She lifts her eyes to my uncle, and they exchange a quick glance. I feel a rush of excitement. It's rare for my aunt and uncle to look at each other like that, a wordless glance, full of meaning. Most of the time their interactions are limited to the usual thing-my uncle tells stories about work, my aunt tells stories about the neighbors. What's for dinner? There's a leak in the roof. Blah blah blah What's for dinner? There's a leak in the roof. Blah blah blah. I think that for once they're going to mention the Wilds, and the Invalids. But then my uncle gives a minute shake of his head.

"These kinds of mix-ups happen all the time," he says, staking a ravioli with his fork. "Just the other day, I asked Andrew to reorder three cases of Vik's orange juice. But he goes and gets the codes wrong and guess what shows up? Three cases of baby formula. I said to him, I said, 'Andrew...'"

I tune the conversation out again, grateful that my uncle is a talker, and happy that my aunt has taken my side. The one good thing about being kind of shy is that n.o.body bugs you when you want to be left alone. I lean forward and sneak a glance at the clock in the kitchen. Seven thirty, and we haven't even finished eating. And afterward I'll have to help clear and wash the dishes, which always takes forever; the dishwasher uses up too much electricity, so we have to do them by hand.

Outside, the sun is streaked with filaments of gold and pink. It looks like the candy that gets spun at the Sugar Shack downtown, all gloss and stretch and color. It will will be a beautiful sunset tonight. In that moment the urge to go is so strong, I have to squeeze the sides of my chair to keep from suddenly springing up and running out the door. be a beautiful sunset tonight. In that moment the urge to go is so strong, I have to squeeze the sides of my chair to keep from suddenly springing up and running out the door.

Finally I decide to stop stressing and leave it to luck, or fate, or whatever you want to call it. If we finish eating and I'm done cleaning up the dishes in time to make it to Back Cove, I'll go. If not, I'll stay. I feel a million times better once I've made the decision, and even manage to shovel down a few more bites of ravioli before Jenny (miracle of miracles) has a sudden late burst of speed and cleans her plate, and my aunt announces I can clear the dishes whenever I'm ready.

I stand up and start stacking everyone's plates. It's almost eight o'clock. Even if I can wash all the dishes in fifteen minutes-and that's a stretch-it will still be difficult to get to the beach by eight thirty. And forget about making it back by nine o'clock, when the city has a mandated curfew for uncureds.

And if I got caught on the streets after curfew...

The truth is, I don't know what what would happen. I've never broken curfew. would happen. I've never broken curfew.

Just as I've finally accepted that there's no way to get to Back Cove and back in time, my aunt does the unthinkable. As I'm reaching forward to take her plate, she stops me. "You don't have to clean the dishes tonight, Lena. I'll do them."

As she's speaking, she reaches out and puts a hand on my arm. Just like earlier, the touch is as fleeting and cool as wind.

And before I can think about what this means, I'm blurting out, "Actually, I have to run to Hana's house really quick."

"Now?" A look of alarm-or suspicion?-flickers across my aunt's face. "It's nearly eight o'clock."

"I know. We-she-she has a study guide she was supposed to give me. I just remembered."

Now the look of suspicion-it is is suspicion, definitely-makes itself comfortable, drawing Carol's eyebrows together, cinching her lips. "You don't have any of the same cla.s.ses. And your boards are over. How important can it be?" suspicion, definitely-makes itself comfortable, drawing Carol's eyebrows together, cinching her lips. "You don't have any of the same cla.s.ses. And your boards are over. How important can it be?"

"It's not for cla.s.s." I roll my eyes, trying to conjure up Hana's nonchalance, even though my palms are sweating and my heart is jerking around in my chest. "It's like a guide full of pointers. For the evaluations. She knows I need to prep more, since I almost choked yesterday."

Again, my aunt directs a small glance at my uncle. "Curfew's in an hour," she says to me. "If you get caught out after curfew..."

Nervousness makes my temper flare. "I know know about curfew," I snap. "I've only been hearing about it for my whole life." about curfew," I snap. "I've only been hearing about it for my whole life."

