Текст книги "The Earth Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Tristan

Even as the Sun Realm appears to be exploding from within, I rain down death upon the enemy. They fall before me, and even as their return fire whizzes over my head and skips off the ground next to me, I keep firing. Who am I to hide and live when those who would stand with me are falling and dying around me?

The black wall is advancing, moving up the hill toward us. I’m aware that it’s not all of them, because the rest are heading the other direction, trying to hold off the moon and star dwellers pouring out of the tunnel. We have them surrounded but they still seem to have the advantage in numbers.

Something bites me in the left shoulder and I cry out, rolling behind the truck and clutching at my torn uniform, now slick with blood. Gritting my teeth, I look through the hole, seeing a chunk of flesh missing from my arm. A flesh wound, I think. The bullet went clean through.

My back against the truck, I watch men and women shooting past me at the enemy, their faces full of determination. One falls, then another. Not flesh wounds. Death wounds.

Taking a deep breath, I roll out, shooting with my good arm. But it’s pointless; there are too many and they keep on coming, climbing over the dead like the bodies are sacks of dirt on an obstacle course. They’re so close now that some of them are drawing swords, preparing for the hand-to-hand combat that’s becoming more and more inevitable.

Their mouths are contorted into snarls, their eyes full of anger and violence, and they’re running, running, shooting, and then suddenly…

They stop.

All of them as one, as if responding to a command. Just stop.

A few shots ring out, from both sides, but then even the shooting stops.

What the…?

The enemy soldiers are staring off to the right, down a side street, where—now that it’s quiet, I hear it—the sound of a drum tap tap taps out a rhythm. But it’s not just a drum; there are voices, too. Many voices, singing a song so familiar it’s like coming home or seeing Roc or swinging a sword…

The Tri-Realms anthem.

A hundred, no, a thousand voices just belting it out, raising their voices as one, stopping the entire freaking battle in its tracks, like a pregnant woman crossing the street will stop traffic. I stand, step forward, toward an enemy who could shoot me dead in an instant, in awe of what I’m hearing.

There’s still a mix of firing and explosions beyond, closer to the tunnel entrance, but even that slows and then stops as the song gets closer and louder. I take another step forward, drawn by the music.

In front of me there’s shouting and grumbling and the wall of black slowly parts, opens up, making way for…

General Aboud.

He’s waving a gun in each hand, pointing them at his own soldiers, threatening them to “Move aside or die!”

And when he steps out he looks right at me, narrowing his eyes, but then, even his anger is drawn away by the sound of the singing voices. “What is the meaning of this?” he says, turning to look down the street, but then he takes a step back, shocked by whatever he sees that we cannot.

He raises his arms, both weapons aimed down the street toward the singing. “Go home!” he shouts. “This is not your place!”

I raise my weapon, center my aim on Aboud’s side, hesitate. If I start shooting, everyone might start shooting, and whatever happens, I don’t want whoever is singing the Tri-Realms anthem to get caught in the crossfire.

I wait. Aboud yells, “Go home!” again, but the singing continues, so loud now it’s practically on top of us.

Aboud takes another step back. And then…

A line of drummers emerges into the intersection, hammering out a beat, their heads held high, their backs straight, their eyes on Aboud. And behind them…

A line of people, then another, and another. Marching as one. Singing, singing, singing their hearts out.

“I’m warning you!” Aboud says, but everyone can hear it now. The doubt in his voice. The false promise.

The drummers surround him, and between the flash of their drumsticks I see Aboud drop his guns, cover his ears. The people are sun dwellers. Not soldiers, just everyday citizens, come out from hiding in their lavish homes to show us all where they stand. And where they stand is clearer than the red sky on the earth’s surface:

They stand for Unity.

Hundreds upon hundreds of people, men and women and children, young and old, crippled and whole, pour onto the street that’s become a warzone, splitting in both directions, surrounding the soldiers on both sides. A graying man with soft eyes grabs my arm, which I realize is still up, still aiming my gun into the crowd, and gently pushes it down, until my trembling fingers release their grasp and let my weapon fall to the ground with a clatter.

“President Nailin,” he says, and I can see that while the look on his face is one of confidence, his eyes are wet. “No more. Be at peace.”

And then he moves on, leaving me stunned, gone to disarm the next soldier.

