32.

BEA.

When I come around, I am breathing normally and being dragged along the ground. Maude is looking down at me, grinning. Alina is there, too.

"She's alive," a young man says, bolting the steel door. I try to sit up, but a lightheadedness rocks me back again. "Don't let her up for a minute," the young man continues. "Her brain's all out of whack. This'll be the worst hangover she's ever had." He crouches down and peers at me with stone-gray eyes. I smile. He pulls a few strands of hair from my mask. "There's plenty of air in that new cylinder I gave you. Are you feeling all right?" I nod and glance around; although we are inside, the cold is still piercing and I can hear the wind.

"Thank God you came to the door when you did, Dorian," Alina says. He turns to Alina and they embrace. "I wasn't sure if my technique was working. I thought she was dead," she says.

"What technique?" I manage.

"One breath for you, one breath for me," she says, pointing to her own tank. She reaches into an open metal locker and takes two tanks from it. After Alina and Maude have been fitted with a fresh air supply, Dorian pulls me to my feet and helps me move along a wide walkway with them.

"I knew they wouldn't send out the zips for no reason. They had to be looking for someone," he says.

"Didn't Petra try to stop you?" Alina asks.

"Of course she did. Everyone else is in the bunker. She's locked up the entire stadium and threatened to slice my throat if I left the bunker."

"Thank you," Alina says.

"Oh, I can't wait to meet Petra. I think she's gonna just love me," Maude says.

"You haven't met Petra?" Dorian asks us. I shake my head. Dorian stops and turns to Alina. "Does she even know about them? Are they Resistance? I assume they're pod division. Alina?"

"They're civilians," Alina says.

"You brought civilians without authorization? And I let them in? Someone might be getting his throat cut after all." He rubs his forehead.

"She can be trusted," Alina says pointing at me. "She saved my life."

"And the other one?"

Alina studies Maude carefully, trying to decide whether or not to offer her up as a sacrifice.

"The old woman, Alina. Can we trust her?"

"Yes," Alina says slowly. "I suppose we can."

Dorian lets out a long whistle. "We should go down into the bunker. The zips might still be swarming," he says.

"They went right over and kept going," Alina says. "Let's show them around first." She seems proud of this place. Dorian shrugs and we follow Alina down the wide concrete walkway, lined with kiosks.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I see when we turn and enter the stadium. I am expecting a gaping snow-filled pit. We are standing on a shallow set of steps next to rows and rows and rows of seats. There must be thousands of seats in this stadium. Tens of thousands of red plastic seats and on them, hundreds and hundreds of mismatched oblong boxes with makeshift lids.

"It can't be," I say, looking beyond the boxes to the soccer field. Dorian smiles. I stagger forward and he catches me. In place of the players and goalposts, in place even of a carefully cropped lawn, the entire area is covered with sparkling, snow-laden trees.

More trees than I have ever seen in my life, and they are towering over us, climbing toward the sky.

There must be hundreds, all different shapes and sizes, some bare and spiky, others fully clothed in coats of leaves.

"Trees," I murmur. I blink to make sure I am not hallucinating. When I open my eyes the trees are still there and Maude is running down the steps toward them.

"Holy Mackerel!" she hollers. Alina and Dorian share a smile. I've never seen anything as splendid in my life. The trees are so strong and alive, even those without leaves, and they are driving their way up toward the sealed, slated roof of the stadium; I begin to run too, but my knees buckle and I fall.

"Oh my ..." I sigh. Many of them almost reach the roof of the stadium. "How? And when? I mean ... How?" I don't know where to begin. Alina pulls me off the floor. I lean against a seat to keep my balance. "Trees," I whisper. I have never prayed. I do not know how. But if I did, I would say a prayer now, in homage to the trees and to the Resistance for creating this place.

"She's obviously one of us," Dorian says, and that's when I become fully aware of the second wonder. We are in the open air and Dorian is without a facemask. Instinctively, and a little irrationally, I reach up and touch his chest to see whether or not he has a heart. He doesn't pull away and we stay there for a minute as I feel the rise and fall of his chest. "You can't be human," I whisper, getting to my feet.

