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7

AMITY

I followmy mother through the basement of the courthouse, my arms cuffed in the front. I never dreamed that this day would be like this. I figured I’d pledge my Oath, grab my bags, and head to the Institute to start training.

Instead, I’m dressed like an Oath Refuser. My wrists are bound like a criminal. I have a rebel haircut. I’m about to be deported.

My mom’s back straightens as another Officer passes us, barely looking up. I see my mom sigh with relief, a slight slump, and then she steels herself as the noise grows at the end of the hall.

There’s a murmur of voices, and the sound sends a shiver up my spine. I’m used to the low, soothing voices of my teachers at City College High School, and the mostly—well—partially controlled voices of my friends trying to follow the rules and speak without aggression.

This sounds nothing like that. The murmur swells,spiking with outbursts of yelling, people talking, loud and angry. There’s the high-pitched sound of a woman crying and she sounds scared, hysterical. There’s a rumble of a man talking that grows to an angry, bellowing conclusion.

My mother has slowed down, and I’ve slowed behind her. We turn a corner and there’s a wide-open area behind bars with hundreds of people. They’re sitting on benches or on the floor. Some of them are standing or slumped against the walls.

The bars go from the floor to the ceiling, cordoning off the area. It’s a holding cell. My mother’s back straightens all the way, her face cold. She pulls the gate open with a jerk and stands motionless, waiting. I pause in front of her and she takes her knife out, cutting the ties off my wrists, jerking her head for me to go inside.

With wide eyes I enter the cell. No one tries to push their way out, no one interacts with my mom at all. How much time does she spend down here? Is this a regular part of her job?

I don’t know what to think about this whole other side of her I’m seeing. I slip through the cell, trying to remember what she told me. I’m Ami now. Sewn into my clothes are the money and phone number I’m supposed to access once we cross the border, somewhere near Scranton. Then my mission: go to Anchorage, find Zeph, check out a group called the Forge.

I don’t know how to do any of this. It’s quite impossible. I don’t think they could have picked a worse person for this mission. Accessing the money—the very first job—I don’t have any idea how to do that. It’s sewn into my pants somehow? What do I do, rip my clothes?

Adrenaline floods my system and I react automatically from my training—slow down my breathing, release the tension in my muscles. I turn to say goodbye, but all I see is my mother’s retreating back. So that’s how it’s going to be.

My throat feels thick and swollen. I move through the room aimlessly. It’s a large space, filled with murmurs and shouts.

There are all different kinds of people. I’m used to the long braids of my teachers and the CSOs, all women in Positions of Power. The WPA men like my dad have short hair and easy smiles.

The people here all look different. Everyone’s in street clothes like me, not a uniform in sight. A lot of them are pretty haggard. Tired looking, worn, not like the Citizens I see around my neighborhood.

My self-control spins away from me. Each time I tug my breathing and heart rate to slow down, my adrenaline spikes all over again and the panic rises. Yes, the people are different, but it’s also super crowded. The sound of voices rising and falling, the unexpected outbursts of anger and glee, and the arguments keep me on edge.

In the back I find an open spot at the edge of a bench. I’ll sit here and wait.

“Okay, kiddo, almost time,” says a voice next to me.

I turn. I’m not sure who’s the kid here. The person looks no older than me, and maybe younger. Their body is lean and lanky, and I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl. Even their hair seems confused; it’s cut short to the scalp on one side and hangs in a shaggy wave on the other. They arewearing purple overalls over a baggy shirt and a hoodie with orange flowers scattered across it.

“Get there yet?” they ask, sounding annoyed.

“What do you mean?” I respond.What is happening here?

“Did you figure me out? Which box to put me in?”

I freeze. I don’t want to offend anyone. Did I break an unspoken rule by staring? Their outfit is…striking.

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry,” I stammer.

“Just kidding. Jeez, relax.” They pat my knee once, sympathetically.

“I’m not a boyora girl,” they say, with a friendly shoulder bump. “I don’t subscribe to any of that.”

“Okay…” I trail off.

“Ren. Nice to meet you,” they say with a grin.

“I’m Ami,” I tell them. “I’m being deported.”