Reached

things they’ve described as being possible components for the cure. The sorter’s eyes crinkle with laughter as she looks at my attempt at drawing a flower, and I pull the paper closer to me.
    “There aren’t any pictures on the datapod,” I say. “Only written descriptions.”
    “That’s because
we
all know what they look like,” another sorter says, sounding annoyed.
    “I know,” I say softly, “but I don’t. And it’s affecting the sorts we do. They’re wrong.”
    “Are you saying we’re not doing our job correctly?” the first sorter asks, her voice cold. “We know the data could have errors. But we’re sorting it in the most efficient way we can.”
    “No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not what I mean. It’s not the beginning or the end of the sort—it’s not the data or the way we’re sorting it. Something’s not coming together in the middle, in the correlation of the lists. It’s as if there’s an underlying phenomenon that we’re not observing, some latent variable that we’re not measuring in the data.” I’m sure that our understanding of the relationship between these two sets of data isn’t right. As sure as I am that I’m missing the middle of the red garden day memory.
    “The important thing,” says the other sorter, “is that we keep getting the lists to Oker.” Every day, we send him suggestions of what might contribute to the cure, weighted according to the best information we have about the patients and taking into account what hasn’t worked.
    “I don’t know how much Oker listens to us anyway,” I say. “I think there’s one person Oker trusts, and that’s himself. But if we can come to some kind of consensus on what should be the most important ingredients and give that to him—he might be more likely to take what we say into account if our analysis lines up.”
    Leyna is watching me.
    “But that’s what we’re doing,” one of the sorters protests.
    “I don’t feel like I’m doing it
right
,” I say. Frustrated, I push back my chair and stand up, holding the datapod in my hand. “I think I’ll take my break now.”
    Rebecca nods.
    “I’ll walk you to the infirmary,” Leyna says, surprising me. She works very, very hard, and I know the Otherlands are to her what Ky is to me, the best, most beautiful place, not fully realized, but full of promise.
    We cross the village circle and pass the enormous stone set there. In front of it are two narrow troughs.
    “What do you use these for?” I ask Leyna.
    “Voting,” she says. “It’s how we choose. The farmers, too. Each person in the village has a little stone with his or her name written on it. Those troughs are where people cast their stones. The choice, or trough, with the most votes wins.”
    “And are there always only two choices?” I ask.
    “Usually,” Leyna says. Then she gestures for me to follow her around to the other side of the stone. “Look back here.”
    There are tiny names on the stone, arranged in columns. Someone has chipped and carved them in. They start at the top and come down to the bottom, where there is only a little room left.
    “This column,” Leyna says, “is a list of all those who have died in this village, in Endstone. And this,” she adds, pointing to another part of the stone, “is a list of people who have gone on to the Otherlands. This is the jumping-off place, so to speak, so anyone who came through here on their way to the Otherlands—no matter where they came from originally—has their name carved here.”
    I stand there for another moment, looking at the names on the stone in the Otherlands column, hoping to find someone. At first my eyes slide right over his name, not daring to believe he’s there, but then I look back and it hasn’t disappeared.
    Matthew Markham.
    “Did you know him?” I ask Leyna eagerly, touching the name.
    “Not well,” she says. “He was from another village.” She looks at me with interest. “Do
you
know him?”
    “Yes,” I say, my heart pounding. “He lived in the Borough. His parents sent him out of the Society.” I should have thought to ask about this sooner; I can’t wait to tell Ky that his cousin was here once, that he might be alive somewhere, even if it’s in a place from which people do not come back.
    “A lot of those who vanished went on to the Otherlands,” she says. “Some of them—and I can’t remember if Matthew was this way—felt that, if their parents didn’t want