Raising my chin, I say, “I’ll do it.”
Carolina wraps me into a hug. Her arms are wiry, her chest bony, and she squeezes as tight as rope. “Your name will be remembered in the new democracy.”
As we draw away, my gaze meets Ryce’s. One corner of his lips rise, and he gives me an approving nod. “I’ll take care of your kakapo—”
“Sharqi,” I blurt.
His eyes soften. “I’ll make sure Sharqi and her chicks have everything they need while you’re in the palace.”
A siren blares before I can thank him. It’s an early roll-call, ordering every able-bodied person in town to Rugosa Square.
Ryce wraps a hand around my forearm. “Come with me.”
We rush through a door that leads into another darkened hallway, and I stumble blindly at his side.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“This region is filled with underground caverns, did you know that?” he asks.
“No—”
“My family has been in Rugosa for five generations, but it was my great-grandfather who discovered a network of tunnels under the town. He thought their purpose was for removing excess water from the streets.”
“I can’t picture that much rain ever falling.”
“It’s hard to imagine that the Mississippi River ran through this place centuries ago.”
As we hurry down a maze of dark passages, Ryce explains that the discovery of these tunnels was what started the Red Runners. His great-grandfather had confided in a fellow soil-builder about his find, who told another harvester, who told someone else. Eventually, word reached the guards, who took everyone who even suspected the tunnels’ existence to the Oasis.
Ryce stops and places my hands on a wooden ladder. We climb up in the dark, and he explains that an urn of ashes one day appeared outside his great-grandmother’s house. It had been a warning to everyone else never to venture into the tunnels.
At the top of the ladder, he reaches past me and pushes at something in the ceiling. It gives way, and light and a musty scent floods the ladder, making me squint.
I stare up at the wooden roof of an outhouse. To the left of my head sits an earthenware chamber pot. I turn around, and Ryce gives me an encouraging nod.
The outhouse is in the backyard containing dwarf date palms with oversized fruit bunches that hang from thick stalks. I blow out a breath through my teeth. The soil where we live is only suitable for growing cacti.
“This way.” He places his hand on the small of my back, and for a moment, it feels like we’ve been together forever.
The sun is an incandescent ball of light half obscured by the horizon, and the oppressive heat of the day fades to a gentle warmth. Mingled scents of pomegranates and pears and persimmons carry in the breeze, which sweeps dark strands of hair off my face.
We step out from the garden and join a road of houses made of mud bricks. The white rendering has faded to brown over the years, but these homes are much older than ours and closer to Rugosa square.
Whole families of Harvesters pile out of their houses toward the stairs. The Nobles encourage us with extra water rations to marry early and reproduce, but very few households contain more than three children.
“What do you think this roll call is about?” I ask. “The trials?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Ryce pauses for a field manager on horseback, who wears a white shirt with his beige pants. Pink patches appear on the older man’s cheeks through his peeling brown skin. He tips the brim of his straw hat at Ryce, who offers back an acknowledging nod.
The square is one of the few paved areas within Rugosa. It’s a vast space that can accommodate all seven-thousand of us, with floodlights on the surrounding streets that also contain speakers.
There are no stores or boutiques in Rugosa except for a huge geodesic dome. One half consists of triangular panels that give a clear view of the OasisVision screen. The other half is a white polymer that both protects from the sun and projects the screen on its exterior. That way, everyone in Rugosa gets a chance to watch important announcements, even when the dome is full.
Harvesters spill into the streets, a mass of beiges and browns and burned umber. The dome doors are closed with at least a thousand people crowding around its front and back. As we cross the street, our steps falter—not at the crowd but at a marquee that stands at its side with guards flanking its closed doors. Even more alarming are the eight black trucks parked on that side of the square. There’s no mistaking who or what they contain.
Anxiety clutches at my insides. The last time the guards erected a marquee, it was to round up the participants of an illicit distillery. No one has seen those Harvester men and women in the two years since they were taken.
“Do you know what that structure is about?” I whisper.
Ryce shakes his head and guides me to the furthest end of the square in view of the screen.
By now, the last vestiges of sunlight filter through the distant haze, turning the sky the color of freshly spilled blood. Dozens of guards step out of their vehicles, each clad in black armor and each carrying automatic rifles. I edge closer to Ryce, hoping that they’re here to supervise the Harvester portion of the Princess Trials.
The national anthem blares through the overhead speakers, and the Phangloria insignia appears on the screen. It’s a tree with multiple curling branches that stretch out into a semicircle and matching roots that extend the same length as the branches. At its trunk is a single eye. It’s supposed to belong to Gaia, the goddess the Nobles worship, but the double crowns that make up her eyelashes make me wonder if the Nobles believe that the monarchs are the gods.
The image fades, replaced by Jimeno Montana, the Minister of Media and OasisVision. His blue-black hair identifies him as a Noble, and he wears it swept
