Free A War of Gifts by Orson Scott Card Page A

behalf of Zeck has been duly noted.”
    â€œI didn’t come here for a commendation.”
    â€œAnd you’re not getting one. All you’re getting from this is my good opinion of your character. It’s not easily won, but once won, my good opinion is hard to lose. It’s a burden you’ll have to carry with you for some time. Learn to live with it. Now get out of here, soldier.”

9
WIGGIN
    Zeck came upon Wiggin at one of the elevator wells. It wasn’t one much used by students—it was out of the normal lanes of traffic, and mostly teachers used it, when it was used at all. Zeck used it precisely for that reason. He could wait in line at the busier elevators for a long time, but somehow he never got to the front of the line until everyone else had gone. That was usually fine with Zeck, but at mealtime, when everyone was headed for the same destination, it was the difference between a hot meal with a lot of choices and a colder one with almost no choices left.
    So there was Wiggin, sitting with his back to the wall, gripping his left leg so tightly that his head rested on his own knee. He was obviously in pain.
    Zeck almost walked past him. What did he owe any of these people?
    Then he remembered the Samaritan who stopped for the injured man—and the priest and the Levite who didn’t.
    â€œSomething wrong?” asked Zeck.
    â€œThinking about something and didn’t watch where I was stepping,” said Wiggin through gritted teeth.
    â€œBruise? Broken skin?”
    â€œTwisted ankle,” said Wiggin.
    â€œSwollen?”
    â€œI don’t know yet,” said Wiggin. “When I move it, it throbs.”
    â€œBring your other leg up so I can compare ankles.”
    Wiggin did. Zeck pulled his shoes and socks off, despite the way Wiggin winced when he moved his left foot. The bare ankles looked exactly alike, as far as he could tell. “Doesn’t look swollen.”
    â€œGood,” said Wiggin. “Then I guess I’m okay.” He reached out and grabbed Zeck’s upper arm and began to pull himself up.
    â€œI’m not a fire pole,” said Zeck. “Let me help you up instead of just grabbing my arm.”
    â€œSure, sorry,” said Wiggin.
    In a moment, Wiggin was up and wincing as he tried to walk off the injury. “Owie owie owie,” he breathed, in a parody of a suffering toddler. Then he gave Zeck a tiny smile. “Thanks.”
    â€œDon’t mention it,” said Zeck. “Now what did you want to talk to me about?”
    Wiggin smiled a little more broadly. “I don’t know,” he said. No attempt to deny that this whole thing had been staged to have an opportunity to talk. “I just know that whatever your plan is, it’s working too well or it isn’t working at all.”
    â€œI don’t have a plan,” said Zeck. “I just want to go home.”
    â€œWe all want to go home,” said Wiggin. “But we also want other things. Honor. Victory. Save the world. Prove you can do something hard. You don’t care about anything except getting out of here, no matter what it costs.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œSo, why? And don’t tell me you’re homesick. We all cried for mommy and daddy our first few nights here, and then we stopped. If there’s anybody here tough enough to take a little homesickness, it’s you.”
    â€œSo now you’re my counselor? Forget it, Wiggin.”
    â€œWhat are you afraid of?” asked Wiggin.
    â€œNothing,” said Zeck.
    â€œKuso,” said Wiggin.
    â€œNow I’m supposed to pour out my heart to you, is that it? Because you asked what I was afraid of, and that shows me how insightful you are, and I tell you all my deepest fears, and you make me feel better, and then we’re lifelong friends and I decide to become a good soldier to please you.”
    â€œYou don’t eat,” said Wiggin.