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Then it exploded into cheers.

  The guards rushed to Denton, but he pushed his way through them back to the microphone, struggling to regain control of the room. He was screaming, “Order! Order!” But no one could hear him over the thundering cheers.

  Julian stood among the screaming, thumping crowd. But he did not join them. He’d only ever seen Amit in history class. He was always silent, the kid who didn’t raise his hand.

  But now Amit was capable of . . . this? Whatever this was? Was this supposed to be cool? Was this supposed to be . . . fun? Some kind of statement? It looked more like a miserable way to waste a life.

  Julian looked around at the hysterical crowd, but he could see only one other person besides himself who was not cheering: standing in the front row, among his Burner cohorts, was Nicholas.

  He was filming everything on his phone. He wasn’t cheering. But he was smiling.

  Chapter 8

  THE TRAFFIC IN RETRO ROW WAS AT A DEAD STOP. FROM behind a bend up ahead, a cloud of smoke rose into the sky. The smell of acrid flaming tire seeped into Julian’s car, even with the windows rolled up. It was a familiar scent on this road: a burned-out car—an accident, maybe, or an inconsiderate suicide gone wrong. . . . It could be any number of things. Maybe, Julian thought, it could be excuse enough to turn around and skip the job interview at Tasty’s. Julian considered it, calculating the possible outcomes, but he was hemmed in by the traffic, and, anyway, on balance it would be worse to have to face his father than to just suck it up and go through with it.

  Julian looked out the window at the buildings lining the street, which snaked along the foot of the hill. Retro Row, the bad part of Lakeshore, was formally known as Cypress Flats, a narrow valley that lay in a watershed that fed away from the Lake. It became swampy in the heat of the summer, an ideal breeding ground for mosquitoes. But one of Retro Row’s most infamous products was the cicadas, unique to the area and, unlike any other species of cicada, able to thrive in the cold winter weather. They bred in the elm forests around the Lake and then hibernated, burrowed into the valley in eighteen-year cycles. Every eighteen years, after winter had descended, the ground would tremble with tens of thousands of pupae as they crawled out, took flight, and filled the valley with a cacophonous scratching sound. Residents sealed their doors and windows—the last thing anyone wanted was their floor writhing with three-inch-long insects.

  Even considering that vile pedigree, Retro Row was best known for something else: it was home for the many who were so severely addled by retrogression that they could no longer function in proper society. They gathered in makeshift encampments by the river, or some of the luckier ones squatted in the buildings left empty by a decade of economic neglect. There was something about the retrograde attitude here that compounded in aggregate—every community outreach effort over the years had failed. Any attempt to rehabilitate or reintegrate the retrogrades here was met with obstinacy and, above all, a deep-seated fear of the Lakes, of nurses, of burning. . . .

  In time, most people respected this and were happy to stop the failing rehab efforts. After all, these retrogrades were the people most ravaged by rebirth glitches—the ones who had lost everything. Let them have their space, Lakeshore had collectively decided. Let them have this Retro Row, as long as it was clearly delineated, borders drawn, a place where respectable society didn’t need to venture unless it absolutely had to.

  Today, Julian absolutely had to.

  As he sat in traffic, he watched as dozens of cats crowded around a ditch near a convenience store. They were circling, mewling loudly, jockeying around the hole. They were large, fat animals with thick, matted fur—“Lake cats.” Ferals who came from the dark elm forests near the Lake, they were wilder, and more erratic, than the typical house cat. They were digging in the hole, pulling out little bone-white bits of something, and eating them.

  Julian looked closely, trying to understand what those little white morsels were. Pupae, he realized with disgust. Cicada pupae, dug up from the ground. Pale white wings and legs pressed tight against tiny, unformed bodies. Julian felt his stomach lurch watching the cats fight to devour them. Julian noticed one cat in particular, sitting above the scrum on an old wooden box. It was all black with a white patch over its right eye. It had no interest in the meal of bugs below him, or in the other cats scrambling with one another to feed. Unnervingly, the cat was only interested in Julian. It seemed to stare at him as he sat in traffic. The tip of its tail twitched in rhythm like a menacing metronome.

