Laura Nolen - The Ark

“Okay, I’m impressed.”

Isaiah smiled.

We began to jog directly away from the prison walls, Isaiah’s cane sweeping the ground in fast-forward, but I quickly slowed our pace. I was weak from hunger, and from getting kicked in the head, so anything over a brisk walk was not on the menu. I turned back once, to say my final goodbyes to the prison that had been my home for years. As I watched, the grate popped out again.

The goodbyes didn’t take very long.

A thicket of trees spread before me, and I pulled Isaiah behind the first one we reached. I remembered from the stories that a town lay behind them, populated mostly by prison staff and their families. In ages past, an escapee sought refuge here at his peril, but I doubted there were a lot of people left in town, since all the guards had spots on an OPT. We moved from tree to tree, hiding our path until we were deep enough into the trees that no one could see us from a distance.

Then it was full speed ahead. Or as full speed as we could manage.

The second house we came to had no lights on. Perfect. Probably belonged to one of the guards, and he or she would be knocking at the gate of the OPT launch site by now. I let myself in through a back window and paused only a moment to take in my surroundings before turning to assist Isaiah. Again, he needed my help a lot less than I expected. We headed straight for the kitchen, but I stuck near a window, keeping one eye out for Kip. When I was satisfied that he hadn’t seen which house we entered, I relaxed slightly. Our best move was to stay here until he assumed we’d moved on.

I wanted a shower, but first things first. The house was old and small, with cheap linoleum on the kitchen floor that had begun to peel at the edges. I wondered how much Isaiah could ascertain about his surroundings, then noticed that the house smelled old and small, too.

The icer was stocked, though, as was the pantry, so to me, it was Buckingham Palace relocated to upstate New York. Two ham-and-jelly sandwiches for me, three ham sandwiches for Isaiah, and then we broke into the potato chips.

“So good,” I mumbled, not caring that the crumbs were sticking to my face.

Isaiah raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t your mama ever teach you to chew with your mouth closed?”

“Sorry.”

We climbed the narrow staircase, and I hopped into the rickety tub for the greatest shower of my entire life, leaving Isaiah to explore the other rooms.

I had no idea whose OPT pass I carried, but I knew they wouldn’t look like an escaped prisoner. So I ignored the fluttery, urgent feeling in my chest and took the time to blow-dry my hair. A raid of the bathroom cabinet revealed lipstick, deodorant, and moisturizer, along with a dried-out tube of eyeliner. I applied the lipstick quickly, grateful to my mom for the second time that day, since she had spent the better part of my time between stints in juvy forcing me to learn how to wear makeup. Or trying to, anyway.

I ran the eyeliner wand under the tap for a few seconds, swished it around in the tube, and swiped a thin line across my eyelids. The result was a lot more responsible-teen-headed-to-the-mall, or wherever it is normal teenagers go, and a lot less bruised-and-bloodied convict.

The cabinet under the sink produced Band-Aids, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a worn-out, empty makeup bag. Gritting my teeth, I ran the alcohol over the cut on my hand, which had opened back up in the shower, and taped it shut with a Band-Aid. I used a wad of toilet paper doused in alcohol to dab at the cut above my eye from Cassa’s shoe. Then I threw the toiletries into the makeup bag and headed for the bedroom, stark naked.

The first room was a bust. Granny panties, nightgowns, and a drawer full of bras big enough to wear as hats. No thank you.

I hit the jackpot with bedroom number two. Whoever lived here was about my size. I found vintage-looking lace underwear in the drawers. I pulled on a set and stuffed a second into the makeup bag.

The closet was even better. Crisp brown pants, flowy blouses, and smart-looking dresses hovered over a neat row of shoes for every occasion. This girl really had her act together. I had never lined up a pair of shoes in my life.

I selected a blue skirt and a heavily tailored sleeveless top made of the same material and paired them with camel-colored heels. I had no idea what one wore on an OPT, except that almost everyone there would either be super smart or super rich. My mom would probably tell me to find some pantyhose, so I returned to the underwear drawer with a sigh. I reflected that there probably weren’t seasons in space, either, so I selected an additional outfit: a black, long-sleeved cotton shirt, black boots, and a pair of black pants.

I was just about to leave when I noticed a brown leather satchel-style purse slung over one of the coat hangers. A quick search of its contents turned up a wallet and ID. Magda Notting, born 2015. She’d be nearly fifty years old, then, much older than I expected, based on what I had seen of her clothing. She’d also be ineligible for a spot on one of the Arks. I wondered where she was. Probably waiting it out at a friend’s house, or something. I hoped she wasn’t alone.

I worked the black clothing into a roll and pressed it into the top of the satchel. I never considered putting the starpass into the bag. It went under my shirt, secured to the skin just below my collarbone with a series of Band-Aids. I took a final glance in the mirror and forced myself not to think about how we’d get Isaiah onto the OPT with only one starpass. I didn’t know if I was the kind of person who’d sacrifice my life for someone else, and that scared me as much as anything else. I clopped my way out the door and down the steps, uneasy in Magda’s heels. Uneasy in general.

“Isaiah?” I called. “You up there or down here?” Maybe he’d stepped outside. I was halfway through the sitting room, and maybe five feet from the door, when a rush of ice spilled down my spine, and I stopped short.

Someone was in the room with me. Someone with a rifle pointed straight at my chest.

“Hold it right there, Missy.” The gravelly voice paused long enough for a wracking cough.

I raised my hands as slowly as possible. In my experience, there were two kinds of people who point guns at other people. The first kind weren’t going to shoot you unless they had to. Suckers, we called ’em. Suckers made it easy to get away. Sometimes you didn’t even have to give their stuff back, as long as you started running before they got too jumpy. The second kind were just looking for an excuse to pull the trigger. As I was sizing her up, she chambered the cartridge.

This was definitely the second kind.

I made my voice as small and feminine as possible. “Look, I didn’t mean any trouble. I thought you were gone.”

“Doesn’t give you the right to steal my stuff.”

I turned around, slowly. “Really, I thought the house was abandoned. Please don’t shoot.” The woman in the corner was elderly and heavyset and sucking hard on a nicostick, the kind the government had approved the year they banned cigarettes. I had no doubt this wasn’t the first time she’d handled a .30.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, anyway?”

“I was hungry,” I whimpered. “And I needed clothes.”

“What for?”

“For the OPT.”

“I saw them clothes in the bathroom. You don’t belong on no transport.”

I breathed out for a moment, and sniffed, and realized that my tears weren’t actually fake, even though I had planned them. “I know.”

“But you’re going anyway.”

If I spoke loudly enough, maybe Isaiah would hear me. Would he try to leave, or try to help me? Would he even be able to help? “I have to. My family went, and I was in lockup, and they left me there.”