Free Crossed by Ally Condie Page B

shifts her weight. A girl behind us stifles a sob.
    “Come forward to get your rations,” the Official says, and there is no pushing. No shoving. The boys all drift into a line and file past. It must have rained last night. Their boots are thick with red clay mud.
    I look at each face.
    Some seem terrified; some seem cunning and dangerous. None seem kind. They have all seen too much. I watch their backs, their hands as they take the supplies, their faces as they pass the Official. They don’t fight over the food; there is some for everyone. They fill their canteens from big blue barrels of water.
    I’m sorting them, I realize. And then I think, What if I had to sort myself? I wonder. What would I see? Would I see someone who is going to survive?
    I try to look down at myself, at the girl who watches the Official and the Officers pack up and leave in the air ship. She wears unfamiliar clothes and looks hungrily at faces she does not know. I look down on her tangled brown hair, the way she stands small and straight, even after the Officers and Official leave and one of the boys steps forward to tell the new girls that there is no crop, that the Enemy shoots every night, that the Society has stopped giving out weapons and that the weapons never worked anyway, that everyone in the camp has been sent here to die and no one knows why.
    The girl stays straight and strong when others sink to their knees because she knew this all along. She can’t quit, can’t throw her hands in the air or cry tears into the dirt because she has someone to find. Alone out of all the girls, she smiles a little.
    Yes, I tell myself. She is going to survive.
     
    Indie asks me for the packet. I hand it to her and, as she slips something from inside the tablets and hands them back, I realize I still don’t know what it was that she needed to hide. But now is not the time to ask. There’s another, more urgent question to answer: Where is Ky?
    “I am looking for someone,” I say loudly. “His name is Ky.” Some have already begun to leave, now that the boy has finished telling us the truth.
    “He has dark hair and blue eyes,” I call out, louder. “He came from a city, but he knows this land, too. He has words.” I wonder if he’s found a way to sell them, barter them for something out here.
    People stare back with different colors of eyes—blue, brown, green, gray. But none of the colors are Ky’s; none of the blues are quite right.
    “You should try to rest now,” the boy who told us the truth says. “It’s hard to sleep at night. That’s when they usually fire.” He seems exhausted, and I see a miniport in his hand as he turns away. Was he the leader once? Does he keep on delivering information now out of habit?
    Others turn away, too. The apathy here frightens me more than the situation itself. These people don’t seem to know about any rebellion or Rising. If no one cares anymore, if everyone has given up, who will help me find Ky?
    “I can’t sleep,” a girl from our air ship says softly. “What if it’s my last day?”
    At least she can talk. Some of the others seem almost catatonic with shock. I see a boy walk over to one of the girls, say something. She shrugs, looks back at us, walks away with him.
    My heart beats faster. Should I stop her? What will he do?
    “Have you looked at their boots?” Indie whispers to me.
    I nod. I’ve noticed the mud on them and the boots themselves—thick-soled and made of rubber. They’re like ours, except the sides of their soles are scarred with notches. I have an idea of what they must mean, what they must mark. Days survived. My heart sinks because none of the boys have very many cuts in their boots. And Ky has been gone for almost twelve weeks.
    People shuffle away. They seem to be going to the places where they sleep, minding their own business, but a few boys circle our group of girls. They look hungry.
    Don’t sort, I tell myself. See.
    They have very few notches carved in