Taken (Erin Bowman)

just saved your lives.”
    “Thank you,” Emma says. She reaches across me and shakes Marco’s hand. “I’m Emma, and this is Gray. He seems to have forgotten his manners.”
    Marco smiles at that, but I don’t like the way his lips look devious or the way his eyes are working over Emma.
    “Maybe I’d be more polite if we could get some answers,” I say. “I still don’t know who you are. Or why we were the first climbers to ever be saved.”
    “Like I said, I can’t discuss that,” Marco says, standing. “But after you clean up, we’ll take you to Frank. Come on.”
    Emma and I climb out of the car. “Who’s Frank?”
    “Just the only thing holding this crumbling country together.”
    I don’t understand the differences between towns and cities and countries, but given what I’ve seen today, if a city is a large town, I’d guess a country is a large city. Or something even bigger. “And he has answers?”
    “Yes,” Marco responds. He shifts his weapon in his hands and adds, “This is where we split. Emma, you go with Pete. Gray, this way.”
    “Emma stays with me,” I say.
    “That’s sweet of you, Romeo, but she can’t.” Again with that name. I want to correct him, but he keeps talking. “Boys have one washroom, girls another. That’s just the way it is.”
    We never divided outhouses in Claysoot. The idea is ridiculous, not to mention inefficient. So much more construction and upkeep and maintenance.
    “It’s okay,” Emma says to me. “I’ll be fine.”
    I nod in agreement even though I’d feel better if she never left my sight. Everything about this place makes my skin crawl, and since climbing the Wall we’ve met not answers but more questions. If Emma is not with me, I am incapable of ensuring her safety. I stare over my shoulder as she disappears with Pete. Marco and I head in the opposite direction.
    “You regret climbing yet?” Marco asks, his voice condescending. He’s walking ahead of me, but I would bet a week’s worth of hunting game that he’s smirking.
    I scowl. “Not at all. Besides, I didn’t get Heisted like I was supposed to. It was worth risking the Wall.”
    He freezes. “Wait. Say that again. The part about the Heist.”
    “I didn’t get Heisted like I was supposed to.”
    He turns to face me, slowly. He looks as dumbfounded as I felt taking in Taem moments earlier. “What do you mean by that?”
    “I mean I was the only boy who stayed in Claysoot when he turned eighteen.”
    “Impossible.” His mouth hangs open.
    Why would he think that impossible? Why does he even recognize the term Heist ? I shiver, cold, and against my better judgment I add, “It’s not impossible. My twin brother—he disappeared and I stayed.”
    “Twin?” Marco gasps. He runs a hand over his head, looks off down the hallway, and then back at me. “Change of plans,” he says. “This way.”
    And then he practically sprints down the corridor, backtracking. My feet work feverishly to keep up. We step into a box. It lurches downward, metal walls surrounding us. Doors open and Marco leads me through a hallway, down stairs, around corners. I lose my sense of direction. One thing is certain, though: the area of Union Central through which we are now walking is not nearly as glorious as its outer shell. The walls are a gray stone. Dust gathers in the crannies, moss clinging furiously to damp corners. Hallways are lit overhead with odd panels of light that flicker and cast an unnatural bluish glow about the space.
    We head down a final set of steps and the moisture in the air seems to triple. A man in black sits on a lonely stool within the hallway we’ve entered. It is narrow, lined with doors to the left and right that are too short to walk through without ducking.
    “We’re all full,” he calls out.
    “Well, double him up,” Marco says. “Throw him in with our pal Bozo the clown. He’ll be good company.” Marco pushes me at the man with impressive force, and then darts off the way we arrived, looking more frantic than ever.
    “Where’s he going?”
    The man says nothing but shuffles me toward a door at the far end of the hallway, where he presses his thumb to a metal plate before it slides open.
    “Sorry, kid,” he says to me. “This guy’s a bit of a loon.” And then he shoves me through the doorway. It’s dark inside and smells of mold and urine. The door slams behind me and it takes the click of metal echoing in my ears before I realize I’m in a