Scar Island(7)

The cane tapped away, quieter and quieter, and then fell silent. Jonathan stood shivering, his teeth rattling. Then he turned and felt his way back to his bed.

He eased down onto the mattress. It was about as thin as a folded-up newspaper and just about as soft. He pulled the scratchy blanket around his soggy self and curled into a shaking ball.

Something snuffled and squeaked under his bed.

He blinked into blackness and tried not to imagine a day that could be any worse than the one he’d just had. He bit his lip and ran his fingers over the skin of his arms. After a few moments, his thoughts were no longer for himself or his cold or his hunger. Shivering alone in the black, his thoughts were for Sophia. And his silent tears, when at last they came, were for her, too.





Jonathan gripped the knife in his hand and fought back the tears that burned in his eyes.

“My god,” he whispered to the boy next to him. “How long do we have to do this?”

The boy looked around to make sure no adults were within earshot. The dark brown skin of his head was shaved almost bald, and it glistened with sweat from working in the hot, crowded kitchen.

“Until they tell us to stop, man,” he murmured, handing Jonathan another onion.

Jonathan had opened his eyes that morning to the same nightmare he’d fallen asleep in. Freezing cold. Ravenously hungry. Lost in hopeless darkness. They’d been roused from their sleep by Mr. Mongley’s hoarse whisper-shout and the clang of his cane against cell bars, then lined up and marched to a huge, cluttered kitchen. With no welcome or instruction, he’d been handed a knife and a basket of onions and shoved over to a long counter. He was three onions in now, and his belly was howling for food.

He looked around as he worked. All around him, other boys were bustling and cooking and chopping, each wearing the same dingy gray one-piece uniform that he was. There seemed to be about fifteen of them. Some looked a little older than him, some a little younger. None of them looked happy.

“Don’t they have, like … a cook, or something?”

The kid snorted and rolled his brown eyes.

“Yeah, right. Why pay a cook when they can make our sorry butts do it? The more we do, the more money goes in the Admiral’s pockets.” He wiped at his eyes, then nudged Jonathan and pointed with his chin at Mr. Warwick, glaring at them from the corner. “Quieter,” he whispered.

Jonathan smiled. “You’re Walter?”

The kid nodded. “You almost got me drenched, man. Jonathan, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, welcome to Slabhenge. How long you here for?”

“Ten weeks,” Jonathan answered. It hadn’t sounded that terrible in the courtroom. He’d almost wanted to come, to get away from … everything. But standing there now, ten hours seemed like more than he could stand.

Walter whistled and his wide eyes shot up to Jonathan.

“Ten? Geez, man, what did you do?”

Jonathan looked into Walter’s eyes for just a moment, then looked away again quickly.

“Why? How long are you here for?” he asked.

Walter snorted.

“Well, I was sent here for four weeks. But that was almost two months ago.”

“Why are you still here?”

Walter rolled his eyes again.

“Everyone stays longer, man. Just when you’re about done with your time, the Admiral sends a little letter. To your folks, to whatever judge or state sent you here. Tells how you’re coming along fine, but there’s still more work to do, that he’s sure you’d come right around if he had just a little more time to educate you.” Walter’s voice dripped with scorn. “And he offers to extend your education. At a reduced rate.” He finished chopping an onion and started on the next. “You’re supposed to be here for ten weeks? Sorry, man, but I bet you don’t get outta here in less than fifteen.”

Jonathan chopped numbly, trying to digest what he’d been told.

“How do you know all this?”

“Benny,” Walter answered. He almost spat the name out. He motioned with his chin across the kitchen to a kid standing at a sink, lazily splashing a scrub brush around a soapy bowl. Jonathan recognized him—he could still feel the painful pinch the kid had given him on his arm.

“I saw him last night,” Jonathan said. “He works in the Admiral’s office.”

“Yeah. Little punk. He tells us all about those letters he stuffs into envelopes and addresses. Just loves to tease us, you know?”

Walter looked around the kitchen, pointing out kids with his knife.

“That big black kid there is Tony. He’s cool. The guy grating cheese is Jason. He’s super quiet, but seems all right. Stole a car, I heard. Next to him is David. Doesn’t say much, but he’s tough. Do not call him Chinese, okay? He’s Japanese. Couple of kids made that mistake early on and had black eyes to show for it.”

Jonathan’s eyes darted around the room, trying to keep up with Walter’s fast talk and chop onions at the same time without cutting off a finger.

“See those two meatheads working together to stir the oatmeal? That’s Roger and Gregory. Dumb as catfish and just about as friendly. Miguel’s the one making coffee. He’s funny. Or thinks he is, anyway. That tall dude manning the toaster is Francis. Total jerk. But the real jerk is Sebastian. Him you gotta watch out for, man. He’s out setting the table, I think.”