Many of the people are carrying medical supplies, bottles of antiseptics and bandages and gurneys. They go to the wounded, to the dead, begin tending to them. I’m in awe.

Even over the singing and drumming, I can hear Aboud yelling and screaming and there’s a commotion around the drummers. “Come with me,” I shout to a soldier who’s standing, weaponless, watching in amazement as the singing people walk by him. “You and you, too,” I add to two others who look just as shocked by the whole thing.

They follow me as I push through the crowd, forcing my way toward the drummers. When we’re close, one of them falls back, his drum thudding hollowly on the ground. Aboud stumbles through the gap. “You!” he shouts at me when he sees me, his finger pointed at my head. “You did this!”

But I didn’t. All I did was ask the people…

It hits me. My words, they were a cry, a final plea for—

For Unity.

But I never expected…I didn’t think…it’s more and more and more than I could’ve ever hoped for. It shows that the sun dwellers are not my father, that they have minds that can think and make their own decisions and unite as one.

I stride toward General Aboud, stopping a few feet from him. “Aboud, you are under arrest for igniting a civil war in the Tri-Realms.”

The three soldiers step past me, grab Aboud by the arms, pull them firmly behind his back. He’s smart enough not to fight it. He knows when he’s been beaten, not by bullets or soldiers, but by hearts.

A young woman steps up to me as Aboud is being led away. Her eyes are pale blue and she has hair as red as a sky she’s never seen. “President Nailin,” she says.

“Yes?” I say.

“Do it,” she says, handing me a bullhorn.

I take it automatically, surprised, wondering what she means. But of course. I’m the leader. Someone needs to tell them what to do next. I look around, trying to find somewhere they’ll be able to see me.

“Here,” the young woman says, motioning to a wooden slab—a door, I realize, ornately carved and which probably cost a fortune for the sun dweller whose house it adorned, broken off its hinges and being carried through the crowd. A dozen people step forward to hold it up. Two of the drummers set down their instruments and offer me their hands to step into.

They lift me up onto the red door.

A hush falls over the crowd, except for a shout from somewhere near the tunnel, where I can see the uniforms of moon and star dweller soldiers making their way into the city. “He’s going to speak!” the voice shouts.

So many people. All looking up, all looking to me, all listening to what I’ll say.

What will I say exactly?

Of all people, it’s Roc who pops into my mind, his advice to speak from the heart hitting me in the gut.

I raise the bullhorn to my lips. “The citizens of the Tri-Realms have spoken!” I shout. A cheer rises up from the crowd, although even as I scan the people, I can see those wearing the black clothes aren’t smiling, aren’t cheering—many of them are shrinking back, toward the edges, as if they might run.

“Let me first address those who fought against us, who followed the orders of General Aboud and the other rogue generals. You will not be punished!” The cheering stops in shocked silence.

One of my own red-clad soldiers looks up at me. He’s carrying the body of a boy who looks far too young to be wearing a uniform. “They killed my brother,” he says.

I put the bullhorn down to speak directly to him. “I’m sorry,” I say, chasing away the swell of emotion that threatens to overcome me. “I can’t bring him back, but together we can honor him by forgiving the soldiers who were only following orders given to them by those who would destroy us all.”

Tears are running down his cheeks, but he’s nodding. “I will honor him,” he says.

Turning back to address the crowd, I say, “We need every last one of us to unite if we’re to defeat the madness that’s sweeping across the surface of the earth. President Lecter seeks to control you, to keep you underground, as my father did, and as his father did before him, but we can’t let that happen. You all deserve the truth, and the choice to live where you want, whether it be deep underground or above, where the birds sing and the sun shines and the rain falls like water from heaven. Will you stand with me? Will you fight?”

There are cries of “Yes!” right away, but it’s only when I see some of the black-clothed soldiers raise their fists in the air that I know my words have hit home. Although the Tri-Realms might still be a splintered mess, the Capitol at least, is united.

