looking
back at Joe, “Keep in mind you’ll have to rely on them in battle. They
might end up saving your life—or not. It all boils down to trust, and if you squirming
Takki break that confidence, they’re not going to—”
Tril interrupted him. “We’re
running out of time. Group leaders, take a moment to get to know your
teammates. You have three tics.”
Nebil
turned and gave Tril a silent stare, but did not contradict him.
Joe
turned to face the five kids behind him. “Everyone get over here,” he said,
squatting. “Group huddle.”
Only
the youngest two moved. The older three glared at him.
Joe
sighed and positioned himself closer, so he could see them all. “My name’s
Joe,” he said, surveying them. “Look, we’re in some pretty heavy crap, but I’m
gonna do everything I can to get us out of here.”
This
got their attention.
The
sniffling five-year-old shuffled forward and said, “I want Mom.”
“We got
the smallest kid in the whole room!” the oldest boy complained. He had a shock
of red hair bright enough to make a leprechaun jealous.
“You
also got the biggest,” Joe said. He smiled at the little girl. “What’s your
name?”
“Maggie,”
the girl whimpered.
“You
the one who wanted to draw me a Zero, Mag?”
She
nodded, wiping snot from her nose with her sleeve.
Joe
ruffled her hair. “I’d like that. Just as soon as we find something to write
with okay?”
Maggie
sniffled and nodded.
Joe
turned to the oldest boy. The redhead was skinny—more Celtic than Nordic—and
didn’t even come up to Joe’s chest. The kid looked like he had spent much of
his life laughing before the Draft. Now his big, expressive face was strained
with worry and the dimples were almost unnoticeable. He, like everybody else
in the room, was gaunt and hungry-looking.
“I’m
Scott,” the redheaded kid said, his body tense, blue eyes wary.
“How
old are you, Scott?” Joe said, looking him up and down.
“Ten.”
Joe
looked at the other groups in exasperation. Some had three, even four kids ten
and older. Some of those didn’t have anyone under eight.
“What
about you?” he asked a skinny, freckled girl with big eyelashes.
“I’m
Carol and I’m six.”
Joe
nodded and glanced at the older girl with a puff of curly African hair and
bright brown eyes. “What about you?” he asked.
She
stared at the floor, twining her fingers shyly. “Libby. I’m eight.”
“That’s
some hair you got there, Libby.”
Libby
looked up and gave a tentative smile, displaying an unfortunate array of
twisted front teeth. Feeling a pang of sympathy for her, Joe grinned back.
“And
you?” he asked the last kid, who was somewhere in size between Libby and Carol.
The hazel-eyed
boy grinned, making his big ears stick out even further. “Eric. But everybody
calls me Elf.” He had curly black hair that, coupled with the ears, made Joe
immediately think of something he would’ve seen in Santa’s Workshop.
“I can
see why,” Joe said. “How old are you, Elf?”
“Eight.”
Carol
held up her hand.
“You
don’t have to raise your hand,” Joe said. “What is it?”
“If he
gets to be called Elf, I want to be Monk.”
“Why?”
“Because
that’s what my dad calls me.”
“He
calls you Monk? ”
“Yeah,
it’s short for Chipmunk.”
“Huh.
Okay. Monk. I’m Joe.”
Monk
gave him a long look, peering up at him like an entomologist studying a
funny-looking insect. “Are you really twelve, Joe?”
Joe
blushed, feeling the others’ attention immediately sharpen. “No,” he admitted.
“I’m fourteen.”
Scott’s
eyes widened. “Then how—”
“He’s
bad,” Monk interrupted. “Dad told me bad kids get sent to the Congies.”
Immediately,
Maggie’s tiny chin began to quiver. Joe shot Monk an irritated look, then
squatted and grabbed Maggie by the shoulders. “Look Mag, you weren’t
back at Joe, “Keep in mind you’ll have to rely on them in battle. They
might end up saving your life—or not. It all boils down to trust, and if you squirming
Takki break that confidence, they’re not going to—”
Tril interrupted him. “We’re
running out of time. Group leaders, take a moment to get to know your
teammates. You have three tics.”
Nebil
turned and gave Tril a silent stare, but did not contradict him.
Joe
turned to face the five kids behind him. “Everyone get over here,” he said,
squatting. “Group huddle.”
Only
the youngest two moved. The older three glared at him.
Joe
sighed and positioned himself closer, so he could see them all. “My name’s
Joe,” he said, surveying them. “Look, we’re in some pretty heavy crap, but I’m
gonna do everything I can to get us out of here.”
This
got their attention.
The
sniffling five-year-old shuffled forward and said, “I want Mom.”
“We got
the smallest kid in the whole room!” the oldest boy complained. He had a shock
of red hair bright enough to make a leprechaun jealous.
“You
also got the biggest,” Joe said. He smiled at the little girl. “What’s your
name?”
“Maggie,”
the girl whimpered.
“You
the one who wanted to draw me a Zero, Mag?”
She
nodded, wiping snot from her nose with her sleeve.
Joe
ruffled her hair. “I’d like that. Just as soon as we find something to write
with okay?”
Maggie
sniffled and nodded.
Joe
turned to the oldest boy. The redhead was skinny—more Celtic than Nordic—and
didn’t even come up to Joe’s chest. The kid looked like he had spent much of
his life laughing before the Draft. Now his big, expressive face was strained
with worry and the dimples were almost unnoticeable. He, like everybody else
in the room, was gaunt and hungry-looking.
“I’m
Scott,” the redheaded kid said, his body tense, blue eyes wary.
“How
old are you, Scott?” Joe said, looking him up and down.
“Ten.”
Joe
looked at the other groups in exasperation. Some had three, even four kids ten
and older. Some of those didn’t have anyone under eight.
“What
about you?” he asked a skinny, freckled girl with big eyelashes.
“I’m
Carol and I’m six.”
Joe
nodded and glanced at the older girl with a puff of curly African hair and
bright brown eyes. “What about you?” he asked.
She
stared at the floor, twining her fingers shyly. “Libby. I’m eight.”
“That’s
some hair you got there, Libby.”
Libby
looked up and gave a tentative smile, displaying an unfortunate array of
twisted front teeth. Feeling a pang of sympathy for her, Joe grinned back.
“And
you?” he asked the last kid, who was somewhere in size between Libby and Carol.
The hazel-eyed
boy grinned, making his big ears stick out even further. “Eric. But everybody
calls me Elf.” He had curly black hair that, coupled with the ears, made Joe
immediately think of something he would’ve seen in Santa’s Workshop.
“I can
see why,” Joe said. “How old are you, Elf?”
“Eight.”
Carol
held up her hand.
“You
don’t have to raise your hand,” Joe said. “What is it?”
“If he
gets to be called Elf, I want to be Monk.”
“Why?”
“Because
that’s what my dad calls me.”
“He
calls you Monk? ”
“Yeah,
it’s short for Chipmunk.”
“Huh.
Okay. Monk. I’m Joe.”
Monk
gave him a long look, peering up at him like an entomologist studying a
funny-looking insect. “Are you really twelve, Joe?”
Joe
blushed, feeling the others’ attention immediately sharpen. “No,” he admitted.
“I’m fourteen.”
Scott’s
eyes widened. “Then how—”
“He’s
bad,” Monk interrupted. “Dad told me bad kids get sent to the Congies.”
Immediately,
Maggie’s tiny chin began to quiver. Joe shot Monk an irritated look, then
squatted and grabbed Maggie by the shoulders. “Look Mag, you weren’t
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