The Traitor: A Divergent Story. Veronica Roth

      ANOTHER YEAR, ANOTHER Visiting Day.

      Two years ago, when I was an initiate, I pretended my own Visiting Day didn’t exist, holed up in the training room with a punching bag. I was there for so long that I smelled the dust-sweat for days afterward. Last year, the first year I taught initiates, I did the same thing, though Zeke and Shauna both invited me to spend the day with their families instead.

      This year I have more important things to do than punch a bag and mope about my family dysfunction. I’m going to the control room.

      I walk through the Pit, dodging tearful reunions and shrieks of laughter. Families can always come together on Visiting Day, even if they’re from different factions, but over time, they usually stop coming. “Faction before blood,” after all. Most of the mixed clothing I see belongs to transfer families: Will’s Erudite sister is dressed in light blue, Peter’s Candor parents are in black and white. For a moment I watch his parents, and wonder if they made him into the person he is. But most of the time, people aren’t that easy to explain, I guess.

      I’m supposed to be on a mission, but I pause next to the chasm, pressing into the railing. Bits of paper float in the water. Now that I know where the steps cut into the stone in the opposite wall are, I can see them right away, and the hidden doorway that leads to them. I smile a little, thinking of the nights I’ve spent on those rocks with Zeke or Shauna, sometimes talking and sometimes just sitting and listening to the water move.

      I hear footsteps approaching, and look over my shoulder. Tris is walking toward me, tucked under the gray-clad arm of an Abnegation woman. Natalie Prior. I stiffen, suddenly desperate to escape—what if Natalie knows who I am, where I came from? What if she lets it slip, here, surrounded by all these people?

      She can’t possibly recognize me. I don’t look anything like the boy she knew, lanky and slouched and buried in fabric.

      When she’s close enough, she extends her hand. “Hello, my name is Natalie. I’m Beatrice’s mother.”

      Beatrice. That name is so wrong for her.

      I clasp Natalie’s hand and shake it. I’ve never been fond of Dauntless hand-shaking. It’s too unpredictable—you never know how tightly to squeeze, how many times to shake.

      “Four,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you.”

      “Four,” Natalie says, and she smiles. “Is that a nickname?”

      “Yes,” I say. I change the subject. “Your daughter is doing well here. I’ve been overseeing her training.”

      “That’s good to hear,” she says. “I know a few things about Dauntless initiation, and I was worried about her.”

      I glance at Tris. There’s color in her cheeks—she looks happy, like seeing her mother is doing her some good. For the first time I fully appreciate how much she’s changed since I first saw her, tumbling onto the wooden platform, fragile-looking, like the impact with the net should have shattered her. She doesn’t look fragile anymore, with the shadows of bruises on her face and a new stability in the way she stands, like she’s ready for anything.

      “You shouldn’t worry,” I say to Natalie.

      Tris looks away. I think she’s still angry with me for the way I nicked her ear with that knife. I guess I don’t really blame her.

      “You look familiar for some reason, Four,” Natalie says. I would think her comment was lighthearted if not for the way she’s looking at me, like she’s pinning me down.

      “I can’t imagine why,” I say, as coldly as I can manage. “I don’t make a habit of associating with the Abnegation.”

      She doesn’t react the way I expect her to, with surprise or fear or anger. She just laughs. “Few people do, these days. I don’t take it personally.”

      If she does recognize me, she doesn’t seem eager to say so. I try to relax.

      “Well, I’ll leave

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