I feel guilty the second that the words are out of my mouth, and I drop my eyes to avoid looking at Carol. I've never spoken back to her, have always tried to be as patient and obedient and good as possible-have always tried to be as invisible invisible as possible, a nice girl who helps with the dishes and the little kids and does her homework and listens and keeps her head down. I know that I owe Carol for taking Rachel and me in after my mother died. If it wasn't for her, I'd probably be wasting away in one of the orphanages, uneducated, unnoticed, destined for a job at a slaughterhouse, probably, cleaning up sheep guts or cow c.r.a.p or something like that. Maybe-maybe!-if I was lucky, I'd get to work for a cleaning service. as possible, a nice girl who helps with the dishes and the little kids and does her homework and listens and keeps her head down. I know that I owe Carol for taking Rachel and me in after my mother died. If it wasn't for her, I'd probably be wasting away in one of the orphanages, uneducated, unnoticed, destined for a job at a slaughterhouse, probably, cleaning up sheep guts or cow c.r.a.p or something like that. Maybe-maybe!-if I was lucky, I'd get to work for a cleaning service.

No foster parent will adopt a child whose past has been tainted by the disease.

I wish I could read her mind. I have no idea what she's thinking, but she seems to be a.n.a.lyzing me, attempting to read my face. I think, I'm not doing anything wrong, it's harmless, I'm fine, I'm not doing anything wrong, it's harmless, I'm fine, over and over, and wipe my palms on the back of my jeans, positive I'm leaving a sweat mark. over and over, and wipe my palms on the back of my jeans, positive I'm leaving a sweat mark.

"Be quick," she says finally, and as soon as the words are out of her mouth I'm off, jetting upstairs and switching my sandals for sneakers. Then I bang back down the stairs and fly out the door. My aunt has barely had time to take the dishes into the kitchen. She calls something to me as I blur past her, but I'm already pushing out the front door and don't catch what she says. The ancient grandfather clock in the living room starts booming out just as the screen door swings shut behind me. Eight o'clock.

I unlock my bike and pedal it down the front path and out into the street. The pedals creak and moan and shudder. This bike was owned by my cousin Marcia before me and must be at least fifteen years old, and leaving it outside all year isn't doing anything to preserve it.

I start cruising in the direction of Back Cove, which is downhill, fortunately. The streets are always pretty empty at this time of night. For the most part, the cureds are inside, sitting at dinner, or cleaning up, or preparing for bed and another night of dreamless sleep, and all the uncureds are home or on their way there, nervously watching the minutes swirl away toward nine o'clock curfew.

My legs are still aching from my run earlier today. If I make it to Back Cove on time and Alex is there, I'm going to be a complete mess, sweaty and disgusting. But I keep going anyway. Now that I'm out of the house I push all my doubts and questions out of my mind and focus on hauling a.s.s as fast as my cramping legs will allow me, spinning down through the vacant streets toward the cove, taking every shortcut I can think of, watching the sun descend steadily toward the blazing gold line of the horizon, as though the sky-a brilliant, electric blue at this point-is water, and the light is just sinking through it.

I've only been out at this hour a few times on my own, and the feeling is strange-frightening and exhilarating at the same time, like talking to Alex out in the open earlier this afternoon: as though the revolving eye that I know is always watching has been blinded just for a fraction of a second, as though the hand you've been holding your whole life suddenly disappears and leaves you free to move in any direction you want.

Lights sputter in windows around me, candles and lanterns, mostly; this is a poor area, and everything is rationed, especially gas and electricity. At a certain point I lose sight of the sun's position beyond the four- and five-story buildings, which grow more densely packed after I turn onto Preble: tall, skinny, dark buildings, pressed up against one another as though already preparing for winter and huddling for warmth. I haven't really thought about what I'll say to Alex, and the idea of standing alone with him suddenly makes my stomach bottom out. I have to pull my bike up abruptly, stop and catch my breath. My heart is pounding frantically. After a minute's rest I keep pedaling, slower now. I'm still about a mile away but the cove is visible, flashing off to my right. The sun is just teetering over the dark ma.s.s of trees on the horizon. I have ten, fifteen minutes tops until total darkness.

Then another thought nearly stops me, hitting me straight like a fist: He won't be there. I'll be too late and he'll leave. Or this will turn out to be a big joke, or a trick.

I wrap one arm around my stomach, willing the ravioli to stay put, and pick up speed again.

I'm so busy circling one foot after the other-left, right, left, right-and doing a mental tug-of-war with my digestive tract, that I don't hear the regulators coming.

