Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(9)

“Is she a nun?” I whispered back, perplexed.

“Worse. Haven’t you ever seen the Sisters of Salvation?” When I shook my head, she leaned closer. “They’re the MM’s answer to women’s liberation.”

I wanted to hear more—if the Sisters of Salvation were meant to counteract feminism, what was a woman doing in charge?—but just then her head snapped to the soldier beside her.

“Bring them in.”

We were led into the main foyer of the brick building. Here, the floor was tiled and the walls were painted nursery-room peach. Beneath a staircase on the left, a hallway lined with doors extended to the end of the building.

One by one we were brought to a rectangular fold-out table where two check-in clerks, wearing the same white and navy uniforms, waited with files. After Rosa had identified herself in an overdone Latina accent, I stepped forward.

“Name?” a clerk with braces asked me without looking up.

“Ember Miller.”

“Ember Miller. Yes, there she is. Another Article 5, Ms. Brock.”

The frail but menacing woman behind her smiled an inauthentic welcome.

Article 5. That label was like a pin under my fingernail every time I heard it. I felt a rush of heat rise up my neck.

“Just call me Hester Prynne,” I mumbled.

“Speak clearly, dear. What was that?” asked Ms. Brock.

“Nothing,” I answered.

“If nothing is what you said, all the better to simply be silent.”

I looked up, unable to hide the surprise from my face.

“She’s a seventeen as well, Ms. Brock. She ages out in July.”

My heart skipped a beat.

They can’t possibly hold me until I’m eighteen. I’d considered the possibility of a couple days, or until we could arrange the citation money for bail, but July eighteenth was five months away! I’d done nothing wrong, and my mother, whose only crime had maybe been irresponsibility, needed me. I had to find her and get back home.

Katelyn Meadows never went home, a small, frightened voice in my brain said. A citation suddenly seemed too easy. An unrealistic punishment. Why would they waste money hauling me here if just to send us a bill? My throat tightened.

“Ms. Miller, I have record that you attacked a member of the Federal Bureau of Reformation yesterday,” said Ms. Brock. I automatically glanced back for Rosa. She’d given a guard a black eye; why didn’t she get in trouble?

“They were taking my mother!” I defended, but my mouth snapped shut at her glare.

“You will address me respectfully, as Ms. Brock, do you understand?”

“Um … sure. Yes.”

“Yes, Ms. Brock,” she corrected.

“Yes. Ms. Brock.” My skin felt very hot. I quickly understood what Rosa meant; Ms. Brock was almost worse than the soldiers.

She sighed with infinite patience. “Ms. Miller, I can make this time here very difficult for you or very easy. This is your last warning.”

Her words put an instant chill on my humiliation.

“You are fortunate,” continued Ms. Brock. “You’ll be rooming with the Student Assistant. She has been with us for three years and will be able to answer any of your questions.”

Three years? I didn’t know places like this existed three days ago, much less three years ago. What had she done that had been so terrible that she’d been stuck here that long?

“Over with your cohorts, and remember what I said.” Ms. Brock raised a withered hand to where Rosa and several other girls my age were standing. She had a skeptical gleam in her eyes, as though my birthday was hardly a deciding factor in my discharge.

On my way there I was stopped against the wall, where a stout, droopy-faced woman took my picture in front of a blue screen. I didn’t smile. The cold reality of my situation was sinking in, filling me with dread.

Sisters. Cohorts. Ms. Brock’s superior grin. This was not a temporary setup.

Bright blotches from the camera flash were still blocking my vision when I joined the others.

“I think the nut job is going to try to make us stay until we’re eighteen,” I whispered to Rosa.

“I’m not staying here until I’m eighteen,” she said convincingly. When I spun toward her, she grinned, showing her gapped teeth. “Relax. Group homes like this, they always say that. Screw up enough, and you can get out on early release.”

“How?” I demanded.

She opened her mouth to answer, but we were interrupted by two guards who entered through the main doors, escorting a girl in a hospital gown. They led her past the sign-in table and down a hallway to our right, holding her elbows as though she might fall without their support. The few seconds I saw her were enough to make my skin crawl. Her eyes stayed pinned to the floor, and the black, messy hair made her pallid face and exhaustion-bruised eyes stand out in sharp contrast. She looked like an overmedicated mental patient, but worse. She looked empty.

“What do you think happened to her?” I asked Rosa, disturbed.

“Maybe she’s sick,” she speculated weakly. Clearly she was contemplating her early release theory. Then she shrugged. I wished that I could be so dismissive, but I could not deny the impression the girl had left on me. She did look physically ill, but something told me a virus had not been the cause of her symptoms. What had she done? What had they done to her?