Ender's Shadow

and he couldn't stand the idea of ever hiding like that again. It wasn't the small space that bothered him, or that it was wet, or that he was hungry or alone. It was the fact that the only way out was into the arms of his pursuers.
      Now that he understood that about himself, he could relax. He hadn't found the ductwork because he sensed some danger that hadn't yet risen to his conscious mind. He found the ductwork because he remembered how bad it felt to hide in the toilet tank as a toddler. So whatever danger there might be, he hadn't sensed it yet. It was just a childhood memory coming to the surface. Sister Carlotta had told him that a lot of human behavior was really acting out our responses to dangers long past. It hadn't sounded sensible to Bean at the time, but he didn't argue, and now he could see that she was right.
      And how could he know there would never be a time when that narrow, dangerous highway through the ductwork might not be exactly the route he needed to save his life?
      He never did palm the wall to light up green-brown-green. He knew exactly where his barracks was. How could he not? He had been there before, and knew every step between the barracks and every other place he had visited in the station.
      And when he got there, Dimak had not yet returned with the slow eaters. His whole exploration hadn't taken more than twenty minutes, including his conversation with Petra and watching two quick computer games during the class break.
      He awkwardly hoisted himself up from the lower bunk, dangling for a while from his chest on the rim of the second bunk. Long enough that it hurt in pretty much the same spot he had injured climbing out of the vent. "What are you doing?" asked one of the launchies near him.
      Since the truth wouldn't be understood, he answered truthfully. "Injuring my chest," he said.
      "I'm trying to sleep," said the other boy. "You're supposed to sleep, too.”
      "Naptime," said another boy. "I feel like I'm some stupid four-year-old.”
      Bean wondered vaguely what these boys' lives had been like, when taking a nap made them think of being four years old.
     
     
     
      Sister Carlotta stood beside Pablo de Noches, looking at the toilet tank. "Old-fashioned kind," said Pablo. "Norteamericano. Very popular for a while back when the Netherlands first became international.”
      She lifted the lid on the toilet tank. Very light. Plastic.
      As they came out of the lavatory, the office manager who had been showing them around looked at her curiously. "There's not any kind of danger from using the toilets, is there?" she asked.
      "No," said Sister Carlotta. "I just had to see it, that's all. It's Fleet business. I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk about our visit here.”
      Of course, that almost guaranteed that she would talk about nothing else. But Sister Carlotta counted on it sounding like nothing more than strange gossip.
      Whoever had run an organ farm in this building would not want to be discovered, and there was a lot of money in such evil businesses. That was how the devil rewarded his friends -- lots of money, up to the moment he betrayed them and left them to face the agony of hell alone.
      Outside the building, she spoke again to Pablo. "He really hid in there?”
      "He was very tiny," said Pablo de Noches. "He was crawling when I found him, but he was soaking wet up to his shoulder on one side, and his chest. I thought he peed himself, but he said no. Then he showed me the toilet. And he was red here, here, where he pressed against the mechanism.”
      "He was talking," she said.
      "Not a lot. A few words. So tiny. I could not believe a child so small could talk.”
      "How long was he in there?”
      Pablo shrugged. "Shriveled up skin like old lady. All over. Cold. I was thinking, he will die. Not warm water like a swimming pool. Cold. He shivered all night.”
      "I can't understand why he didn’t die," said Sister Carlotta.
      Pablo smiled. "No hay nada que Dios no puede hacer.”
      "True," she answered. "But that doesn't mean we can't figure out how God works his miracles. Or why.”
      Pablo shrugged. "God does what he does. I do my work and live, the best man I can be.”
      She squeezed his arm. "You took in a lost child and saved him from people who meant to kill him. God saw you do that and he loves you.”
      Pablo said nothing, but Sister Carlotta could guess what he was thinking -- how many sins, exactly, were