Breaking Point (Article 5 #2)(15)

He winced as though I’d struck him, and when he tried to come closer I fell back one step, then another. If he touched me I’d fall apart, and now I needed to be stronger than ever.

“Please go away,” I said. “Please,” I begged when his arms reached out to hold me. They dropped to his sides.

Without looking back, he stalked out of the room and disappeared down the hallway.

*

I COLLAPSED on a box of uniforms. My chest grew so tight I could hardly breathe. I didn’t know where Chase had gone, but wherever he was, I could feel his hurt within me, magnified by my hatred for Tucker Morris, who had lied, just like I should have expected. Why was I surprised that he had turned me in? How could I ever expect my mother’s murderer to do anything right by me? Now I was stuck here, endangering everyone. I was the gasoline on a pile of sticks, and Tucker, he was the match. It was just a matter of when he would strike.

“Quite a morning.”

I jolted up again, ready to tell whoever it was to get lost until I realized it was Wallace, leaning casually against the doorjamb. The handheld radio, which never seemed to leave his grasp, swung, from his hand by the antennae like a pendulum.

My throat was too dry to answer him.

“You know, when you came here I had Billy look you up on the mainframe. I’m curious, do you know the list of accolades they have under your name?” When I didn’t answer, he continued. “Attacked a soldier during an overhaul, ran away from a rehab facility, linked to an AWOL with everything from assault with a deadly weapon to terroristic threatening. The files had you both listed as completed—dead. That’s no easy feat. The photo doesn’t do you any favors, but hey.”

The picture had been taken at the reformatory, right after they’d taken my mother. This was not the first time it had been posted on the MM’s computer database.

“Your escape from the base was just added recently. Combined with all the rest, it’s no wonder they think you’re the shooter.”

I swallowed over the lump in my throat. A couple days ago I’d felt a strange kinship with Wallace, but now, I felt just as defensive as I had the first time we’d met.

“I’m not a killer,” I said. I shouldn’t have to explain that to someone who already knew.

“That’s not what the Bureau’s saying.”

“The Bureau lies!” I shot back at him.

“Ah,” he said, smiling now. “That feels better, doesn’t it?”

He turned to leave, but just before he did he stopped.

“Ember, I didn’t need your résumé on the mainframe to tell me you belong here. I knew the second you walked in the door.”

He left me fuming. I didn’t belong here, not now that every soldier in the region was looking for me. I didn’t belong anywhere. I was a danger to our cause, to Chase, to Sean and Billy. I was a danger to myself. It was just a matter of time before the MM caught me.

I spun away from the door and kicked the first thing within reach: a cardboard box. Pale blue blouses and navy pleated skirts toppled over the dirty carpet. The Sisters of Salvation uniforms Cara had brought back.

Frustrated, I grabbed a towel and escaped to the bathroom. I washed my hair with an almost frantic need to cleanse myself. I cut it to chin length, and then dyed it black with a bottle of what looked like molasses beneath the sink. Temporary color, meant to wash out so no roots would show and draw the attention of those looking for such frivolous behavior. I knew it mattered little. They had to know my appearance was subject to change, and even with a pseudonym, my photo from the reformatory was going to make it to print. Still, I had to do something.

I looked in the mirror at my altered reflection. At the big brown eyes that looked so much like my mother’s, and the ski-slope nose we shared. I wished now, more than ever, that I could talk to her.

*

“YOU can’t serve them first,” the man complained. He looked like every other displaced businessman pounding the streets for work: glasses askew, tie loose, collared shirt untucked. He had a canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder and was pointing to a sheet of paper while he yelled at the soup kitchen attendant.

“See? Just look at it. That’s right, tilt your head down, that’s a good girl.”

The woman behind the counter looked like she might cry. I was five people behind the man, but the line had spread out when he’d raised his voice, and now everyone was listening.

I watched my mother hustle over from her volunteer position, outside the cold truck holding the perishable foods. She wiped her hands on her apron.

“What’s the problem, sir?” I stiffened at her tone; it was generally one step before she said something snappy.

“Oh, thank God. Someone reasonable. Look, these guys are up front getting the same rations as a family. Like they’re a family.”

My mother’s glance flickered to the two young men to her right. One was pulling at the other’s shoulder, saying “Come on, let’s just go, okay?” The other was red in the face and shaking his head.

“And?” Mom asked.

The man snorted. “And clearly they’re not. Look right here. Article Two. Whole families are to be considered one man, one woman, and children. All other combinations are not to be considered under the title family,” he air-quoted, “and should receive no tax, occupation, education, or health benefits otherwise.”