A few of them have already rolled up their sleeves, readying to dip clothes into the stream. I see the flash of skin, then an ugly puckered scar on the inside of one’s forearm. A thick protruding scab in the shape of an X, thick pale pink bands, like intersecting leeches. I’m ready to ignore it and move on. But then I see the same scar on another girl, except she has two such scars on her arm.

I stop. Stare at the scars. Realize what they are. Realize what’s been done to the girls.

They’ve been branded.

The girl sees me staring, and quickly rolls her sleeve down to cover the scars. But only her left sleeve; she doesn’t touch her rolled right sleeve still bunched over her elbow. The skin on her right forearm is also marked. Not with branded scars, but with a curious tattoo:

☺

“What’s your name?” I say to her.

She flinches at the sound of my voice. For a moment she freezes; they all freeze. “Good morning, sir?” she says, her mouth smiling to the ground, her voice withering with fear.

“What’s your name?” I ask, as gently as I can.

“We’re not supposed to speak to you,” she says. She’s cringing.

“Why not?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just your name. That’s all. What’s your name?”

“Debby,” she mumbles after a pause.

“Debby,” I repeat, and she jumps at the sound of her name coming from my mouth. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing.

She peeks up, sees me indicating the tattoo mark on her arm. “It’s my Merit Mark,” she says, casting her eyes back to the ground.

“What’s a Merit Mark?” I ask.

But she doesn’t answer. Strands of her loosened hair tremble in the wind.

“What’s the matter?” I say. “Why won’t you—”

“Leave her alone.”

There’s an audible gasp. All heads quickly stoop lower. Except the girl who spoke. Her eyes are on mine. There is fear in them. But there is also something hard as stone that does not wilt. But only for a second. Then she lowers her head, stares hard at the ground.

I look at this girl closely. She is the tallest of the group, but also the thinnest. A splattering of freckles splash across her nose and cheeks. But that’s not what is most distinctive about her. It’s her left forearm. She has four Xs branded into her skin. Brutal, ugly, like metal instruments burrowed into her skin.

And then her eyes rise up again to meet mine. Without shyness. Or shame.

Instead, there is a careful, cautious speck of … hope.

“What are those?” I ask, pointing at the brands on her arm.

“They’re called Demerit Designations.”

I glance at her right forearm. It’s clean, void of any smiley face tattoos.

“Why do you have these … Demerit Designations? What do they mean?”

And all she says is: “Please.” Her voice is soft but sturdy.

“What?” I say.

“If I answer your questions,” she says, “I break the bylaws. And if I break the bylaws, we all do. That’s written in the precepts. Guilty by association. We’ll all get disciplined, not only me.” And her eyes come up to meet mine again. There is an urgent pleading in them. “Some of us stand to lose a lot with one more demerit.” Her voice lowers. “So please. Please let us be about our business. Please leave us be.”

I take a step back, not sure of what to do next.

She shuffles forward. “Come girls,” she says, and they all follow her onto the wooden deck, their feet clocking hollowly on the planks.

I walk up the path, confused. So many questions, half-formed in my mind, the answers to which I know I won’t receive. The colors of the village greet my eyes, the bright flowery dresses of yet more village girls making their way down the path, the bright red splash of bricked chimneys, the gaudy yellow of window frames.

Before I turn the bend, I look back at the deck. All the girls are now stooped over, pulling laundry out of their baskets and scrubbing clothes in the river. Only the girl with freckles is standing. Her head is turned sideways but I can tell she is watching me, carefully, from the corner of her eyes. Then she, too, kneels down and tends to the laundry.

* * *

My morning is spent ambling around as if on a casual, relaxed stroll. In fact, my eyes are peeled for … I’m not sure. Something. Anything that seems out of sorts. But it’s all the same—groups of girls settling into their daily chores, carrying bags of flour to the kitchen, watching over the play of a group of toddlers in a playground, hammering away at new cabinetry in the woodwork barn, carrying bottles of milk in the maternity ward to row after row of babies howling in their cribs. When my legs tire, I sit down in the village square and watch all the activity from a bench. Basking in the warm sunlight, I hear the occasional squawk of a low-flying eagle, the chatter of children, the clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen. It’s easy to be lulled into the provincial pace, the warm colors, the honeyed aromas drifting from the kitchen. I can almost understand how Epap and the boys could so easily have the wool pulled over their enchanted eyes.

