready, Esma's mother gave Jonathan a long look, studying him. He held her gaze, stretching his spine, trying to show his strength. He wanted her to believe he could help, to believe he could protect the last family the woman had left. Whatever conclusions she came to, he wasn't sent away. Instead, the three walked together, borrowing and sharing courage.

  ESMA

  Sadness made her whole body heavy. She wore it like a drenched coat, dragging at her shoulders.

  Worse was not knowing. Was her father really dead? Why? But even as she wondered, clinging to hope, she knew in her heart there was none. This was the story for hundreds of Workers all throughout the valley. Fathers and mothers and children hugging and kissing goodbye, only to disappear into the shadows forever. Bodies removed. Never seen again.

  Everything was changing. The eyes of the wounded Watcher haunted her.

  We've made things worse...

  She worked through the day with a lump in her throat and unshed tears burning in her vision. As her fingers took up the same mundane task of examining hems, her eyes shifted up. There, across the wide expanse of the room, was the woman whose eyes she'd locked with the day of the announcement. Again, their gazes met, and this time the woman's eyebrows drew in, concerned.

  The connection struck Esma deep; it held a measure of knowing. She felt as though the woman was reading her thoughts, and the grief she carried was now plain for the whole room to witness. A tear escaped down her cheek, and her fingers stilled, the fabric lowering to her lap. But Watchers were near, and as fast as she'd indulged the moment of sadness, she forced herself to fold it back into place.

  At lunch, no one was dragged out for stealing food; most people were too afraid to move their bodies wrong or let a string of words slip in the presence of the Watchers. Taking extra would not be an issue in their factory again, Esma knew. But Jonathan had done it, and for the rest of the day she stressed over his safety. She forgot to warn him.

  A body settled on the bench to her left, and Esma's tired eyes drifted slow to glance. The woman from across the factory floor now sat at her side, a careful question spoken with a furrowed brow: Are you all right?

  Esma clenched her teeth, fighting another wave of tears. The ache of sorrow radiated through her jaw and throat and mouth, but she couldn't break here. Not now. Her eyes returned to the food on her tray.

  "My name is Norma," the woman whispered, somehow managing to keep her voice just between them. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

  Esma's gaze jerked back to the woman.

  Norma took a bite of bread. Swallowing, she murmured, "I saw the change. It always shows on the face. But you must be careful. They'll notice if you get distracted."

  Esma sat frozen, afraid to talk. If she answered the woman, engaged with her kindness, would it draw the Watchers to them? As if sensing the same threat, Norma said nothing else throughout lunch, but her gentle presence made Esma feel less alone.

  Rain pattered the street when she left the factory, a light drizzle mixing with the dirty streets, creating puddles of filth. Esma walked with her head bent, but eyes always scanning for guns. She met the stern gaze of a young Watcher, thick eyebrows pinched above his nose, and fear cut across her chest. But his gaze only moved past hers, not connecting, and in the moments that his attention turned, she rushed on, blending with the crowd.

  Rain drenched her hair, the drops sliding down her face. She walked fast, her boots grinding into the rocky asphalt. The walk home used to be something to look forward to. The Workers would chatter quietly to one another, releasing the pressures of the day in murmured conversations and gentle laughter. But now, in the shadow of all the deaths, and in fear of more, all their lips were sealed.

  Passing Jonathan's factory, she spotted the boy standing alongside the edge of the building, sheltered beneath an awning. He ran to meet her, sliding an arm across her shoulders like they were old friends—like the gesture was natural, a thing they always did. She didn't smile; she didn't feel capable. But her eyes lifted, connecting with his, and she let them express her gratitude.

  Jonathan bent his mouth to her ear as they walked, whispering, his warm breath on her skin. He smelled like clean linen and soap.

  "Come meet my father tonight."

  Pain blossomed in her chest, a wound still raw from last night's trauma. But Jonathan was quick to explain.

  "We can help you. Keep you and your mother safe. My father will want to know you...now that we're friends."

  "He can't keep us safe," Esma whispered, clenching her jaw. Images assaulted her, memories of her father jabbing his finger to his own chest, reminding them that it was his job to protect. And now he was dead.

  The boy pressed on as they traveled the darkening streets, asking, insisting. In the end, she agreed, but her opinion was firmly rooted in doubt; no promise of protection could be kept by a Worker. Not now.

  Esma stretched her arm to stop Jonathan, and the two came to a halt. Just before them, glistening in the rain and lamp lighting was a patch of broken glass in front of a dumpster. Trampling over it would have meant wasted time digging it from the soles of their boots.

  Esma leaned just a little, pulling away to study the glass more closely. In the shining sides that lay facing up, the girl noticed small pieces of her own reflection. A sad eye. Her frown.

  “Maybe someone dropped it,” Jonathan offered, but as they continued on their path, they saw more of the same. Pieces of glass littered the streets, scattered shards dropped from larger piles that now filled the trash bins.

  Unease settled over Esma. She couldn’t explain the glass, couldn’t think of an explanation that made sense.

  “Why the mirrors?” she whispered, scanning the street for listening ears.

