But I feel hands under my armpits, trying to haul me out. I want to kick, to punch, to run, to scream, but all I can do is curl up, eyes closed. I hate being helpless. But Mom said . . .

The hands let me go. Then comes a sound that makes my eyes fly open. A solid, meaty thwack. He hit Mom?

I search through the darkness, my eyes taking a while to adjust. There’s a figure standing, and one crumpled to the ground. But when my vision resolves I find Mom standing, panting, with the Greenshirt’s handheld eye scanner in her hand. The Greenshirt himself lies in a heap at her feet, groaning softly. There’s blood on his temple . . . and on the scanner.

I’ve scraped my knees in falls, bloodied my fingers with a bad hold during a climb. But I’ve never seen blood resulting from violence. It chills me, even on a man I know to be my enemy.

Shouts come from the checkpoint. Three or four other Greenshirts are running at us, though I can hardly see them beyond Mom’s body. Her shoulders are squared. She looks impossibly resolute.

“Go!” Mom hisses.

I just stare at the fallen Greenshirt.

She grabs me by the arms and shakes me. “Run, as fast and as far as you can. Get someplace safe, then tomorrow try to get to the surgery center. Promise you’ll run and not look back. Promise you won’t make this all for nothing.”

She ducks into the car and, when she comes out, thrusts the backpack against my chest.

“I love you,” she whispers. “Never forget that.” Then she shoves me away from her so hard I stagger. “Run!”

And I do. She’s my mother, so I just do what she says. Isn’t that what good daughters are supposed to do?

Just like good mothers protect their children.

At any cost.

As I turn to run, I see her hurl herself, panther-like, at the first Greenshirt charging up. I freeze, uncertain. There’s a flash of metal in the dim predawn light. He’s trying to shoot me? But as Mom tackles him the shot goes wide. The sound is deafening, echoing in my ears. There’s another shot, like an explosion from much too close, and I hear something whistle sharply past my head.

Real guns. Real, lethal guns.

As I stand there, tense and poised and terrified, there’s one more shot. I see Mom pirouette with the impact, a scarlet flower blossoming on her chest. Her eyes as they sweep past me are already dimming, but I see confusion, fear for me, the question Why are you still here?

So I run. It’s what I do best. I am speed without thought, without emotion, without pain. Only muscle and breath and the surge of my body as I sprint away from my dying mother.

I RUN LIKE a machine, unthinking, unfeeling, mercilessly fast and mercifully numb. All that matters is to move. I hardly even remember why. One leg in front of the other; repeat. Even when the sound of gunfire behind me ceases, even when the shouting, boot-steps, and other sounds of pursuit fade away behind me, I still run at top speed. Because there’s nothing else I can do.

I used to run like this in my courtyard at home, the endless pounding of my feet driving away my frustrations, the exhaustion an anodyne. I never knew I was training to kill the ultimate hurt. I’m not running to escape the Greenshirts who are after me. I’m fleeing the look in my mother’s eyes as she fell. The look that said she was happy to give her life so that I might live. It’s too much. I don’t want the burden of her sacrifice.

I should have stayed with her. I should have died with her.

But still I run, away, anywhere. I’ve lost all sense of direction. Wherever I am, the lights are dim, and it will be at least another two hours before the sun comes up. I can imagine I’m running in a world of nothing, a void. I can’t even feel my own body anymore.

And I don’t feel it at first when, miles later, my foot hits something in the dark and my entire body twists violently as I go down hard. I’m up in an instant, running again, but within three steps I’m hopping. I’ve sprained my left ankle.

I don’t care! I have to keep going! I force myself to move, but every step is agony. I can feel the skin start to tighten as swelling sets in.

No! I can’t let this stop me. Because if I can feel the pain of my injury, I’ll be able to feel other kinds of pain, too. I clutch the nearest wall and hop through the darkness, putting my left foot gingerly down every few steps and wincing in agony. The pain shoots up my leg . . . seemingly all the way to my heart. I collapse in a dark doorway and the tears start to flow, huge heaving sobs.

Now that I’ve stopped running, everything hurts. Everything is swollen and bruised. Before, I couldn’t stop moving. Now I’m sure I will crouch in this doorway until the end of time. I’ll sink into this dead Earth and never rise again.

I cry until I can’t breathe, until my sobs turn to ragged, hiccuping gasps. And when I have nothing left inside of me—no tears, no strength—a strange sense of calm washes over me. From my recessed doorway shelter I watch the sun come up.

As the sliver of sky I can see between buildings starts to glow pink, I wrap my arms around my knees and simply watch the world wake up around me. I know the grief will return, will never truly leave, but for a moment, in my mental and physical exhaustion I just experience the world. I wonder if this is what an animal feels like, in the moment, without regret or anticipation, simply being.

I don’t remember whether I saw anyone when I was running—it was all a blur. Now, as the world lightens, I begin to see a few people moving furtively through the streets. They look as if they want to get to their destinations as fast as possible, unobserved. The light reveals a place of dirt and squalor. Debris is tumbled across the streets, and the sidewalk is as rough and broken as if it had been upturned by an earthquake. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, or even imagined. I can’t retrace my steps, but something tells me I’ve found my way to one of the outer circles. I think maybe even the outermost circle.

I clamp my jaw tight, press my lips together to keep them from trembling. This is the most dangerous place in Eden. Never mind about the Greenshirts chasing me. I’ve heard stories about the horrors of the outermost ring whispered when Mom thought Ash and I couldn’t hear.

If the Greenshirts catch me, I might possibly get lucky and be imprisoned for life.

If even half of the stories are true, here in the outermost circle death is almost certain for all but the hardest, toughest residents.

I try to remember everything that Lark told me about the outer circles. Hers wasn’t nearly as rough as this one must be, but there had to be some similarities. On those two long nights together when we talked about everything under the stars, she told me about the various gangs, about how to move through the streets without being noticed. She even explained a bit about the subtle signs that might be painted or scratched on a door to say whether that house might offer work, or food to the desperate. Other marks might warn people away from certain homes or entire buildings. She told me about the signs people flash to signal their affiliations, their intentions.