My thoughts drift to my father. Every cobblestone I step on in this village, I wonder how many times he’d stepped on it; every doorknob I turn, every fork I use, I wonder how many times his fingers touched them. His fingerprints are everywhere here. But invisible. His presence seems to be floating around the streets, his eyes on me, as if he’s trying to tell me something.

By the time Sissy finds me, I’m drowsy and, despite everything, almost content. She’s edgy, sitting next to me with a razor-sharp posture.

“I can’t find the boys,” she says with irritation.

“Did you check the dining hall?” I mumble. “That’s where you’re likely to find Ben.”

“He’s not there.” She sighs. “It’s been like this the whole week. Every day they’re off discovering some new activity in yet another nook and cranny. I can’t keep track of them. Gene, I feel like I’m losing them.”

“They’re fine.”

“I know.” Then in a lower voice: “Are they? Are we?”

I sit up, blinking my eyes into sharpness. “We should ask someone where they are.”

Sissy snorts. “Good luck with that. The girls here don’t answer my questions. They don’t even look at me. Except to shoot me the evil eye when they think I’m not looking, probably because I’m breaking one of their precious bylaws again.”

Right then, we hear Epap shouting with excitement. His lanky body bounds up the path. “Sissy! You’ve got to see this, you have simply got to see this!” His feet kick up a cloud of dust as he brakes in front of us.

“What is it?” Sissy says. “Calm down.”

“No calming down over this, let me tell you,” he says, panting excitedly. He ignores me, not so much as a glance, as his hand clamps down on Sissy’s wrist. “C’mon,” he says, turning and pulling her along.

Sissy pulls her hand away. “I don’t think so.”

Epap turns back, a hurt expression ripping through his face. He shoots a quick look at me, then gazes back at Sissy. “You really need to see this.”

“What?”

“Seriously, it’s amazing. I saw a class of young kids on a field trip. I tagged along. You won’t believe what I saw.”

“Okay, I’ll come, just don’t wrench my arm out of the socket.”

He shrugs his shoulders, starts walking. Every so often, he glances back to make sure Sissy’s still following. He takes us along the meandering path, past the schoolhouse.

“Where are you taking us?” I ask.

He ignores me, walking faster toward the oddly shaped building I recognize from last night. The dark building toward which the elder had carried the bundled newborn. “Epap, what is this building?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.

About twenty young children are queued outside the closed double doors. Two older girls—the teachers?—converse quietly with an elder. All heads turn to us as we arrive.

“You won’t believe what’s in here,” Epap says, wetting his lips.

The elder turns to us as we approach. “Is this a maternity ward?” I ask him.

“Come again?”

“Aren’t newborn babies brought here?”

His face stiffens. “Nothing of the sort. The maternity ward is way back there,” he chuffs, pointing back in the general direction of the village square. “This is the Vastnarium.”

“The ‘Vastnarium’? I saw a newborn being carried here last night.”

His eyes snap to mine. “We don’t discuss births. It’s against the precepts.” He turns away.

I frown. I’m about to ask him another question when the double doors swing open. A stream of schoolchildren, blinking in the light, pours out. Their faces are pale, frightened pictures of alarm, as if they’ve just viewed a horror movie they had no business watching.

“Epap,” I say, “what is this place?”

But he’s too excited, too preoccupied with sidling next to Sissy to listen to me.

The young elder speaks to another elder inside, whispering in hushed tones, occasionally glancing at us. Finally, they nod in agreement, and we’re all corralled in, walking in single file.

The iron-plated doors close behind us, plunging us into darkness. A metallic hum slides across the door, then there’s silence. We’re in, we’re locked in now.

“Do not be afraid, do not be afraid,” Epap whispers somewhere in the darkness, his voice giddy with excitement. “Sissy, this is going to be amazing.”

One of the teachers speaks. “In a moment, the next set of doors will open. It will open up to the small auditorium. Walk carefully; it’s even darker inside there. Sit down on the second row. I will hand you a GlowBurn as you enter; don’t snap it until I say so.” With a clang, the doors open. We all tread in. Something is handed to me and I grab at it. It’s soft, about a foot long, feels like a plastic tube. This must be a GlowBurn.