2.1

  The quiet melody of carillon bells hatched from the hallway speakers outside of 4610's room. Her eyes opened to their first note. She stared through the camera on the ceiling, last week's thirty replaying in her mind the instant she woke up. Repeated clicking came from the window above her head as its shutters rolled up and a strip of morning sun spilled over her face. The bells outside chimed louder with each second, their creeping climb like hands crawling from under the bed and reaching for her ankles, but 4610 would not drown in her tiredness like the other sleepers. She longer she lingered, the louder her thoughts would get.

  With a heavy breath, she shuffled her legs off the edge of her bed while the rest of her remained on the mattress. Her toes touched the opposite wall of her cramped dorm.

  *Come on. Up. You can do this.*

  Dreams troubled her sleep and denied her rest. Her stomach, shriveled from fasting, also twisted in the night. The weight of her body pressed her into the sheets, but she forced her weak, shaking muscles to roll her as upright as she could, and slumped over her knees. Her hands ran down the length of her nose.

  "Okay," she exhaled. "One more."

  She hoisted herself up with a final push, leaned against the wall, and dragged herself along it for the few steps it took to reach the sink at the foot of her bed, by the door. A porcelain square with a short tap and a single press-knob. She pushed the knob. A timed stream of freezing water flowed into her cupped hands, and she splashed it on her face when it ended. The water soaked into the collar of her khaki 'tens' jumpsuit.

  When brushing her teeth, she thought, *it's all so normal.*

  Nothing had changed.

  She blocked the sink's drain with her palm, pushed the knob a dozen times to fill it, and peered into her reflection. It was the closest thing to a mirror they were allowed. Her black hair fell past her earlobes in greasy locks. Her face was pale, cheeks gaunt, and her eyes were dark and puffy. Her gaze flicked between her rippling features at a loss, but what was there to find?

  The volume of the bells kept rising. If she didn't hurry, her neighbors would rouse and meet her outside and pester her with polite questions. She pulled on her boots, drew the day's book and notebook from under her bed. Her jumpsuit was already on—she hadn't changed in a week—so all she had left was to take her things in hand and step out.

  The door shut behind her on its own.

  The corridor was frozen in that mystical dawn stillness that made the world feel empty and ripe to pluck—but for the two dozen cameras above each door, all turning to her. Two dozen rooms lined one side of the hallway, split midway by a stairwell. The opposite wall was glass, revealing the dorm block's inner courtyard—square, paved with concrete, fenced by eight glass-faced tenements packed with 'tens' and eight stories high. The courtyard split into four manicured lawns, each with a tree and benches at the center. All of it slumbered under the cold shade of a sun still too low to reach inside—except for a single, blinding strip of light reflecting from high above. 4610 shielded her eyes and gazed up at the upper edge of the towering white wall that enclosed their entire facility, awash in morning rays like molten silver.

  "What was the point, 4003?"

  What use did she have for a name she would never hear or say?

  2.2

  The entrance watch dog stepped aside for the first human to leave her dorms. A white mass of plastic and metal up to her shoulder, it stared up at her with its black eye. 4610 hugged her book and notebook closer and advanced along the pavement toward the mess hall, located just across the block. The frigid morning breeze nipped at her face, neck, and hands, but even the temptation to shield herself from it with the building walls could not sway her from taking the route down the center of the courtyard, exposed, but far away from the doors. Among some fifteen hundred khaki 'tens', she did not dream of being the sole early riser. The robots by every entrance tracked her until others stepped out.

  "Good morning."

  "Good morning."

  Clipped, tired voices undermined the dawn's quiet peace. Perfunctory greetings. Polite. Redundant. An etiquette unlike what they had displayed last week. They all carried their books and notebooks in hand.

  Sometimes, 4610 wondered why had It given them the responsibility of looking after their own materials, but no bags or pockets. Why did It let them gather outside, but not in their rooms? Everyone's clothes bagged over scrawny frames, and that, too, had a reason. Right? None of it could have been mere idle cruelty.

  *Is there a point in thinking about it now?*

  She turned to look at her dorm building, where she had spent the past three years of her life. Before that, she lived with the 'singles'. Her mother had lived in the 'twenties' block ever since 4610 could remember, but visited her in both courtyards at the end of almost every day. If 4610 did not distract herself with these questions, her thoughts would sink towards her mother and she might drown.

  Another khaki 'tens' stepped out of her building, a girl with blonde hair down to her shoulders. 4517. 4610 flinched and spun to march away, but not before their eyes met.

  "Crap," 4610 said.

  She picked up her heels to get away, but it was futile. 4517 was taller than 4610. Her stride was longer. It didn't help that she had probably slept better than 4610 this past week, ate more. The sound of hurrying footsteps caught up with 4610, and she shut her eyes to mentally prepare for a barrage of unprompted, unwanted meddling.