I'm about to speed through the long-defunct traffic light at Baxter when I am suddenly dazzled by a wall of zipping, bouncing light: the beams of a dozen flashlights directed into my eyes, so I have to skid abruptly to a halt, lifting a hand to my face and nearly flipping over the handlebars-which would be a real disaster, since in my rush to get out of the house I forgot to bring my helmet.

"Stop," the voice of one of the regulators barks out-the leader in charge of the patrol, I guess. "Ident.i.ty check."

Groups of regulators-both volunteer citizens and the actual regulators employed by the government-patrol the streets every night, looking for uncureds breaking curfew, checking the streets and (if the curtains are open) houses for unapproved activity, like two uncureds touching each other, or walking together after dark-or even two cureds engaging in "activity that might signal the re-emergence of the deliria deliria after the procedure," like too much hugging and kissing. This rarely happens, but it after the procedure," like too much hugging and kissing. This rarely happens, but it does does happen. happen.

Regulators report directly to the government and work closely with the scientists at the labs. Regulators were responsible for sending my mother off for her third procedure; a pa.s.sing patrol saw her crying over a photograph one night right after her second failed treatment. She was looking at a picture of my father, and she'd forgotten to close the curtains all the way. Within days, she was back at the labs.

Normally it's easy to avoid the regulators. You can practically hear them from a mile away. They carry walkie-talkies to coordinate with other patrolling groups, and the static interference of the radios going on and off makes it sound like a giant buzzing den of hornets is heading your way. I just wasn't paying attention. Mentally cursing myself for being so stupid, I fish my wallet out of my back pocket. At least I remembered to grab that that. It's illegal to go without ID in Portland. The last thing anybody wants is to spend the night in jail while the powers that be try to verify your validity.

"Magdalena Ella Haloway," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, as I pa.s.s my ID to the regulator in charge. I can hardly make him out behind his flashlight, which he keeps trained on my face, forcing me to squint. He's big; that's all I know. Tall, thin, angular.

"Magdalena Ella Haloway," he repeats. He flips my ID over between his long fingers and looks at my ident.i.ty code, a number a.s.signed to every citizen of the USA. The first three digits identify your state, the next three your city, the next three your family group, the next four your ident.i.ty. "And what are you doing, Magdalena? Curfew's in less than forty minutes."

Less than forty minutes. That must mean it's almost eight thirty. I shift on my feet, trying hard not to betray impatience. A lot of the regulators-especially the volunteer ones-are poorly paid city techs: window washers or gas-meter readers or security guards.

I take a deep breath and say as innocently as possible, "I wanted to take a quick ride down to Back Cove." I do my best to smile and look kind of stupid. "I was feeling bloaty after dinner." No point in lying any more than that. I'll just get myself in trouble.

The lead regulator continues to examine me, the flashlight directed glaringly at my face, my ID card in his hand. For a second he seems to waver, and I'm sure he's going to let me go, but then he pa.s.ses my ID to another regulator. "Run it through with SVS, will you? Make sure it's valid."

My heart plummets. SVS is the Secure Validation System, a computer network where all the valid citizenships, for every single person in the entire country, are stored. It can take twenty to thirty minutes for the computer system to match codes, depending on how many other people are calling into the system. He can't really think I've forged an ident.i.ty card, but he's going to waste my time while someone checks.

And then, miraculously, a voice pipes up from the back of the group. "She's valid, Gerry. I recognize her. She comes into the store. Lives at 172 c.u.mberland."

Gerry swings around, lowering his flashlight in the process. I blink away the floating dots in my vision. I recognize a few faces vaguely-a woman who works in the local dry cleaners and spends her afternoons leaning in the doorway, chewing gum and occasionally spitting out into the street; the traffic officer who works downtown near Franklin Arterial, one of the few areas of Portland that has enough car traffic to justify one; one of the guys who collects our garbage-and there, in the back, Dev Howard, who owns the Quikmart down the street from my house.

Normally my uncle brings home most of our groceries-canned goods and pasta and sliced meats, for the most part-from his combo deli and convenience store, Stop-N-Save, all the way over on Munjoy Hill, but occasionally, if we're desperate for toilet paper or milk, I'll run out to the Quikmart. Mr. Howard has always creeped me out. He's super-skinny and has hooded black eyes that remind me of a rat's. But tonight I feel like I could hug him. I didn't even think he knew my name. He's never said a word to me except, "Will that be all today?" after he has rung up my purchases, glowering at me from underneath the heavy shade of his eyelids. I make a mental note to thank him the next time I see him.

