Page 27 of Trade
“None of it.” Why didn’t it cross my mind that some of it, at least, should be mine? I didn’t fight, I didn’t scream or argue, and I didn’t even think, for a single second, that I deserved a fraction of what my body was buying. If my credits were deposited in my account an hour late on the first Friday of the month, though, I would have been at the Bursar’s Office, hot around the collar, demanding an explanation.
“What the fuck?” he says.
“Yeah. What the fuck,” I repeat. I haven’t been martyred. I’ve been scammed.
Outside is nothing like they said.
There are lakes. Flowers. There’s a living squirrel in a maple tree less than a yard away.
The air doesn’t smell like poison. The longer I breathe, the stronger I feel.
The water I’ve been drinking all day isn’t making me sick.
They lied.
I was hoodwinked.
It sure looks like the world didn’t end at all.
ChapterSix
We walk for a while longer. The atmosphere between Dalton and me has changed. I’m not cataloging the vegetation anymore. My brain is whirling too much, trying and failing to make sense of it all, and since I’ve let them off of tree duty, my eyes keep wandering to Dalton. He’s carrying his backpack now, switching it periodically from hand to hand, I guess to give his shoulders a break.
He’s built like a statue, expertly sculpted and larger than life, but he strides along like an animal with perfect balance and grace. The way he moves reminds me of a puma from the nature documentaries Dad would screen on a wall in the atrium before AP’s film projector broke permanently. Those were good nights. Afterward, Dad would quiz me on the flora and fauna I’d noticed. He was so proud of how much I could identify.
What would he think if he could see me now? He’d be afraid for me, but wouldn’t he also be a little jealous? He loved the Outside from the Before. He mourned its loss his entire life, and it was out here the whole time. Of course, it could be slowly and silently killing me. Kind of like aging does anyway.
Just like I’m not gawking at plants anymore, Dalton isn’t staring at me every second. He’s scanning the woods. Is there a threat? Darkness is falling, and this is when predators would be waking up, right?
Dalton catches sight of something and grabs my hand. I startle. He tightens his grip reassuringly. My belly flutters. I suddenly feel fifteen again, like I’ve snuck out.
“Come on,” he says and leads me into a copse of trees. I follow without argument, my heart pounding. I take light, cautious steps in case we’re hiding from something.
“What is it?” I whisper when we stop in front of a bushy, willowy tree with delicate pink blossoms.
“A dogwood,” he says. It takes me a second to realize this is why we’re here. He’s found an interesting tree to show me. “Come fall, it’ll have red berries. Don’t eat them.”
He folds his arms and admires his find. It is lovely. Upon closer inspection, the petals are white-tinged with a bright, cheery cerise. The whiplike branches are as thin as twigs. We don’t have one in our collection, and it never caught my eye in a book.
“Why is it called a dogwood?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know.”
An idea strikes me. “Are there still dogs Outside?”
He actually smiles. It’s quick—there and then gone—but I catch it. “Yeah. Plenty of dogs.”
“What about cats?”
“Never heard of ’em,” he says and sneaks a glance at me from the corner of his eye. He’s teasing.
“Therearecats!” Housecats was my favorite page inA History of Domesticated Animals. I was obsessed with those furry little beasts lolling around or grooming themselves like lazy tigers.
“Shhh,” he says. “One will hear you and come over. Then it’s yours. That’s the rules.” His mouth is so soft, he’s almost smiling.
“What else survived?”
The crease on his nose appears. The question throws him. “What was around before?” he asks.
