Breaking Point

felt just as defensive as I had the first time we’d met.

“I’m not a killer,” I said. I shouldn’t have to explain that to someone who already knew.

“That’s not what the Bureau’s saying.”

“The Bureau lies!” I shot back at him.

“Ah,” he said, smiling now. “That feels better, doesn’t it?”

He turned to leave, but just before he did he stopped.

“Ember, I didn’t need your resume on the mainframe to tell me you belong here. I knew the second you walked in the door.”

He left me fuming. I didn’t belong here, not now that every soldier in the region was looking for me. I didn’t belong anywhere. I was a danger to our cause, to Chase, to Sean and Billy. I was a danger to myself. It was just a matter of time before the MM caught me.

I spun away from the door and kicked the first thing within reach: a cardboard box. Pale blue blouses and navy pleated skirts toppled over the dirty carpet. The Sisters of Salvation uniforms Cara had brought back.

Frustrated, I grabbed a towel and escaped to the bathroom. I washed my hair with an almost frantic need to cleanse myself. I cut it to chin length, and then dyed it black with a bottle of what looked like molasses beneath the sink. Temporary color, meant to wash out so no roots would show and draw the attention of those looking for such frivolous behavior. I knew it mattered little. They had to know my appearance was subject to change, and even with a pseudonym, my photo from the reformatory was going to make it to print. Still, I had to do something.

I looked in the mirror at my altered reflection. At the big brown eyes that looked so much like my mother’s, and the ski-slope nose we shared. I wished now, more than ever, that I could talk to her.

* * *

“YOU can’t serve them first,” the man complained. He looked like every other displaced businessman pounding the streets for work: glasses askew, tie loose, collared shirt untucked. He had a canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder and was pointing to a sheet of paper while he yelled at the soup kitchen attendant.

“See? Just look at it. That’s right, tilt your head down, that’s a good girl.”

The woman behind the counter looked like she might cry. I was five people behind the man, but the line had spread out when he’d raised his voice, and now everyone was listening.

I watched my mother hustle over from her volunteer position, outside the cold truck holding the perishable foods. She wiped her hands on her apron.

“What’s the problem, sir?” I stiffened at her tone; it was generally one step before she said something snappy.

“Oh, thank God. Someone reasonable. Look, these guys are up front getting the same rations as a family. Like they’re a family.”

My mother’s glance flickered to the two young men to her right. One was pulling at the other’s shoulder, saying “Come on, let’s just go, okay?” The other was red in the face and shaking his head.

“And?” Mom asked.

The man snorted. “And clearly they’re not. Look right here. Article Two. Whole families are to be considered one man, one woman, and children. All other combinations are not to be considered under the title family,” he air-quoted, “and should receive no tax, occupation, education, or health benefits otherwise.”

“Ah. The Moral Statutes.” She took the paper, and the man nodded righteously to those around him. I glared at his back while my mother read. “I don’t see anything about not receiving meal rations,” she said finally.

I froze. I willed her to close her mouth. This man wasn’t a soldier, but he could easily report her if he wanted. He could jump over the table and attack her if he wanted.

The man laughed, then realized my mother wasn’t joking. The two men in question went still. I pushed my way to the front of the line, not sure what I would do if he flipped out.

“Clearly that’s implied,” he said.

“Clearly not,” she answered, leaning forward over the table. “Let me tell you what is implied. Respect. And if that bothers you, I would be happy to recommend another soup kitchen which accommodates people who are obviously better than the rest of us.”

My face flushed, some with fear, mostly with pride. It filled me up, that pride. She was so alive and powerful just then—the look on her face daring him to say another word. I felt my face, so like hers, mimic that expression. I thought of checking it in the mirror when I got home to make sure I had it right.

The man turned, as if to stomp away, but then grimaced and returned to his place. My mother was the one to deliver his rations.

* * *

“MILLER, don’t be such a girl.” Sean beat his fist against the door, snapping me from my trance. “You’ll be lynched if you hog the john much longer.”

I swallowed a deep breath, knowing I couldn’t hide forever, and pushed through. Sean’s face changed when he saw me; he blinked in surprise.

“Who the hell are you?” he said when he recovered. “I’m looking for this brunette, sort of short and moody, disappeared in there about an hour ago.”

I leaned past him and searched the hallway for Chase, but he wasn’t among those loitering outside Wallace’s office. My heart lurched at the thought of how we’d parted.

“So,” Sean said carefully. “Pretty crazy, everything that’s going on.”

“Yep.”

“Want to talk about—”

“Nope.”

He hid a smirk in a well-timed cough. “Becca says if girls don’t talk about their feelings they keel over dead or something.” He waved one hand flippantly through the air, and I nearly laughed at how well my old roommate had him trained.

“I’m not most girls.”

“Too bad,” he said, slinging an arm over my shoulders. “I always wondered what that would look like, death by emotional overload. Sounds brutal.”

“And messy,” I agreed, glad he was around, even if I didn’t feel like talking. I changed the subject. “Any news on your recruit?”

He seemed equally glad for the switch. “He’s still alive apparently. I’ll bring him in tomorrow.”

I nodded now wondering if this new recruit might have information on Tucker, or why he turned me in.

“Billy says he thinks there’s resistance in Chicago,” he added with more enthusiasm. “He found some FBR wanted lists for the region. Most of the guys are suspected of ‘terrorist activity.’” He air-quoted the words.

It relieved me some that there were things I had to do. We had to find Rebecca. Somehow, even with my name smeared all over the FBR report, I had to break into a town with the biggest base in the country. Which involved walking outside of this hotel, getting through the blocked highways, and not getting shot.

No problem.

“How do we find them?” I asked.

He shook his head, suddenly tired again. “I’m working on that part. In the meantime, Wallace called a meeting. He’s waiting for you—Chase is already there.”

So Sean had come to find me rather than Chase. I probably deserved that.

Wallace’s room was only two doors down on the right. Cautiously, I followed Sean through the entry, which gave way to a low-ceilinged room that seemed a lot bigger than mine without the bed. The walls were lined with overflow contraband—weapons and damaged electronics mostly—and several mismatched chairs had been dragged in to join the moth-eaten couch. They arced around a dinged-up coffee table cluttered with batteries, half-burned candles, and ammunition. The ranks were already assembled. Houston and Lincoln were there, as were Riggins, Billy, Wallace, and half a dozen others.

And Chase. His jaw fell slack when he registered my presence. I smoothed down my short, black bob self-