Free Resist by Sarah Crossan

didn’t hear us come in, and the girl doesn’t alert him. The room is clean and bright, empty apart from her bed and a counter top.
    The girl rolls onto her side, grasps her stomach, and grunts.
    “Count the time between the contractions,” the man says calmly, never turning around.
    “Give me something for the pain,” she begs, and that’s when we take off. Without firmly shutting the door, we careen down the hallway and almost land in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
    “Well?” Dorain says.
    Silas examines the ground. He looks like he might faint. And the girl in labor screams again.
    When we finally reach Vanya’s room, she looks at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We don’t encourage lie-ins,” she says, her voice husky. Maks is sitting in a pink armchair. He is looking only at me. I stand straight.
    “We got lost,” Silas says.
    “Well, you’re here now.” Vanya gestures toward a table piled with food, and we sit and eat. There isn’t the variety there was at The Grove—no fruit or bread—but there are plenty of synthetic dishes and a variety of cooked potatoes. I spoon a heap of what looks like singed twigs and bark into my mouth. It’s salty with plenty of crunch.
    “You like?” Vanya asks, and smiles. “That’s something we’re particularly proud of,” she says.
    “Protein,” Maks adds.
    “We found a few scurrying around in the kitchen and now we have thousands and thousands,” Vanya says. “We farm them in a cabin near to yours . . . cockroaches.” I cough and almost choke. I have never eaten a living creature before. I should be disgusted, but I can’t help rolling the bug around in my mouth in amazement, and trying conjure up an image of what the creature would look like alive. Does it have eight legs? Wings?
    “They survived?” Song says. He picks up a cockroach between his fingers and chews on it.
    “ We survived,” Vanya says. She is at the head of the table and Maks is at the opposite end, next to me. His foot presses against mine, and my muscles tighten. “Was the cabin comfortable?” Vanya asks. We nod. “And when you got lost, I presume you got to see a few things,” she says.
    “Not much,” Silas says. “But I hope we can help here, or at the very least learn to fit in.”
    “I think you’ll be a wonderful addition,” Vanya says, and touches Silas’s face. When she sits back, she puts a finger into her mouth like she can taste him.
    Silas’s neck flushes, but he doesn’t object to Vanya’s flirting, just like he never objected to Petra’s temper and violence. At The Grove, we all learned how to defer to a leader.
    “Why do you need that?” Vanya asks, pointing at my air tank. Now I’m the one whose face burns. Even though it isn’t my fault, I’m ashamed for needing so much air. I look into my plate. “Silas and I lived in the pod and smuggled out plant clippings. They still pump at thirty-five percent, so we need a bit longer to adjust,” I say.
    Vanya sips a glass of water and eyes me mistrustfully. But I’m eyeing her, too. Where are the trees? And why has no one mentioned there’s a girl here giving birth as we speak? Isn’t it something to celebrate? I have a horrible feeling there’s more to Sequoia than Vanya wants us to know. “And what percentage are you at now?” she asks.
    “Twelve,” Silas says.
    I look at my gauge, which is at fourteen percent. “Twelve,” I say.
    Vanya tuts. “Reduce it to ten. If you need more, use the oxyboxes. You’ve seen them?”
    “How do they work?” Song asks.
    “We didn’t have them at The Grove, you see,” Dorian adds.
    “I’m fully aware of what you had and didn’t have at The Grove,” Vanya says, and sits back in her chair. “Don’t pretend you don’t recognize me, Dorian, because I recognize you. You were infatuated with Petra back then—thought she was some kind of deity. And all she was doing was making love to trees. Pathetic.”
    Anger burns in me. Growing trees wasn’t