Gerry hesitates for a fraction of a second longer, but I can see that the other regulators are starting to get restless, shifting from foot to foot, eager to continue the patrol and find someone to bust.

Gerry must sense it too, because he jerks his head abruptly in my direction. "Let her have the ID."

Relief makes me feel like laughing, and I have to struggle to look serious as I take my ID and tuck it into place. My hands are shaking ever so slightly. It's strange how being around the regulators will do that to you. Even when they're being relatively nice, you can't help but think of all the bad stories you've heard-the raids and the beatings and the ambushes.

"Just be careful, Magdalena," Gerry says, as I straighten up. "Make sure you're home before curfew." He tilts his flashlight into my eyes again. I lift my arm to my eyes, squinting against the dazzle. "You wouldn't want to get into any trouble."

He says it lightly, but for a moment I think I hear something hard running under his words, a current of anger or aggression. But then I tell myself I'm just being paranoid. No matter what the regulators do, they exist for our protection, for our own good.

The regulators sweep away in a group around me, so for a few seconds I'm caught up in a tide of rough shoulders and cotton jackets, unfamiliar cologne and sweat-smells. Walkie-talkies sputter to life and fade away again around me. I catch snippets of words and broadcasts: Market Street, a girl and a boy, possibly infected, unapproved music on St. Lawrence, someone appears to be dancing... Market Street, a girl and a boy, possibly infected, unapproved music on St. Lawrence, someone appears to be dancing... I get b.u.mped side to side against arms and chests and elbows, until finally the group pa.s.ses and I'm spit out again, left alone on the street as the regulators' footsteps grow more distant behind me. I wait until I can no longer hear the fuzz of their radio chatter or their boots. .h.i.tting the pavement. I get b.u.mped side to side against arms and chests and elbows, until finally the group pa.s.ses and I'm spit out again, left alone on the street as the regulators' footsteps grow more distant behind me. I wait until I can no longer hear the fuzz of their radio chatter or their boots. .h.i.tting the pavement.

Then I take off, feeling again a lifting sensation in my chest, that same sense of happiness and freedom. I can't believe how easy it was to get out of the house. I never knew I could lie to my aunt-I never knew I could lie, period-and when I think about how narrowly I escaped getting grilled by the regulators for hours, it makes me want to jump up and down and pump my fist in the air. Tonight the whole world is on my side. And I'm only a few minutes from Back Cove. My heart picks up its rhythm as I think about skidding down the sloping hill of gra.s.s, seeing Alex framed against the last, dazzling rays of sun-as I think about that single word breathed into my ear. Gray Gray.

I tear down Baxter, which loops around the last mile down to Back Cove. And then I stop short. The buildings have fallen away behind me, giving way to ramshackle sheds, spa.r.s.ely situated on either side of the cracked and run-down road. Beyond that, a short strip of tall, weedy gra.s.s slants down toward the cove. The water is an enormous mirror, tipped with pink and gold from the sky. In that single, blazing moment as I come around the bend, the sun-curved over the dip of the horizon like a solid gold archway-lets out its final winking rays of light, shattering the darkness of the water, turning everything white for a fraction of a second, and then falls away, sinking, dragging the pink and the red and the purple out of the sky with it, all the color bleeding away instantly and leaving only dark.

Alex was right. It was gorgeous-one of the best I've ever seen.

For a moment I can't move or do anything but stand there, breathing hard, staring. Then a numbness creeps over me. I'm too late. The regulators must have been wrong about the time. It must be after eight thirty now. Even if Alex decides to wait for me somewhere along the long loop of the cove, I don't have a prayer of finding him and making it home before curfew.

My eyes sting and the world in front of me goes watery, colors and shapes sloshing together. For a second I think I must be crying, and I'm so startled I forget everything-forget about my disappointment and frustration, forget about Alex standing on the beach, the thought of his hair catching the dying rays of sun, flashing copper. I can't remember the last time I cried. It's been years. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and my vision sharpens again. It's just sweat, I realize, relieved; I'm sweating, it's getting in my eyes. Still, the sick, leaden feeling won't work its way out of my stomach.

