Spare and Found Parts by Sarah Maria Griffin Page B

could definitely move on their own; the sheer detail of their mechanics is, just . . . your father is a genius. I figure, if you got enough of these things together, you could make a whole person.”
    As the last words escaped Oliver’s mouth, Nell gasped as though she had come up for air after years underwater. Despite her best efforts, she beamed, almost laughing with joy. If you got enough of them together, you could make a whole person. The possible boywas right here in front of her, not whole yet. She could almost just take him.
    â€œYou’re right actually, Oliver. A whole person. That’s so interesting,” Nell replied, taking the hand back from him and turning it over in hers again and again. She could see wires growing from its wrist, kinetic hinges, and clever sockets. If she set it up just right, she could get these spare parts to speak to one another, to work together. These old prosthetics that had lived entire lifetimes with people: they were beautiful and familiar; they were the opposite of the hard alien lines of the computers her city feared. These spare parts would make an excellent costume; they’d make an excellent boy. She could almost feel it whirring and pulsing to life, almost see the arm and the shoulders and neck and face—almost.
    â€œNo idea how you’d do it, though,” said Oliver.
    â€œNeither do I,” Nell lied.

Penelope,
    My last letter has gone unanswered. I am sure you are simply rushed off your feet with your project, or at least this is what I hope, given that you haven’t even delivered a proposal to the Youth Council yet.
    Last night I dreamed of your face, your bright eyes the spokes of a bicycle, frogs on your tongue, your cheeks scorched with ash, your hair wet. You said something I could not hear, your tongue too cold, your mouth a lake. I am worried. Tell me how you are. I don’t want to have to go through Julian to make sure you are all right.
    Write me soon, please. All my love, all my blessings.
    Nan

CHAPTER 12
    T wo days later, Nell sat with her knees to her chest in the great, cavernous hall of the Youth Assembly. Her eyes were closed, and in the darkness she placed together limb after limb, the pieces of her plan. Normally Youth Council made her anxious; every session that passed was a reminder of her lack of a contribution. This time was different. It would be her on the deep stage soon, her in the footlights. A creation by her side.
    Determination flourished inside her as she watched her peers milling about. They had no idea what she was planning. They had no idea what she was capable of.
    She was folding and unfolding Nan Starling’s latest letter as she sat, fresh that morning.
    Once there had been schools, order, organized education. Julian had told Nell all about it. Hisgreat-grandparents had sat in classrooms with teachers. They’d even been able to speak more than one language; they’d known things about other countries in the world. But after the toxic pulses, as the epidemic tore down the city, the next generation had been sent to work. All their learning had to be practical, so they could contribute as soon as possible. How else would they rebuild?
    Now the mayor called together the young apprentices between ages thirteen and twenty once a month, and those who had contributions ready would present them to their peers. The mayor and treasurer sat side by side at a small desk, adjudicating, taking questions from the crowd. It was meant to be encouraging. It bored Nell to tears.
    She had a huge woolen shawl draped around her and the mannequin hand nestled in her satchel. Her wrists ached from drawing plans, and her eyes were dry and sore. She sipped her flask of tea as she looked down onto the auditorium.
    This building, before the Turn, had been a theater, a fabulous ancient thing, tucked subtly between buildings on the south side of the river, still posing defiant and beautiful. After the Turn it had been