“No . . . second law . . .”
“. . . force . . .”
“. . . wrong . . .”
In between the words are only silence and the pulsing of my heart marking the passing of the seconds. Minutes. Maybe hours. Time stands still. During that time, I think of Tomas and wonder what trial he is facing in his own Induction. I wish he were here with me now to help keep me safe. A whirring sound followed by a jubilant shout pulls me from my thoughts, but my prison door does not open.
The voices outside are louder. I jump when something bangs against the box, but the lock stays firmly in place as my teammates continue to shout words that, no matter how hard I try, I cannot understand.
The voices go silent. To keep calm, I count the seconds. Ten. Twenty. Sixty. One hundred. Still nothing. Just darkness and silence. Did my team fail at their task and suffer a penalty? Or did they succeed and choose to leave me behind?
I close my eyes tight, clutch my bags to my chest, and continue to listen for signs that my team is still there. That I haven’t been abandoned. That I will not suffocate in this metal coffin. That I will not die here—alone.
The metal surrounding me vibrates. Over my quickening breath is the roar of a skimmer motor. Once again, I have trusted where trust was not warranted. Once again, I will suffer the consequences.
I should stay calm. I should breathe carefully to conserve my air supply until I find a way out of here. Instead, I bang against the lid of the box and scream. The sound of the motor might drown out my cries, but I keep screaming on the chance that those leaving me behind can hear my voice. I want them to know that I am alive now. That if I die, I do so at their hands.
My throat is raw. My hands ache when I stop my pounding. By now, my team is long gone. If I want to survive, I have to find a way out of here. I shift in the tight space so I can reach the fasteners on my bag. My fingers hunt through my belongings until they settle on the handle of my pocketknife. A click of the flashlight bathes the small space with light. I struggle to shift positions in the tight space as I run the blade along the top and bottom of the right side of the box, hoping to find a flaw in the design. When I find none, I roll to my left so I can reach the other side.
So intent am I on my mission, it barely registers when I hear something scrape against the outside of the box. I hear the sound again and hold my breath. Voices murmur. I knock three times on the lid, hoping someone will understand I am trapped inside. I almost cry with relief when three knocks sound in return.
“Hang on, Cia,” someone yells. “We’ve almost got it.”
The sound of a latch sliding confirms the words. The metal above me shifts upward. I squint into the sunlight and see Will’s and Enzo’s faces peering down. Will’s hand feels warm and strong in mine as he helps me stand and climb out. To my left, I see Jacoby and two other members of their team arguing. Their skimmer sits twenty feet beyond them.
“I heard the engine and thought you’d left.” My voice is raspy from the screaming. Evidence of my lack of trust.
“I would have thought the same thing.” Will hands me the green team bag and glances over to a grove of trees growing near the fence about fifty feet away. Glaring at us from the center of the trees is Damone. “If Damone had gotten his way, we’d have hit the road after getting the clue. He wasn’t interested in wasting time on the second part, to free you. It took a few minutes, but we helped him see the error of his ways.”
The darkening bruise on Will’s cheek gives me an idea as to how.
“You got it wrong,” Jacoby yells at the girl next to him. “Get out of the way and let me try.”
“We should probably cut Damone loose and get out of here before they figure out the solution,” Enzo says.
“I think we should leave him.” A smile devoid of happiness crosses Will’s face. “Give him a taste of his own medicine. It’s no less than he deserves.”
I look at the steel box where Damone would have left me to die, and my heart hardens. Will is right. Damone should understand what it feels like to be betrayed. Leaders—real leaders—must think of others before themselves. They need to consider the consequences of their actions and only sacrifice lives when the needs of many outweigh the needs of the few.
And I realize, as much as I want to penalize Damone for his cowardly actions, I cannot. Not without performing the same kind of act I am condemning Damone for. I am this team’s leader. I will not leave someone I am in charge of behind.
“Damone is coming with us,” I say, digging my pocketknife out of my University bag. “Get the skimmer ready. We’ll be back in a minute.”
Without waiting for agreement, I walk toward the cluster of trees. The gray cast to the bark speaks of the lack of revitalization in this area. But the state of the tre
es and other foliage does not hold my interest. Damone’s reddened face and angry eyes do. He goes still as I approach and says nothing as I walk around him to examine the restraints Will and Enzo fashioned. His arms are wrapped around the tree behind him and bound at the wrist with strips of sturdy brown fabric. The same fabric that Damone’s shirt is made of. Blood streaks his skin where it rubbed against the tree in his efforts to get free.
“What do you want?” Damone sneers. “Are you going to pretend to leave me behind again? We both know you can’t do it. Can you?”
For a moment, my knife stills. The urge to leave him and his insults behind is overwhelming. To do so would almost certainly keep him from a leadership position. I could prevent him from making decisions that would affect me, my family, and my country. I have only to walk away and betray everything that I believe in.
My knife slices through the restraints. Damone offers no thanks or show of gratitude as he stalks toward the skimmer. The anger I pushed aside returns. I take two steps and feel my foot catch. My knees and hands jolt with pain as I hit the unforgiving ground. Tears caused by my stinging palms, my anger with Damone, and my disappointment in my own desire to punish him prick the backs of my eyes. I ache for home. For my family. For Tomas. For people who love me. For people I can trust with my life.
But they are not here and I need to get moving. I push to my knees and realize whatever tripped me is still wrapped around my left ankle.
I reach down and find thin, pliable wire where I expected to find a vine or root. Carefully, I unhook the metal from my ankle and examine it more closely. No rust. No wear. Extending from where I sit to somewhere to my right. Sliding my fingers along the length of the wire, I follow it to its end, which is expertly secured around a small but sturdy bush.
A snare. A simple one designed to catch an animal bounding through this grouping of trees. If an animal steps into or puts its head through the loop and keeps walking, the loop will tighten. As it did around my leg. The more the animal struggles, the more tightly it is trapped. Only, instead of dinner, this snare caught me.