I stay there for a few minutes, straddling my bike, squeezing the handlebars hard until I'm a little bit calmer. Part of me wants to say, screw it, to shove off, both legs extended, and go flying down the hill toward the water with the wind whipping up my hair-screw curfew, screw the regulators, screw everyone. But I can't; I couldn't; I could never. I have no choice. I have to get home.

I maneuver my bike around in a clumsy circle and start back up the street. Now that the adrenaline and excitement have faded, my legs feel like they're made out of iron, and I'm panting before I've gone a quarter of a mile. This time I'm careful to stay alert for regulators and police and patrols.

On the way home I tell myself that it's probably for the best. I must be crazy, zooming around in the half dark just to meet up with some guy on the beach. Besides, everything has been explained: He works at the labs, probably just snuck in on evaluation day for some completely innocent reason-to use the bathroom, or refill his water bottle.

And I remind myself that I probably imagined the whole thing-the message, the meeting up. He's probably sitting in his apartment somewhere, doing course work for his cla.s.ses. He's probably already forgotten about the two girls he met at the lab complex today. He was probably just being nice earlier, making casual conversation.

It's for the best. But no matter how many times I repeat it, the strange, hollow feeling in my stomach doesn't go away. And ridiculous as it is, I can't shake the persistent, needling feeling that I've forgotten something, or missed something, or lost something forever. But no matter how many times I repeat it, the strange, hollow feeling in my stomach doesn't go away. And ridiculous as it is, I can't shake the persistent, needling feeling that I've forgotten something, or missed something, or lost something forever.

Chapter Seven.

Of all the systems of the body-neurological, cognitive, special, sensory-the cardiological system is the most sensitive and easily disturbed. The role of society must be to shelter these systems from infection and decay, or else the future of the human race is at stake. Like a summer fruit that is protected from insect invasion, bruising, and rot by the whole mechanism of modern farming; so must we protect the heart.

-"The Role and Purpose of Society," The Book of Shhh The Book of Shhh, p. 353 I was named after Mary Magdalene, who was nearly killed from love: "So infected with was named after Mary Magdalene, who was nearly killed from love: "So infected with deliria deliria and in violation of the pacts of society, she fell in love with men who would not have her or could not keep her." (Book of Lamentations, Mary 13:1). and in violation of the pacts of society, she fell in love with men who would not have her or could not keep her." (Book of Lamentations, Mary 13:1).

We learned all about it in Biblical Science. First there was John, then Matthew, then Jeremiah and Peter and Judas, and many other nameless men in-between.

Her last love, they say, was the greatest: a man named Joseph, a bachelor all his life, who found her on the street, bruised and broken and half-crazy from deliria. deliria. There's some debate about what kind of man Joseph was-whether he was righteous or not, whether he ever succ.u.mbed to the disease-but in any case, he took good care of her. He nursed her to health and tried to bring her peace. There's some debate about what kind of man Joseph was-whether he was righteous or not, whether he ever succ.u.mbed to the disease-but in any case, he took good care of her. He nursed her to health and tried to bring her peace.

By this time, however, it was too late. She was tormented by her past, haunted by the loves lost and damaged and ruined, by the evils she had inflicted on others and that others had inflicted on her. She could hardly eat; she wept all day; she clung to Joseph and begged him never to leave her, but couldn't find comfort in his goodness.

And then one morning, she woke and Joseph was gone-without a word or an explanation. This final abandonment broke her at last and she fell to the ground, begging G.o.d to put her out of her misery.

He heard her prayers, and in his infinite compa.s.sion he instead removed from her the curse of deliria deliria, with which all humans had been burdened as punishment for the original sin of Eve and Adam. In a sense, Mary Magdalene was the very first cured.

"And so after years of tribulation and pain, she walked in righteousness and peace until the end of her days" (Book of Lamentations, Mary 13:1).

I always thought it was strange that my mother named me Magdalena. She didn't even believe in the cure. That was her whole problem. And the Book of Lamentations is all about the dangers of deliria deliria. I've done a lot of thinking about it, and in the end I guess I've figured out that despite everything, my mother knew that she was wrong: that the cure, and the procedure, were for the best. I think even then she knew what she was going to do-she knew what would happen. I guess my name was her final gift to me, in a way. It was a message.

I think she was trying to say, Forgive me Forgive me. I think she was trying to say, Someday, even this pain will be taken away Someday, even this pain will be taken away.