  A car horn sounded angrily behind him. Finally, the traffic started to move, and Julian pulled away from the cat, keeping an eye on it in his rearview mirror. Even as he drove away, its white-splotched face continued to follow him.

  Julian pulled up at the Tasty’s just on the other side of the Row, where the lower-rent suburb of Elmwood began to sprawl. He hiked his collar up to cover his One and headed inside. A cashier showed him a seat at a Formica table while he went to fetch the manager, a Mr. Mitchell. Julian watched as a couple in a booth across from him unpacked their food—the man was stirring a brown paste into a creamy white milk shake, while the woman was unwrapping an extremely pungent sausage sandwich. She leaned in close to it and inhaled the smell deeply before taking a bite.

  “You’re Miles Dex’s boy?” a scratchy voice said from behind him. Julian turned to find a middle-aged man with a comb-over and a paunch poking through his red and white Tasty’s vest.

  “Yes, I’m Julian,” he said, deciding he had better try his best to go through with this interview as properly as possible.

  Mr. Mitchell shook Julian’s hand with a single firm pump and sat down next to him.

  “I heard you’re a good kid looking for some part-time work.”

  Julian put his hands together and set them on the table. “Yes, sir,” he said in an inflection that mirrored his father’s “serious” voice.

  “Tasty’s is not just a fast-food restaurant,” Mr. Mitchell said with outsized importance. “We specialize in compassion.”

  Julian nodded. “What do you mean?”

  “No one’s taste stays the same as they get older and higher in life number. We at Tasty’s know that lentic retrogression manifests in different ways, but even if you can no longer taste salty, or sweet, or even anything at all, you have the same right to nutritious food, as flavorful as we can get it for you.”

  Julian nodded, sadness stirring inside him as he listened to the rehearsed speech.

  “Do you have compassion, Julian?” Mr. Mitchell asked.

  Julian suppressed a shudder.

  How about I just say no?

  Nope, no compassion. Only care about myself. Interview over?

  Instead, he said, “I do, sir.”

  Mr. Mitchell asked for Julian’s résumé. Julian slid a single folded piece of paper across the table to him. Mr. Mitchell studied it for a moment too long. Julian watched as he read—he noticed the number on the man’s neck: Seven. He wondered what flavors he had lost in spending his many lives.

  Mr. Mitchell folded the paper closed and looked up at Julian. His wet eyes scanned Julian’s neck, but he couldn’t find what he was looking for. He scrunched his brow in confusion.

  “Forgive me the formality, but I have to ask you what your number is, if you don’t mind, Julian.”

  Julian’s face became hot and itchy. He swallowed. “I’m a One, sir.”

  Mr. Mitchell’s eyes widened in surprise. “A One?” he said, exhaling with a quiet whistle. “A One . . . ,” he repeated. He looked down at the table and said, “Gosh, I am really sorry, son.”

  Julian swallowed and looked down at his hands. He did not want to say anything else, but an uncomfortable silence had descended between them. The conversation demanded he ask: “Why?”

  “Had I known,” Mr. Mitchell said, “I wouldn’t have asked you to come down so far. I heard you were low, but I assumed a Two at least. You see, I have this opening because I get a subsidy to hire low-numbered studen
ts, but it only applies to Twos and up. I’m really sorry, son, but those are the rules.”

  Hot anger bubbled in Julian’s throat, but he closed his eyes and swallowed it. He said, “That’s okay.”

  Mr. Mitchell slid the résumé back across the table to him. Julian put it in his pocket. Mr. Mitchell’s mouth turned into a sad frown. He said, “I can’t even remember being a One.” He shook his head. “I really can’t. But I wish I could.”

  Julian forced himself to smile politely. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Hey,” Mr. Mitchell said, “dinner’s on me.”

  Julian zipped up his jacket. There was a chilly wind on the top of the hill. He sat down on the hood of his car. The feel of the cold metal through his pants sent a shiver through him. He reached into his Tasty’s bag to fish out a garlic soy protein nugget.

