The twins’ black eyes darted to Covington. “But that’s impossible, right? There was a line of workers. Why would a line of workers let a fugitive go free?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” East Keep asked. “They’re Rebels.”

The twins jabbered nervously. “Obi Solomon! Rebels—here?!”

“Cool it, West Keep,” Covington said. “For now, we know nothing.”

“But they’ll murder us in our sleep!”

“I said cool it!” Covington looked hard at them. Identical hands moved over their mouths. “We’ll talk later. For now, let’s get out of here.”

I watched them leave. Rebel! Given their half-choked whispers, the twins might have been saying “devil.” They had looked just as terrified that first day, when I jumped onto the desk, shouting—It is I, comrades. Their vapid expressions had melted into matching masks of fright and their hands had moved to cover the small shells of their ears, simultaneously, as if tied together by invisible puppet strings.

Hannibal touched my shoulder, making me jump. “Are you coming?”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Sometimes, when we need to talk privately, we meet in the Reel Room and watch a movie.” The heavy fringe of her lashes, in her otherwise plain face, made her eyes seem impossibly large—as she winked.

I frowned.

“If you want to join us in the Reel Room for a nail party, feel free.” She winked again.

The Assembly selected a handful of old-world movies to debut in the Reel Room each month. I watched my share, though not as many as Covington and her clique, who went nearly every day. They were obviously up to something.

“You should come,” Jetson said solemnly. “We could use your insight. The New Seed Bill—”

I held up my hand, warning him not to say anything more about this New Seed. “I don’t want to know. Besides, I have to stay in the Main Hall.”

“Why?” Hannibal asked.

“Teacher Purnell—”

Jetson scoffed. “Are you talking about that clean plate nonsense?”

“It was a direct order,” I said.

“Come on, she’s probably forgotten already. And this matter is urgent! If the White-Face Rebel Army has infiltrated Cobane, we’re not safe anymore—you included.” He softened his tone and fingered his cheek, which had finally stopped bleeding. “Besides, the cuts heal.”

Lifting one hand, I rubbed the crescent moon scars I bore on my upper arm. They were a constant reminder of the Pit. Jetson and the others pulled small pranks and, accordingly, none of them had seen the Schoolhouse dungeon. They merely feared the hell that I knew. I shook my head. “Wrong,” I said. “Not all scars heal, Jetson.”

He opened his mouth to argue and I snapped. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, Mister Cobane. Political talk is forbidden to students. If I hear it again, as the valedictorian, I’ll report you!”

He looked hurt.