I step down, the world around me darkening as the artificial sun turns off and the moon and stars blink on. Night has fallen over day two in the Tri-Realms.

~~~

The reports are coming in fast from all over the Sun Realm. Bands of citizens, pouring from their homes, singing, surrounding the army splinter groups. In most cases the renegade soldiers didn’t know what to do, who to shoot at. They allowed themselves to be disarmed. In some cases, however, the mutinous combatants opened fire on the innocents, killing many. Eventually, sickened by their own actions, they turned on each other, ending the battles quickly. Many died on this day that will be remembered in all history as the day the Tri-Realms was united, but many more survived because of the brave actions of ordinary men and women who found it in their hearts to be extraordinary.

A miracle like this doesn’t just happen without planning, and this was no exception. It was planned over the communication network, starting as just an idea that spread like wildfire. While we were planning our assault on the renegades, the citizens were planning to stop it.

The moon and star dweller soldiers are now spread out throughout the many chapters of the Sun Realm. Like the sun dweller army, they’re awaiting my orders.

It’s late; I’m tired. My shoulder’s bandaged, but it’s nothing compared to the many injured who will lose limbs or maybe worse. I drop the reports on the desk, sit back and sigh. Was today one major stroke of luck? Or did it just prove everything that Ben Rose believed in, that the Tri-Realms were always meant to be united?

Even as I’m chewing on the question, Roc comes in. I’ve had him running around all over the place, carrying messages for me. There’s simply not enough time to meet with everyone I need to meet with.

“Lowly messenger boy reporting for duty,” he says, raising a hand in salute. I roll my eyes, but laugh inwardly. Without fail, he’s been doing that every time he’s come back from carrying a message.

“That’s it for now,” I say. “What did the lead scientist say about the transporters?”

“He’s coming here,” Roc says. “Now.”

“Now?” It’s got to be three in the morning.

“He said he has something to tell you. Something important.”

I raise my eyebrows. “And he wouldn’t give you any details?” I ask.

“He said he couldn’t tell secrets to a lowly messenger boy,” Roc says, keeping a straight face.

“You know, not that long ago I left you in charge of the entire Tri-Realms.”

“How far I have fallen,” Roc says.

“You did abandon your post within just a few days.”

“To find your sorry as—”

There’s a knock on the side of the doorframe. A bald man steps in. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“Dr. Kane,” I say. “Meet my best friend, Roc.”

The two shake hands. Roc says, “Lowly messenger boy will leave you to it. Goodnight.”

“Say hi to Tawni for me,” I say.

Roc leaves and Dr. Kane immediately moves to close the door behind him.

“Have a seat,” I say with a wave.

Or not. Dr. Kane remains standing.

“I think your father lied to you about something else,” he says.

“Shocking,” I say, wondering when I’ll really know everything that my father knew. Probably never. I think back to the message I had Roc take to Dr. Kane. I wanted to know how long it would take to transport ten thousand troops to the surface using the two small transporters we’ve got. What could he possibly have lied about? That they can only be used seven times before they self-destruct?

“Your message seemed to imply that you know of only two earth Cylinders.” Cylinders! That’s what they’re called. I knew there was a fancy name for them.

“Yes,” I say. “You’re saying there’s a third…Cylinder that my father didn’t tell me about?”

Dr. Kane laughs, his face lifting into a jovial expression that seems out of place on his usually serious face. “A third? No, not a third.”

Then what? “I’m not following,” I say.

“Did you really think your father would allow Lecter to win?” Kane asks.

I let his words sink in for a moment. My father was a lot of things—cruel, evil, maniacal—but he was anything but a fool. He knew when he was beat. He had two Cylinders and Lecter controlled the exit for one of them, as well as the New City and its citizens. Plus, my father had a good thing going as leader of the Tri-Realms. But he did hate to lose.

“You’re saying he was plotting to overthrow him?”

Dr. Kane claps his hands together like I’m a baby who’s just said his first word. “President Nailin, your father, hated Lecter with a passion.”

“At least we had one thing in common,” I say.

He continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “And he knew the one major advantage he had was in numbers. The New City was a fledgling compared to the mighty eagle your father commanded. A mass attack by a significant portion of the sun dweller army would undoubtedly be successful.”

I rub my forehead, fighting the urge to close my eyes. “Yeah, but without a third transporter, a bigger one, there’s no way he’d be able to get enough troops to the surface. Look, Dr. Kane, it’s great getting an inside look at my father’s twisted mind, but I really don’t have time—”

“There’s not just a third Cylinder,” Kane says, cutting me off, “there’s a fourth and a fifth and as many as there are subchapters in the Sun Realm.” He smiles broadly, looking as fresh as if it was the middle of the day and not the middle of the night.

“What?” I blurt out. “You mean…” He can’t mean…

“To answer the question from your message, we can get ten thousand soldiers to the surface in about five hours.”

I stare straight ahead, wondering whether I fell asleep at my desk, dreaming about miracles, like the sun dweller citizens coming to save us. I want to pinch myself, but I resist the urge. “There are thirty-seven Cylinders,” I say. “One in each of the subchapters and two in the Capitol.” It’s not a question, so Kane doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t deny it either. I continue thinking out loud. “And the thirty five that are outside the Capitol, they’re much larger?” I do some quick math in my head. “They can carry fifty, sixty soldiers?”

Kane nods. “Fifty,” he says.

“Holy crap,” I breathe.

“That’s what I thought you might say. Shall I get them prepped and manned?”

“Hell yeah,” I say.

With a curt, businesslike nod, Dr. Kane exits, leaving me stunned, gripping the desk with two hands. I was expecting an answer more like never—not five hours. With only the two small Cylinders we could’ve only transported twenty to thirty soldiers an hour. We wouldn’t even have a force worth attacking with until long after the Tri-Tribes had attacked and been massacred. And Adele? She’d be left on the inside with Lecter, to die a spy’s death the moment she was discovered.

But now…

Now we can attack with numbers, destroy the Glassy army, and take down the madman at the helm!

I realize I’m standing, my chest buzzing with excitement, my hands clenched at my sides. I’m thankful there’s not a mirror in front of me, because if there was, who would I see? Would I see Tristan, son of Jocelyn Nailin, fighting for the good of the people? Or would I see Tristan, son of President Nailin, seeker of power and control?

