Strikers by Ann Christy Page B

it safe. My three big buckets of laboriously tumbled stones, the ones I was saving to sell when I turned eighteen and could leave. I have so little else.
    That’s it aside from my memory box, and that’s such a small thing. My few photos and valueless odds and ends are all it contains. I pull out the floorboard under my bed and take it, the last thing I need from my childhood home.
    Back in the living room, I check to be sure she hasn’t stirred but all seems the same. I creep forward and look down at her. Like this, with her face softened in sleep, she looks younger and far less angry than when she’s awake. The lines on her face are smoothed by the dim light and lack of expression.
    I’ve always liked looking at her when she’s like this, though I know she would be angry if she knew I did it. Sometimes, when I know she’s deeply passed out, I talk to her. Then, when I know it’s safe, I talk to her about my day or my worries or just tell her that I love her.
    I do none of that now. I dare not chance waking her by touching her or smoothing back the lock of dark blond hair that has fallen over her eyes. Instead, I walk back the way I came and leave my house for the last time.
    Connor and I make it back to the Courthouse without any fuss, each of us doing our best not to let the bulky bags slap against our legs and bruise the contents within. The small door to the garage, next to the big bay doors for the vehicles, is cracked open and leaking weak light into the street. We step in and find them all waiting for us, even Cassi. Her face is drawn and pale in the light, full of trepidation.
    “Cassi! Why are you here? No one saw you. Go home!” I exclaim, handing my bags off to Maddix.
    Her curls shake along with her head as she says, “I can’t. They’ll come asking and then what will I do?”
    She’s right. Cassi is sweet and kind and never thinks poorly of anyone. I can almost see it. Soldiers with grim faces, maybe even an officer, will come and bang on her family’s door, asking what she knows about her two closest friends. They’ll ask her about yesterday’s meeting with all of us on the side of the canal, in full view of the world. No, Cassi can’t go home.
    “Oh, Cassi,” I say. It’s all I can say.
    The tears run down her freckled face and her chin shakes, but even so, she is resolute. She hugs me tightly and whispers, “It’s worth it. We saved all of them, right?”
    My father comes around the side of the vehicle. His tiny nod says it’s time to go. We pile in except for Maddix, who tries to lift the garage door as silently as possible. Jovan slides in with my father in the front, the rest of us climb into the rear seat.
    The cargo area in back behind us is roomy, as it must be for a prairie jumper meant to take patrols and all the supplies they will need at remote outposts. Right now it’s depressingly empty, our paltry number of sacks barely making a dent in the available space.
    We are utterly silent when my father starts the big vehicle. The only sign that it’s running is the panel of tiny lights populating the dash. That’s one good thing about the electric vehicles. My father eases the jumper out of the garage and Maddix closes the garage door as quietly as he can. Then he jumps in, squeezing Jovan to the middle of the front seat.
    We start along the dark main street, the reverse of the path the prisoners walked just the day before. Everyone is silent, doubtless wrapped up in their own thoughts about what they are leaving behind, what they’re going toward and how things are about to change. Cassi takes my hand and we twine our fingers together, her grip tight and desperate for comfort.
    On my other side, Connor sits still and silent, looking out of the window at the darkened buildings as we sail past and out into the night. I find his hand lying limply on his leg, and grip it in mine.
    He turns from the window and says, “I guess we’re Strikers now, too.” Then he smiles, but his