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  “Baby steps are not effective when you’re living in a country that needs big leaps.”

  She ponders that. “You can trust me that I will keep my word to the Flawed. And if you keep doing what you’re doing, being a strong role model, showing the entire population that Flawed are people and not monsters, then you’re not just helping me. You’re helping yourself. You’re an inspiring young woman, Celestine. The country has needed somebody like you for quite some time, to start the conversation about Flawed. You’ve inspired me, I’m sure you can tell that from the campaign logo.”

  I nod. “It’s … flattering.”

  “So, what now can I do for you?”

  I look at her in surprise.

  “I think it’s time somebody helped you, don’t you?”

  “You would be aiding a Flawed. You would be aiding an evader,” I tell her.

  “Look around, Celestine.”

  I look through the window to everybody outside and notice the F armbands on the majority of her supporters, some obvious scars, some in places that can’t be seen.

  “I’m not aiding anybody in here,” she explains. “The way I see it is everybody here is aiding me.”

  I smile. “Good defense.” My legs feel weak and I suddenly have to sit down.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Crevan injected me with something to paralyze me, captured me, brought me to a private Guild facility on Creed Barracks property. I escaped.”

  She looks at me in shock. It takes her a while to wrap her head around the words. “What is going on with you and him, Celestine? What has got him so obsessed with you?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “But it’s something.”

  I nod.

  “Something big.”

  “Huge.”

  Her eyes widen.

  I make a decision to trust her. “I’m working on getting the truth about Crevan out there. Will you help me?”

  “Anything I can do.”

  * * *

  We leave the office and Enya brings me to a man who’s away from all the madness, in a quiet corner. He’s hunched over a computer with the largest screen I’ve ever seen, surrounded by three laptops and endless wires. He wears headphones and is concentrating hard on the video on the monitor, which is footage of Enya Sleepwell on the campaign trail.

  “He’s editing the party political broadcast,” Enya explains. “It’s due to go out tomorrow night.” She places a hand on his shoulder and he removes his headphones. “Pete, I have a girl here who needs your help. Give her whatever she wants.”

  Fired up, I take whatever I can from Pete, squeezing a laptop, a phone, and chargers into my bag. I sense Carrick behind me.

  “I just spoke to Tina,” he says. “Dr. Greene decided not to carry out the skin graft until first thing in the morning. So we have the night. Your mom will go in at first light.”

  I feel sick at the thought of Juniper spending the entire night in that horrific place. With Crevan lurking, and no doubt in a temper after that car-crash interview with Erica Edelman, anything could happen. I also feel fearful of Mom standing up to the Whistleblowers, bursting in there and accusing them of taking the wrong daughter. Will it really work? Will they really just apologize and let them both walk out of there? Will they allow any of the parents to leave with their children? I move with ferociousness now.

  “Do you have permission to take this stuff?” Carrick asks in a low voice.

  “Enya said I could take whatever I want.”

  He raises his eyebrow.

  “She’s nice,” I finally admit.

  “What are you planning?”

  “We’re going to visit somebody.”

  “Who?”

  I think of the advice Raphael Angelo gave me. Instead of running from something forever, the only way to deal with it is to face it head-on.

  The note Tina passed to me as I escaped contained a home address, there was nothing else attached, no name, no explanations, but I don’t need it. I know exactly whose address it is.

  “We’re going to visit Mary May.”

  FORTY-NINE

  WHENEVER I’M CONFUSED, I look at what I know: Who is against me; who is on my side. Who can I trust; who can’t I trust, and how do I utilize them both. In a massive generalization: Who is against me? Non-Flawed. Who is with me? Flawed.

  We can’t risk making our way to either Leonard’s car or Raphael’s Mini so late at night, and using any of Enya Sleepwell’s vehicles is a definite no. Having her implicated in helping me will destroy everything she has done to build up trust with people. We need to be among our own people, and the only transport we can safely use to get to Mary May’s house is the Flawed curfew bus.

  Mary May lives out of the city, past the suburbs, near the lake. I imagined her as a farmhouse type of person, maybe with horses, but perhaps animals don’t like her, either. They have extra senses for people like her. I never would have suspected the lake. The lake is beautiful, magical, surrounded by rolling mountains decorated by the shadows of clouds and mountain mist. My friend Marlena’s family have a second house there. She used to go most weekends, and sometimes they brought me. Mom used to take us on drives all around the lake, she used to like to watch the sunrise. Until Juniper and I started complaining about it being boring and then she just went on her own. I feel guilty about that now.

  Carrick and I don’t know if the footage is in Mary May’s possession for sure, but it’s all we’ve got to go on. Juniper told me that Mary May removed everything from my room and put it in her own personal car, while wearing her civilian clothes. I can’t even imagine what kind of clothes they would be, or believe that she would possess an item of clothing that wasn’t some kind of Whistleblower uniform. But I do know that Mary May must be under immense pressure from Crevan to find me and the footage. She was responsible for both, and she let them slip through her fingers. If she’s taken my things anywhere, it must be to her own home, where she can search on her own time. They’re only objects, but I think of all my possessions sitting in her house. Teddies, photographs, books, clothes, the only things that I own, all taken away from me.