"He is," Alina says, putting an arm around my waist.

"I don't understand. How do you live?"

"Slowly," he says. "And if you stick around long enough, we'll show you how to do it, too."

33.

ALINA.

Dorian keeps shooting me looks as we head toward the bunker. I shake my head because I'm afraid that if I speak, Dorian will hear the tangle in my voice. Coming alone wouldn't have been a problem-I had no choice but to flee the pod. But there is little excuse for bringing two unknowns with me, especially when one of them is ex-Breathe. Petra has strict rules. How else could she maintain security here? How else could she protect the trees? "What happened?" Dorian asks finally, pointing at my blood-stained bandage. I'd almost forgotten. I can't tell Dorian or anyone here what really happened, or Maude will be in for it.

"Long story," I say.

"So you fled," Dorian says. This is a question.

"Abel's dead," I tell him simply. I won't betray myself, won't reveal that there's more to Abel's death than a comrade falling. Resistance members die all the time and there's a protocol for grief. We gather, we remember, we raise our arms in defiance of the Ministry, and we move on. Keep planting. This is a place of action: there is no time to mourn.

"Abel? I don't know him. Was he new? How did he die?" Dorian asks.

"He was a terrorist. Killed as he tried to destroy the pod. Apparently."

"How original. Poor guy."

"I don't know what to tell Petra," I say.

"Just tell her the truth," he says.

"I will, but listen-let me go in first and you hang back with these two while I talk to her. I'll soften her up a bit before I tell her I've compromised her life's work." I give Dorian a pleading look. We both know that if he agrees to hide them, even for a few minutes, he'll be complicit. He looks back at Maude and Bea.

They are still giddy. I don't blame them. When I first saw the trees I was in a state of euphoria for days. I don't usually go around grinning, but I couldn't help myself. After spending my entire life being told that any existence outside the pod was impossible, the idea that there could be something else was mind-blowing. That my parents had died for something was comforting, too.

"We missed you," Dorian says suddenly. He throws his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me. Dorian and I have flirted with each other at times, but I can't do it today.

"I wish I could come with better news," I say. I laugh, though I don't know why.

"When has anyone ever turned up here unexpectedly with good news, Alina?"

Bea joins us, first pointing to Dorian's mouth and then her own facemask. "How do you do that?" she asks.

"How about I show you the lab where we keep the seedlings and cuttings first? Later I'll explain all this. Let's go."

Bea stares at me. "Aren't you coming with us?"

I glance at Dorian. "I'm going to see Petra. Follow me down once you've had the tour. Show them the bunks, Dorian. And the showers. We have hot water here."

"Aye aye, cap'n!" Dorian salutes.

"What's going on, Alina?" Bea asks.

"Don't worry. Take a look around." I hurry along the wide corridor and down the stairs. The lower level is in absolute darkness, and I have to feel my way along the damp concrete wall to find the door to the bunker. I knock using the code. After a minute there is a click, a sucking sound, and the heavy door swings inward. I slip inside and push it closed behind me. "Alina," a voice whispers.

"Hey, Jazz!" I say, touching her spirally red hair. "Where is she?"

"Sleeping," Jazz says. "Why are you here?"

"The usual."

"Who died?" she asks.

I can't say his name. "A new recruit," I tell her.

"A new one? That's the worst," she says. "Do you want me to wake her?"

"You better not," I say.

"No. You better not. I can do what I like." Jazz bounces ahead of me into the dimly lit bunker. She is the youngest of us: a nine-year-old and the only person I know who was actually born in The Outlands. But her mother couldn't cope, gave up, and left the Resistance long before I ever joined. She abandoned Jazz, just a baby at the time, without leaving a note, and no one ever heard from her again. Jazz spends most of her days skipping through the corridors of The Grove and chattering with anyone who'll stop to smile at her. When she isn't playing, she's wherever Petra is.

