Once We Were

“What about that new institution at Powatt?” It was Sabine again. She fingered one of the golden buttons on her jacket as she spoke, running her thumb along the smooth edge.

Peter turned toward her. “What about it?”

“Powatt’s barely an hour and a half from here. We’re not concerned they’re starting to build institutions within easy driving distance of major cities?”

“Say what you mean to say, Sabine,” Peter said.

Sabine began to reply, but the redheaded boy cut her off. “She means: Don’t you think it’s a problem that it’s okay now to stick institutions near a bunch of people? Everyone knows about them, but once upon a time, they still had enough of a conscience to not want a hundred dying children in their backyard. Now nobody cares?”

His voice was familiar—rough and heated and laced with anger. It had to be Christoph, the boy who’d called this morning.

“The country’s getting more and more apathetic, Peter,” Christoph said. “And the government’s getting bolder. Soon, they’re not even going to worry about covering up stuff like the Hahns institution. They’ll be able to round up hybrid kids in the street and put bullets in their heads—”

“Christoph,” Peter said just as Jackson nudged the other boy’s shoulder with his own. Christoph quieted, but didn’t control the mutinous look on his face. “We’re gathering more information about the Powatt institution. Once we know what we need to know, we’ll address it as it needs to be addressed.”

I had a sudden, gut-wrenching thought. <Is this how they talked about Nornand? >

How long had Peter “gathered information” before he decided to launch a rescue plan? The first time we’d spoken with Jackson, when he’d pulled us into that storage closet at Nornand, he’d told us to keep hope because a rescue was coming, but it needed more time. We’d told him we didn’t have more time, that Hally and Lissa were due for the operation table.

If Jackson hadn’t spoken to us that day, the rescue might have happened days or even weeks later. Hally and Lissa might be dead.

Addie’s disquiet weighed heavy against me. <Do you think they could have acted earlier, but didn’t?> She hesitated. <Do you think they could have saved Jaime? >

There was no way to know.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. By the time I managed to refocus on something other than my own tumbling thoughts, the room had broken up into more private conversations. I didn’t notice Sabine heading toward us until she’d almost reached our side.

“Hi again,” she said to us and Devon. There was a casual warmth to her voice, as if we’d met more than once. “I’m glad you ended up making it.”

“Yeah.” Addie didn’t bother making our voice sound anything but dull.

The look in Sabine’s eyes said she understood. Hally broke the awkward silence that followed by smiling and introducing herself. As the two of them chatted, I snuck another glance at Peter. He was still seated at the dining table, deep in a conversation with Henri and Emalia.

<We can’t say anything about the other Nornand kids now, can we?> I said.

How could I demand Peter rush into a rescue after what had happened at Hahns?

Still, I couldn’t help my impatience. Every day we didn’t act was another day those kids had to suffer. We’d survived Nornand. We knew what it was like.

Peter didn’t notice our furtive looks, but Henri, sitting across from him, met our eyes. He smiled and nodded in acknowledgment.

Jackson had told us Henri’s story early on. Ryan and Hally only looked foreign, but Henri truly was foreign. He hadn’t been born here—hadn’t grown up in the Americas, hadn’t even learned English until he was in his twenties.

He and Peter had met nearly five years ago, when Peter made his first trip overseas. Then a fledgling journalist, Henri got to hear firsthand about a locked-down country, one that few had entered or left in decades, since the first few years of the Great Wars. The two kept a clandestine correspondence even after Peter’s return to the Americas. And a few short months ago, Henri made the trip here himself.

I couldn’t imagine the danger he’d put himself in, sneaking into a country that hated him, where the ebony- dark gleam of his skin and the strange lilt in his words could so easily give him away. The latter was the real problem. There were people who looked like Henri in the Americas—many more, in fact, than there were people who looked like Ryan and Lissa. But no one spoke like Henri did. He couldn’t open his mouth without ruining the ruse.

Henri wasn’t even hybrid. And yet he’d come all the way across an ocean to try and help. Addie and I had seen the drafts of his articles, pages filled with strange sequences of letters, some with odd additions—extra marks where they didn’t belong. French, Henri had explained, and read us a little, the syllables sliding and flowing into one another.

They’d spoken French once, in parts of the Americas, especially far to the north. But languages other than English had been officially stamped out before Addie and I were born.

“How often do Peter’s plans fail like this?” Devon said abruptly. He was looking toward the dining table, too.

Hally sighed. “Devon.”

“Not often,” Sabine said. “He’s meticulous.”

“Peter knows what he’s doing.” Hally looked to Sabine, as if for confirmation. “He’s been at it for years.”

“Almost five, now.” Sabine smiled, just a little. “I was in the first group he ever rescued—me and Christoph.”

“Long time,” Devon said.

A long time to be free, and yet not really free.

Sabine and Devon observed each other like careful statues. Devon was a couple inches taller, but somehow Sabine made it seem like they were exactly eye to eye.

“Yeah,” she said finally. And listening to that one word, I could hear the long, trembling echoes of every one of those years.

SIX

Addie and I were still awake that night, thinking about Hahns, and Nornand, and dying children, when the nightmares came for Kitty.

At first, it was just a restlessness in her limbs. An inability to keep still. Then she cried out—not a scream, but a whimper, as if even asleep she knew she had to hide.

I hurried from our bed. It was too dark to see much, but Kitty had curled up into a ball beneath her covers, her breathing erratic.

“Kitty?” I whispered. “Kitty, wake up.” I gripped her shoulders as she rocketed upward. Her eyes snapped open. “Shh . . . shh . . . It’s all right.”

There were no tears. No screaming. Just two wide, brown eyes and five dull fingernails digging into our hand.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re okay.”

She pressed her face against our shoulder, a blunt, animal need for warmth and safety. I wrapped our arms around her. For a long time, neither of us said anything. Sometimes, the sight of Kitty in the bed next to ours—or just the feel of her in our arms—shocked me back in time to another shared bedroom. One where the beds were made of metal, not wood. Where the floor was cold and nurses came at intervals to check on us in the night.

Kitty spoke, her voice thick. “Eva, are Sallie and Val dead?”