I shake my head. No. No. This isn’t about power; it never was. I don’t even want to be the president. I just want this to be over, to go back to getting to know Adele, to building a relationship with her that doesn’t include secret missions and assassinations and the end of the world.

Taking a deep breath, I unfurl my fingers, bring them up and run them through my hair, which is longer than it’s ever been. When this is all over, I’ll get a haircut.

Exiting my father’s old office, I make my way out of the governmental side of the palace and into the place I used to call home, where my memories are a collage of happy and sad moments, built on the foundation of a loveless marriage that ended in my mother’s death. In the foyer is the photograph that was always my favorite, the one where my father looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, a rare moment where he was captured as he truly was. My brother, my mother, and I are all smiling, laughing, happy.

I grab it and smash it on the ground, scattering chips of glass around my feet. I extract the photo, stare at it for a second, and then tear it about a quarter of the way from the left. Setting down the larger piece on a table, I stare at the small strip in my hands. My father’s angry, bored eyes look back at me.

“Bastard,” I say, and then rip it once, twice, and again and again until the stack of paper’s too thick for me to shred with my bare hands. A strange energy running through me, I toss the pieces in the air, letting them fall like rain around my shoulders, all the way to the floor, where they mingle with the broken glass.

I leave my father in pieces on the floor, taking the rest of my dead family with me to my bedroom, where I set the picture reverently on the table beside the bed.

As the wall clock flips over to four in the morning, I pull back the covers and crawl in, fully clothed, hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep before day three really begins.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Adele

I take her hand, which is cold and clammy. Even as she pulls me through the window, I can’t stop staring at her, the dead woman before me. I can’t reconcile what I’m seeing with President Nailin’s words ringing in my ears, mocking Tristan even as he destroyed every last bit of childish hope he had left: I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.

It never happened. He lied about Tristan’s mom. Not dead. Not murdered. Here, in the New City, in…Lecter’s house? But why?

Even as she closes the window behind us, I whirl on her, anger bright in my eyes. “What are you doing here?” I accuse.

“Adele, it’s not what you—”

I’m not listening to excuses, to more lies. “He thinks you’re dead, you know? It crushed him, destroyed him, broke him. Even after your...husband”—I spit out the word—“was dead, he grieved for you.”

There’s genuine shock on her face. “Edward’s dead?” she says.

“Sorry to break it to you,” I say, still feeling flushed.

“Thank God,” she says. I look around the room, trying to distract my anger. There’s no time for this, no time for voices from the dead, no time for a woman who abandoned her children to the whims of an evil man.

Like everywhere else, the room is small and bland. But it does have a real bed, decent size, too, taking up most of the space. There’s a pillow on the floor beside it, along with a blanket. Were those thrown there in haste when she heard the gunshots, or was she sleeping on the floor?

“Adele,” Jocelyn says, cutting off my internal question. She’s biting her lip and her eyes are wet, though no tears have fallen.

I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” I say. “Tristan will be beyond excited that you’re alive. I’m glad you’re alive. But…” I let the thought float away.

“But you think it’s pretty screwed up that I’ve gone from one dictator’s bed to another’s?” she asks, a tear finally falling.

I lift a hand to my mouth. She can’t mean…she’s not…she can’t possibly be saying that…

“It’s not what you think,” she says quickly. “Well, not exactly what you think. I’m a prisoner here. When I ran from my husband, I didn’t know where to go that he wouldn’t look for me. I realized the earth’s surface was the one and only place, so I came above, asked to become a part of the new society, not realizing what Lecter was creating here. I had hoped to return later for Tristan and Killen, but…”

“They let you in and wouldn’t let you out.” I’m still shocked that she’s standing in front of me. “But you’re here.”

“Borg was so welcoming,” she says, and I cringe at the way she says his name, like it’s so familiar, that of an old friend…or more. “He helped me get on my feet, showed me around, ate meals with me…” She sits on the bed, but I remain standing.

There are more shouts outside and I glance at the window. “They won’t look for you here,” she says. “At least not right away. Here I might as well be dead, and sometimes I wish it.”

“Don’t say that,” I say, for Tristan’s sake, although I’m still mildly disturbed by the gentle way she had recounted her memories of Lecter.

She shrugs, as if talk of suicide is a part of her daily life. “I started asking questions when what I was seeing around the city didn’t look right. The people, despite being the first in hundreds of years to live on the earth’s surface, were unhappy. They depended on Borg for everything. He was in complete control.” Her tone changes. Gone is the lightness. “I demanded to know the truth, and you know what? He told me. Every last detail. How he wanted to control everything, to create more cities like this one, to destroy the savages from off the face of the earth. I tried to run, to get away, to go back down to find my children, but his guards grabbed me and brought me here. I’ve been living here ever since.”

“You’re a prisoner,” I say.

“Just like everyone else in this twisted city,” she says, pursing her lips, which are now wet with tears. “Borg’s a monster, and I fell for his charms just like I did for Edward’s. I’m a fool.”

Although I’m still confused and in a semi-state of shock, I can’t watch Tristan’s mother—who is very much alive—crying like that. The woman who brought me and her son together. The woman who loved her son enough to give him a chance at a different life. The one who gave Tristan his only truly happy childhood memories.

I sit down on the bed, wrap a tentative arm around her, and hold her as she silently weeps.

Suddenly her body stiffens and her head jerks to look at me. “You can stay here for a while, but not forever,” she says. “They’re looking for you; eventually they’ll find you.”

I stare at her. “Of course they’re looking for me. I just killed three presidential guards. But they don’t know who I am.”

“They do,” she says. She reaches over and snatches a controller off a table. It looks like the one in the room I’m staying in. She presses a button and one of the walls brightens. A vid screen.

“What are you doing?” I ask. Strange time to be watching the news.

I gasp when the image appears. Because it’s…it’s…

It’s me.

