The Forsaken

and my mom had been a genetic engineer. At least before all the research facilities and universities were placed under government control. My mom quit her job because she said the UNA just wanted to use her research to develop biological weapons.
    I never found out exactly why both my parents got seized when they did, although I assume it was partly because of my mom’s refusal to cooperate. I was told their old jobs had just been covers anyway, and that they’d been plotting to form a terrorist cell and assassinate government leaders.
    For a long time, I was certain this was a lie. But these days I’m no longer sure what to believe. I loved my parents deeply, and I still hate the government for what they did to them. But it’s also true that the UNA succeeded in restoring order. There are no more bombs going off in buses, or people dying on the streets in rebel attacks. Perhaps accepting the inconvenience of being controlled by the government is actually the price of safety, like Minister Harka says.
    Sometimes I feel angry at my parents for doing whatever it was that got them taken. They must have known I’d be stranded and sent to an orphanage if they got caught. Why would they jeopardize our family like that if they truly loved me?
    I assume by now they’re probably dead, because prison conditions are harsh in the UNA. I often try to pretend that the first ten years of my life were a dream, and I was always an orphan. It’s easier that way.
    I sneak a look at my classmates watching the screen. For once they look excited, probably hoping to see some on-screen violence. Usually their faces are slack with boredom, their minds dulled from taking government-prescribed thought-pills. The thought-pills are meant to increase concentration and help us do well in school, although they just seem to make most kids sleepy. They’ve never had much effect on me.
    In fact, I’ve always felt slightly different from most of my classmates. This is partly because orphans with dissident parents aren’t too popular, but also because the things other kids bond over—like military parades and government war movies—just don’t interest me much. And the things that I love, like music and books, don’t seem to interest them.
    “Oh my God!” Melissa yelps, startling everyone.
    At the same instant, another girl shrieks, “Look!”
    I stare up at the screen as a figure steps into view.
    The instant I see his face, I gasp. I expected to see a menacing juvenile delinquent. Someone with a shaved head and blackened teeth, with curved talons for fingernails. Carrying a blood-spattered weapon.
    Instead, I see a remarkably good-looking teenage boy staring defiantly into the camera lens. No weapon, no blood, no talons. His dark brown hair is disheveled, and his eyes are a magnetic shade of blue, set above high cheekbones. He’s lanky, but muscular. Wearing beat-up jeans but no shirt, displaying his tanned, lithe torso.
    The strangest thing of all is that the more I stare at the contours of his face, the more I feel like I know this boy from somewhere. But of course that’s impossible. I instantly dismiss the feeling. He’s just a random Unanchored Soul fending for his life on a prison island, while I’m here on the mainland, on a school-sponsored field trip.
    Still, I feel oddly drawn to him for some reason. His blue eyes are piercing and intelligent.
    “Ew, he looks so wild ,” Melissa spits. “Like an animal.” Other kids instantly chime in with comments.
    “I bet he hasn’t bathed in a month!”
    “Or a year!”
    “He doesn’t even own a shirt. . . .”
    Our earpieces begin playing classical music to calm us.
    “Quiet!” Ms. Baines admonishes, but no one listens to her, least of all me. I’m still mesmerized by the boy.
    He’s gesturing with his hands as his eyes remain locked on the camera. At the same time, I see his lips start moving and I realize that he’s talking. He looks intense and focused, like he’s trying to convey an important message.
    I speak up, startling everyone including myself. “Can you turn the volume up?”
    The docent glances over at me. “There’s no audio. We can’t risk inmates trying to corrupt innocent minds with their madness.”
    “Yes, yes,” Ms. Baines seconds, glowering at me for asking an innocent question. “This boy’s probably speaking in tongues.”
    “Someone should put him down like a rabid dog,” a chunky kid named Jonas mutters. He gets some murmurs of