bins.
I covered my eyes as we
broached the bright sunlight and followed Noah to the transit station. We
boarded a public pod heading for the eastern sector.
“Thanks for doing
this,” I said once we found our seats. I had this weird compulsion to reach for
his hand again, but instead, I crossed my arms in front of my chest and kept a
safe, friendly distance between us
“Sure.” Noah tapped
his fingers on his thighs like he was metering a song in his head.
“And Anthony. I
forgot to thank him.”
“That’s all right.
He’s not doing it for you.”
“He’s doing it for
you?”
His fingers tapped
and his knee bounced in rhythm. “Yes.”
“Do Anthony and the
other guys have the same belief system as you? Is that why they’re rebelling?”
Noah’s fingers and
leg went still. “No. They’re just pissed off.”
“Not to be nosy or
anything, but for a ‘rebel’ group, yours is kind of small.” I almost used
finger quotes, but thought better of it.
He turned to me. It
seemed the song in his head had turned off.
“It was bigger when
my dad was alive. Much bigger. Big enough that ‘your people’ felt threatened. He
had obviously heard the quotes in my voice, “Dad had a huge following online
and off that had spread across the state.”
“So what happened?”
“When he was killed,
it was like the queen bee had died. All the worker bees and drones scattered.
No one has tried to start it up again.”
“Until now?”
He stared out the
window, and I worried I’d said something wrong.
“I was a pretty
sheltered kid,” he began, still looking away. “My parents did a good job of
giving me a carefree childhood. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that my father
started bringing me along to his protests.”
He turned to face me.
“Of course on the day he died, my world changed. Even though I knew I should be
mad, mostly I was just sad. Turns out I’m more of a lover than a fighter.”
I held his gaze. “It’s
possible to be a lover and a fighter.”
“I suppose.”
“So if you’re not a
fighter, what made you start demonstrating now?”
“Mostly boredom. I’m
tired of apathy. And now that I’m older and understand more about the
inequalities of the world, I am starting to get madder.”
“You looked really
angry to me, at the Sleiman rally on TV.”
“Yeah, that day I was
angry.”
Was it because of me?
Because of what he’d heard my parents say?
“Do you miss him?” I asked.
Noah tapped his ring,
and called for his photo gallery. A series of pictures flashed in the space in
front of us. I recognized the cabin picture from Noah’s photo wall in his room.
“My dad used to take
us camping,” Noah said. “He believed getting away from the city was good for
the soul and bonded us as a family. At the time I didn’t pay attention to that
kind of talk. I was just happy to be canoeing and fishing and cooking food over
a fire outside.”
He turned the photo
image function off. “We stopped going when the movement gained momentum. It
kind of took over his life by the end.”
We arrived at our
stop, and I followed Noah off the pod.
The eastern sector was kind of sleazy. The neighborhood was a mix of residential and industrial. The
single-family homes were small and needed paint, and they were tucked in
tightly between overcrowded apartment blocks. Laundry hung from the railings
and loud music was pumping out of open windows and doors. The day had warmed to
uncomfortable levels, and the lack of AC had made the inhabitants irritable. I
could hear a domestic fight coming from one of the apartments.
Teens from the area
gathered in groups in poorly manicured yards and on street corners, smoking
cigarettes and some already consuming beer. They eyed us warily as we
approached a group close to the area where Liam had been found. Noah
protectively tucked me behind him.
“Hey?” he said,
standing tall with his shoulders back, showing no fear. “Anyone here seen a guy
hanging
I covered my eyes as we
broached the bright sunlight and followed Noah to the transit station. We
boarded a public pod heading for the eastern sector.
“Thanks for doing
this,” I said once we found our seats. I had this weird compulsion to reach for
his hand again, but instead, I crossed my arms in front of my chest and kept a
safe, friendly distance between us
“Sure.” Noah tapped
his fingers on his thighs like he was metering a song in his head.
“And Anthony. I
forgot to thank him.”
“That’s all right.
He’s not doing it for you.”
“He’s doing it for
you?”
His fingers tapped
and his knee bounced in rhythm. “Yes.”
“Do Anthony and the
other guys have the same belief system as you? Is that why they’re rebelling?”
Noah’s fingers and
leg went still. “No. They’re just pissed off.”
“Not to be nosy or
anything, but for a ‘rebel’ group, yours is kind of small.” I almost used
finger quotes, but thought better of it.
He turned to me. It
seemed the song in his head had turned off.
“It was bigger when
my dad was alive. Much bigger. Big enough that ‘your people’ felt threatened. He
had obviously heard the quotes in my voice, “Dad had a huge following online
and off that had spread across the state.”
“So what happened?”
“When he was killed,
it was like the queen bee had died. All the worker bees and drones scattered.
No one has tried to start it up again.”
“Until now?”
He stared out the
window, and I worried I’d said something wrong.
“I was a pretty
sheltered kid,” he began, still looking away. “My parents did a good job of
giving me a carefree childhood. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that my father
started bringing me along to his protests.”
He turned to face me.
“Of course on the day he died, my world changed. Even though I knew I should be
mad, mostly I was just sad. Turns out I’m more of a lover than a fighter.”
I held his gaze. “It’s
possible to be a lover and a fighter.”
“I suppose.”
“So if you’re not a
fighter, what made you start demonstrating now?”
“Mostly boredom. I’m
tired of apathy. And now that I’m older and understand more about the
inequalities of the world, I am starting to get madder.”
“You looked really
angry to me, at the Sleiman rally on TV.”
“Yeah, that day I was
angry.”
Was it because of me?
Because of what he’d heard my parents say?
“Do you miss him?” I asked.
Noah tapped his ring,
and called for his photo gallery. A series of pictures flashed in the space in
front of us. I recognized the cabin picture from Noah’s photo wall in his room.
“My dad used to take
us camping,” Noah said. “He believed getting away from the city was good for
the soul and bonded us as a family. At the time I didn’t pay attention to that
kind of talk. I was just happy to be canoeing and fishing and cooking food over
a fire outside.”
He turned the photo
image function off. “We stopped going when the movement gained momentum. It
kind of took over his life by the end.”
We arrived at our
stop, and I followed Noah off the pod.
The eastern sector was kind of sleazy. The neighborhood was a mix of residential and industrial. The
single-family homes were small and needed paint, and they were tucked in
tightly between overcrowded apartment blocks. Laundry hung from the railings
and loud music was pumping out of open windows and doors. The day had warmed to
uncomfortable levels, and the lack of AC had made the inhabitants irritable. I
could hear a domestic fight coming from one of the apartments.
Teens from the area
gathered in groups in poorly manicured yards and on street corners, smoking
cigarettes and some already consuming beer. They eyed us warily as we
approached a group close to the area where Liam had been found. Noah
protectively tucked me behind him.
“Hey?” he said,
standing tall with his shoulders back, showing no fear. “Anyone here seen a guy
hanging
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