You see? No matter what everyone says, and despite everything, I know she wasn't all bad.

The next two weeks are the busiest of my life. Summer explodes into Portland. In early June the heat was there but not the color-the greens were still pale and tentative, the mornings had a biting coolness-but by the last week of school everything is Technicolor and splash, outrageous blue skies and purple thunderstorms and ink-black night skies and red flowers as bright as spots of blood. Every day after school there's an a.s.sembly, or ceremony, or graduation party to go to. Hana gets invited to all of them; I get invited to most, which surprises me.

Harlowe Davis-who lives with Hana in the West End, and whose father does something for the government-invites me to come over for a "casual good-bye thing." I didn't even think she knew my name-whenever she's talking to Hana her eyes have always skated past me, like I'm not worth focusing on. I go anyway. I've always been curious about her house, and it turns out to be as spectacular as I imagined. Her family has a car, too, and electric appliances everywhere that obviously get used every day, washers and dryers and huge chandeliers filled with dozens and dozens of lightbulbs. Harlowe has invited most of the graduating cla.s.s-there are sixty-seven of us in total and probably fifty at the party-which makes me feel less special, but it's still fun. We sit in the backyard while the housekeeper runs in and out of the house with plates and plates of food-coleslaw and potato salad and other barbecue stuff-and her father turns out spare ribs and hamburgers on the enormous smoking grill. I eat until I feel like I'm about to burst and have to roll backward onto the blanket I'm sharing with Hana. We stay there until almost curfew, when the stars are peeking through a curtain of dark blue and the mosquitoes rise up all at once and we all go shrieking and laughing back into the house, slapping them away. Afterward I think it's one of the nicest days I've had in a long time.

Even girls I don't really like-like Sh.e.l.ly Pierson, who has hated me since sixth grade, when I won the science fair and she took second place-start being nice. I guess it's because we all know the end is close. Most of us won't see one another after graduation, and even if we do it will be different. We'll We'll be different. We'll be adults-cured, tagged and labeled and paired and identified and placed neatly on our life path, perfectly round marbles set to roll down even, well-defined slopes. be different. We'll be adults-cured, tagged and labeled and paired and identified and placed neatly on our life path, perfectly round marbles set to roll down even, well-defined slopes.

Theresa Gra.s.s turns eighteen before school ends and gets cured; so does Morgan Dell. They're absent for a few days and come back to school just before graduation. The change is amazing. They seem peaceful now, mature and somehow remote, like they're encased in a thin layer of ice. Only two weeks ago Theresa's nickname was Theresa Gross, and everyone made fun of her for slouching and chewing on the ends of her hair and generally being a mess, but now she walks straight and tall with her eyes fixed straight in front of her, her lips barely curled in a smile, and everyone shifts a little in the halls so she can pa.s.s easily. Same thing goes for Morgan. It's like all their anxiety and self-consciousness has been removed along with the disease. Even Morgan's legs have stopped trembling. Whenever she used to have to speak in cla.s.s, the trembling would get so bad it would rock the desk. But after the procedure, just like that-whoosh! The shaking stops. Of course they're not the first girls in our cla.s.s to get cured-Eleanor Rana and Annie Hahn were both cured way back in the fall, and half a dozen other girls have had the procedure this past semester-but in them the difference is somehow more p.r.o.nounced. The shaking stops. Of course they're not the first girls in our cla.s.s to get cured-Eleanor Rana and Annie Hahn were both cured way back in the fall, and half a dozen other girls have had the procedure this past semester-but in them the difference is somehow more p.r.o.nounced.

I keep going with my countdown. Eighty-one days, then eighty, then seventy-nine.

Willow Marks never comes back to school. Rumors filter back to us-that she had her procedure and it turned out fine; that she had her procedure and now her brain is going haywire, and they're talking about committing her to the Crypts, Portland's combo prison-and-mental-ward; that she ran away to the Wilds. Only one thing is for sure: The whole Marks family is under constant surveillance now. The regulators are blaming Mr. and Mrs. Marks-and the whole extended family-for not instilling in her a proper education, and only a few days after she was supposedly found in Deering Oaks Park, I overhear my aunt and uncle whispering that both of Willow's parents have been fired from their jobs. A week later we hear that they've had to move in with a distant relative. Apparently people kept throwing rocks at their windows, and a whole side of their house was written over with a single word: SYMPATHIZERS SYMPATHIZERS. It makes no sense, because Mr. and Mrs. Marks were on record insisting that their daughter have the procedure early, despite the risks, but as my aunt says, people get like that when they're scared. Everyone is terrified that the deliria deliria will somehow find its way into Portland on a large scale. Everyone wants to prevent an epidemic. will somehow find its way into Portland on a large scale. Everyone wants to prevent an epidemic.

