orientation speeches, the tan-clad counselors oversaw classes and work details while the program coordinators designed the curriculum and made bigger decisions—like who got to stay and who ended up being transferred.
We weren’t supposed to talk to the program coordinators directly, but if anyone could tell me where Serena was, it would probably be one of them. I tugged on Kyle’s sleeve and glanced meaningfully in the man’s direction. Kyle nodded and we slowed our pace, falling back to the end of the line and then falling out completely.
“Excuse me?” I said as we approached the pair. The coordinator turned. I had a second to register his sandy-blond hair and a birthmark like a thumbprint on his cheek before my gaze slid to the woman at his side. A lead weight settled in my stomach as I recognized the counselor from last night: Langley.
She stared at us and her mouth pressed into a line that was ruler straight. I had never seen her before arriving at Thornhill, but I had the distinct impression she hated me—hated anyone interned here—on principle.
I swallowed and focused on the coordinator. He held a computer tablet under one arm and he seemed very young—maybe as young as his midtwenties—for his position. Somehow, I hoped youth would make him more sympathetic. Determined to get my question out before the guard leading our group noticed Kyle and I were missing, I spoke in a rush. “One of my friends was held back last night and she wasn’t at orientation this morning. I was wondering where she was?”
“A few wolves were over eighteen. They were transferred this morning.” He turned back to Langley, clearly dismissing us.
“She was seventeen,” interjected Kyle. “They didn’t hold her back until after we were through admissions.”
Langley’s eyes narrowed. “I suggest you spend less time worrying about others and rejoin your group.”
“But . . .” I started to object, and Kyle placed a warning hand on my arm. Our guard had brought the others to a halt and was making his way back down the path toward us.
I knew we should walk away—quickly—but I still hesitated.
A flicker of annoyance crossed the coordinator’s face. He lifted the tablet. “What are your names?”
A chill swept through me. He hadn’t said or done anything threatening, but he had the power to move either of us to another camp if he decided we were troublemakers—the warden had said as much herself. I shook my head and backed away. “Never mind. Sorry to have bothered you.” The words were cardboard and paste in my mouth as I turned and followed Kyle back to the line.
The guard scowled and rested his hand on the top of his holster as we rejoined the group. Thankfully, his ire seemed only to last until Langley and the program coordinator looked away, then he muttered something about not being paid enough and headed back to the front of the line.
I slipped my hand into Kyle’s as we passed a dorm and a few classroom buildings. “Do you think she’s all right?”
“Serena’s tough,” he replied.
It wasn’t an answer.
We reached a large white building with the personality and charm of a shoebox. I dimly remembered walking past it last night.
The guard’s voice rang out. “Dining hall. You’ve still got twenty minutes for breakfast—assuming the other wolves left you any.”
Waves of conversation and the smell of burned eggs crashed over me as Kyle and I followed the others into a cavernous cafeteria. The whole room seemed to be shades of brown and beige: brown tile floors, brown painted walls, long beige tables. The rest of the camp had risen while we were in orientation and there had to be close to three hundred wolves inside.
The last thing I felt like doing was eating, but Kyle headed for a stack of trays—brown, of course—and pushed one into my hands. I tried to object, but he just said, “You won’t be any help to Serena if you pass out from hunger.”
I tried to remember the last time
We weren’t supposed to talk to the program coordinators directly, but if anyone could tell me where Serena was, it would probably be one of them. I tugged on Kyle’s sleeve and glanced meaningfully in the man’s direction. Kyle nodded and we slowed our pace, falling back to the end of the line and then falling out completely.
“Excuse me?” I said as we approached the pair. The coordinator turned. I had a second to register his sandy-blond hair and a birthmark like a thumbprint on his cheek before my gaze slid to the woman at his side. A lead weight settled in my stomach as I recognized the counselor from last night: Langley.
She stared at us and her mouth pressed into a line that was ruler straight. I had never seen her before arriving at Thornhill, but I had the distinct impression she hated me—hated anyone interned here—on principle.
I swallowed and focused on the coordinator. He held a computer tablet under one arm and he seemed very young—maybe as young as his midtwenties—for his position. Somehow, I hoped youth would make him more sympathetic. Determined to get my question out before the guard leading our group noticed Kyle and I were missing, I spoke in a rush. “One of my friends was held back last night and she wasn’t at orientation this morning. I was wondering where she was?”
“A few wolves were over eighteen. They were transferred this morning.” He turned back to Langley, clearly dismissing us.
“She was seventeen,” interjected Kyle. “They didn’t hold her back until after we were through admissions.”
Langley’s eyes narrowed. “I suggest you spend less time worrying about others and rejoin your group.”
“But . . .” I started to object, and Kyle placed a warning hand on my arm. Our guard had brought the others to a halt and was making his way back down the path toward us.
I knew we should walk away—quickly—but I still hesitated.
A flicker of annoyance crossed the coordinator’s face. He lifted the tablet. “What are your names?”
A chill swept through me. He hadn’t said or done anything threatening, but he had the power to move either of us to another camp if he decided we were troublemakers—the warden had said as much herself. I shook my head and backed away. “Never mind. Sorry to have bothered you.” The words were cardboard and paste in my mouth as I turned and followed Kyle back to the line.
The guard scowled and rested his hand on the top of his holster as we rejoined the group. Thankfully, his ire seemed only to last until Langley and the program coordinator looked away, then he muttered something about not being paid enough and headed back to the front of the line.
I slipped my hand into Kyle’s as we passed a dorm and a few classroom buildings. “Do you think she’s all right?”
“Serena’s tough,” he replied.
It wasn’t an answer.
We reached a large white building with the personality and charm of a shoebox. I dimly remembered walking past it last night.
The guard’s voice rang out. “Dining hall. You’ve still got twenty minutes for breakfast—assuming the other wolves left you any.”
Waves of conversation and the smell of burned eggs crashed over me as Kyle and I followed the others into a cavernous cafeteria. The whole room seemed to be shades of brown and beige: brown tile floors, brown painted walls, long beige tables. The rest of the camp had risen while we were in orientation and there had to be close to three hundred wolves inside.
The last thing I felt like doing was eating, but Kyle headed for a stack of trays—brown, of course—and pushed one into my hands. I tried to object, but he just said, “You won’t be any help to Serena if you pass out from hunger.”
I tried to remember the last time
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