Taken (Erin Bowman)

foolish, completely unwarranted. I am focused on all the wrong things. Getting even with Emma doesn’t matter. Not in the slightest. It’s not even making me feel any better.
    What matters is that while we have succeeded in one mission, we are far from finished. If Frank is not overthrown, Harvey’s death will be for nothing. The battle with Frank and his Forgeries— limitless Forgeries, given what I’ve learned in Taem—trumps all. Only then will Harvey’s death have been worth it. Only then will Claysoot and the other test groups be free. And only then will the people of this odd country be able to decide their own fate, their own rules.
    Later, when the fire dies out and Bo and Emma have fallen asleep, Bree curls up at my side. She kisses me long and hard, so confidently that I know she means it, that she wants to be with me, and I am overwhelmed with another wave of guilt. She drifts to sleep as I run my hand along her back.
    Halfway through the night Bo wakes and takes over watch, but I still can’t sleep. The best I do is nod in and out of consciousness, my arms always hugging Bree, but my eyes lingering on Emma, who shivers while she dreams.
    Morning breaks and no one has tracked us. Bo claims it’s because they got what they really wanted. “Harvey’s dead, and that, at the moment, is enough. But they’ll come eventually, especially once they discover we’ve broken in and stolen from their medical center.”
    As the sun rises between the tightly packed trees, Bree radios Ryder and shares the news. We walk in silence the first day. I look over my shoulder occasionally and find Emma in conversation with Bo. Her lips are pursed and her eyes, sleepy. Bo seems to do most of the talking. He taps on his skull with twitching fingers and tries to coax conversation from her. Emma just gazes at the medic bag in her arms.
    That night, after catching rabbit and cooking the meat over a small fire, Bo approaches me. “You should really talk to her,” he says. “She’s sorry. And confused.”
    “I don’t have anything to say.” But as soon as the words leave my mouth I know it’s not that I don’t want to talk to her but that I’m afraid to. I’m terrified because I do feel something for Bree, and what I did with her makes me no different from Emma, who acted on her feelings for Craw. I want to apologize and tell Emma the birds still exist, and, yes, some people really do live that way, but I don’t know how to put it into words.
    It doesn’t make sense, this mess of emotions. I always follow my gut, find my path with such little deliberation. But this, with Emma, is crippling. How is it possible that I can feel so much and still not know what to do?
    Just past noon a few days later, Mount Martyr emerges from between a dense throng of trees. We climb to the base of the Crevice, and find Elijah waiting with his back against the stony facade. He is drinking from a standard water canteen, but when he congratulates us on a job well done, hugging us each in turn, he smells like alcohol.
    “I still can’t believe you guys pulled it off,” he says, beaming. “We’ve been celebrating since Bree called with the news.”
    He jiggles the canteen at us in offering and when no one takes it, he continues. “We owe Harvey so much.” At that, we stand in silence for a moment; there are no words that could possibly do Harvey justice. Elijah lowers his drink, eyes the bloodied state of Bree’s uniform, and adds, “We should get moving, I suppose. There’s still a vaccine to administer.”

THIRTY-SEVEN
    EVERYONE IS WAITING FOR US in the Technology Center. Clipper and a few doctors look anxious to get to work; but, true to Elijah’s words, most people are in merry, boisterous spirits. Ryder and the other captains are laughing as we enter, a half dozen empty mugs scattered across the table before them. Clipper takes the canvas bag from me and he’s barely stepped aside before my father is pulling me into his arms and hugging me so tightly I’m afraid my ribs might crack.
    “That is the last time I let Ryder decide what missions you’re fit for,” he says, his breath hot with ale. “It was too risky.”
    “I heard that,” Ryder says.
    “It’s the truth and I won’t lie about it. And this is not the alcohol talking.”
    Ryder laughs. “I never suspected it was. Regardless, the boy did well—you should be proud.”
    “I am.” He turns, rests a hand on my shoulder, and puts on a stern fatherlike