Free Echoes of Us by Kat Zhang Page A
Authors: Kat Zhang
hand, the way she had when she caught us looking at her nails.
“Did that boy give it to you?” she said. “That foreign-looking boy. Ryan, or—”
“Shh , ” I hissed before I could help it. Bridget’s head whipped up, her eyes narrowed, her shoulders tensing.
Addie said. A low warning and a comfort at the same time.
“Please don’t talk about him.” I couldn’t help the note of panic in our voice. Bridget’s words were hardly dangerous, and she wasn’t speaking loudly enough for anyone to pay attention. But this went beyond needing to keep our cover. I didn’t want Ryan’s name spoken in this place. As if saying it aloud would cast some sort of spell to bring him. I couldn’t have him here, in this prison of the desolate.
I thought, for a moment, that Bridget would talk about him anyway. Her eyes bored into ours, gray as frosted slate. Then, so quick I nearly missed it, she gave a short nod.
“It’s pretty,” she said. She looked about to turn away, but at the last moment, reached out and touched it. Her fingertips brushed against the band and against our knuckle, before darting back to her side.
The caretaker who brought lunch also handed Addie and me a uniform and directed us to the bathroom at the ward’s far end. Standing in a stall, I suddenly couldn’t force myself to unlace our shoes. They’d been part of our school uniform, scuffed brown oxfords that were the only things we retained of home.
Addie and I stood there for a long time, braced against the stall door, taking deep, ragged breaths and trying to calm down. The tiny size of the stalls didn’t help. Addie and I usually used the handicap stalls of public bathrooms, when we could. There was none here, just little stalls designed for children younger than we were.
I took off our shoes. Set them side by side on the toilet seat. Stepped into the white slippers the other girls wore, the elastic snapping into place around our ankles. We could feel the ground through the thin sole.
After a moment, I dropped the ring inside the slipper. Hopefully, no one would think to check.
The rest of the uniform was similarly thin. As the cloth whispered against our skin, I heard in it the echo of Jackson’s words about hybrid institutions.
Holding tanks. They hold us until we die, and they do everything short of putting a bullet through our heads to speed up the process.
I shivered. Said, as much for my benefit as Addie’s,
When Addie and I returned to the main room, the caretaker had already distributed the lunch trays. Some kind of sandwich. A cup of water. Limp beans in a puddle of oil. The girls ate silently. Many were too thin to be healthy, but most picked at the food like it barely interested them. Someone coughed a deep, wet cough that made our own chest hurt.
“Here, I’ll take that.” The caretaker reached for our clothes, and I pressed the bundle against our chest. The man’s smile flattened.
“I want to keep the jacket,” I said. “It’s cold.”
He grabbed hold and tugged—so suddenly and harshly I didn’t have the chance to fight back. “The cold’s just temporary. A little glitch in the heating. It’ll warm up soon. It’s against policy for you to have anything but the standard uniform.”
His smile returned. He handed us a lunch tray, and caught us looking in Bridget’s direction.
“Do you know her?” he asked. I shook our head. Darcie Grey didn’t know Bridget. “You look a bit alike, don’t you?”
“I guess,” I said. And then, to keep up the charade: “What’s her name?”
He shrugged. That was all the excuse I needed to return to Bridget’s bedside. She sat cross-legged on the scratchy gray blanket, her tray balanced on her knees.
When she didn’t protest, I sat down next to her and whispered, “They don’t know your names here?”
She shook her head. “We don’t know theirs, either. It doesn’t matter. They only
“Did that boy give it to you?” she said. “That foreign-looking boy. Ryan, or—”
“Shh , ” I hissed before I could help it. Bridget’s head whipped up, her eyes narrowed, her shoulders tensing.
“Please don’t talk about him.” I couldn’t help the note of panic in our voice. Bridget’s words were hardly dangerous, and she wasn’t speaking loudly enough for anyone to pay attention. But this went beyond needing to keep our cover. I didn’t want Ryan’s name spoken in this place. As if saying it aloud would cast some sort of spell to bring him. I couldn’t have him here, in this prison of the desolate.
I thought, for a moment, that Bridget would talk about him anyway. Her eyes bored into ours, gray as frosted slate. Then, so quick I nearly missed it, she gave a short nod.
“It’s pretty,” she said. She looked about to turn away, but at the last moment, reached out and touched it. Her fingertips brushed against the band and against our knuckle, before darting back to her side.
The caretaker who brought lunch also handed Addie and me a uniform and directed us to the bathroom at the ward’s far end. Standing in a stall, I suddenly couldn’t force myself to unlace our shoes. They’d been part of our school uniform, scuffed brown oxfords that were the only things we retained of home.
Addie and I stood there for a long time, braced against the stall door, taking deep, ragged breaths and trying to calm down. The tiny size of the stalls didn’t help. Addie and I usually used the handicap stalls of public bathrooms, when we could. There was none here, just little stalls designed for children younger than we were.
I took off our shoes. Set them side by side on the toilet seat. Stepped into the white slippers the other girls wore, the elastic snapping into place around our ankles. We could feel the ground through the thin sole.
After a moment, I dropped the ring inside the slipper. Hopefully, no one would think to check.
The rest of the uniform was similarly thin. As the cloth whispered against our skin, I heard in it the echo of Jackson’s words about hybrid institutions.
Holding tanks. They hold us until we die, and they do everything short of putting a bullet through our heads to speed up the process.
I shivered. Said, as much for my benefit as Addie’s,
When Addie and I returned to the main room, the caretaker had already distributed the lunch trays. Some kind of sandwich. A cup of water. Limp beans in a puddle of oil. The girls ate silently. Many were too thin to be healthy, but most picked at the food like it barely interested them. Someone coughed a deep, wet cough that made our own chest hurt.
“Here, I’ll take that.” The caretaker reached for our clothes, and I pressed the bundle against our chest. The man’s smile flattened.
“I want to keep the jacket,” I said. “It’s cold.”
He grabbed hold and tugged—so suddenly and harshly I didn’t have the chance to fight back. “The cold’s just temporary. A little glitch in the heating. It’ll warm up soon. It’s against policy for you to have anything but the standard uniform.”
His smile returned. He handed us a lunch tray, and caught us looking in Bridget’s direction.
“Do you know her?” he asked. I shook our head. Darcie Grey didn’t know Bridget. “You look a bit alike, don’t you?”
“I guess,” I said. And then, to keep up the charade: “What’s her name?”
He shrugged. That was all the excuse I needed to return to Bridget’s bedside. She sat cross-legged on the scratchy gray blanket, her tray balanced on her knees.
When she didn’t protest, I sat down next to her and whispered, “They don’t know your names here?”
She shook her head. “We don’t know theirs, either. It doesn’t matter. They only
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