  "Good morning, 4610," 4517 said. She circled beside 4610 and kept pace, notebook and book in hand.

  4610 didn't answer in hopes she'd go away.

  "Whether dorm or classroom, you're so quick to leave as of late," 4517 said. "Why the sudden change?"

  4610 remained silent.

  "And you smell," 4517 wrinkled her nose. "When was the last time you showered? I haven't seen you in our floor's bathrooms even once."

  No response.

  4517 furrowed her brows and took a blessed pause, but had to ruin it. "You should clean yourself. And launder that suit. And I bet you must change your bed sheets, too. I'm sure It would allow me to help. It's positive development."

  4610 let out a resigned breath.

  "No," her voice was fatigued. "Please, 4517, leave me alone."

  *How did she even have the strength for all that?*

  4517 looked away and chewed on her lip.

  "Look," she said, "I'll go if you really want, but I believe I shouldn't. You think you're smarter than everyone, me included, but I understand. I also have parents who passed into the Joining."

  "'Have'," 4610 said through gritted teeth. "You believe that. And you celebrated it."

  "4610!" 4517 stepped in front of 4610's path. "We are told who our parents are for a reason. Just because we'll see each other again, doesn't mean we don't care." She pointed at herself. "I was also upset!"

  "Well, maybe I'm not 'upset'," 4610 hissed. "Maybe I'm more than that, and I don't need your bullshit about my behavior or your paradise. So yes, please, I would love for you to go away."

  2.3

  4610 arrived at the mess hall, alone. The canteen was a stout building with no windows, sat in the center of three blocks laid out like a clover—one for each age group. It was where everyone could mingle and socialize for the sake of their development. 4610 chose a solitary wooden table under a camera-infested pillar removed from the smattering of khaki and beige early-birds, within view of the female bathrooms. Her eyes drifted to where her mother had sat just a week ago, finding some guy in beige picking oat crumbs with his thumb.

  "Did you really have to cut our time so short?" she muttered.

  4610 put down her book and notebook and made her way to the food line, keeping her distance from the machine hounds arrayed throughout the room. She settled behind a pair of young boys in gray 'singles' jumpsuits, rare for this hour. They were engaged in whispering about a lizard one of them saw. It made the corners of her lips tug up.

  The line advanced, her turn came. The chute at the back of the shelves spat out two fist-sized boxes, and she looped back to her seat with her food in hand. A hard boiled egg waited for her in one of the boxes, beside a sticky rectangle of oats and nuts. The other contained two halves of a cucumber, since the full length didn't fit.

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  "I don't want the name. I don't need the name."

  She bit into the cucumber. Her gaze slid toward the female bathrooms, then snapped back. Under no circumstances could It be allowed to learn about her little trick. A pitcher of water and cups sat on every table. She poured one and gulped it down, hoping It would assume she drank so much to fill her stomach in place of the food she didn't eat, and that she lacked her appetite from depression.

  The boys from before were nearby, about to dispose of their empty boxes in a receptacle, and 4610 waved them down.

  "Hey, I have some leftovers if you want them."

  They crowded around her and finished her food with their fingers before scurrying away with a quick 'thanks.'

  She drank more water, opened her class book and notebook to read ahead—as was expected—pulled her pen from where it was tucked inside the cover and began taking notes. Each word she wrote, she brushed her index finger against the tip of the pen, staining it with ink. All while trying to appear as natural as she possible.

  By the time she had to use the restroom, her finger was black. She tucked it in a fist and entered past the sliding door. The bathroom stretched down a row of dozens of stalls, built to handle the canteen's peak traffic. A woman with a beige jumpsuit and bob cut washed her hands by the sinks. 4610 slipped past her and made for the stall at the very end, farthest from the door and the ventilation, where the accumulated stench of human waste lingered the longest. The stall least likely to be used.

  She stepped inside, careful not to look at the camera above. Did her business. Let the bidet rinse her, and reached for the towelette button. This was the moment she'd waited for since she woke up. A jagged lip meant to help tear the paper lined the top of the dispenser. It covered a thin strip of wall the cameras couldn't see. The towelette slid out, and she grabbed it and smeared her ink-stained finger across the wall in one, fluid motion. Only a single stroke. No more than a natural part of her movement. She tore the paper away and glanced at the spot she marked.

  'Forestine.'

  Her latest stroke belonged to the final 'e'. The 'F' of her name had already faded, and the 'o' and 'r' were nearly invisible, too. The cleaning automatons that crawled over the floors and walls each night wiped and disinfected the bathroom's every surface, and though they didn't remove her writing in one go, if she didn't visit this stall at least twice every meal break—her name would disappear.

  But it was there, now.

  She wiped herself and dropped the towelette into a small waste chute. Lingering would alert It. Swallowing a lump of spit that felt like stones, she left the bathroom—and the only evidence she was ever loved. Outside, 4312 and his entourage pestered some group of poor beige 'twenties', but as she stepped through the door, he glanced her way. She averted her eyes to avoid his attention, seeing how none of his penances had ever improved his behavior. But for a second, she could have sworn he smiled.

