The Ark - Laura Nolen Liddell

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the tube, and swiped a thin line across my eyelids. The result was a lot more responsible-teen-headed-to-the-mall, or wherever it is normal teenagers go, and a lot less bruised-and-bloodied convict.

      The cabinet under the sink produced Band-Aids, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a worn-out, empty makeup bag. Gritting my teeth, I ran the alcohol over the cut on my hand, which had opened back up in the shower, and taped it shut with a Band-Aid. I used a wad of toilet paper doused in alcohol to dab at the cut above my eye from Cassa’s shoe. Then I threw the toiletries into the makeup bag and headed for the bedroom, stark naked.

      The first room was a bust. Granny panties, nightgowns, and a drawer full of bras big enough to wear as hats. No thank you.

      I hit the jackpot with bedroom number two. Whoever lived here was about my size. I found vintage-looking lace underwear in the drawers. I pulled on a set and stuffed a second into the makeup bag.

      The closet was even better. Crisp brown pants, flowy blouses, and smart-looking dresses hovered over a neat row of shoes for every occasion. This girl really had her act together. I had never lined up a pair of shoes in my life.

      I selected a blue skirt and a heavily tailored sleeveless top made of the same material and paired them with camel-colored heels. I had no idea what one wore on an OPT, except that almost everyone there would either be super smart or super rich. My mom would probably tell me to find some pantyhose, so I returned to the underwear drawer with a sigh. I reflected that there probably weren’t seasons in space, either, so I selected an additional outfit: a black, long-sleeved cotton shirt, black boots, and a pair of black pants.

      I was just about to leave when I noticed a brown leather satchel-style purse slung over one of the coat hangers. A quick search of its contents turned up a wallet and ID. Magda Notting, born 2015. She’d be nearly fifty years old, then, much older than I expected, based on what I had seen of her clothing. She’d also be ineligible for a spot on one of the Arks. I wondered where she was. Probably waiting it out at a friend’s house, or something. I hoped she wasn’t alone.

      I worked the black clothing into a roll and pressed it into the top of the satchel. I never considered putting the starpass into the bag. It went under my shirt, secured to the skin just below my collarbone with a series of Band-Aids. I took a final glance in the mirror and forced myself not to think about how we’d get Isaiah onto the OPT with only one starpass. I didn’t know if I was the kind of person who’d sacrifice my life for someone else, and that scared me as much as anything else. I clopped my way out the door and down the steps, uneasy in Magda’s heels. Uneasy in general.

      “Isaiah?” I called. “You up there or down here?” Maybe he’d stepped outside. I was halfway through the sitting room, and maybe five feet from the door, when a rush of ice spilled down my spine, and I stopped short.

      Someone was in the room with me. Someone with a rifle pointed straight at my chest.

       Four

      “Hold it right there, Missy.” The gravelly voice paused long enough for a wracking cough.

      I raised my hands as slowly as possible. In my experience, there were two kinds of people who point guns at other people. The first kind weren’t going to shoot you unless they had to. Suckers, we called ’em. Suckers made it easy to get away. Sometimes you didn’t even have to give their stuff back, as long as you started running before they got too jumpy. The second kind were just looking for an excuse to pull the trigger. As I was sizing her up, she chambered the cartridge.

      This was definitely the second kind.

      I made my voice as small and feminine as possible. “Look, I didn’t mean any trouble. I thought you were gone.”

      “Doesn’t give you the right to steal my stuff.”

      I turned around, slowly. “Really, I thought the house was abandoned. Please don’t shoot.” The woman in the corner was elderly and heavyset and sucking hard on a nicostick, the kind the government had approved the year they banned cigarettes. I had no doubt this wasn’t the first time she’d handled a .30.

      “Just what do you think you’re doing, anyway?”

      “I was hungry,” I whimpered. “And I needed clothes.”

      “What for?”

      “For the OPT.”

      “I saw them clothes in the bathroom. You don’t belong on no transport.”

      I breathed out for a moment, and sniffed, and realized that my tears weren’t actually fake, even though I had planned them. “I know.”

      “But you’re going anyway.”

      If I spoke loudly enough, maybe Isaiah would hear me. Would he try to leave, or try to help me? Would he even be able to help? “I have to. My family went, and I was in lockup, and they left me there.”

      The rifle sagged to point at the ground. “Okay, alright. Don’t cry.” She continued to stare at me. “It’s my daughter’s clothes, you know.”

      “M-Magda?”

      “My Magda. She died thirty years ago. You look a little like her.” She jerked her head toward the wall beside me, where a series of yellowing photographs showed a happy family. The youngest, a girl, did indeed have dark hair and light eyes, but I thought the resemblance ended there. Not that I planned on pointing that out to my hostess, who still had two hands clenched around the rifle. Its butt folded into the ample flesh over her ribcage. I bet she wouldn’t even feel the kick, with padding like that.

      “Had a son, too. He worked at the detention center. Kellan Notting. Maybe you know him.”

      I shook my head. “He’s on the transport now?”

      She mirrored my head shake while taking another drag on her nicostick before answering. “Not anymore. Now he’s on the Ark. Left a couple weeks ago. He drew the European one.” She blew out the vaporized tar and glanced back at the photographs. “They called this morning to tell me he made it.”

      “I’m glad,” I said, and meant it.

      “So what are you in for?”

      I coughed. It was a delicate situation. If I lied to her, she might shoot. But if I told her the truth, she’d probably think I was lying. Everyone else had.

      “Robbery. I didn’t do it.”

      The rifle twitched, barely, then she jerked it to her shoulder. The shot came an instant later, exploding into the wall above my head, louder than I thought possible. The carpet was suddenly coarse against my hands, and I found myself struggling not to scream. The anger on her face was terrifying. This was a woman who had no games to play. Whatever she wanted, she was determined to find it, and fast.

      “Do I look like a fool to you?” She must have been shouting, otherwise I’d never have heard her.

      I couldn’t see why she cared what I said, but I was far too shaken to think it over. Everything came spilling out. “I mean, I did! Before. But not this time. I was out, and I had my family back, even though they still acted weird around me. Even that was getting better. So I told the gang I was leaving, but they didn’t let me. They needed me to get into the best houses.” I knew I was barely coherent, but I could not stop talking. “I broke up with my boyfriend, but he tricked me. I went out to meet him, just to talk, you know? And he drugged me and I woke up in this house, and everything was broken. The cops were already there. I never wanted any of it. I thought I did, but I missed them. My family. And then it was too late. Please. Please don’t shoot.”

      I clamped my jaw shut, finally silent.

      There was a long pause. Too long. But then she nodded. “Alright, get up. I’m going to help you. Needed to decide once I’d met ya.”

      I nodded, shaking, as though I totally understood the thought process

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