sigh.
Bowen watches me eat with a fascinated frown. When more than half of the meat is gone, he says, “I heard Fecs will eat rat. I just never believed it.” Looking away, he shudders.
Rat. I know the very thought should make my stomach turn, should make me want to vomit. But starvation doesn’t discriminate. And besides, it’s better than wriggling earthworms or a leather belt. Way better.
“They eat worms, too,” I mumble, my mouth full. “The problem is, I’m not a Fec.” I might not remember a lot of things, but I know this.
Chapter 11
By the time the sun sets, my shoulders ache, my neck is cramping, and my head throbs in time with my pulse. I desperately need to move my arms.
“Hey, Bowen,” I say, shrugging my shoulders and rolling my neck.
He looks at me and shivers, though the evening is hot. “You seem so normal,” he says. “How old did you say you are again?”
My brain swirls, trying to remember when I aged, when I grew into a body that is definitely older than … “Thir … teen?”
“You’ve got a high voice for a thirteen-year-old boy.”
I cringe. Mental note to self: try to sound like a boy. I clear my throat. “I have to … take a dump.” Bowen’s eyebrows rise and I look away. “The rat. It didn’t agree with me,” I say in a deepvoice—a lie. My stomach is sluggishly thrilled with the meat inside it. But I’ve been holding it all day. Pee. Because, well, like I said, I can’t pee standing up.
“Dude.” Bowen sighs, shaking his head like he’s got the worst life in the world. I brace myself for a sound kick, but he doesn’t kick me this time. “Can I get an armed guard over here? The Level Ten’s got to take another dump,” he yells. The whole camp turns and stares at me, and a slow burn creeps up my neck, all the way to my hairline. I hang my head so my hair hides my entire face.
Five brown-uniformed, gun-wielding men come forward, and Bowen pushes the remote. My legs unfuse. I wobble, lose my balance, and fall on my face beside the warm fire ring, my cuffed hands pinned painfully beneath me. Men start laughing and guns dig into my back, jabbing at my ribs hard enough to make me gasp.
“Stupid Fec,” Bowen mutters, and wraps his hand in my shirt. He pulls up. The fabric strains in his hand, and I rise off the ground, hovering just above the dirt as I try to maneuver my feet below my body. My shirt pulls against my armpits, and a loud rip grates against my senses. I fall back to the ground—face-plant, really—and dirt goes into my mouth, digs into my cheek, my naked stomach, and my bare shoulders.
Oh, crap
.
The fabric binding my breasts is the only thing that hides the truth about me.
A hand grabs my elbow. “Someone get his other elbow,” Bowen grumbles.
“You serious, man? You want one of us to
touch
it?” someone whines.
“Just hurry up,” Bowen snaps.
A warm hand clutches my other elbow, and I’m heaved to my feet. I hang my head low and hunch my shoulders forward, too scared to spit the dirt out of my mouth. Too scared to even breathe—I’m practically naked, standing in a camp filled exclusively with armed men. And then I understand Arrin’s insistence on my looking like a boy. I hunch forward even more and press my arms against my chest until my shoulders want to pop. I might be able to hide my breasts, but I can’t hide the way my hollow stomach curves outward to meet my wide hips.
“You got a broken rib?” Bowen asks, jabbing my back hard with his finger as if he hopes I do. I can’t form words—am still gasping for breath—so I shake my head.
My escort and I walk to the bathroom in silence, with only the evening darkness keeping my secret. I step into the dim bathroom, and the light automatically flickers on. The armed guard wait outside, but Bowen stands in the doorway and glares at me. I hunch even more, straining my shoulders forward, forcing my chest concave, mentally cursing my body for growing breasts and
Bowen watches me eat with a fascinated frown. When more than half of the meat is gone, he says, “I heard Fecs will eat rat. I just never believed it.” Looking away, he shudders.
Rat. I know the very thought should make my stomach turn, should make me want to vomit. But starvation doesn’t discriminate. And besides, it’s better than wriggling earthworms or a leather belt. Way better.
“They eat worms, too,” I mumble, my mouth full. “The problem is, I’m not a Fec.” I might not remember a lot of things, but I know this.
Chapter 11
By the time the sun sets, my shoulders ache, my neck is cramping, and my head throbs in time with my pulse. I desperately need to move my arms.
“Hey, Bowen,” I say, shrugging my shoulders and rolling my neck.
He looks at me and shivers, though the evening is hot. “You seem so normal,” he says. “How old did you say you are again?”
My brain swirls, trying to remember when I aged, when I grew into a body that is definitely older than … “Thir … teen?”
“You’ve got a high voice for a thirteen-year-old boy.”
I cringe. Mental note to self: try to sound like a boy. I clear my throat. “I have to … take a dump.” Bowen’s eyebrows rise and I look away. “The rat. It didn’t agree with me,” I say in a deepvoice—a lie. My stomach is sluggishly thrilled with the meat inside it. But I’ve been holding it all day. Pee. Because, well, like I said, I can’t pee standing up.
“Dude.” Bowen sighs, shaking his head like he’s got the worst life in the world. I brace myself for a sound kick, but he doesn’t kick me this time. “Can I get an armed guard over here? The Level Ten’s got to take another dump,” he yells. The whole camp turns and stares at me, and a slow burn creeps up my neck, all the way to my hairline. I hang my head so my hair hides my entire face.
Five brown-uniformed, gun-wielding men come forward, and Bowen pushes the remote. My legs unfuse. I wobble, lose my balance, and fall on my face beside the warm fire ring, my cuffed hands pinned painfully beneath me. Men start laughing and guns dig into my back, jabbing at my ribs hard enough to make me gasp.
“Stupid Fec,” Bowen mutters, and wraps his hand in my shirt. He pulls up. The fabric strains in his hand, and I rise off the ground, hovering just above the dirt as I try to maneuver my feet below my body. My shirt pulls against my armpits, and a loud rip grates against my senses. I fall back to the ground—face-plant, really—and dirt goes into my mouth, digs into my cheek, my naked stomach, and my bare shoulders.
Oh, crap
.
The fabric binding my breasts is the only thing that hides the truth about me.
A hand grabs my elbow. “Someone get his other elbow,” Bowen grumbles.
“You serious, man? You want one of us to
touch
it?” someone whines.
“Just hurry up,” Bowen snaps.
A warm hand clutches my other elbow, and I’m heaved to my feet. I hang my head low and hunch my shoulders forward, too scared to spit the dirt out of my mouth. Too scared to even breathe—I’m practically naked, standing in a camp filled exclusively with armed men. And then I understand Arrin’s insistence on my looking like a boy. I hunch forward even more and press my arms against my chest until my shoulders want to pop. I might be able to hide my breasts, but I can’t hide the way my hollow stomach curves outward to meet my wide hips.
“You got a broken rib?” Bowen asks, jabbing my back hard with his finger as if he hopes I do. I can’t form words—am still gasping for breath—so I shake my head.
My escort and I walk to the bathroom in silence, with only the evening darkness keeping my secret. I step into the dim bathroom, and the light automatically flickers on. The armed guard wait outside, but Bowen stands in the doorway and glares at me. I hunch even more, straining my shoulders forward, forcing my chest concave, mentally cursing my body for growing breasts and
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