I feel bad for the Marks family, of course, but that's the way things are. It's like the regulators: You may not like the patrols and the ident.i.ty checks, but since you know it's all done for your protection, it's impossible not not to cooperate. And it may sound awful, but I don't think about Willow's family for long. There's just too much end-of-high-school paperwork to file, and nervous energy, and lockers to clean out and final exams to take and people to say good-bye to. to cooperate. And it may sound awful, but I don't think about Willow's family for long. There's just too much end-of-high-school paperwork to file, and nervous energy, and lockers to clean out and final exams to take and people to say good-bye to.

Hana and I can barely find time to run together. When we do, we stick to our old routes by silent agreement. She never mentions the afternoon at the labs again, to my surprise. But Hana's mind has a tendency to skip around, and her new obsession is a collapse at the northern end of the border that people are saying might have been caused by Invalids. I don't even consider going down to the labs again, not for one single solitary second. I focus on everything and anything besides my lingering questions about Alex-which isn't too hard, considering that I now can't believe I spent an evening biking up and down the streets of Portland, lying to Carol and the regulators, just to meet up with him. The very next day it felt like a dream, or a delusion. I tell myself I must have gone temporarily insane: brain scramble, from running in the heat.

On graduation day Hana sits three rows ahead of me at the commencement ceremony. As she files past me to take her seat she reaches out for my hand-two long pumps, two short ones-and when she sits down she tilts her head back so I can see that she has taken a marker and scrawled on the top of her graduation cap: THANK G.o.d! THANK G.o.d! I stifle a laugh, and she turns around and makes a pretend-stern face at me. All of us are giddy, and I've never felt closer to the St. Anne's girls than that day-all of us sweating under the sun, which beams down on us like an exaggerated smile, fanning ourselves with the commencement brochures, trying not to yawn or roll our eyes while Princ.i.p.al McIntosh drones on about "adulthood" and "our entrance into the community order," nudging one another and tugging on the collars of our scratchy graduation gowns to try to let some air down our necks. I stifle a laugh, and she turns around and makes a pretend-stern face at me. All of us are giddy, and I've never felt closer to the St. Anne's girls than that day-all of us sweating under the sun, which beams down on us like an exaggerated smile, fanning ourselves with the commencement brochures, trying not to yawn or roll our eyes while Princ.i.p.al McIntosh drones on about "adulthood" and "our entrance into the community order," nudging one another and tugging on the collars of our scratchy graduation gowns to try to let some air down our necks.

Family members sit in white plastic folding chairs, under a cream white tarp fluttering with flags: the school flag, the city flag, the state flag, the American flag. They applaud politely as each graduate goes up to receive her diploma. When it's my turn I scan the audience, looking for my aunt and my sister, but I'm so nervous about tripping and falling as I take my place on the stage and reach for the diploma in Princ.i.p.al McIntosh's hand, I can't see anything but color-green, blue, white, a mess of pink and brown faces-or make out any individual sounds beyond the shush shush of clapping hands. Only Hana's voice, loud and clear as a bell: "Hallelujah, Halena!" That's our special pump-you-up chant that we used to do before track meets and tests, a combination of both of our names. of clapping hands. Only Hana's voice, loud and clear as a bell: "Hallelujah, Halena!" That's our special pump-you-up chant that we used to do before track meets and tests, a combination of both of our names.

Afterward we line up to take individual portraits with our diplomas. An official photographer has been hired, and a royal blue backdrop set up in the middle of the soccer field, where we all stand and pose. We're too excited to take the pictures seriously, though. People keep doubling over laughing in their pictures, so all you can see is the crown of their heads.

