“You mean a cellmate,” she said. These days, Ama seemed to love delivering news she knew wouldn’t be received well. Ama ignored her and prattled on about how it wasn’t good to be alone, that people were created to need each other. Summer barely heard her as she stared at the still-full lunch tray they’d brought to the room. There was a bowl of something that looked like gravy with three biscuits beside it. She picked up the iced tea and drank it slowly so she wouldn’t have to talk.

“But first, Sara would like to visit with you and express her sorrow at your mother’s passing. She is outside.” Sara’s parents had complete faith in her loyalty to them and Taured. If she was asking to see Summer, it could only mean that their precious daughter wanted to help. But Summer knew what they didn’t: that the girl behind the stoic facade was as angry inside as she herself was. She’d decided to forgive Sara, at least for the moment; she wanted to hear what the girl had to say.

She sat up straighter, nodded.

Ama left and a moment later Sara slipped in, closing the door softly behind her. With her came the smell of laundry detergent, underscored by sweat. Her nose was red, like she’d been crying. Summer studied her friend, glad to see her, despite her earlier anger. Sara was tall and ashamed of it—she rounded her shoulders when she walked and ducked her head to make herself look smaller. When she did look you in the face, she was pretty, or at least Summer thought so.

“I’m sorry.” Sara’s voice broke. She shook her head and tried again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She stayed where she was, head bowed, her guilt so painful to look at as Summer stood up and went to her. They met in the middle, clinging to each other as they cried.

Since the day Sara had invited her to eat with her parents, they’d been friends, co-conspirators and sisters. They didn’t give much away publicly about their friendship. Sara called it keeping things professional. In front of everyone in the compound, they barely acknowledged each other, but alone in the bathroom or dorms, they’d laugh and do their best impressions of the adults. Sometimes they snuck to the kitchens after midnight when they knew everyone would be asleep and stole the baked goods set aside for breakfast. They’d end their feast in the walk-in refrigerator, drinking milk that had come from one of the compound’s cows. They’d once gone into the freezer to see how long they could make it before they got too cold. Seven minutes, she remembered.