Jean didn’t wait to hear what Liyla had to say. The minute Ker loosened her grip and turned to go, she ran, not even thinking of the soldiers outside or, worse, the black dog. But it pounced before she’d taken three steps, knocking her into the dirt and holding her there, its feet on her back and its teeth at her collar. Jean squirmed as it pressed its wet nose into her neck, growling, until the soldiers pulled the beast off her. When they dragged her back to the Genius, he at least no longer wore his sickening smile.
“Bind her,” he said to the soldiers, and they tied her so tightly to a chair that her arms stung and her back, forced straight, ached with stiffness.
For the first hour, she tried to free herself, concentrating on the ropes and trying to pull them to pieces, strand by strand. When that didn’t work, she hoped she could at least make the wind blow, as Susan had, and knock the ugly Genius from his chair. But she managed none of it. Her heart pounded too insistently in her chest, and the shaded area around her seemed to fracture into a hundred jagged pieces. In the end, she was too small, too frightened.
The morning wore on, and old men in fancy uniforms came to the tent, to peer at her and examine her Barbie, which rested now on a table beside the Genius’s seat, next to a long blade with a red enameled grip. They leaned over Jean with their terrible, ferocious faces until her breath caught in her throat, and she closed her eyes against the sight of them.
“See! See!” the Genius told them as they pressed closer, rancid with sweat and sour breath, touching her face and hands. Nausea engulfed her and her head swam. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, muffling sound, but not enough to block the Genius’s awful voice.
“Take a look at our answer,” he said. “Take a look at the face of the future!”
Jean whimpered and felt as if she were choking. At last the awful men were gone, and Liyla came back, head down, walking in an odd, tight way as she entered the tent. She answered the Genius in a quavering voice. Yes, she had seen the house, just where they said it would be. There were several more like this there. All girls. They would come for her. Yes. Definitely. Soon.
He nodded, and she crept aside to stand silent and hunched in a corner near Jean’s seat.
“Look your fill, girl,” the Genius said, noticing. “Soon you, too, will have a face like that. All of us will.” And he smiled without showing his teeth.
Jean’s belly had turned to water. Terror was a jackhammer pounding in her stomach and throat. She would have liked to scream or cry, but her throat closed against it. Not even a sound could make its way up through that tight space. The heat rose, the tent baked, and sweat crept from the roots of Jean’s hair and trickled down her cheek. For all that, her body was a block of ice.
At last the Genius took his dog and went out into the air.
“Jean.”
Liyla’s voice cracked on the name.
“Jean, I’m sorry.”
Jean pretended she didn’t hear.
“I couldn’t help it. They made me. I couldn’t — I couldn’t do anything else. You don’t know them; you don’t know what they do. I couldn’t, Jean. Don’t you see?”
Jean’s voice had come back to her, but she wouldn’t use it. She clenched her teeth. She hated Liyla. Hated her. Wished she were dead, ripped into a thousand pieces like shredded paper. She hated her “couldn’t” and “Don’t you see?” She didn’t see. She wouldn’t. She turned her face away. It was the one thing she could move.
The hours wore on and Jean was alone with Liyla. No one brought food. Not for Jean, and not for the girl, whose stomach growled so loudly it made Jean jump, setting her arms throbbing against the ropes.
“You hungry?” Liyla asked.
No, no, no, Jean thought. She remembered Liyla in the orchard, dropping plums into her basket and stuffing them into her skirt. Remembered her bargaining with the fruit seller. She’d never asked if Jean was hungry then.
Liyla went out and returned quickly with bread. “I can’t untie you,” she said, still not meeting Jean’s eye. “But if you want, I can feed it to you.”
Jean just looked at her. The inside of her mouth tasted sour, and her tongue stuck to the backs of her teeth. No, she wouldn’t eat.
But Liyla tried to push the bread to her lips. “Eat,” she whispered. “Eat, or you’ll be sick!”
At this, Jean finally spoke. “Sick! Since when do you care who gets sick?”
The tiled room, with its straps and needles and knives, flashed before her eyes. Jean shivered, remembering the cold.
Liyla flushed, and she dropped her hands to her sides. She left the tent, and Jean was happy, furiously happy, that she had gone, but the girl returned and forced a cup of water to Jean’s lips.
“Drink,” she whispered. “You have to! I don’t want you to be sick.”
At last, Jean drank. Her throat had begun to stick to itself. She could feel it closing, making it hard to breathe. Panic darted through her again.
Liyla watched her, nodding anxiously. She drew the cup back and let Jean swallow, then offered it again. Jean shook her head and closed her eyes.
“You sold us,” she said. “You sold us for money. You gave them Kate’s Barbie and helped them find us!”
“No!” Liyla croaked. “No, they came and found me! They made me come!”
Jean only shook her head.
“It
