• 12 boxes of mac and cheese

• Vegetable stock powder

• Five packets of ramen

• 25 fruit cups

• 2 cups of past-its-shelf-date chocolate pudding

• 3 oversize boxes of granola bars (peanut butter and protein)

• 2 trays with 12 jars of peanut butter

• Half a bag of raisins

• 3 gallons of milk

• 5 gallons of some kind of juice

• 2 containers of instant coffee

• Leftover instant soup

• An absolutely ridiculous amount of tea

• Salt

• Pepper

• Sugar

• Honey

• Ketchup

• Mustard

• Vinegar

Fourteen

Emerson

The world can change and change again in a few days’ time. I’m not sure I’ll ever catch up enough to grow used to it.

It’s been seven days since we were abandoned. Out of the twenty-two of us, one third of us are sick. The infirmary is overflowing.

And the garden won’t grow. Rationally, I know it wouldn’t in a few days, but I hoped to see some improvement. I don’t know why I even offered to do this. I don’t know anything about gardening. I’d only been to the communal garden twice before, and it’s a mess.

When our little squad showed up with shears and shovels, most of the plant beds were covered with fallen leaves, while some of the plants were pruned to be nothing more than stick figures, and—according to Khalil—no one had planted any fall crops. I nearly laughed at that. To everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. Even here. We did what we could. Under a drizzle of rain, with the drops tapping out a rhythm on the shed’s wooden roof, we set about to cleaning the leaves and the dead twigs, and covering the roots of the trees and plants with straw from the shed.

But a week later, the leaves are still changing colors and falling. Faith started coughing two days ago, and she’s in the west wing now, alongside Chloe Hughes. The infirmary only had space for five beds.

The four of us have gathered in the small shed. An intimidating collection of garden tools lean in the corner. Dust motes float in the air, and the smell of fertilizer permeates the beams. And all I can think about is how this garden is a metaphor for all of us: far more dead than alive.

“It’s meant to be educational,” Khalil says with a sigh. He was here when the garden was first planted. He’s standing in front of a worktable, and he’s sifting through packets of seeds we found in the drawers. “Learn to care for a peach tree and reap what you sow? Something like that. They said it would be great for ‘people like me.’” He makes air quotes with his hands.

“What does that even mean?”

He shrugs. “Occupational therapy for all of us with ADHD and other weird brains? Not that they’d ever acknowledge those labels, mind you. They just call what we have behavioral problems and criminal tendencies.”