Free Requiem by Lauren Oliver Page A

news has almost completely killed my hunger.
    I pass back through the kitchen and am halfway down the hall before my dad turns and calls, “Where are you going?”
    I angle my body away from him, so the bag of coffee isn’t visible. “I thought I’d go on a bike ride,” I say brightly.
    â€œA bike ride?” my dad repeats.
    â€œThe wedding dress has been getting a little tight.” I gesture expressively with the folded piece of bread. “Stress eating, I guess.” At least my ability to lie hasn’t changed since my cure.
    My dad frowns. “Just stay away from downtown, okay? There was an incident last night. . . .”
    â€œVandalism,” Mr. Roth says. “And nothing more.”
    Now the television is showing footage of the terrorist incidents in January: the sudden collapse of the eastern side of the Crypts, captured by a grainy handheld camera; fire licking up from city hall; people pouring out of stalled buses and running, panicked and confused, through the streets; a woman crouched in the bay, dress billowing behind her on the swells, screaming that judgment has arrived; a mass of floating dust blowing through the city, turning everything chalk-white.
    â€œThis is just the beginning,” my father responds sharply. “They obviously meant the message to be a warning.”
    â€œThey won’t be able to pull anything off. They’re not organized.”
    â€œThat was what everyone said last year, too, and we ended up with a hole in the Crypts, a dead mayor, and a city full of psychopaths. Do you know how many prisoners escaped that day? Three hundred.”
    â€œWe’ve tightened security since then,” Mr. Roth insists.
    â€œSecurity didn’t stop the Invalids from treating Portland like a giant post office last night. Who knows what could happen?” He sighs and rubs his eyes. Then he turns to me. “I don’t want my only daughter blown to bits.”
    â€œI won’t go downtown, Dad,” I say. “I’ll stay off-peninsula, okay?”
    He nods and turns back to the television.
    Outside, I stand on the porch and eat my bread with one hand, keeping the bag of coffee tucked under my arm. I realize, too late, that I’m thirsty. But I don’t want to go back inside.
    I kneel down, transfer the coffee into my old backpack—still smelling, faintly, like the strawberry gum I used to chew—and shove the baseball hat over my ponytail again. I put on sunglasses, too. I’m wearing sweatpants and an old sweatshirt, the same outfit I put on last night. I’m not particularly afraid of being spotted by photographers, but I don’t want to risk running into anyone I know.
    I retrieve my bike from the garage and wheel it into the street. Everyone says that riding a bike is a skill that stays with you forever, but for a moment after I climb on the seat I wobble wildly, like a toddler just learning to ride. After a few teetering seconds, I manage to find my balance. I angle the bike downhill and begin coasting down Brighton Court, toward the gatehouse and the border of WoodCove Farms.
    There’s something reassuring about the tic-tic-tic of my wheels against the pavement, and the feel of the wind on my face, raw and fresh. I don’t get the same feeling I used to have from running, but it does bring contentment, like settling into clean sheets at the end of a long day.
    The day is perfect, bright, and surprisingly cold. On a day like today, it seems impossible to imagine that half the country is blighted by the rise of insurgents; that Invalids are running like sewage through Portland, spreading a message of passion and violence. It seems impossible to imagine that anything is wrong in the whole world. A bed of pansies nods at me, as though in agreement, as I zip by them, picking up speed, letting the slope carry me forward. I whiz through the iron gates and past the gatehouse without stopping,