When it's my turn for a picture, at the very last second Hana jumps in and throws one arm around my shoulders, and the photographer is so startled he presses down on the shutter anyway. Click! Click! There we are: I'm turning to Hana, mouth open, surprised, about to laugh. She's a full head taller than me, has her eyes shut and her mouth open. I really do think there was something special about that day, something golden and maybe even magic, because even though my face was all red and my hair looked sticky on my forehead, it's like Hana rubbed off on me a little bit-because despite everything, and just in that one picture, I look pretty. More than pretty. Beautiful, even. There we are: I'm turning to Hana, mouth open, surprised, about to laugh. She's a full head taller than me, has her eyes shut and her mouth open. I really do think there was something special about that day, something golden and maybe even magic, because even though my face was all red and my hair looked sticky on my forehead, it's like Hana rubbed off on me a little bit-because despite everything, and just in that one picture, I look pretty. More than pretty. Beautiful, even.

The school band keeps playing, mostly in tune, and the music floats across the field and is echoed by the birds wheeling in the sky. It's like something lifts in that moment, some huge pressure or divide, and before I know what's happening all my cla.s.smates are crushing together in a huge hug, jumping up and down and screaming, "We did it! We did it! We did it!" And none of the parents or teachers try to separate us. As we start to break away I see them encircling us, watching with patient expressions, hands folded. I catch my aunt's gaze and my stomach does a weird twist and I know that she, like everyone else, is giving us this moment-our last moment together, before things change for good and forever.

And things will change-are changing, even at that second. As the group dissolves into clumps of students, and the clumps dissolve into individuals, I notice Theresa Gra.s.s and Morgan Dell already starting across the lawn toward the street. They are each walking with their families, heads down, without once looking back. They haven't been celebrating with us, I realize, and it occurs to me I haven't seen Eleanor Rana or Annie Hahn or the other cureds either. They must have already gone home. A curious ache throbs in the back of my throat, even though of course this is how things are: Everything ends, people move on, they don't look back. It's how they changing, even at that second. As the group dissolves into clumps of students, and the clumps dissolve into individuals, I notice Theresa Gra.s.s and Morgan Dell already starting across the lawn toward the street. They are each walking with their families, heads down, without once looking back. They haven't been celebrating with us, I realize, and it occurs to me I haven't seen Eleanor Rana or Annie Hahn or the other cureds either. They must have already gone home. A curious ache throbs in the back of my throat, even though of course this is how things are: Everything ends, people move on, they don't look back. It's how they should should be. be.

I catch sight of Rachel through the crowd and go running up to her, suddenly eager to be next to her, wishing she would reach down and ruffle my hair like she used to when I was very little, and say, "Good job, Loony," her old nickname for me.

"Rachel!" I'm breathless for no reason, and I have trouble squeezing the words out. I'm so happy to see her I feel like I could burst into tears. I don't though, obviously. "You came."

"Of course I came." She smiles at me. "You're my only sister, remember?" She pa.s.ses me a bouquet of daisies she has brought with her, loosely wrapped in brown paper. "Congratulations, Lena."

I stick my face in the flowers and inhale, trying to fight down the urge to reach out and hug her. For a second we just stand there, blinking at each other, and then she reaches out to me. I'm sure she's going to put her arms around me for old times' sake, or at the very least give me a one-armed squeeze.

Instead she just flicks a bang off my forehead. "Gross," she says, still smiling. "You're all sweaty."

It's stupid and immature to feel disappointed, but I do. "It's the gown," I say, and realize that yes, that must be the problem: The gown is what's choking me, stifling me, making it hard to breathe.

"Come on," she says. "Aunt Carol will want to congratulate you."

Aunt Carol is standing at the field's periphery with my uncle, Grace, and Jenny, talking to Mrs. Springer, my history teacher. I fall into step beside Rachel. She is only a few inches taller than I am and we walk together, in sync, but separated by three feet of s.p.a.ce. She is quiet. I can tell she's already wondering when she can go home and get on with her life.

I let myself look back once. I can't help it. I watch the girls circulating in their orange gowns like flames. Everything seems to zoom back, recede away at once. All the voices intermingle and become indistinguishable from one another-like the constant white noise of the ocean running underneath the rhythm of the Portland streets, so constant you hardly notice it. Everything looks stark and vivid and frozen, as though drawn precisely and outlined in ink-parents' smiles frozen, camera flashes blinding, mouths open and white teeth glistening, dark glossy hair and deep blue sky and unrelenting light, everyone drowning in light-everything so clear and perfect I'm sure it must already be a memory, or a dream.

Chapter Eight.