The Forsaken

place that we’re watching—Prison Island Alpha—but nobody dares say it out loud for fear it might jinx them. Some call it the Land Across the Water, or the Land Beyond. To others it is simply the Forgotten Place. I stare in fascination at the footage of stunted trees and verdant plains now flickering in front of me.
    The kids who get sent to this island are the ones who fail the GPPT, a test that predicts a propensity for criminal activity years in advance. It’s administered to all high school students during the fall of their junior year, and can identify potential murderers, rapists, thieves, and psychopaths before they act on their impulses. Because of this test, crime has virtually been eliminated in the UNA.
    The test isn’t something you can study for. It’s not even a test in the normal sense. No one asks you any questions. Instead a serum gets injected into your veins, and then computers scan your brain, looking for abnormalities.
    The kids who are found to have aberrant personalities—ones that will lead them toward a life of crime and violence—are labeled “Unanchored Souls” by the government and shipped to the desolate prison island.
    I continue to stare at the digital window into this harsh world, waiting for something to happen. On the grassy plain, between rows of crooked palm trees, stand the ruins of gigantic concrete buildings. Behind them is a massive stone spiral staircase, leading up into gray clouds that hang above the landscape.
    A balding museum docent steps forward, speaking into a microphone. His reedy voice crackles to life in our government earpieces, the ones we have to wear each day from sunrise to sunset in our left ears. Sometimes the earpieces play classical music—like Wagner and Bruckner—other times, recordings of patriotic speeches delivered by Minister Harka.
    We can’t control the earpieces, so I’ve learned to ignore mine. But today I’m listening. I want to hear what the docent has to say.
    “When Prison Island Alpha was first populated, more than two thousand video cameras were placed inside. We thought that the island would develop its own civilization—like penal colonies have in the past. Most notably Australia in the 1800s.” The docent pauses. “Yet this never happened on Island Alpha. Instead, the savages who call it home destroyed most of our cameras. Only a few cameras remain, hidden in trees. We now rely on satellite imagery as our primary—”
    “Can’t you drop more cameras in there?” a boy interrupts.
    The docent shakes his head. “The inmates use the raw materials for weapons.”
    “Doesn’t the island get overcrowded?” another classmate asks. It’s Melissa O’Connor, a brunette with perfect hair and teeth, courtesy of her wealthy parents.
    The docent looks over at her. He has probably fielded a million random questions from students like us. I wish I could come up with one he’s never heard before, just to stump him.
    “Overpopulation’s not an issue,” he explains, “because life expectancy on Island Alpha is only eighteen years of age.”
    The crowd burbles.
    Eighteen.
    I turn that number over in my mind. I wonder what it would feel like to have only two more years to live. My chest tightens.
    I haven’t done any of the things I want to do with my life yet. I want to travel, but because of all the restrictions, I haven’t left New Providence in years. And I want to write music. I’ve been playing guitar since my dad started teaching me when I was six, and the guitar was bigger than me, but I’ve never played in public, only at home. And I haven’t even gone out on a date with a boy yet, let alone kissed one. For a sixteen-year-old, that’s pretty pathetic.
    I realize for the first time what being sent to the island really means—the total annihilation of hope.
    I peer back up at the image on the screen. I don’t see a single person. Just the desolate landscape, rotting under the sun. I wonder if the inhabitants are hiding.
    “Can the prisoners escape?” a nearby girl asks the docent, sounding worried. “Build a boat and sail it back here?”
    “Sometimes they try, but they always fail.”
    “What a bunch of losers,” Melissa mutters. Her friends titter, but not me.
    I guess I just feel bad for any kid who gets sent to this place, even if I know they deserve it. Maybe it’s because of what happened to my parents.
    They never even received a trial. They just vanished. My dad had been a philosophy professor,