Taken by Erin Bowman Page B

will topple in on us. I realize that the frozen river we travel on is actually a road, dark and solid, so opposite our dirt variety. As we travel through the city, the road splits and forks and multiplies, twisting in intricate patterns as cars fly past. There is a long series of silver buckets that hang from cables and whoosh by overhead, their sides scrawled with letters that read trolley . I repeat the odd term in my head, wondering how it’s pronounced. Emma and I don’t exchange a single word; we are too busy gawking.
    Things here are made of materials I have never seen. Lights illuminate the city, their brightness trumping every candle and torch in Claysoot combined. Some cast their brilliance along the road we travel. Others fill the sides of buildings, flashing words and symbols in a frantic manner. And the people: There are people everywhere. Walking. Talking. Coming in and out of buildings. They wear odd clothing and some of the women walk in awkward shoes that appear to be raised beneath their heels. Many carry bags that seem impractical, too large or too small. I can’t stop staring.
    Beyond all the things I don’t understand—the new shapes, sounds, materials—there is one thing I do: the men. They are abundant. There are as many as the women. Some are young—my age or children—but there are old men, too, middle-aged to ancient. They have creases on their faces and gray hair on their heads. They have skin as dry as parchment and eyes that droop, tired. It makes my stomach uneasy but in an exhilarating way.
    We pass more buildings, pausing near an open center where men, dressed in the same black uniform that Marco and his partner wear, stand on a raised platform. There is a golden statue at their backs, shaped like the emblem atop their chests, and an incredibly lengthy line of civilians filling the square before them. Several of the black-suited men hold the same slender objects Marco and his partner carried, only these men point theirs at the crowd. I know the form. They are aiming. At people. The objects they hold are weapons. Behind the statue, a smooth section of an aged building is illuminated with words: Water distribution today. Segments 13 & 14 only. Must present ration card.
    With a lurch, we are moving again and the square slips from view. The next street seems to be the city’s main artery. I have never seen so many people in my life. I think of the struggling community we’d passed earlier and wonder why they couldn’t live here as well, in these immaculate buildings, under this glowing dome. Maybe the city has no more room. Or no more water. The thought is terrifying; Claysoot always seemed to have enough rain, and our lake and rivers never ran dry. Then again, we were only a few hundred people.
    The road squeezes between two towering buildings, both of which are plastered with a repeating piece of paper, climbing up, up, up toward the city’s domed ceiling. A man’s face fills each sheet, staring at us. Resting on his ears and the bridge of his nose is some sort of protective eye gear, its frames thick and black. He wears an odd ribbon about his neck that dangles down the front of his shirt. The visuals cut off at midchest, but the man’s shoulders slouch forward within the frame. He looks delicate and brittle, as though his entire body might crumple from even the slightest breeze.
    “How do you think someone drew those?” Emma asks, pointing at the man. “They are identical. And they look so real.”
    “Maybe it’s not a drawing.”
    We both look back at the maybe-drawings. The words Harvey Maldoon appear beneath each picture. There are several smaller words beneath those, but I can only make them out when Marco brings the car to a standstill and lets people cross the street. “Wanted alive for crimes against AmEast, including sedition, espionage, and high treason; crimes against humanity, including torture, murder, and unethical practices of a scientific nature.”
    Most of the