Article 5

Her phone number was disconnected. She isn’t on the Missing Persons boards. Her family moved away after the trial.

Moved away, I thought. Or they’d all gotten on a bus and disappeared.

I fell in line behind a heavyset girl with a short blond bob. She was crying so hard she began to choke. Another was rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around her stomach. They all looked around my age or younger. One dark-haired girl couldn’t have been more than ten.

Morris loosened his hold around my bruised arm as we approached two guards. One had a black eye. The other flipped through a list of names on a clipboard.

“Ember Miller,” Morris reported. “How many left until they transport, Jones?’

My knees weakened. I wondered again where they were taking us. Somewhere distant, otherwise I would have heard about it at school or from the gossip tree at the soup kitchen. It struck me that no one but these soldiers knew our destination. Not even my mother. Beth would look for us, but she’d get a citation or worse if she asked the MM too many questions.

I had a terrible feeling that I was about to disappear. That I was about to become the next Katelyn Meadows.

“Three more. They just radioed in. We should be heading out within the hour,” the soldier responded to Morris.

“Thank God,” said Morris. “These little bastards are vicious.”

The soldier with the black eye grunted. “Don’t I know it.”

“If you’re going to give us a citation, I’ll get you the money,” I blurted.

In truth, we didn’t have the money. We’d already used up nearly all of our government assistance check this month, but they didn’t need to know that. I could hock some of our stuff. I’d done it before.

“Who said anything about a citation?” Morris asked.

“What do you want then? I’ll get it. Just tell me where my mother is.”

“It’s an offense to bribe a soldier,” he warned, smirking as if this were a game.

There had to be something. I couldn’t get on that bus.

He saw my eyes dart behind him and anticipated my flight before I took the first step. In a flash his rough grip locked around my waist.

“No!” I struggled, but he was much stronger and had already trapped my arms against my sides. He chuckled—a sound that plagued me with fear—and shoved me forcefully up the steps with the assistance of the other soldiers.

It’s happening, I realized with morbid clarity. I’m about to disappear.

The soldier with the black eye had climbed up the stairs behind me and was now tapping his baton in one hand.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

I had no choice but to do what he said.

Never before had I felt so heavy. I trudged down the long rubber mat to an open seat in the middle and crumpled onto the bench, vaguely registering the sobs of the girls around me. A trickle of numbness inched down my spine, anesthetizing my fear and worry. I felt nothing.

The girl next to me had long, wavy black hair and mocha skin. She glanced my way then continued to bite her nails, irritated but not scared. Her legs were crossed at the knees, and she wore a tight T-shirt and pajama pants.

“Forgot your shoes.” She pointed at my feet. My socks were muddy and grass stained. I hadn’t noticed.

“What did they get you for?” she asked, without looking up from her hand.

I didn’t say anything.

“Hello?” she said. “Ember, right? I’m talking to you.”

“Sorry. How do you know…” I looked at her face and did recognize her faintly.

“I went to Western last year. Rosa Montoya? We had English together. Thanks for remembering.”

“We did?” I felt my nose scrunch up. I was usually better with faces.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. I was only there for a couple months. Between placements, you know.”

“Placements?”

“Group homes. Foster care, princesa. So what are you in for?” She spelled the words out slowly. I did remember her now. She had sat in the back of the classroom, biting her nails, looking bored, much as she did today. She’d come in mid-semester and had left before finals. We’d never said a word to each other.

I wondered if there were other girls from my school on this bus. No one else looked familiar when I glanced around.

“The soldier said an Article 5,” I answered.

“Ooh. You got hauled into rehab because your mom’s the village bicycle.”

“The… what?”

A girl in the back began sobbing louder. Someone shouted for her to shut up.

“The village bicycle. Everyone’s had a ride,” she said sarcastically. Then she rolled her eyes. “Ay. Don’t look so innocent. Soldiers? They’ll eat that up. Look, princesa, if it makes you feel any better, I wish I didn’t know my dad. Consider yourself lucky.”

I didn’t like her assuming I didn’t know who my father was, even if it was the truth. Most of the men attracted to my mom’s free spirit tended to beat it for the same reason.

Most, but not all. Her last—and worst—boyfriend, Roy, had thought he could control it, but even he had been wrong.

I was glad Rosa and I hadn’t spoken before at school. I nearly wished we weren’t talking now, but she did seem to have some idea about what was happening.

The bus lurched out of the ER circle, and as it did I felt a physical pain tear through me, as though my limbs were being pulled in all different directions. My mother and I had always been together, through everything. Now I’d lost her, and who knew what she was going to say, what she was going to do, to try to get home.

Anger rose above the grief. Anger at myself. I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t play nice enough. I had let her go.

The bus climbed back onto the highway. Garbage was piled up against the line of broken-down vehicles that lined the slow lane. I recognized the old houses and the painted silos in front of the old University of Louisville. The Red Cross had turned the campus into a housing colony for people displaced by the War. I could see dim candlelight still burning in a few of the higher dorm-room windows.

“Where are they taking us?’ I asked Rosa.

“They won’t say,” she said. Then she smiled. There was a gap between her two front teeth. “I already asked the guard back there. The one with the shiner.”

I could picture this girl punching someone in the face. I thought of Morris and the scratches on his neck, and it seemed surreal that I had done that. Attacking a soldier—that was insane.

“Will my mother be there?”

The girl looked at me as if I were a full idiot.

“Kiss that dream good-bye, chica,” she told me. “An Article 5 means that she’s not even your mom anymore. You’re property of the government now.”

I pinched my eyes closed, trying to ignore her words, but they echoed in my head.

She’s wrong, I told myself. And we were wrong, too. I forced myself to picture Katelyn Meadows walking up the driveway of her two-story house in… Indiana. Or Tennessee. She’d moved there because her dad’s job had been relocated. It had happened fast. Jobs were scarce these days. That’s why even her friends didn’t know. She was probably acing her history tests at some new high school. Believe it, I thought desperately; it could happen. But my imagination was too brightly colored to fit reality. It was a lie and I knew it.