Author: Sophie Jordan

I still see Sean in my mind. His image fresh from half an hour ago. That’s how long he stayed upstairs, talking to those girls, I guess.

The cool smoke-blue eyes. The hair shielding a face that begs for an extra look. Even with that too-long hair, the imprint encircling his neck can’t be hidden. Yes, a turtleneck offers temporary cover, but they’re not standard in Texas. And anyone could just tug it down to see, anyway.

And that’s the point. Imprints can’t be denied. Just like bad DNA.

The ink-black band almost an inch wide. The circled H. It reminds me of a cattle brand. Dark. Deep. Permanent. Once you see that, it’s the only thing you see. Not the person. And that’s the purpose.

The person doesn’t matter.

It’s no longer who. It’s what.

My back tingles, and I wonder if it’s him. Looking at me. Or is it just my imagination? My fear knowing he’s there, here, close, watching.

My mind strays to that imprint on his neck again. What did he do to get that? Was it one thing? A series of transgressions until Pollock finally ordered the imprinting? I shake my head and press my pencil tip harder into my notebook where I’m spelling out my name: Davy Hamilton. Again and again and again.

As if that will keep me sane. Keep me me.

Because him. Behind me. Will never be me.

“I’ll be back in two minutes,” Brockman calls from the back of the Cage.

I start a little at the realization that he’s leaving us alone. Together. A room full of carriers, one of whom probably belongs in prison. My skin tightens sharply. This strikes me as a bad idea. The door clicks shut behind him. Too late for me to object.

Immediately, Nathan and Brian are on their feet. They laugh low under their breaths, practically tripping over themselves to get out of the Cage. A quick glance reveals that everyone else is watching, too. Gil, Coco. Sean is turned, too.

The two boys speak in rushed tones, scanning Brockman’s desk, their expressions giddy.

“What are we going to do, man?” Brian anxiously asks.

Nathan points. “His chair.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s unscrew the bolts.” Brian nods stupidly, bending to tamper with Brockman’s chair.

Nathan drops a hand on his arm, stalling him.

He lifts his face, looks straight at Sean. For permission? Approval? I’m not sure which. Maybe both. But it’s clear to me these two guys don’t make a move in the Cage without considering Sean O’Rourke first.

Sharp prickles break out over my skin. I’m almost disappointed. I don’t know why. Did I somehow think he was better than Nathan? I have no basis for that conclusion. If anything, the imprint on his neck should have told me otherwise. That he’s worse. More dangerous than these other boys.

I watch Sean, wait for his reaction. It’s the barest motion. Just a dip of his head. Then he turns around and faces front again. My chest squeezes to find myself directly in his line of vision. I spin around, too alarmed to look into those cool eyes.

I listen to Nathan and Brian as they loosen the bolts on Brockman’s chair and scurry back inside the Cage, laughing like hyenas.

What does it mean when the guy that crushed my hand in his grip, the one who backhanded poor Gil, whose eyes gleamed when inflicting pain . . . answers to Sean O’Rourke?

Brockman returns. I don’t dare turn around. Instead, I sit waiting. Listening.

He crashes to the floor with a yelp. We all turn to look then. Nathan and Brian laugh, slapping their desks as the teacher pulls himself to his feet, cursing and red-faced. Even Coco giggles behind her hands. Gil grins.

Huffing and holding his back as though he’s injured, he faces us through the chain-link wall. “Go ahead and have your laugh, you little bastards. We all know where you’re going to end up. All of you!”

The laughter fades as Brockman storms from the room, still cursing under his breath.

Nathan wipes the tears of mirth from his eyes. “God, that was classic.” He looks over at Sean. “Did you see that, O’Rourke? Priceless.”

Sean turns in his desk, silent and unsmiling. Even though he sanctioned the little prank, he doesn’t look amused, and I wonder if it has something to do with what Brockman said. We all know where you’re going to end up.

I don’t know where I’m going to end up. It’s hard for me to imagine that I would ever end up in the same place as Nathan and Brian and Sean O’Rourke.

And yet here I am now. With them.

Another office aide comes down toward the end of the day. Brockman enters the Cage and rouses everyone.

“Okay. New assignment.”

This is met with several groans. I can’t imagine we’re all in the same grade and I wonder what assignment we all have in common.

“This is for your Community Awareness.”

If possible, the groans only get louder. Even Gil reacts. “Those assignments are such a joke.”

I’ve never heard of a Community Awareness class and wonder if it’s something unique to this school. I glance at the sheet of paper Brockman drops on my desk. A quick glance at the paper’s header clears things up. The Wainwright Agency is identified in the header. This is some kind of assignment specifically for carriers then.

“According to my instructions, you have a week to complete the project.”

A project? I sit up a little straighter. Even if it comes from the Wainwright Agency it sounds like this might be real schoolwork. Close enough anyway. My inner geek perks up. Anything to break up the monotony of sitting in this room. To tide me over until I can escape this place and return to my real life. Zac and the party tonight. When I can be myself again.

“You will need to pair up.”

At this, my enthusiasm wilts. Everything inside me tenses. I have to work with someone in this room.