  Juniper has provided me with a cap, and I keep it low over my head and let my hair down to cover my branded temple. We wear F armbands that we were given at Enya’s office, to make sure we don’t stand out. A Flawed person on a Flawed bus without an armband would cause alarm bells to ring. It has been weeks since I’ve worn the armband, and sliding it up my arm feels like a weight being added to my body. I can tell Carrick is feeling the same, as his demeanor completely changes once it’s on. But I suppose that is the entire point, for us to feel harassed, humiliated, and isolated from society.

  At least Carrick was spared having to reveal his scar every day, though when it seemed the brandings were unfair to those whose brands could be seen, the F armbands were brought in to eliminate that little loophole.

  We join the crowded curfew bus stop, filled with Flawed. Our own people. Carrick wears a cap low and stays close to me, head down. I keep my back to everybody.

  Once on the bus, each Flawed swipes his or her identity card and takes a seat.

  “We don’t have identity cards,” Carrick whispers.

  “Yes, we do,” I say, reaching into my backpack and handing him the two cards I borrowed from Enya’s team. If she does care about them so much, she can help them get new identity cards.

  Carrick looks down at them with surprise, and laughs with admiration at my resourcefulness. Though I am Harlan Murphy, thirty-year-old computer analyst, and he is Trina Overbye, a fortysomething-year-old librarian.

  When we get on the bus we keep our eyes down and sit in the back row. I don’t know if anybody is looking at me because I’m not looking at them.

  I should feel safe in a bus full of Flawed, these are my people, but I’m afraid. A message appears on the screen at the head of the bus. It’s a Guild-sponsored piece, as all the pieces are on Flawed transport. It’s a photo of Car
rick. My heart drums and I elbow him roughly to get his attention.

  The photograph was taken at Highland Castle when he was brought in by the Whistleblowers. I recognize the backdrop, like a mug shot. He stares down the lens with pure hatred and venom, looking like a total badass, his neck thick, the muscles in his shoulders all pumped up.

  Beneath the photo is the word EVADER.

  And the voice-over, Pia Wang’s perky replacement.

  “Carrick Vane is on the run with Celestine North. He is her accomplice. If anybody finds them, call this number and you will be rewarded.”

  For a Flawed, to be offered a reward is like letting a child loose in a candy shop.

  “Juniper,” I say to Carrick. “They know she’s not me. We’re out of time.”

  “No, it doesn’t mention you,” he says. “Look.”

  And he’s right. This piece is just about Carrick. Crevan still thinks that he has me in the hospital, and now he needs to silence Carrick. In the morning my mom and her team will swoop in on Crevan’s hospital and he’ll know that I have escaped him again. He’ll want my head on a plate.

  The woman in the seat in front of us turns around to stare at us. I look up and see a few more heads turn.

  “It’s okay,” Carrick says, keeping his head down.

  But it’s not okay, at some point every single person on the bus has turned around to look at us. I see some tapping on their phones.

  Suddenly the bus pulls over to the side of the road and my heart thuds. Carrick and I are holding hands—I’m at the window; he’s at the aisle—his thumb circles the brand on my palm. I don’t know if he even notices that he’s doing it. It’s like he’s guarding my wounds, like whatever the world thinks is ugly, he cherishes.

  The driver stands and leaves the wheel. He addresses us all. “I’ll need everybody to get off the bus for a moment. Go shelter in the café, have a coffee, take a pee break, whatever you want.”

  There are groans, some worried faces.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper.

  Carrick shrugs.

  “No, no, no, I will not accept this,” a man stands up and shouts. “This is the third time this week that my bus has been delayed. I won’t hear of it. We get off the bus, we suddenly can’t get back on. Problem with the engine, problem with the tires. And then what? I miss the curfew again, another punishment. I’m not getting off this bus.” He folds his arms.

  Some others cheer him on.

  “This is a setup,” somebody else shouts, and there are louder cheers.

  Most people don’t want any trouble at all and just get straight off the bus. A half-dozen people remain.

  “Look.” The driver sighs. “I’m under orders. They just radioed it in. I have to pull the bus over and wait for a mechanic. I’m just doing what I’m told.”

  The passengers all shout at him, waving their hands dismissively. Nobody moves from their seats.

  “We should get off,” Carrick says, making a move, but I pull him back down.

  “Wait.”

  The problem for the Guild is that with a Flawed bus, everyone on it is Flawed. For people who are not usually allowed to gather in more than twos, there was no getting around the rule when they created the curfew bus. At the beginning there was a Whistleblower on each bus, but then it proved too costly, so it was a Whistleblower as the driver. But then leading up to an election campaign, the bus drivers went on strike, said their jobs were being taken from them. The government wanted to create new employment and opened the bus jobs back up to civilians. Surveillance cameras were installed in the buses instead to make sure of no uprising plans.

  An old woman turns around and addresses me and Carrick. “Can’t you two do something about this?”

  Everyone twists around to look at us. The driver included.

  “Shit,” Carrick whispers.

  “What are you two up to?” the driver asks, recognizing us immediately.