  He looked down at the Lake. The moonlight sparkled off it. In the distance, he could see the beach and the receiving center. He strained hard through the darkness and could even make out a few people being reborn: dark spots breaking on the water, small figures trudging their way through the shallows toward the shore.

  There was a fifteen-foot perimeter fence set off a few yards back from the shore and running the full length of the Lake, capped in barbed wire. Access to the Lake was strictly regulated. But down near the fence, there was a small bonfire. Two figures were walking around it. At first, Julian thought it was a couple of retrogrades, but he soon realized they were too put-together, too coherent in their movements. Eventually, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out their clothes, and he realized that they were kids about his age.

  A group of cats had gathered around their fire. One of the kids—the bigger one—was feeding them little bits of something from his bag. The other kid—a girl with a ponytail—was writing something down in a notebook.

  He briefly thought about saying hello but then decided it wasn’t worth it—he’d have to make introductions, they would inevitably see his One, and they would surely ask questions. He could already hear them: Is that for real? How did you even manage? Aren’t you even a little curious about what burning is like?

  He checked his phone—10:00 p.m. He had to give it another hour until his dad went to sleep. He just couldn’t bear to face him. Not tonight. He couldn’t even get the god-awful fast-food job he didn’t want and that his father, in his quiet, pressing desperation, needed him to get.

  Instead, he leaned back on the cold hood and popped another nugget into his mouth. It exploded in a burst of overwhelming garlic flavor.

  Am I so inferior? So useless? Because I don’t want to do what they demand I do?

  “Holy moly!”

  Julian shot up in a start. It was a girl’s voice, but it had a deeper, almost masculine register to it.

  “Really hitting the garlic up here, aren’t you?”

  Julian found the two kids standing before him: a tall, heavyset boy and a girl with a gray hoodie pulled over her head and a pair of binoculars slung around her shoulder—the source of the voice. Had they walked up from the bonfire down by the fence?

  “You gonna share the love or what?” the girl said as the two approached. Julian could make them out more clearly as they got closer—the boy was chunky, with big, frizzy hair. The girl pulled back her hood. Julian had never seen anyone as freckled as she was—her face was a universe of little dots on a pale white canvas. In the dark, her hair appeared burnt orange. Her eyes were large, dark, and deeply set. It was an odd face but also oddly compelling. He found it difficult to look away from her.

  “Well?” she said. Julian snapped out of it and reached for the bag of nuggets. “Oh yeah, help yourself,” he said. “They’re garlic bombs, though.”

  They each popped a nugget and chewed.

  “Cold up here, isn’t it?” the girl said, her mouth full.

  “Yeah.”

  “So, you’re hanging out on a car—alone, freezing, eating garlic nuggets,” she said. “One of those nights, eh?”

  Julian snorted in disdain, but nugget bits got caught in his throat. He started to cough. Thankfully, he was able to suppress it before it got out of hand.

  Not soon enough to stop the girl from shooting him a sly grin, though.

  “Why don’t you come down to the fire?” she asked.

  Julian was surprised by the invitation, but he just couldn’t go down there. Not tonight.

  “I’m killing a bit of time before I head home,” he said.

  The girl nodded and then waved her hand in front of her mouth. “Damn, this is—blech,” she said. “You have flavor issues?”

  “No,” Julian said, subconsciously hunching to hide his One.

  The boy stepped forward. “I’m Glen,” he said.

  “Julian.”

  The girl stepped closer and held out her hand. Julian took it in his. Her fingers were long and delicate and warm.

  “Cody,” she said as they shook.

  “You go to Lakeshore Academy or something?” Glen asked. “Never seen you around before.”

  “Yep.”

  “We’re the Poplar Public High scum,” Cody explained, gesturing over the elm forest in the general direction of Poplar Heights, the other city that shared the Lake with Lakeshore. “Our football teams might literally kill each other on the field, but there’s no reason you can’t share a bonfire with us,” Cody said. “We’re just feeding the cats. The winters are so cold around here, it gets tough for them.”

  “Thanks.” Julian considered their offer. These people looked nice, but still . . . he could see Cody’s number—Three—and Glen was a Four. Julian didn’t have it in him tonight.

