Taken (Erin Bowman)

darkness begins to fade. It’s melting away, changing, as if setting foot on this side of the Wall has made the space visible. It is still nighttime, but I can finally see, the flames from my torch lighting the world around me when just on the other side of the Wall this space was forever dark. There is indeed grass beneath my feet. Pebbles and brush. It’s another forest, much like the one I’ve just left, but there are no trees growing near the Wall; they have all been cut down. I shudder at the sight of their stumps, which are cut almost as smoothly as the surface of the Wall itself. No ax could chop that flush.
    Things are still coming into view, morphing and transforming in the air, when another waft of smoke reaches me on a gust of wind.
    I hear a shuffle to my right. It grows closer.
    I drop the torch and ready my bow, aiming into the unknown. This is it, coming. This is what killed all the others.
    A figure emerges from the shadows, and my heart plummets to my feet. Nothing could be worse than this, more terrifying. Emma has followed me over the Wall.

ELEVEN
    I STOOP TO RETRIEVE THE torch before it goes out in the wet grass, and then I stand there, my mouth hanging open. Emma takes advantage of my silence and races toward me. She’s wearing pants and a well-made jacket. There’s a bag strung about her shoulders. She’s thought this through, deliberately followed me.
    Her arms link behind my neck. I hug her and kiss her hair, which is wet with rain. She’s saying something, but the words are muffled, her face pressed into my chest. And then the initial shock of her arrival wears off. It sinks in, the severity of her actions. I grab her shoulders and push her away from me.
    “What is this?” I demand.
    “Gray,” she starts, reaching for me, but I slap her arm away.
    “No, seriously, Emma. What were you thinking? Why did you follow me here?” I’m almost certain now that the movement through the brush earlier was her tailing me.
    “I . . . I wanted . . . Well, fine, Gray! It’s nice to see you, too.”
    “That’s exactly it, Emma,” I spit back. “It’s not nice to see you at all. How could this possibly be nice? I have a chance here, but you, you’ll be like all the others. Am I supposed to like that?”
    “I’m not dead yet,” she retorts.
    “Well, it hasn’t found us yet. It’s going to happen, whatever it is, and there’s nothing I’m going to be able to do to save you.” I want to tell her to leave, to climb back to where it is safe, but the Wall is too smooth to scale and the lack of nearby trees has her trapped.
    “Maybe I don’t want to be saved,” Emma continues. “Maybe I’m here because I want the truth, too, no matter the cost. What you’re feeling right now, that drive for answers, I’ve had it my entire life. Why is your seeking the truth any more justifiable than my wanting to?”
    “It’s justifiable because I actually have a chance.”
    “That’s really two-faced,” she snaps.
    “I don’t care!” I shout. “I escaped the Heist. I don’t know how or why, but maybe that same magic will spare me here. You don’t have that chance.”
    Emma bites her lip and looks down at the grass. It’s quiet for far longer than is comfortable and when she finally speaks again, her voice is soft. “There’s nothing for me back there anymore, Gray. The two things I want, answers and you, are now on this side of the Wall.”
    I hear Emma say this, and know that I want her, too, but in a more dangerous way, in a way I’ve always been afraid to admit, maybe even to myself.
    I love her, and love is a word too heavy for couples to exchange in Claysoot. It is rarely spoken, and when it is, it is passed solely between parent and child. Feeling so strongly about someone your own age is nothing but foolish; the Heist shatters all relationships, regardless of their strength. It won’t ruin us, though, not when I’ve beaten it. But this world beyond the Wall, what happens to all the climbers . . . that could.
    “Gray?” Emma is still waiting for my answer. She looks so pretty, even with her hair growing wild in the humidity. I can’t stay mad at her. Not here, not when there’s no guarantee we’ll both make it. I want to tell her the truth, to speak that word, but it feels clumsy on my tongue.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, “for yelling.”
    She nods. And then I’m kissing her, because it’s easier than forming words. Her lips taste like rain, and I want her