Free Untitled Agenda 21 Sequel (9781476746852) by Glenn Beck

leaned against him and pointed to the picture of a boy on the cover of the book. “How old is he?” Micah asked.
    â€œSix years old,” David answered.
    â€œI’m eight years old. I’m older than him.”
    â€œYes, you’re quite a big boy,” David said. He opened the book.
    â€œWhat’s that ugly thing?” Micah said, pointing to a picture on the first page.
    â€œA boa constrictor,” David said, his voice patient.
    â€œWhat’s a boa constrictor?”
    â€œIt’s a big snake.”
    â€œAre there any here?” Micah looked around at the packed earth.
    â€œNo boa constrictors here. They live in the rain forests.”
    â€œWhat’s a rain forest?”
    â€œIt’s a place with lots of rain and lots of trees.”
    â€œAre there Compounds there?”
    â€œYes. The whole world has Compounds.” David turned the page of the book. “Let’s not talk about Compounds right now. Let’s read.”
    I smiled watching them. Micah was so eager to learn. David was alwayspatient, even when he didn’t feel well. I remembered trying to ask Mother questions so I could learn. That was back in the Compounds, where everything, even questions and answers, were so tightly controlled. I remembered the first time I had seen Micah in the Children’s Village classroom, standing with the other children reciting I pledge allegiance to the Earth . They were all so solemn, with their thumbs and forefingers making the circle sign on their foreheads. All except Micah. He was grinning and making the circle sign on his nose until the Caretaker sternly rebuked him. His grin had faded quickly.
    I sat, holding Elsa, listening to David and Micah whispering, and almost felt safe. Safe enough to open our bundle and look at the other things Mother had saved. I held the recipe cards one by one to my nose, trying to catch the scent of pumpkin pie or vegetable soup. David had told me his memories of Thanksgiving before the relocations: eating a big meal with family and giving thanks for the good things in their lives. He said pumpkin pie smelled like Thanksgiving. If the recipe cards ever held any scents, they had faded long ago. Would I ever be able to give thanks like they did in the before-time? If I did, what would I be most thankful for?
    Dear, sweet Jesus, I’d be thankful for freedom. Mother used to say “Dear sweet Jesus” when she was upset or afraid. I still didn’t know what those words meant, but they seemed to fit.
    The picture Mother had tucked into The Little Prince , the one I had drawn of the Little Prince looking up at a star, fell out of the book. Micah picked it up, holding it carefully by its edge.
    â€œShe drew that,” David whispered, motioning to me.
    â€œYou did?” Micah asked, eyes wide.
    I nodded.
    â€œCan you teach me? Please?”
    I smiled and stroked his cheek. “Yes. Someday.” I tried to sound confident, but I wondered if that someday would ever really come. That truly would be something to be thankful for. Something as simpleas a pencil and clean, blank sheet of paper to be filled with a child’s imagination would be a blessing. I would let Micah draw whatever he wanted. No rules. Draw what you want to draw . That’s what I would say to him. Every child could be an artist. Every child is an artist until a grown-up tells them they’re not.
    David read on.
    I put the recipe cards back, pulled out the New Testament, and turned the fragile pages. Why had Mother saved this? Save what you think you are going to lose . I slid it carefully back into our bundle. Someday, when the running and hiding was over, I would read this. Someday.
    We should have been sleeping but instead we sat huddled behind the shrubs, afraid to make any moves or noises.
    I peeked over the leaves again. The workers had reached the end of another row. A guard blew a whistle and they did the bending and stretching