~~~

Crap, crap, crap. This is not good. Beneath the photo that was taken at the Get Chipped! offices, is my false name, Tawni Sanders, and the words “Armed and Dangerous.” At least they got that part right.

But how?

The image changes to a news report. A woman wearing a black dress and bright red lipstick speaks:

“The two soldiers who had been missing for days have been found. They were tied up in an electrical room in the army medical building. Suffering from severe dehydration and malnourishment, they’re being treated as we speak. However, they have confirmed that the girl you saw on screen a moment earlier is their attacker. The army has not yet speculated on the reasons for her actions, except to say, ‘She’s a seriously disturbed girl.’ President Lecter himself has urged all citizens to assist in the identification and capture of the girl calling herself Tawni Sanders, and a reward will be considered for information leading to her arrest. According to sources close to the investigation, Miss Sanders’ chip was found moments ago in the room that was registered in her name. Somehow she’d managed to extract it and leave the building, suggesting assistance from another citizen.”

The woman glances to the left, cups a hand to her ear. “What’s that?” she says to someone off-camera. “Okay, okay.” She turns back to face the screen. “This just in. We’ve just received reports of a dead night watchman. There are also rumors of three dead guards at the presidential quarters. Although no official statement has been issued, there are suspicions that the murders are linked to Tawni Sanders. More as this story evolves.”

