Chloe Hughes and Riley Jackson are next, following Isabella. The new kid, Emerson, brings up the rear. I don’t know their last name. They got sent here three weeks ago, and the only thing I know is that they were allowed to bring a violin, but they aren’t allowed to play it. They tried, once, after lights-out, and ended up in solitary for a full two days.

It’s cruel, Leah said. But there is little here that isn’t cruel.

I wish I could have a violin, even though I can’t play. I wish I could have something that belongs to me.

When I said that to Leah, she replied, “I belong to you.”

I shook my head. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It still matters.”

She reaches out to squeeze my hand now and starts pulling me toward the cafeteria.

* * *

Mrs. Harris stands at the door, counting us in. She coughs when we approach her and raises an eyebrow at the two of us holding hands, but she doesn’t say anything. I like her. She knows how much it matters to me.

“Thank you,” Leah whispers.

Mrs. Harris shakes her head, and something like sadness flashes across her face. It’s there and gone again, so maybe I didn’t see right. Or maybe I imagined it.

Leah leans into me. “I saw it too.” She may not always be able to concentrate well on what’s happening around her, but she’s always aware of me. “Do you think she’s okay?”

I hope so.

I don’t even have to say or sign it for Leah to know how I feel. “I hope so too. She’s good people, like Granddad would say.”

We grab our trays and line up to get our food. Today’s breakfast menu is an apple, unidentifiable fruit juice, coffee, half a cup of cereal with milk, and two burned pancakes. The smell of sizzling-hot oil clogs my nostrils.

“At least we’ve finished up the leftover turkey,” Leah mutters.

That’s true. Three days of the same meal is more than enough for me.

A commotion near the door causes the breakfast line to grind to a halt, and I turn to figure out what’s going on.

Two guards have pulled Emerson aside and have marched them up against the wall. One of the guards grabs the sleeve of Emerson’s blazer, and it tears at the seams. “This is a disgrace.”

Leah says they give us uniforms to wear here because they think it gives us a sense of pride. But the scratchy fabric makes my skin crawl. Some of the clothes are threadbare, and all of them are uncomfortable. And Emerson’s uniform doesn’t fit at all.

“Keep quiet,” Leah hisses, when Emerson argues.

The sentiment is echoed by several people around us.

“If you act up, that dress code violation is going to be the least of your problems,” the guard promises.

Every eye in the cafeteria is trained on Emerson and the guards now. Everyone wants to see what the new kid will do. Only the people at the table closest to the guards keep their head down and pretend to be focused on their food. In the farthest corner of the cafeteria, the boys from the west wing have huddled together. Their leader—Hunter—is standing on his seat to get a better look at what’s happening.