  Jonathan’s brows drew in, worried, but he never answered.

  For the last ten minutes of their walk, the two were silent, sliding their tired feet along the wet street. Jonathan kept his arm across her shoulders, and Esma soon came to understand the gesture to be a promise, his first act of protection, proving himself. She caught his gaze from the corner of her eye, and in the moment she turned, saw only sincerity.

  They were drawn together now by a kind of magnetic pull. Her pain and his strength, her kindness and his loss. She knew then, in that look, she would never find a friend more important.

  JONATHAN

  He sensed her doubt, and for good reason. But she'd been put in his way, and now their lives were too much connected. He may not be able to protect her from the Watchers, but he would make her feel secure, if only in friendship. It was a role he wanted more than any.

  They walked the stairs behind a crowd, slowly ascending to their floor. All the while, Jonathan fought back a swelling in his chest, a filling up of a space that for so long was empty. There was no purpose in the work they did; they saw no reward for their labor. But looking after Esma and her mother, that was something he could focus his energy on. Like feeding Outcasts, this was something he could love to do.

  "This way," he whispered when their feet landed on nine. "Only for a minute."

  He led her past her own door, taking her hand firm in his. He was on a mission now, one that meant proving his word. Esma's steps were slow, just behind his. He was careful as he pulled her along, but they had to hurry.

  The door creaked when it opened, and his father sat waiting in a chair, a breeze blowing the torn curtain from the wall. William Bakker was a brave man, but he took no chances with his son. Jonathan knew to expect waiting eyes every evening when he arrived home.

  "Thank God," the man murmured, as he always did. Jonathan opened the door farther, revealing Esma. William's eyes widened. Standing fast, he gestured with his arms. "Hurry. Close it."

  With the door closed, Jonathan stood near his friend, arm against arm, hand in hand. It was a show of the things deeper in his heart, the things he'd not revealed to the girl. But his father would see...and respect it.

  "This is Esma," the boy said. "From just down the walkway."

  William approached with an easy expression. Warmth spilled into Jonathan's heart; his father was a good man, and he loved him for it.

  "I'm glad to meet you, Esma," said the father, taking her hand in his. Jonathan watched the girl's face, feeling the weight of her grief; her gaze barely lifted from the floor. She said nothing at first. William continued.

  "I may have seen you before. I believe our paths cross on occasion. My name is William."

  This drew a small nod. Jonathan stepped forward.

  "Something happened," he said, glancing at Esma. His voice softened. "Her father didn't come home last night."

  William's eyes shifted to the girl's somber face.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," the man whispered, and Jonathan felt the effect in his middle...a twinge of long-suffered absence. This was a pain his father understood, and his voice kept no secrets.

  Esma glared at the floor, fighting tears. Jonathan dropped his arm around her shoulders.

  "I promised we'd look out for her and her mother," he said, squaring his frame.

  Esma's quiet voice cut in. "I told you there's nothing you can do."

  "We can help you," the boy murmured, but her head shook, angry eyes lifting.

  "Everything's different," she said. "Changed. We can never be safe now."

  Jonathan's father sighed. "There's truth in that, I won't deny it. But it's better to suffer together than alone...don't you agree?"

  The girl held his gaze, until at last her shoulders relaxed. Jonathan smiled, just a small lift in the corner of his lips.

  "Or better yet, to fight together."

  "That's foolish talk," the father chided, settling back in his chair. "I'll hear no more of it."

  "But there are more of us," Jonathan insisted. He'd been thinking this through since they'd met the Watcher on the street. If all the Workers joined...

  Esma stepped back, glaring up at her friend. "You heard what the Watcher said. The Council is too strong."

  Jonathan felt his father's stare.

  "You spoke to a Watcher?" the man asked, measuring his tone. Jonathan's neck warmed.

  "He was injured. Shot by his squad."

  "What did he have to say?"

  For five seconds, Jonathan let the question hover between them. There was a glimmer in his father's eyes, a stubborn flash of hope that he hated dousing.

  "He was sorry," the boy said quiet. "Sorry that they failed."

  His heart sank with the fall of his father's shoulders, heavy stones set deep in his gut.

  "But that's the thing," he pressed. "If the Workers joined with them, added to their numbers, it might be enough to win!"

  "Get Esma home," was the reply. "And get back here before the siren."

  Jonathan bit his mouth to stop a rebuttal. His heart pounded, racing with the thoughts of what if. They'd talk later, he was sure of it.

  "It was a pleasure to meet you, Esma," William said, rising again to touch her arm. "Please tell your mother we're here to help if you ever have the need. You're not alone. Remember that."

  ESMA

  His father was kinder than hers had been. Meeting William sparked feelings of longing, empty wishes for more chances to connect with the man she'd often disappointed. She never doubted his love; he'd shown it when it mattered most. But the in between was a cloud of tense memories: sharp words and heavy scowls.

  She understood where Jonathan's constant nature came from; his father was inherently gentle.

  A clock far below offered ten minutes before the siren. Instead of leading her home, Jonathan tugged Esma the opposite direction. She followed without hesitation, needing something she couldn't put words to.

