Free Breathe by Sarah Crossan Page B

We have Breathe to thank for that. I look over my shoulder, but the pod is well and truly out of sight. Breathe managed to concoct a solution, working away in their laboratories using scuba-diving airtanks to keep themselves alive. The tanks were filled and handed out to the deserving in society first—the doctors, judges, politicians. The artists didn’t stand a chance—what use could they be? And the homeless? The sick? They were the first ones to rot.
    But the government ran a lottery, too; half the tanks and pod passports were given to randomly selected citizens under thirty years old. And so my grandparents, who were young and fit, both won places and were given tanks while they waited for the pod to be built.
    My grandparents didn’t know each other at that time. They met in the pod, when they worked together in one of the recycling stations. They both died when I was small, but they never could believe they’d spent most of their lives under a glass dome. The pod was meant to be a short-term solution while the trees and plankton replenished themselves. But that was just a fairy tale: anyone with half an ounce of sense knew they’d never again live in the outside world or taste organic air. The planet needs a lot more time to heal itself. More years than we can imagine. Even now, so many years after The Switch, the oxygen level in the atmosphere is only up to six percent.
    The Ministry works hard to ensure that its citizens hold out no hope of ever living beyond the pod, but maybe it was worse for my grandparents because they knew what they were missing. And they’d witnessed The Switch firsthand. They never got over it.
    All four of my grandparents have their names engraved on The Cenotaph, but there was no point in telling Bea and Quinn that or stopping to look. I have no interest in seeing lists of the dead.
    I pass dilapidated buildings, most of which are old houses, crumbling now and enveloped in moss. Many of them are piles of rubble. The silence is beautiful.
    I notice a stack of bones on the pavement. A whole skeleton perfectly decayed—white and dry—pulled together into a neat pile, the skull balancing on top. Who did this? And when? Could these bones belong to Abel? No sooner do I think this than I realize it’s a ludicrous idea. How would he have made it all the way out here? Plus he’s been dead no longer than a couple of days. There’s no way he could be all bones yet. Is there? Which stage of decay is he in? Is he oozing and bloated? Is he filling with maggots?
    I try to picture Abel as I last saw him: waving good-bye from the entrance to my building; giving me a theatrical wink when I tightened the straps on my backpack containing the tree clippings; congratulating me. He had no idea he was as good as dead.
    And I might be dead if I’d stayed in the pod. If I’d been held at the border. If Quinn and Bea hadn’t saved me. Quinn looked so hurt when I left them. He’ll probably head back home and tell his father all about it. I’m sure he wants to be a good guy, but at the end of the day he’s Premium, and Premiums are not to be trusted. They have too much to lose. And I couldn’t bring Bea along; people in love are the most dangerous of all, the most likely to do something rash. I proved that. I wanted to love Abel. Now that he’s dead I almost feel that I did love him even though nothing happened between us. Since when does someone being dead make you feel more affection for him?
    I’m doing it again, thinking about Abel when I should be focused. I could be ambushed at any time if I don’t watch out. The place appears to be deserted, but that doesn’t mean it is. There could be drifters anywhere. And Breathe could be out here, too.
    Suddenly there is a rumble, like an old wheel lumbering toward me. I spin around and drop to the ground. I see nothing suspicious. The road is clear. Then the rumble sounds again and I see it’s coming from a lamppost that has fallen against a building.