but it’s not easy overriding programming that’s been in force for generations. Maybe if I knew what happened out there, I could make them understand that I’m no different than they are.
Mr. Pace said once that I should count my amnesia as a blessing, like the truth could be worse than what I imagine piecing together the fragments, but any past is better than the void, no matter how horrible the details.
After hours of attempting to force myself back to sleep, I give up. Inside doesn’t feel safe anymore, so I break the third rule and go outside alone.
Outside is beautiful. It’s alive and green in a way that doesn’t mean mold or mildew like it does inside. It’s warmer, without the taint of recycled chemicals in the air to make me choke, and sunlight replaces stark fluorescent glare from the halls, giving my skin a healthier glow.
I toe my shoes off and toss my socks with them, not wanting anything between me and the ground.
Trees, kept manicured in narrow shapes and planted far enough apart that they can’t make true shade, make up the Arclight’s orchard. It’s definitely meant for necessity rather than beauty, but here and there, something breaks ranks: a stray branch cuts out at a sharp angle or drags low enough that I can pull myself up for a better view.
Beyond the narrow orchard lies our garden, where rows of green stalks frame one side of the Common Hall and vines snake up its windowless face. Against the shed that houses our tools, there’s a pile of crates filled with liquid vitamins for the soil. No matter what Dr. Wolff thinks, out here’s where I belong. It’s my favorite place in what’s left of the world, and it conceals the evidence of another rule I’ve broken.
I drop out of the tree to make sure my secret’s still safe.
Camouflaged by an empty crate, a vibrant pink and white flower bush grows where it has no right to exist—like me. I don’t know where the seed came from, if it was dropped by a bird or if it already existed in the soil, but it thrives despite the measures required to keep it a secret. I’m relieved to see it’s still here, welcoming me back. If it’s found, it’ll be destroyed for fear that it came from beyond the light, but for now, it’s mine. Something about it has always struck me as familiar; I can’t help but think that in whatever place I came from, these flowers exist. Maybe I grew them there, too.
I sit with my back against the shed, turning the fragrant dirt in my bare hands, without the gloves we’re supposed to wear outside, and simply watch my flower bush exist. No secret scowls or eyes at my back to make me cringe. It’s a rare moment of freedom, so it’s a surprise to find that I have company.
Small, feathered company.
Stuck between a climbing cage and the tangle of berry vines threading through it, a bird the color of a thundercloud struggles to free itself. It shakes the cage and pulls up hard but can’t disentangle its feet and captured wing.
“Hello,” I say, as though the bird can understand me. “How’d you get in there?”
The bird cocks its head and flaps again—bird speak for “Would you help me?”
I wind my hand inside the cage and pull. Sensing freedom, the bird pecks at the last of the vines with its beak until it spills out of its tiny prison. Delicate and light, it perches in my hand, testing one wing and then the other, shaking itself with an explosion of down feathers.
“Tough little thing, aren’t you?”
It’s not a native bird, like our ducks and chickens or the bright things kept inside with their wings clipped so they can’t pass beyond our border, and the protocol is clear—I should kill it and hand its body over to one of my elders. But I can’t.
What sense is there in ending another life when we’re trying to keep the world from dying? I have to let it go, and that means breaking another rule by sneaking out to the Arc.
On this side of the compound, our boundary is a stone path where everything green and good ends at the mouth of the Grey. In the first days, there were bonfires here, lit and tended around the clock, but they were too easy to put out, and every rainstorm meant calamity. Over the years, the stones were laid so electric lights could be permanently set into the ground, and the fires drifted into memory. The Arc of Light became the Arclight.
Here, lampposts replace brown tree trunks. The bulbs are on standby, in these last moments before night falls, charging for another marathon burn, and leaving the Arc cold, but a faultless guardian to keep the gloom of the Grey from encroaching.
“Get somewhere safe,” I say, opening my hands.
The bird looks at me with intelligent, sharp eyes. Its feathers, sleek now, bear a pattern of steel and white with swirls of black along its head and tail. It lifts off with a smooth beat of its wings and slips above the Arc, but it doesn’t turn the way I expect. It shoots across the Grey, making straight for the Dark.
“Not that way!”
The bird’s gone, and far too high, but trying to stop it comes automatically. My hand slices the space between the lights to disturb the churning, waist-high fog beyond. I stumble back, landing hard in the rocky soil, and stare at the horizon past the Grey.
The Dark doesn’t look like much, out there on the edge of the world, just a smudge in the distance where light goes to die. Shadows shift with the movement of the sun, growing longer and racing away as though they want no more to do with this place than the Arclight wants with them. Hopefully my little bird has the sense not to go so far.
I don’t want to be here anymore, or think that something I saved threw itself into the abyss for no reason. So I stand and turn away, surprised by the sudden appearance of a red glow hovering beyond the compound’s main building. Something’s burning.
Embers float along, dying as they fall, until I have to push through them to find their source. They settle solid on my arms and face, the warmer air becoming thick with smoke the nearer I come to a tramped-down hedgerow that’s ablaze, tended by Honoria and a group wearing security uniforms. This is why no one was patrolling the halls to stop me when I left alone; they’re all out here, guarding the breach until it can be reinforced.
Something beyond the boundary catches her attention, and Honoria’s hand goes to the silver pistol she keeps tucked against her back. Whatever it is, it passes quickly or isn’t worth her attention. Her hand goes slack on the gun’s handle, and she throws another bundle of cut brush into the fire.
Thankfully, no one sees me.
The air turns dry and brittle, filled with ash that stings my lungs. I hold my breath to stop the smell from entering my nose and the grit from sticking on my tongue, but that makes it worse. Each time I run out of air, I end up swallowing heat, until I’m forced to flee back the way I came.
I think of Tobin and his stories of the world before. People who walked out into the night because they heard the voices no one else could hear, calling them to a home that never existed. If someone sees me out here, skirting the Grey, they’ll think the same of me.
I follow the curve of the Arc away from the fire, and again, I find I’m not alone. Tobin approaches the boundary cautiously, pausing to scan the area every few feet, and I duck behind the switch box for the external alarm. It’s barely wide enough to hide me, but I doubt he sees me. It’s not people he’s looking for. Not out here so close to night.
Fear flits across his face, followed by an uncertainty
