When you turn fifteen, you join the militia if you’re a boy, and get married if you’re a girl. The number-one priority right now is repopulation. Number two is to protect those repopulating the world, from the rest of the world.”
I study his face—his green eyes, angled cheekbones, and soft mouth—and my skin suddenly feels too warm as my blood heats beneath the surface. “Why aren’t you married, then?” I ask, finding an imaginary spot on the floor to scratch. “And making babies?”
He exhales, and I feel the air stir against my burning skin, feel his body shift in the space next to mine. “It feels wrong, looking at twelve-, thirteen-, and fourteen-year-olds as possible wives—not that I get to look, since they’re all inside the wall and I’m stuck out here.” Bowen picks up the can of peaches and hands it to me. When I take it, our fingertips touch and mine explode with fire. Bowen doesn’t let go of the can. His eyes meet mine, and the factory air seems unbearably hot, too hot to breathe. After a heartbeat, he releases the can and turns away from me.
I peer into the can of peaches, wondering if the heat of my hand will make the sticky-sweet syrup boil.
“I need to get some sleep,” Bowen says, his voice rough.
I set the peaches down and study his silhouette, bracing myself for the zing of my ankle cuffs. But the zing doesn’t come. “You forgot my cuffs,” I say. My sweaty skin itches beneath the metal. Bowen bites his bottom lip and stares at the cuffs for a minute. He lifts the remote and points it at my legs. I clench my teeth, waiting for the magnetic pull and discomfort of immobility. The remote clicks, metal clangs, and cool air swirls around my damp calves. I look at the cuffs, sitting useless on the cement floor beside me. I look at Bowen. He shrugs and lies on the cool cement ground, wadding the sleeping bag up for a pillow.
“You’re not restraining me?” I whisper, afraid if I say it too loud, he’ll remember I’m a Ten.
His eyes flicker to mine. “Do you feel like you’re about to turn?”
I mentally tune in to every single part of my body. “No.”
“I trust you, Fo,” he says. He puts his gun over his chest and cuddles it, then shuts his eyes. The air temperature seems to drop ten degrees, going from unbearably hot to just uncomfortably warm, and I can breathe again.
Bowen has a talent for falling asleep the minute his eyes close. His face goes soft, his lips part, and quiet snores fill the warehouse.
I sit cross-legged in front of him and stare at his sleeping face while I eat the rest of the food, remembering how he looked when he was a kid. He always seemed two weeks overdue for a haircut, with scraggly bangs forever in his eyes. And his cheeks were rounder, though typically pale. As a kid he seemed thin to the point of malnourished, with knobby knees and gangly arms. Whenever my mom baked, if she saw him outside riding his bike, she’d call him over and give him a plate of warm cookies or a slice of pie.
Now he’s filled out, grown into his body, the perfect image of golden-tan health and strength. He stirs and shuts his mouth, as if he can sense my eyes on him. Were I brave, I would reach out and touch him, brush his bangs away from his sweaty forehead or trace the line of his jaw. But the thought steals my breath, so I lean my back against the wall and spread my fingers, plucking a tune out of the air, hearing notes in my head. My fingers remember exactly where to touch, as if I’d played the tune yesterday.
Chopin’s Nocturne no. 2 replaces thoughts of Bowen.
Chapter 19
By late afternoon, the air is so heavy that if I cry, I’m certain my tears will hang suspended before my face. I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead, pushing my bangs from my sweaty skin, and try to hold back the tears.
Bowen murmurs, thrashing about in his sleep. This has been going on for hours, since shortly after he fell asleep. And when his nightmares peak, he mumbles my name—Fiona, not Fo—and clutches the gun tighter to his chest, or spreads his palm over his chest, right above his heart. I can imagine his dreams—my claws in his skin, my