  “But really, that’s okay,” Julian said as Cody stepped closer toward him, peering at his neck.

  “Wait a minute, Mr. Julian, are you a One?” she said boldly.

  Julian swallowed and stiffened his back. “Yes,” he said quickly. There was a moment as everyone waited for follow-up elaboration, but Julian was not about to justify himself to these strangers.

  “You’re probably the oldest One I’ve ever seen,” Cody said, breaking the silence.

  Julian looked at her hard. He hoped she could pick up on the strong, uncomfortable vibes he was trying to broadcast.

  Finally he said, “Yeah, well . . . I am what I am.”

  Where the hell did that come from?

  “You are what you are,” she said, chuckling quietly to herself.

  Despite the cold, Julian could feel his hands dampen as she studied him.

  “Well, if you don’t want to join us, you don’t have to,” she said. “It’s a free country. Except in regards to killing yourself.”

  She looked at him as if waiting for a response.

  “Thanks,” Julian said, puzzled and uncomfortable.

  Cody cocked her head to the side. “You know,” she said. “I have a real interest in people like you.”

  “You mean Ones?” Julian asked gruffly.

  Cody nodded. “That’s right. Ones. Abstainers. People who don’t follow the life score.”

  Julian looked warily at this oddly compelling girl who was full of strange ideas.

  “You sure you don’t want to come down by the fire? We’re also spotting.” She tapped the binoculars hanging around her neck.

  “Spotting what?” he said.

  “You know, animals getting messed up with the Lakes. People trying to hop the fence. Weird stuff like that.”

  Yes. Lots of strange ideas.

  “Thanks,” Julian said. “But I should head home, actually.”

  “All right, then,” she said, nodding.

  He watched as Cody fished her phone out of her pocket.

  “What’s your number? There’s a party on October first. Someone like you might be very interested in attending.”

  Julian looked at her for a long, dumbfounded moment. Was this girl actually inviting him to a party?

  “Well?” she said impatiently.

  “Yeah. Maybe I can mak
e it,” he said.

  Julian took his phone out of his pocket and they exchanged numbers. “October first. That’s two Wednesdays from now,” she said. “I’m trying to keep it somewhat quiet. So if you want to upgrade your ‘yeah maybe’ to a ‘cool!,’ then text me ahead of time. All right?”

  “All right,” Julian said, and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

  “Thanks for the nuggets,” Glen said.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Cody said. She looked at him curiously, as if she were studying some small, exotic animal. “Good luck being . . . whoever you are, Mr. Julian.” She smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth.

  As he watched her descend the hill, Julian realized his heart had been beating rapidly, and his hands were clammy and moist.

  Their figures became smaller and smaller as they returned to the bonfire, and as they receded, Julian felt a hot flush of regret under his skin. Why didn’t he join her? What was holding him back?

  Who are you, anyway, Mr. Julian?

  Chapter 9

  HEADMASTER DENTON WIPED THE PERSPIRATION FROM HIS scalp with a handkerchief, then licked his lips. Toweling his scalp was a routine, everyday occurrence—he sweated profusely, no doubt a function of being pent up in the academy with teenage Twos and Threes. But licking his lips was a peculiar habit reserved for those moments just before he was about to do his favorite thing: exercise authority.

  Sitting across from Denton, calmly watching the old man working over his cracked, puckered lips, was Nicholas Hawksley. After the Amit stunt, Nicholas was apprehended by the guards. They called the cops. He was detained for hours, but he could not have been less worried about his situation. Nicholas was absolutely certain that Denton would drop the charges and have him released. It was all part of the plan. And as sure as death follows life and life again follows death, Denton had him released from the security room and escorted to his office after detention closed and the late-evening practice sessions ended.

  “Hawksley, I am your savior today. The police wanted to hold you overnight,” Denton said.

  Nicholas inspected the dark spot on his sleeve from the morning. It was faded now, but the shadow of it was still there, faint and nearly imperceptible to any ordinary observer. But it was perceptible to Nicholas. He moistened his fingers and attacked the spot, waiting for Denton to get on with it.