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MARIA INGRANDE MORA

She laughed. “I’d rather bet with my life than a piece of
good meat.”
“I’m nineteen.” He was sixteen, but nineteen sounded
more distinguished.
“Nineteen? That’s a funny name. I’m Val.” She took off
with a limber jog.
Nate didn’t bother to catch up. The ease of her pace prick-
led at him. His boots felt like they were full of stones. “My name
isn’t Nineteen, little brat!” he called out. “It’s Nate.”
“I am older than you.” Val flashed gray teeth at him. “Watch
yourself.”
“You watch yourself,” he shot back, sore. He didn’t care if
she was twelve or twenty. His odds of actually living to nine-
teen were slim.
He’d only been awake for a few hours, but he felt like his
clothes were made of lead. He wasn’t supposed to be this tired.
Not this soon.
“Sure you’re not poorly?” Val slowed her pace until Nate
caught up.
A headache began to bloom, blood pounding between
his ears. Her prying was making it worse. “It’s not catching.”
Val grunted. A couple of kids sprinted by them as the rails
began to rumble again. The ache thrummed behind Nate’s eyes.
When had he had his last dose of Remedy? Four days?
Maybe five? He could usually go two weeks before the hurting
started.
“Move, you fool!” Val grabbed his arm and pulled him
into a run. They collapsed onto the next support beam. The
train roared by, wheels hissing against the steel track. Silver

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