Taken (Erin Bowman)

somewhere along the base of the Wall, where all the climbers reappear. Dead.
    There will be no Heist tonight but a funeral instead.

SEVEN
    IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG FOR the funeral to commence. Maude keeps the bonfire lit, and the boys carrying the stretcher—one of whom I recognize to be Mohassit’s younger brother—add the body to the flames.
    Emma stands very close to me, her arm hooked around my left elbow. Sasha must be nearby, because Kale finds us in the crowd and tugs on my other arm. I lift her and she buries her face in my neck. People hang their heads; friends and family cry. When Maude stands up, everyone grows still.
    “Let us have a moment of silence,” she calls out solemnly, “for Mohassit Gilcress, who, on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, was lost to the Wall.”
    I drop my chin into my chest, but the moment of silence never begins. A voice breaks across the crowd.
    “To the Heist!” it shouts frantically. “He wasn’t lost to the Wall. He was lost to the Heist!” A figure emerges near the bell. It’s Mohassit’s mother. She is smaller than even Mohassit was, and frailer still. The brown tunic she is wearing nearly drowns her.
    “The Wall may have killed him,” she continues, “but he was lost to the Heist. They all are. Whether they disappear or run straight to their own deaths, that damn Heist is the reason we lose them. I curse it, and I curse this place for stealing our boys from us. I hate this place. I hate it!”
    She’s a mess now, hiccups rising to her throat. She crumples to the ground and shudders like a lost child, until her remaining son pulls her into his arms, much as if he were the mother, and consoles her. Emma presses her face against my shoulder. My sleeve grows damp and I know she’s started crying. Many are.
    “As much as death is a part of living, the Heist is a part of life,” Maude explains. “We may not understand it. We may not find it fair. But we cannot be at peace with our ways, or those lost to us, if we curse the very place we call home. Let us remember Mohassit and the joy he brought into our lives.”
    Mohassit’s mother nods feverishly, her son still holding her in his arms. “A moment of silence,” she prompts, and this time, the crowd bows their heads in remembrance.
    Several people then step forward to say a word or two about Mohassit: memories, thanks, things they will miss. Kale has fallen asleep by now, and so has my arm. I have to shift her to my other side, and in turn, am forced to shake Emma off. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, brushing her tears away and then smiling at me as she strokes Kale’s blond curls. It’s funny standing there, the three of us. Almost nice. Almost like a family. I wonder if in a different life, in a place without a Heist, if such a thing even exists, I might actually want to be a father one day.
    When the funeral ends and the bonfire is put out, the sun has long since set. People begin to filter back home. Sasha finds us and lifts Kale from my arms but not before extending an invitation for drinks. With our spirits low and no Heist to fill the evening, we agree.
    Sasha puts Kale to bed and then pulls out a jug of ale, pouring three tall drinks. After several rounds of Little Lie, a game where you tell four truths and one lie and those unable to spot the farce drink in defeat, we have forgotten the lull of the funeral and are light-headed and giggling.
    “You lit your own hair on fire trying to light candles on a matchup. That’s the lie,” Emma says to Sasha.
    “No way that’s it,” I say. “I’m going with that story about how you ate so many strawberries as a child that you got sick for a week. I know for a fact you hate berries and wouldn’t have touched them to begin with.”
    Sasha chuckles. “You’re both wrong. I do hate berries, but it’s because of that childhood trauma, and I completely singed off half my hair during one of my first slatings.”
    Emma and I groan in disappointment. “So which one was the lie?” Emma asks.
    “The I-can’t-climb-a-tree statement. I know I don’t come across as very adventurous, but I can actually shinny up a tree trunk without much trouble.”
    Emma and I exchange doubtful looks.
    “Oh, shut it, you two. I’ll show you sometime when it’s not pitch-dark out . . . and when we haven’t had quite so much ale. Now drink up.” We do, emptying our mugs entirely. Somehow, Emma and I are terrible at this game, and Sasha, who still has half a