“The Badlands,” I suggest.

“Ostracism Alley,” Aldo says with a perfectly straight face.

Iván looks back and forth between us, eyes narrowed, as though he’s only mostly sure that we’re joking. After too long a pause, he offers, “Traitors’ Corner?”

Aldo nods. “I like it.”

“Me too,” I say. “Traitors’ Corner it is.”

Something clangs—loud and grating—and I startle hard, nearly banging my head on the top bunk. My heart is racing, my breath coming fast, as my mind works out the fact that someone hit the brass bell hanging from the entrance to our quarters. Just a bell. Nothing to be frightened of.

The chamber has gone silent. My companions were startled too, so my overreaction has gone unnoticed. “I guess that’s how they’ll wake us every morning,” Aldo whispers, and my lungs fill with dread. If he’s right, it means I’ll be startled awake every morning for the foreseeable future.

“Midday meal is up!” yells Guardsman Bruno. “Form two lines based on bunk order, and follow me to the mess.”

I groan. If I’d known our meal line would be based on bunk placement, I might have chosen differently. But Aldo is laughing quietly to himself. “Of course we’re last. Of course we are.”

“I hear the food is terrible,” Iván says.

“And I hear we’d better eat it anyway,” I say, “because we can’t know when we’ll eat next.”

The mess hall is a twin to our bunk room, except instead of beds the room is filled with tidy rows of long tables and benches. The air is hot and dry, thanks to a bread oven and a massive hearth. Above the mantel, a huge plaque stretches the width of the stone chimney with the Royal Guard motto burn-etched into it: Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.

Young men are lined up at the hearth, getting sludge ladled into ceramic bowls by a man in a blacksmith’s apron. The room goes silent as we enter, and everyone turns to stare at us.

Aldo whispers, “I think those are the second years.”

“There are only ten left!” one of the Basajuan recruits whispers back.

Which means more than half washed out. Everyone in our group glances around, no doubt wondering which of us will make it. The second years are assessing us the same way. More than one gaze lands on me.

“Line up behind the second years,” Guardsman Bruno commands, and we scurry to obey. One by one, we’re given a bowl and spoon, and yellowish slop with brown bits is plopped into our bowls.

“Smells like piss,” someone says.

“Is this rat meat?” says another.

We find spots on the benches and sit to eat. I’m surprised to find that several boys want to sit by me, even a few of the second years. I ignore them all, just spoon yellow sludge into my mouth like nothing is happening. It’s not that bad; a little salty perhaps, but the sludge is actually cornmeal and the brown bits turn out to be bacon.