The image flashes back to my photo. Crap.

“The story has been looping for a while now,” Jocelyn says, pressing a button that turns the volume off but leaves the video on. “Each time there’s more information.”

“Crap,” I say aloud.

“What are you doing here?” Jocelyn asks.

Does she mean on the surface of the earth, in the New City, or in her room? I’ve got to tell her everything that’s happened, but she’s not off the hook yet.

“Look, I’ll tell you what you need to know, but first I need some answers.”

Jocelyn looks shocked. Since I crawled through her window I’ve snapped at her, held her while she cried, and now I’ve come full circle.

“You’re so much like your mother,” she says. Not what I expected her to say. “What happened to her?”

“She’s fine,” I say. “She’s a general in the Lower Realms army. When my father died, she led the Resistance.” I feel a swell of pride for the woman who raised me.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Jocelyn says, and I feel a smile tug at the corners of my lips. “She was always a strong woman.”

“So are you,” I find myself saying. “You defied your husband, took a chance, did something crazy and unpredictable—we thought you were dead. Nailin told us you were dead.”

She shakes her head. “I learned very early on in my relationship with Edward that you could never trust any words that passed from his throat through his lips. Even his body language was a lie most of the time.”

“Tristan has to know; we’ve got to get you out…”

“Impossible. There’s no leaving once you’re here,” Jocelyn says.

I feel something under my foot, on the floor. The pillow. The blanket. “Why are you sleeping on the floor?” I ask. The bed feels very comfortable, much better than the tiny beds in Lin and Avery’s building.

She looks away. “I’m a prisoner,” she says, which doesn’t answer my question at all, and makes even less sense.

“You’re a prisoner who can open your window? What’s to stop you from climbing down and escaping?” I’m missing something. Something big. What is she not telling me?

“I—I’ve been slowly getting my privileges back,” she says. I can barely see the tear that slips down her cheek. “Borg, he—when I found out the truth, and I slapped him, and I ran…he stuck me in a cell barely big enough to squeeze into, didn’t feed me for a week. Gave me a squeeze of water from a sponge each day, dribbled it personally into my burning mouth. He—he thought he broke me.”

My God. “But he didn’t?” I ask, hoping I’m right. Tristan’s mother seems weak, damaged, but not broken. Not yet anyway.

When she looks back at me, there’s a fire in her eyes I haven’t seen yet. Even with hot tears running down her cheeks she looks angry, strong. “No. I’m pretending. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, I’m showing him that I’ve changed. And he rewards me. This room. An open window. He knows I can’t escape because of the glass walls and the armed guards at the front. But one day he’ll make a mistake, and then I’ll be gone.”

Not broken at all. Chipped a little, maybe, but not broken. She still hasn’t answered my question. I motion to the floor.

She raises a fisted hand to her mouth, bites lightly on her knuckle, closes her eyes. “He makes me do things on this bed,” she says. “The nightmares never end when I try to sleep on it.”

I’m on my feet in an instant, my entire body tight and full of anger. I want to punch something—no, someone. Lecter. Borg, as this abused woman calls him. I stalk back and forth, staying out of view of the window. Why does she let him do this? If it was me, and he tried to so much as touch me, I’d freaking—

“I kicked him once,” she says, snapping me out of my internal tirade. I turn to look at her.

She’s wiping away the tears and nodding. “The first time he tried anything. I was playing along, trying to be congenial, acting like I didn’t find him completely disgusting. He thought that meant I was…interested in him. He touched me, kissed me—and I let him. But then he took it a step further and I resisted. He grabbed me, his arms like iron. Shoved me down. Tried to climb on top of me. I kicked him, as hard as I could, right in his…”

“Stones?” I say.

She smiles. “Yes. It was the best feeling in the world, hurting him like that, seeing his face contorted with such pain.”

It didn’t end there. Surely she paid a price for her resistance. Her makeshift bed on the floor tells me that much. I don’t ask, and she stands and turns away from me, so I think she’s done talking. But then she grabs the sides of her white shirt and pulls it over her head.

I gasp, tears welling up and blinding the truth written all over her back in long, jagged scars. He beat the life out of her for that one kick.