  “As if they’re going to tell you,” the old woman barks at him. “They’re young; they’ve time on their side; they’re doing exactly what the rest of us should have done from the beginning.”

  I smile at her gratefully.

  “Look.” The driver holds his hands up. “I got a grandson who’s Flawed. Couldn’t stand the sight of you all until that happened to him. Guess you could say it opened my eyes.”

  Silence.

  “I don’t want to be on this bus with these two,” another woman shouts. “I’ll get into trouble for just having seen you. You’ve made us suffer enough. Why don’t you just keep your head down and do what you’re told, Celestine North? Stop getting the rest of us into trouble.”

  I stand up and address the bus, my legs shaky.

  “I’m on your side, remember? I’m trying to prove that we’re not Flawed. Or if we are, that there’s nothing wrong with that. We’ve made our mistakes, we’ve learned from them. I just need some time to make it all come together.”

  “She’s the only one who’s speaking up for us,” one woman says. “The only person who’s not using violence, at least. Those hooligans behind the riots aren’t doing anything to help our cause, at least Celestine is doing it peacefully.”

  “Yes, she’s right. The people like her, you know, I’ve overheard them talking. They’re confused about it, but they like her. They’re talking about whether she had a fair trial. Can you believe they’re talking about a Flawed like that?”

  “Nothing will come of it,” a man says. “It will die down like talk always has.”

  “What talk?” the old woman snaps. “There’s never been this amount of support for Flawed. We need to help it grow.”

  “The support won’t die down,” I say firmly to the man. “I won’t let it.”

  The bus driver seems to take all this in, considers the arguments thoughtfully, as though he’s judge and jury on his own bus.

  “Are you going to make my grandson free again?” he asks.

  “I’m trying my best.”

  He nods again. Looks at Carrick. “Are you helping her?”

  “She’s helping us all.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I hand him the address. He studies it. “I’m guessing this is important.”

  I nod.

  “Everyone else is getting off, and I’m taking these two wherever they need to go—does anybody have anything to say about it?”

  The doubters don’t say a word.

  “Any word to anyone about this and I’ll tell them you’re a bunch of liars, do you hear?” the driver threatens.

  The women in front of me shake our hands and wish us luck.

  “I want you to know I’m only getting off this bus for them,” says the man who started the protest in the first place. He looks at me. “Do it for us, Celestine. You can do it.” He points a finger in the driver’s face as he passes. “You better get them where they need to go.”

  My eyes fill with tears, in gratitude for the gesture. I have to do this for them, for everyone.

  The driver sits down behind the wheel and closes the door, stopping any of the others from boarding again. They all glare at the bus angrily. He starts the engine and drives off.

  It was on a bus that I lost my faith in humanity. It was on a bus that it was restored.

  FIFTY

  THE DRIVER DROPS us as near to Mary May’s address as possible, but it’s difficult to get too close, as a Flawed curfew bus off the beaten track would attract too much attention.

  Mary May’s cottage, with its thatched roof, sits alone by a fishing pier. There is a sharp turn right into her driveway before the end of the pier, and her garden juts out into the lake. Fishing paraphernalia bobs gently on the shore. The lights are off in her house. I hope that she’s not home, which would make this all the easier, but so far nothing has been easy.

  We make our way down the pier and climb the wall attached to her garden, a long lawn of luscious exotic flowers, well tended, with a pretty bridge across a stream. Such a picture
sque place for a monster to reside.

  We keep low and I follow Carrick, hiding behind Mary May’s shrubbery to get in a good position to view the house. It’s the back of the house that faces out to the lake, the back of the house that does all the living. The plan had been so simple—go to Mary May’s house and grab the snow globe—but now that we’re here I see the gaping holes in my idea. How we are going to get in being the biggest problem.

  “How are we going to do this?” I whisper.

  “We ring the bell, tie her up, I punch her if I have to, punch her even if I don’t have to. You grab the snow globe.”

  I look at him, certain that is the lamest idea I’ve ever heard.

  “If we hurt her, it will get us into more trouble. The police will be after us, too. Mary May is the most prized Whistleblower.”

  “So I won’t hurt her. I’ll just tie her up. Really tight.”

  “Carrick,” I say, frustrated, “we need to think of something other than brute force.”

  He looks at me blankly.

  I curse, knowing I’m alone on the plan-making front. I can understand his nerves, just the very idea of what we’re risking by being here. I study the house, trying to figure out a way to break in. A figure appears at the door. The back door opens suddenly and we duck.

  “Crap. It’s her.” I’m sure she’s seen us; who goes out to their garden for a leisurely stroll after 11:00 PM?

  An old lady in a nightdress wanders outside barefoot onto the grass. She has long gray hair, plaited to one side, and appears like a kind of ghostly vision, in her floating white gown in the dark night.

  She has left the back door open, I can see Carrick looking at it. I know what he’s thinking, but my gut instinct says he’s wrong to make a run for it.

  The old woman looks like Mary May, and I know instantly that it’s her mother, the only member of her family other than Mary May not to be branded. Mary May must have had a soft spot for her mother. The old woman picks up a watering can by the back door and proceeds to water the hanging baskets. No water comes out.