I remember the day she ran late. I cried incessantly, so a nursery attendant offered me her dry breast. I sucked in a mouthful of sour milk, retched and pushed it away—only to have her pull me back and pin me by the neck. She was new, and didn’t know any better.

I broke free, of course. I reared back and sent out a cry to my comrades. Hurrah! They rallied at once. Hurrah! Waking from their naps, slapping their own tits away. With me at the helm, we bawled—Hurrah!—until our cries reached the fields of Cobane. Our mother came at once—as I knew she would. I saw their face in the nursery door, like dawn, and I gave the okay. We settled down, cooing like kittens. We had won.

In the old world, where they studied the stars for signs, they’d say I was born on a cusp. Part bull, part twin, double-minded and stubborn, practical and adventurous. The old world had many strange beliefs. This one seemed true that day, as I curled in our mother’s lap. In my ignorance, I supposed my bullishness had won the day. I knew not the law of the land, the Niagara Compromise. I had not heard of its omnipotence. Nevertheless, it hemmed us all in, every day.

The next morning, I was classified as a Record Keeper. I woke early, as a pair of dark hands lifted me from our crib. His dark lips kissed my forehead as he carried me out of the nursery and across the meadow to the big white house serviced by the Cobane village. I was one year old that morning.

A Teacher with a pale face received me. She took me to a small crib where, alone for the first time, I cried. I cried and cried, growing weak and sick. I imagined my nursery family waiting, just beyond the ecru cage of bars, and I called to us—Comrades—but we did not come. That was the first night of the first phase of my training, Separation.

The second night was the same, as was the third. I resisted for seven times longer than any initiate before or since. As a result, I was held back from my class and spent the next phase of my training, Ingraining, in my dormitory—alone—with three exceptions. I heard conversations through the power-fan grates, though I never spoke back. Second, a trio of nervous Clayskin maids, diplomats from the Clayskin Territory, alternated bringing my meals.

My third companion was one of three dozen diplomats from the Northridge, where the English people dwell. These diplomats handpicked us from our village nurseries and lived with us in the Schoolhouse. I never learned this particular woman’s name. I called her Teacher.