Free Idols by Margaret Stohl Page B

and unnerved. Raw and exposed. Like I have seen what I have seen and done what I have done—which is all too much. But at this moment, I am too tired to care. All I want is to crawl into a dark corner and pass out.
    Still, the Bishop seems to understand, now that we’ve sorted things out between us. There is much to talk about, he tells us. On that we all agree. But first, the Bishop says, sleep. No one is arguing. But nobody is moving, either. Lucas’s eyes flicker in my direction, and I understand—they need me to be sure we are safe.
    I pause for a moment, considering the Bishop. I see the sorrow, the anger—but then I also see that it’s not directed at us.
    For the four of us, I see only compassion—something I haven’t felt since the Padre died.
    I blink back the tears, and instead I nod toward Lucas, imperceptibly. Tima and Ro watch, relieved.
    The Bishop is not a threat.
    Not to us, not now.
    And if he is—if I’m wrong—he’s better at hiding his thoughts than anyone I’ve encountered on the entire planet.
    He’s just a boy with fistfuls of mud , I think. The thought is somehow comforting.
    Ro seems satisfied. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
    Lucas and Ro are taken straightaway to the barracks, a series of large buildings, on an adjacent level of the compound. Where the Belter soldiers sleep. Lucas turns toward me as he goes, and I see a tired smile flickering across his face.
    Be safe , he thinks. Be careful.
    I am, and I will be, but I’m longing for him to curl up next to me. So we can save each other if anything else falls from the sky.
    A warm place, like my old one, in front of Bigger’s stove. The one I shared with Ro.
    I miss it. I miss him. The closeness.
    I can remember the smell of our kitchen now.
    I will myself to forget it as we move deeper into the Idylls.

    Moments later, Tima and I are being led down a warm corridor carved in the rock, to clean, softly lit civilian rooms, with freshly made up, simply carved wooden beds that smell like laundry soap and saplings. Except for the distinct lack of windows, the whitewashed walls and curving ceilings—no straight lines anywhere in these bunkers—would make you think you were in some kind of pleasant farmhouse.
    Which couldn’t be further from the truth—but a bed is a bed, and for now, paradise enough. This is the first actual bed I’ve seen in a long, long time. Tima and I sleep in one together. She’s not Lucas, but I don’t mind. Brutus curls up at Tima’s feet and begins snoring before any of us. I feel like I could sleep for days.
    So I do.

    When I sleep I dream. Not of the jade girl, not this time. I dream of birds.
    One bird. A baby bird.
    The word nestles in my mind like a small feathered thing itself. Such a rare thing. I have no idea what kind of bird it is, since I’ve never seen any, not around the Hole. They don’t come anywhere near the Icons; something about the magnetic interference repels them, even kills them. But it is beautiful. She’s a fragile, tiny thing, covered with downy white fluff. Just like I imagined when I stared up into the birdless blue skies of the Mission as a little girl.
    She sits right in the middle of what I recognize as the Padre’s old chessboard. Then I see that the game has changed, or at least the dream has, and we’re not in the jungle, not anymore. We’re in my house, my old house.
    At my old kitchen table.
    I look up as the ceiling fan begins to rattle over our heads. The bird rustles at the sound, anxious. From where I stand, I can sense her heart beating inside her chest—her uneven, rapid breathing.
    No.
    She looks at me as the walls start to shake and bits of plaster swirl in the air between us like fireworks, like confetti.
    Not this.
    The bird lifts her head and squawks, just once, as the windows shatter and the ceiling fan hits the carpet and the shouting begins.
    It’s happening.
    The bird flutters her wings as my father rolls down the staircase like a funny rag doll