I follow her. Every available bit of space is occupied by someone either lying on a bunk bed or sitting cross-legged on the hard floor: all two hundred or so Resistance members must be hunkering down here, and many of them are reading paper books. There are columns of salvaged books stacked up against one whole side of the bunker. "Alina!" a voice calls out. Then someone else calls my name. Within minutes I'm surrounded by twenty or more friends hugging me. No one is wearing supplemental oxygen and eventually Song, Dorian's cousin, unbuckles the mask from my face.

"You don't need that," he says, pointing up at the vents. "I've got it set to eighteen percent. That should be enough for you, shouldn't it?" I nod. Song is our biochemist, and once he'd helped the engineers install the camouflage blinds for the roof of the stadium, he quickly figured out a method for farming, storing, and transferring the oxygen from the trees and plants in the stadium to certain locations in the building. Even though most members can do what Dorian does, there are times when everyone indulges in higher levels of oxygen-just to keep their brains healthy. Song is an invaluable member of the Resistance and never released for missions. Petra keeps a close watch over her prized recruits.

"Thanks," I say, handing him my airtank.

Jazz elbows her way into the center of the group. "Hey, you've gotta come. Petra's up. She's in the back alcove. She's waiting." I follow Jazz into the recesses of the bunker and find Petra sitting on top of an elevated mattress covered in a plethora of multicolored blankets and pillows. Petra's legs are crossed, her eyes are shut, and she is humming. Her graying, waist-length dreadlocks, normally twisted into a thick chignon, are unfurled-snaking their way down her back and thin, bare arms. "She's meditating," Jazz whispers. "She's memorizing strength and endurance." I nod and we watch her. All Resistance members practice meditation with Petra. Jazz is pretty good at it. She climbs up onto the bed and sits cross-legged next to Petra, then closes her eyes, too. I study them for a few minutes, focusing in on Petra's right arm, which is covered with a sprawling tattoo. The spindly roots of a dark tree begin on her hands. The trunk climbs up her forearm and the branches and leaves fan out at her elbow and continue to spread up across her shoulders toward her chest. Jazz has a new tattoo of her own-a small cluster of orange flowers above one eyebrow.

Petra stops humming, opens an eye, and nods at me. She gets up and stands in front of me, close enough for a few loose strands of hair to tickle my face. I step back.

"Alina," Petra says, taking my hands and pressing them between her own. "There must be a fire of resistance burning in the pod for them to send out the zips. We heard tanks, too. What's the news? We didn't expect you so soon. Did you get the clippings?" She gazes intently at me.

"I did, Petra."

"Good." She lets go of my hands and turns to retrieve a full-length, long brown coat from a makeshift hook on the wall. It is patchy and worn-a relic from a bygone age. She starts to button it up.

"People are in danger."

"What happened?" Petra asks in a whisper so no one will overhear.

"The stewards came for me. They were armed and weren't going to leave without an arrest. I escaped, but Silas was there. And my aunt and uncle may be in serious trouble, too. I didn't know what else to do." I am rambling. Petra does this to me. "Maybe I shouldn't have come," I say.

"Why not? Why would you say that?" she asks quietly.

"I don't know."

"You did the right thing coming, Alina." She kisses my forehead and cups her hand under my chin. Her skin is dry and cool. She looks at Jazz for the briefest of seconds and almost smiles.

"Thank you, Petra," I say, standing a little taller. "But there is one dead. A new recruit. Abel."

"Abel? You mean Aaron."

"No, it wasn't Aaron. Aaron's fine, I think. It was Abel. He was Pod Resistance only."

"I don't know the name. Jazz?"

Jazz opens her eyes, looks up at the ceiling, and then back at Petra. "Never heard of him."

"Are you sure it wasn't Aaron?"

I nod. "Silas said you authorized him," I say, but with Petra's shrewd eyes on me, I'm not sure. Did Silas tell me that or did Abel tell me that Silas had received authorization from Petra? "I think Silas told me."

"You think?" Petra says.

"Silas definitely told me." If Silas didn't tell me that, if Petra has never heard of Abel, then who was he? Why would he lie to me to get into the Resistance and then die for the cause?

"Well, if this Abel is dead, we needn't worry, Petra," Jazz pipes up. Petra nods. I swallow and clench my jaw.