  A small alcove cut into a section of cement wall sat hidden, the inside devoid of light. The two tucked their bodies into the darkness, only inches between them.

  Figures passed, Workers rushing to their units, oblivious to the powerful bond fusing two lives quickly together...unaware that in the secret space of the alcove, Esma was learning what it meant to really live.

  She pressed her back to the wall, enough to lift her eyes to see his when her vision adjusted. Sorrow choked her, pain like a grip around her throat. But something in his gaze anchored her.

  "You okay?" the boy whispered.

  "What will happen?" she asked, knowing full well he couldn't answer. It was the great question, the one on all their minds. The Watcher said things would get worse, but she couldn't imagine what that would mean.

  "We remember the blue sky," Jonathan murmured, and warmth rushed her heart. "We find reasons to smile and wait until the next uprising."

  "They may never try again."

  Jonathan gently squeezed her arms. "Then it's up to us."

  "We can't fight them without weapons."

  "No, but we can do other things. We can spread the word, build courage in the Workers. If there are still Watchers working toward freedom, our strength might be what they need to get it started again."

  His words hung in the silence now stretching between them, whispers of treason that fanned hope deep in Esma. This boy was an anomaly, and now, in the quiet, she wondered how she was lucky enough to know him.

  Jonathan peered down the walkway. "I have to get you home-"

  "Wait."

  She'd said the word before thinking it through, and now the boy stood eager, obedient to her request. But it was only that need that made her say it. Only the pull she felt, never wanting to part from him. Friendship was rare in her world, but this was something else.

  She wrapped him in a hug, and his arms fell naturally into place.

  "Thank you," she whispered, feeling his heart pounding like hers. Jonathan squeezed tighter.

  "I'll take care of you," he murmured, "if you'll let me."

  She thought of his mother, of the empty place they both felt.

  "We'll take care of each other." Her eyes touched his, and she saw it; she'd said what he needed to hear.

  JONATHAN

  His body buzzed as he reentered his unit. Currents ran under his skin, a constant energy making him feel brave…and reckless. He'd do anything to protect her, even if it meant going up against weapons. The solitude of eighteen years had shattered when Esma passed him on the walkway, and now she filled his thoughts.

  "That took longer than I expected."

  William lay stretched on his cot, an arm bent beneath his head. Jonathan eased out of his boots, moving on tired feet to the ration cabinet.

  "We could do it, you know." He glanced at his father to gauge his reaction, lifting a can of soup from the shelf. "Add something to their efforts. Help build a resistance."

  A sigh drifted from the cot. "You promised me you'd be wise, son. Can't you see their attempt failed?"

  "They'll try again."

  Jonathan crossed to his father and knelt beside his worn-out form. "Don't we want to be ready? Shouldn't we prepare, just in case?"

  William sat up, groaning when his muscles ached. "I won't be the one to stop you. If I were to be wrong, I'd never forgive myself for telling you to do nothing." He rested a hand on his son's shoulder, eyebrows pulled in. "But Jonathan, you need to remember that you are responsible for every life you involve. If you inspire others to join this effort, you bear the burden of leadership."

  "I just want to help them be brave," the boy said, holding his father's gaze. "If their courage is already strong, they'll be ready to act at any time."

  William nodded, staring at his son, a small smile lifting his lips.

  "When did you become a man?" he asked softly. "It seems to me you were just learning to walk, toddling around here in nothing but your diaper."

  An ache grew in Jonathan's throat. Clenching his teeth against emotions, he murmured, "I'm only what you taught me to be."

  "No," the father said. "You're much more."

  The night was spent in quiet peace. William fell asleep, his soft snores a welcome sound after all the deaths. Jonathan lay in the warm, sticky breeze, thinking of ways he could spread word in secret. There could be nothing in writing; written words might too easily incriminate. The only option was by word of mouth, sharing hope throughout the towers, with warnings to keep it quiet. But could all Workers be trusted? Fear made people do foolish things.

  Esma's face remained in his mind, a beautiful blend of sadness and strength. He sensed the grief emanating from their unit, felt the ache of it with them, knowing they'd be restless in sleep for a long time coming. She would have to endure it, to face it head on if she was to heal.

  As he drifted, Jonathan tried to remember his mother's face. If he thought about her as sleep took him, she might just show up in his dreams.

  ESMA

  A slow burning kept her awake, a fire lit deep in her chest, warming the lonely places. Stretched on her cot in the dark of her unit, Esma pressed fingers to her ears to block out the violent sounds drifting through the open window. Her mother slept, lying on her stomach, head buried beneath a limp pillow.

  She'd noticed boys before, knowing one day she'd have to choose one; marriage was not optional. A few had talked to her over the last years, but there was always a shared objective driving the conversation, key questions crammed into stolen minutes, a rushed effort to learn the important things.

  But the things that mattered to Esma before no longer seemed to. She no longer cared about family health history or related Outcasts, assigned factories or executed relatives. Those were the things her father instructed her to learn about the boys she talked with. But she would never ask Jonathan.

 

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