The Sun Dwellers

Today the President assigns me to my new family. I don’t see the President, but that’s what the big soldiers say when they come for me. They say my last name is Nickerbocker now—except I like my old last name just fine. I don’t say that though, because no one argues with the soldiers.

The Nickerbockers are all right, I guess. They don’t say much, just stare at me and at each other. They explain everything when I move into our new “house , ” which is made of stone and barely big enough for us all to sleep in. Mr. Nickerbocker—“Call me Dad”—isn’t exactly married to Mrs. Nickerbocker. He was assigned to her after we moved underground. His real wife and three kids were left aboveground, so they’re probably dead, just like my family. Mrs. Nickerbocker—“Call me Miss Fiona”—wasn’t married when she got selected in the Lottery. Neither of them smile much, but then again, neither do I.

I cry today when I think about my real family and how they were left above. My last memory: their faces, cold, harsh, and devoid of emotion. I know they did it to help me be strong, but it only makes it hurt more. Their smiling, happy faces are lost to me. When the tears start falling, my new dad tries to calm me, by telling me stories and singing to me. Miss Fiona tells us both to shut up, which makes me glad I don’t have to call her Mom.

Later the Nickerbockers let me go out to play. The streets are crowded, full of kids and adults milling about with zombie faces. Under the dim light of the candles and flashlights everything is an awful, bland shade of gray. A few kids try to get a game of tag going, but no one seems too interested. Me, I can barely will one foot in front of the other. Before I left, my mom told me that time would make the pain go away, but I’m not so sure.

I go back inside without looking at my new parents, who are ignoring each other across the room, staring into space. I huddle under the tiny blanket on my thin bed pad, willing myself to another place, to another time, when bedtime meant a story from my real dad and a tuck-in from my real mom.

My new world vanishes beneath my eyelids and for just a moment before I fall asleep, I smile, the first time all day.

I finish reading A

It’s strange to think about how things work out sometimes. Despite all the terrible experiences I’ve had since leaving the Pen, I’m still alive, still fighting, against some pretty slanted odds. I mean, if Tawni hadn’t spoken to me that day, I might still be in the Pen, Cole might still be alive, Tristan might still be just a celebrity in some faraway land…

But instead I’m in that faraway land, fighting for something worth fighting for. Doing my part. Trying to—

“Couldn’t sleep?” a voice says from behind me.

I glance back and spot Roc’s brown skin, which is even darker with the candlelight as the backdrop. He’s gri

“No. You?”

Roc shakes his head. “Too many things for this active brain of mine to think about. I can’t seem to shut it off.”

I laugh. “I know exactly what you mean. Although I think mine’s broken sometimes.”

It’s Roc’s turn to laugh. “Hey, do you want to get something to eat?”

“Sure,” I say, relieved I’m not the only one awake anymore. Perhaps Roc can save me from my own thoughts.

We shuffle over to the unused fire pit, where a single candle provides a bobbing halo of light, and sit on a right angle to each other. Roc digs through his pack and eventually pulls out a small bundle of paper. I eye the parcel curiously as he unwraps it delicately, like it might shatter into a thousand pieces. Once the paper is peeled away, I get my first look at what’s inside.

“What is that?” I ask.

Roc grins. “Dried fruit,” he says. “I’ve been saving the last of  it since we left the Sun Realm. I guess now that we’re back I don’t need to save it anymore, as we can get more of it quite easily now.”

I’ve never had fruit. Occasionally, a shipment of it would come into our subchapter, and all the kids would gather around and watch as those who were able to spare a few Nailins would buy brightly colored fruit they called apples, red and yellow and green. I never asked my father whether we could have any because I already knew the answer.

When I asked Dad how they made fruit in the Sun Realm, he told me they grew it, from trees and bushes and such.

Trees? Like in the books grandma reads me?

Sort of like that, Adele, but these are underground trees. They have technology in the Sun Realm that allows them to grow things underground.

Daddy?

Yes?

I wish we could grow things down here.

Me, too, honey. Me, too.

“Uh, do you want one?” Roc says, snapping me out of the memory. He’s staring at me strangely, holding out a piece of dried fruit. I wonder how longs he’s been holding it like that.

“Yes, of course, thank you,” I say, hastily grabbing the crispy morsel from his hand.

“It’s not the same as fresh fruit, but it’s still delicious,” he says, crunching on a piece.

I don’t care if it’s been dried, kicked around the yard, soaked in water, and then stepped on. I’m barely able to stop from shoving it into my mouth like a half-starved madwoman. Instead, I turn the coin-sized piece of fruit over in my hand, examining it, committing it to memory, for that’s all it will be in a moment.

I pop it in my mouth and just hold it there for a moment, allowing the flavor to reach my taste buds. It’s sweet, but not overly, with a taste that I can’t compare to anything I’ve ever tasted before. It’s…it’s…

“Delicious,” I say around the hunk of fruit in my mouth, copying Roc’s word from earlier. “What kind of fruit is it?”

“You mean you…”

“Nope. Never had it before.”

“But don’t you get sick? Fruit has all kinds of important vitamins in it,” Roc says.

I laugh. “Vitamins? What are those? There’s a lot of disease in the Lower Realms, but over time I guess we’ve just adapted to a diet without fruit. Every household also receives a vitamin ration every six months. It’s supposed to be this big benefit for paying taxes, but everyone knows it’s just so the men are strong enough to work in the mines.”

Roc smiles wryly. “Well, that changes everything. The one you just ate is banana, but I’ve got apple, apricots, and mango, too. You should have all of it.” He pushes the dried fruit toward me, but I put out my hands to stop him.

“No, Roc. We’ll share it. Please.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he says, animatedly crunching another piece of what I now know is dried banana.

I laugh. “But save me some,” I say.

“Here, try this one. It’s different. It’s soft. We call it mango.”

Eagerly, I snatch the new piece of fruit from Roc, feeling the difference in texture with my fingertips. Whereas the other piece—the banana—was hard and crisp and yellow-brown, this is squishy, sort of gummy, and orange. Mango.

I take a bite. “Mmmm,” I murmur when the flavor registers. It’s incredible and weird at the same time. The taste is incredibly delicious, but it’s also so different than the banana, which is weird. I mean, they’re both fruit, right?