Prodigy

wavers.
    “Do you trust me?” I shout. The crowd answers with a unified voice. The sea of people and their deafening roars are overwhelming. If my mother was still here, if Dad and John were here, would they be smiling up at me right now? I take a deep, shuddering breath.
Finish what you came here to do.
I focus on the people, and on the young Elector. I gather my strength. Then I say the words I never ever thought I’d say.
    “People of the Republic,
know your enemy.
Your enemy is the Republic’s way of life, the laws and traditions that hold us down, the government that brought us here. The late Elector.
Congress.
” I raise my arm and point toward Anden. “But the new Elector is . . .
Not. Your. Enemy!
” The people grow silent. Their eyes are forever fixed on me. “You think your Congress wants to end the Trials, or help your families? It’s a
lie.
” I point at Anden when I say this, willing myself, for the first time, to trust him. “The Elector is young and ambitious, and he is
not his father.
He wants to fight for you, just as
I
fight for you, but first he needs you to give him that chance. And if you put your might behind him and lift him up, he will lift us up. He will change things for us, one step at a time. He can build that country we all hope we can have. I came here tonight for you all—and for
him.
Do you trust me?” I lift my voice:
“People of the Republic, do you trust me?”
    Silence. Then, a few chants. More join in. They raise their eyes and fists to me, their shouts ceaseless, a tide of change. “Then raise your voices for your Elector, as I have, and he will raise his for you!”
    The cheers are deafening, drowning out anything and everything. The young Elector keeps his eyes on me, and I realize, at last, that June is right. I don’t want to see the Republic collapse. I want to see it change.

T WO DAYS HAVE PASSED. O R, MORE PRECISELY, FIFTY- two hours and eight minutes have passed since Day climbed to the top of the Capitol Tower and announced his support for our Elector. Whenever I close my eyes, I can still see him up there, his hair gleaming like a beacon of light against the night, his words ringing out clear and strong across the city and the country. Whenever I dream, I can feel the burn of his last kiss on my lips, the fire and fear behind his eyes. Every person in the Republic heard him that night. He gave power back to Anden and Anden won over the country, all in one blow.
    This is my second day in a hospital chamber on the outskirts of Denver. The second afternoon without Day at my side. In a room several doors down, Day is undergoing the same tests, both to ensure his health and make sure the Colonies didn’t implant any monitoring devices in his head. He’s going to be reunited with his brother at any minute. My doctor has arrived to check on my recovery—but he won’t be doing it in any sort of privacy. In fact, when I study my room’s ceiling, I see security cameras at every corner, broadcasting my image live to the public. The Republic is afraid to give people even the slightest sense that Day and I aren’t being taken care of.
    A monitor on the wall shows me Day’s chamber. It is the
only
reason I agreed to be separated from him for this long. I wish I could talk to him. As soon as they stop running X-rays and sensors on me, I’m putting on a mike.
    “Good morning to you, Ms. Iparis,” my doctor says to me as nurses dot my skin with six sensors. I mumble a greeting in return, but my attention stays on the cam footage of Day talking to his own doctor. His arms are crossed in a defiant stance and his expression’s skeptical. Now and then his attention focuses on a spot on the wall that I can’t see. I wonder if he’s watching me through a cam too.
    My doctor notices what’s distracting me and wearily answers my question before I can ask it. “You’ll see him soon, Ms. Iparis. Okay? I promise. Now, you know the drill. Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”
    I bite down my frustration and do as he says. Lights flicker behind my eyelids, and then a cold, tingly sensation runs through my brain and down my spine. They put a gel-like mask over my mouth and nose. I always have to tell myself not to panic during this sequence, to fight down the claustrophobia and feeling of drowning.
They’re just testing me,
I repeat quietly. They’re testing me for any remnants of Colonies brainwashing, for mental stability, for whether or not the