Jones was on her feet again, just as I’d hoped.

“Were they riding or walking?”

“They were walking, but they had horses.” I gave her a detailed description of the bounty hunters as well as their two remaining mounts, knowing she would pass it on to the Kongo Guard. Within the hour, the two men would be arrested. My heart warmed incrementally. I could not save everyone, but William, at least, would live.

The Guard and the Notebook

THE GUARD AND THE NOTEBOOK

I went directly to the supply closet, eager to rid myself of the passes. Three passes in payment for services rendered, and each of them made me sick. I reminded myself of the logic—the Seed was the future. I was powerless, but logic didn’t settle my stomach.

The deserted hall seemed smaller than I remembered. The main stairs, the porch, the schoolyard and its picket fence had all seemed small too. Three weeks ago, when I’d gone to the village, I had worried about opening the gate. Today, one swift kick had reduced it to splinters. I hadn’t even paused. As if, once breached, the fence was no longer a barrier to me. Out of nowhere, I recalled a line from Sky’s story.

“We been here so long, it’s like a fence and we can’t get out,” I said to myself.

I walked more slowly, recalling her passion as she’d tried to tell me—what was it?

“Listen to me, daughter. Write this down. You don’t belong to that skin,” I said. My voice echoed in the hall. If a Teacher had been lurking in an empty room, they would have heard. I didn’t care. I closed my eyes and pictured myself taking stories in the sick room. At the time I spoke to Sky, her words had been babble, the ramblings of a fevered old woman. Now, however, I puzzled over them, sensing their significance. They blew by me, brushing my cheek like an exhaled breath. You got to look up, she’d said. You got to look up.

“Pass!”

I snapped to attention. The Supply Room Guard, the Chalk-Hand Guard, was glaring at me. I had stepped into his hall without showing my pass. Quickly, I handed him Jones’ pink slip. His eyes roamed over it, then over my un-Keeper-like britches.

“It’s a real pass,” I said, making no excuse for my clothing. Contrary to Jones’ assessment, they weren’t filthy. Hurley had seen to that. A lump congealed in my throat as I remembered how Hosea had added decongesting herbs to the hot wash water. Hurley had snored and sneezed no less.

The guard handed my pass back and, for the first time in all my training years, I stopped to look at him. I noticed the fingernails on his left hand were crusted with a dried pasty substance. He looked tired.

“Do you stay here throughout the night?” I said.