Obviously, Nathan and his better half in the back will pair up. They don’t even have to move desks.

But what about the others? Who does that leave me with?

It’s not as though I get a chance to decide for myself. Coco gets up and moves to the empty desk beside Gil. Leaving me to pair up with Sean O’Rourke.

Fantastic. The back of my neck itches, the skin crawling as if something swarms beneath it. I look down quickly, stare at the paper on my desk, eyes feverishly moving, scanning the blur of words. I expect for him to move in. Like the predator he is. Like all of us in this room are supposed to be. Only I’m not. My being here is a mistake. I’m not like them at all. Maybe if I was, I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable. So afraid.

Brockman leaves us. The door clangs. I can hear Gil and Coco talking in low voices. I guess they’ve begun to discuss the assignment. I toy with the corner of the paper, waiting for him.

He never comes.

Finally, I take a breath and stand, pen and paper in hand. As though he senses me, he lifts his head. His eyes settle on me, his expression mild, empty. How does he do that? How does he look as though there is nothing going on behind the façade? Not a dark thought . . . not a thought at all. A blank slate.

Squaring my shoulders, I approach and drop into the chair before him, turning so that we’re facing each other.

I flex my fingers very deliberately around the paper so that it crinkles. “I guess we have to do this.”

“I guess so.” His deep voice washes over me, and I realize I’ve hardly ever heard him speak. Except when he called me “princess” in Brockman’s office. It’s deeper than I expect. It makes him seem older somehow.

Clearing my throat, I force myself to read the work sheet. Difficult, considering he doesn’t do the same. Instead, he continues to watch me with those absorbing eyes. Finally, I process the instructions. Dread sinks likes rocks in the bottom of my stomach.

“We have to interview each other.” My lips move numbly. “Write each other’s biographies.”

“Uh-huh.” His lips twist. Almost a smile but not quite.

Why would the Wainwright Agency want us to do this type of exercise? What’s the point?

As if he can read my mind, he says, “They’re trying to train us in humanity. You know. Because we obviously lack empathy for others,” he says this flatly with no inflection, and I can’t tell if he’s joking.

I wave to the Cage we’re trapped inside. “Then maybe they shouldn’t treat us like animals in a zoo.”

He angles his head, staring at me intently, his face that perpetual blank slate. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. He probably thinks that I’m getting bent out of shape over nothing. This is the life he’s accustomed to, after all. My gaze strays to the tattoo on his neck, before jerking quickly away. I don’t want him to see me looking at it.

“Okay.” I suck in a breath. “You want me to start?”

“Sure.”

“Name?”

“Sean.”

“Sean?” I prompt even though I know his last name.

This time he actually smiles, and I know he’s amused because I’m taking this so seriously. “Sean,” he supplies.

I go through the rest. Birthplace. Birth date.

“Parents’ names?”

“My mother’s name was Cecily O’Rourke.”

Was. My pen hesitates for a second before scrawling her name down. “Father?”

“Don’t know.”

I try to show no reaction at his blunt response, but it takes me a moment to gather my thoughts and move to the next question. Who doesn’t know the name of their own father?

“Siblings?”

“None.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Just foster ones—”

“Oh?” It’s something, and I’m beginning to suspect there’s not a lot he’s going to volunteer. I’m sure there’s a lot more to him . . . more than I’ll ever know. More than he lets anyone know. But for now, I need to fill out this work sheet with something. Even if it’s just empty facts. “So you live with foster parents? What are their names? How long have you been with them?”

I don’t look up from my notes, but I feel his eyes on me.

“I have a foster mother. Martha Delaney. She’s taken in five of us. At least the last time I counted.”

A joke. I didn’t think he had a sense of humor.

I nod, still writing. “Uh-huh.” Cocking my head, I read the next question: “What’s your favorite hobby?” I try not to cringe at the totally inane question. Does this guy have a hobby? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who knits or plays the violin. Maybe he likes video games. The zombie-killer kind. Those are plenty violent.

He leans forward, both his arms relaxed on his desk. His fingers lightly tap the surface, just at the tips. “No hobbies.”

“Something you do in your free time . . . something you enjoy . . .”

“I know the definition of ‘hobby,’” he replies, and I feel justifiably dumb.

“Of course.” I scrawl N/A next to the question.

“I have a job . . . but I wouldn’t call washing dishes at the Golden Palace six nights a week a hobby.”

Before I can think, I ask, “Then why do you do it?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. I know this immediately. I see that as his features harden, looking even more carved, more like granite. I don’t have time to explain what I meant, which was: Why does he work that particular job?

“God, you’re so sheltered, aren’t you? It’s how I make a living. Martha isn’t big on allowances. She puts a roof over our heads, cooks and feeds us, and collects a state check for fostering six kids no one else wants. There’s not a lot left over after the bills are paid.” He smiles enough to reveal teeth. Even and startling white against his complexion.

He continues, and it’s the most I’ve heard him speak, even if every word drips scorn. “If I want socks, a pack of gum, gas money for my piece-of-crap truck that’s always breaking down . . . I have to earn it.” His gaze scours over me. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, princess?”