Free The Farm by EMILY MCKAY Page B

the side.” My mouth started watering just thinking about it. I nearly made a slurpy sound, then felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
    “So what would it be?” Carter asked.
    “What?” I asked in surprise.
    “What kind of soup? If you could have any kind, what would it be?” There was a playful quality to his voice that made me feel . . . I don’t know. Grumpy, maybe.
    Ignoring his question, I said, “We call it first meal, second meal, third meal, and fourth meal because we don’t have any choice about what they feed us and when we eat.”
Whether or not we’re eating, or being the food.
I didn’t say that part aloud. “I don’t want to forget that we’re prisoners here.”
    Mel played with her Slinky behind me. I could hear the
sllluuunk
,
sllluuunk
noise it made when she was nervous.
    He held out his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I’m not saying you should forget you’re a prisoner. But remembering what you love about life from the Before, that’s not a bad thing.”
    “Great,” I chirped. “Then after fourth meal, why don’t we sit around the campfire, sing ‘Kumbaya,’ and braid each other’s hair?”
    “Hope is a powerful thing.”
    I snorted with disgust. “Sure. And if this was the movie of the week, then we’d be in great shape. But since—”
    “Po—” Mel said abruptly, then struggled to get out the next syllable. “—tato.”
    Carter and I both wheeled around to look at her. She was standing a few steps below us, not watching us, but staring at the single incandescent bulb in a wire cage that lit the stairwell.
    “What?” I asked, more out of surprise than curiosity. I had heard the word, I just couldn’t fathom that it had come from her mouth.
    Carter’s mouth curved into a grin—as though Mel’s response had won the argument for him. “So Mel wants potato soup. Me, I’d kill for a cup of gumbo.” He nodded, and with the faintest touch to Mel’s elbow, he got her walking again and they headed down the stairs. “What kind of chips would you have with that sandwich?”
    “Mel’s not allowed to have chips!” I called indignantly from the landing, shock still gluing my feet in place. It was a particularly stupid comment to make—because, God, we practically lived on chips at the Farm. So I had to justify it by adding, “She was on a special gluten-free, preservative-free diet. She’s not going to know what kind—”
    “N-n-not corn chips.” Mel forced out the words.
    And Carter, damn him, chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. “You coming?”
    But I wasn’t. I felt trapped there on the stairs, watching them. Carter had launched into a description of what he’d eat—the grilled tuna salad panini his nanny used to make him, dripping with cheddar cheese, crisp dill pickle on the side—as he and Mel hit the next landing and continued on down.
    And I still just stood there, feeling . . . God, I didn’t know what. Mel had spoken. For the first time in months, Mel had spoken sensible words. As part of a conversation. Without a nursery rhyme in sight. She’d actually responded to a question. Not once, but twice.
    I felt my knees wobble beneath me and I sank to the landing. All this time, I’d assumed it was the trauma of living on the Farm that had made her retreat to those early childhood behaviors. But maybe it wasn’t the Farm. Maybe it was me.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Lily
    An icy wind swept across the quad and by the time we made it to the crush of people around the steps of the dining hall, I was glad for the protection the extra people provided. The doors to the dining hall weren’t open yet, but even though it was a few minutes until eight thirty, the mass of Greens edged closer to the doors.
    Mel stood close to my side. My little lamb. She had spoken to Carter, but she was still my responsibility. I looked behind me for Carter and felt a trickle of annoyance when I didn’t see him immediately. I glanced around and caught a glimpse of him squatting