The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,181

release and who was next in line. What was the world like, outside the Sanctuary? Did people live in castles, like the people in books? What animals would they find, and could they speak? (The caged mice Teacher kept in the classroom were, to a one, discouragingly silent.) What wonderful foods were there to eat, what wonderful toys to play with? Never had Sara been so excited, waiting for this glorious day when she would step into the world.

She awoke on the morning of her birthday feeling as if she were floating on a cloud of happiness. And yet somehow she would have to contain this joy until rest time; only then, when the Littles were asleep, would Teacher take her to the special place. Though no one said as much, all through morning meal and circle time she could tell that everyone was delighted for her, except for Michael, who did nothing to hide his envy, grumpily refusing to speak with her. Well, that was Michael. If he couldn’t be happy for her, she wasn’t going to let it spoil her special day. It wasn’t until after lunch, when Teacher called everyone around to say goodbye, that she began to wonder if maybe he knew something she didn’t. What is it, Michael? asked Teacher. Can’t you say goodbye to your sister, can’t you be happy for her? And Michael looked at her and said, It’s not what you think, Sara, then hugged her quickly and ran from the room before she could say a word.

Well, that was strange, she’d thought at the time, and still did, even now, all these years gone by. How had Michael known? Much later, when the two of them were alone again, she’d remembered this scene and asked him about it. How did you know? But Michael could only shake his head. I just did, he said. Not the details, but the kind of thing it was. The way they spoke to us, Mom and Dad, at night, tucking us in. You could see it in their eyes.

But back then, the afternoon of her release, with Michael darting away and Teacher taking her hand, she hadn’t wondered for long. Just chalked it up to Michael being Michael. The final goodbyes, the embraces, the feeling of the moment arriving: Peter was there, and Maus Patal, and Ben Chou and Galen Strauss and Wendy Ramirez and all the rest, touching her, saying her name. Remember us, everyone said. She was holding the bag that contained her things, her clothing and slippers and the little rag doll that she’d had since she was small—you were allowed to take one toy—and Teacher took her by the hand and led her out from the Big Room, into the little courtyard ringed by windows where the children played when the sun was high in the sky, with the swings and the seesaw and the piles of old tires to climb, and through another door into a room she’d never seen before. Like a classroom but empty, the shelves barren, no pictures on the walls.

Teacher sealed the door behind them. A curious and premature pause; Sara had expected more. Where was she going? she asked Teacher. Would it be a long journey? Was someone coming for her? How long was she to wait here, in this room? But Teacher seemed not to hear these questions. She crouched before her, positioning her large, soft face close to Sara’s. Little Sara, she asked, what do you suppose is out there, outside this building, beyond these rooms where you live? And what of the men you sometimes see, the ones who come and go at night, watching over you? Teacher was smiling, but there was something different about this smile, thought Sara, something that made her afraid. She didn’t want to answer, but Teacher was looking straight at her, her face expectant. Sara thought of her mother’s eyes, the night she’d asked her where she slept. A castle? she said, for in her sudden nervousness that was the only thing she could think of. A castle, with a moat? A castle, Teacher said. I see. And what else, Little Sara? The smile was suddenly gone. I don’t know, Sara said. Well, Teacher said, and cleared her throat. It’s not a castle.

And that was when she told her.

Sara hadn’t believed her at first. But not exactly that: she felt as if her mind had split in two, and one half, the half that didn’t know,