my birthday cake, remember the pink candles. Thirteen of them.
Arrin raises one dark eyebrow and looks me up and down. “Liar. You’re an adult.”
“No. I remember turning thirteen,” I say. My hand wanders up to my throat again, feeling my collarbone for a fine chain. But there is nothing hanging around my neck.
Arrin shakes her head. “What you are is messed up in the head. You have hips. And knockers. And you look like an adult.” Arrin tilts her head to the side, her eyes suddenly alert. She grabs my arm and yanks me toward the nearest building. We dart through a missing door and Arrin dives into the shadows. I crouch beside her, perplexed.
“What’s wrong?” I mouth.
She points toward the doorway, and I peer around the splintered frame. Six men are marching down the street toward us, the bases of long black rifles cupped in their hands, the other ends resting on their shoulders. They wear crisp brown jackets and crisp brown pants, and their hair is slightly long on top but short on the sides of their heads. Above their left ears, each one has horizontal stripes shaved into his scalp, and pinned over each of their hearts is a shiny silver star.
Aside from having different colors of hair, they look like paper dolls, all symmetry and rhythm, even down to their staccato march. Tchaikovsky’s “March of the Wooden Soldiers” echoes in my head, and my fingers begin to move, playing imaginary notes. “Militia,” I whisper.
Arrin tugs me away from the door and presses a finger to her lips. Her nails are ragged and caked with dirt and blood. The creases on her finger are dark-red stripes. I frown and look at her clothes—my old clothes. Blood is spattered on them, like crimson fireworks. She raises one eyebrow and points at me, and I look down. Blood coats my hands, clings to the pale hairs of my arms, and covers my clothing. I gag and my stomach heaves, but nothing comes up. I am too empty. Arrin clasps her hand over my mouth, and the smell of blood makes me dry heave again.
Outside the building, the militia march past, their footsteps a fading cadence. When the evening grows quiet, Arrin removes her hand from my mouth. Silent, she stands and darts out the door. I follow on her heels.
We cling to the shadows, hugging the bases of factories until the sun sets and the entire world is in darkness. And then something changes. My stomach growls, saliva fills my mouth, and I turn my face to the twilight sky and sniff. Images of roast turkey and grilled steak pop into my brain. Clutching my concave stomach, I whimper. I will do anything for food.
Too focused on food to realize she’s stopped, I crash into Arrin. She gasps and hunches over.
“Arrin? What’s wrong?” I put my hands on her shoulders and try to help her stand. She whimpers and pulls away, and my hand comes away wet. Even in the dusky light I can see my palm is coated with something dark. I squeeze my hand shut. When I open it, my fingers are sticky. “Blood,” I whisper, not so hungry anymore.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse,” Arrin says.
“You have?”
“Yeah,” she says, peering up at me with a gleam in her blue eyes. She chuckles and stands tall. “Lots worse. Those guys in the tunnels, they come down and prey on the Fecs all the time. I’ve dreamed about killing them for years. You have no idea how good it felt when I stabbed that one!”
My stomach turns. “You stabbed him?”
“Yep. One swift slice to the carotid artery.” She grins, and her face looks like it did when she was eating my crackers—filled with greedy satisfaction.
“The what artery?” I ask, slightly sick to my stomach, slightly terrified of this … child.
“Carotid? It’s in the neck. My dad’s a doctor, and he taught me how to kill. Where’d you think all the blood came from?” She looks pointedly at my blood-covered arms and hands, and I cringe. “Come on. We’re almost there.”
Arrin cradles her arm as we continue down the dark street. The smell of food grows stronger, along with other smells that tickle my senses. Wood smoke. Laundry detergent. Sweat and soap. And then the smells are accompanied by sound. Laughing. Singing. Talking. A dog barking.
Suddenly something different floats on the air, and my heart skips a beat. I press my hands to my ears, wondering if my imagination