  2.4

  4610's first lesson began in the 'Early Tens B' auditorium, nestled within the 'tens' annex of the learning institute. The room's stepped layers hummed with the chatter of hundreds of khakis between twelve and fifteen, all reveling in the shallow thinking they were about to engage. 4610 navigated behind the occupied seats, finding her favorite spot—surrounded by teens who didn't engage with her whatsoever—still free. Only unspoken understanding kept this seat hers, as they were not assigned.

  The last group of students filed in, once everybody sat, half the fluorescent lights in the auditorium shut off, and a large screen at its center flickered to life. A human man attired with neat hair, a suit, and glasses, grinned at them with a stiff smile. He was a cartoon character back when she wore a gray jumpsuit. The man bobbed up and down in a facsimile of breathing, the edges of his tie occasionally melting into his collar before reforming again.

  "Good morning, 'tens'," he said with a voice lacking the texture of emotion, "welcome to the Communication Dynamics class. Those of you who are here by error—you will now leave."

  Identifying those who didn't belong should have been child's play for It, yet, It opted to have them figure things like this out on their own. Was this also positive development?

  Several seconds passed and no one moved, and the man on the screen continued. "Good. You will now open your books on page 84, and will pair with one another to discuss the points you've drafted in the morning's pre-read."

  The hall erupted with the rustling of paper. 4610 stared at her book for a beat longer before opened it. The sole exception to why she had desired this seat—the boy to her left—turned to her, his finger already on the first point of the page. Just below an illustration of three youths trapped in a bland eyed conversation around a pen.

  "Good morning," 4546 said, "Shall we begin the discussion?"

  Communication dynamics taught them to read between the lines of what their fellows said. To understand each other in an environment limited in expression. Yet over the past three years, ever since she had received her khaki jumpsuit, 4610 noticed the subject always remained confined within a narrow band of directed topics.

  The scenario outlined on page 84 went thus:

  Three humans are in a classroom. Human A asks: "Who took my pen?"

  Human B glances at human A with indifference, and returns to their studies.

  Human C shrugs and says, "Not me."

  Who took the pen? What strategy does the silence serve? What strategy does answering serve?

  4546 read out his notes, and answered that human C, who answered, must have been truthful. They clearly signaled their innocence, putting themselves in the spotlight and opening themselves to scrutiny, while human B meant to obscure their involvement by trying to phase themselves out of the conversation altogether.

  "So?" 4546 asked with eagerness. "Did you answer the same? Or do you think it was human C who took it?"

  4610 reached toward the spine of her book and ran her finger along its ridge. 4546 would dismiss her answer out of hand. She still gave it.

  "I think none of them took the pen. Or if one of them did, it doesn't matter. Determining what happened to the pen is not the point of the question."

  The boy's brows furrowed. "The point is to determine who the liar is."

  4610 shook her head. "Not that, either. The point is to teach you that people who don't speak their minds are untrustworthy. It's to keep you from withholding your thoughts, because It can't read them."

  4546 blinked. Shook his head slowly.

  "I don't see how that's the answer."

  Class resumed after the brief discussion. Similar situations arose, with emphasis on silence and avoidance, but It never offered them clear solutions to any of the problems It posed. Most of the class took these hypothetical questions at face value, but 4610 couldn't reconcile between the blatant way the structure of each scenario led them down certain opinions and the fact It never once contradicted hers. Almost like all answers were equally valid, or not important, and the true intent hid under layers of obfuscation.

  When lunch came, 4610 rushed to the mess hall as fast as her weak legs took her. She filled herself with more water than food, and used the toilet, etching a line onto her name. Before leaving for her next class, she decided to sneak in another visit.

  She walked into the bathroom. A woman in beige with a bob cut stepped out 4610's stall. 4610 froze. The woman looked her in the eye, and advanced toward her with a casual step. 4610 kept her face composed, her body steady, even as her heart hammered out of her chest.

  Did the woman see 4610's name? Will she report it?

  She drew in a slow, shaky breath. Being rattled would only raise questions, so she resumed her walk toward the booth, acting as though nothing was amiss. But as the woman neared her, 4610's meager muscles tensed. Her heckles rose. Should 4610 try to convince her not to say anything?

  They passed each other by and nothing happened. The temptation to look back and track the woman almost won out, but 4610 reached her stall with a steady gait transmitting that nothing was wrong. Her hands shook like in the winter cold. She gulped. Surely, she panicked for no reason—she would find nothing amiss inside, her name would be untouched, and who would even bother to look at that spot under the paper dispenser in the first place?

  She pushed open the door.

  Above the towelette slit, in plain view of the camera, as if to provoke, '4312 =)' was written not with smudges, but with the clean lines of a pen.