Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. by Joanne Armstrong Page A

and a little deliberate, and I can tell his leg needs seeing to.
    “Is your leg okay?” I ask.
    “Fine. A scratch,” he dismisses me.
    I roll my eyes in exasperation. I am loathe to waste my precious first aid equipment on someone who won’t admit he needs help, but the calm voice of my inner conscience is reminding me that I owe him one. A dog bite… he’s ignoring that? Seriously ? I shrug the voice off.
    He takes a while at the stream refilling our water canteens, and when he returns a fresh bandage has replaced the stained one. After that he moves more easily, and the tension round his mouth is gone. I smile to myself. Proud to a fault.
    I remove the meat from the carcass and drop it into the pot. After disposing of the waste and washing up at the stream I return to the campfire and take a blanket from my backpack. I also bring out some bread and cheese, both hard as nails and days old, but all that I could bring from the house.
    We eat with our backs to the stone wall, the fire at my front offering a welcome warmth. The sighing from the firs has turned into more of a roar and the wind is beginning to gust. The night draws in quickly and it’s not long before I’m thankful for its light as well.
    He must be considering the mark he saw on my wrist, because as we eat, he suddenly asks, “Are you often sick?”
    “No,” I answer in surprise. It’s the first time he’s shown any interest in me. “No more than anyone else. Why?”
    “You don’t seem to have any problems keeping up. I wondered if your problem was more with catching sick.”
    I shrug. I don’t know, and it’s not something I want to analyse with a Polis soldier. “My Grandad said I must be very strong in order to survive.” A scoffing noise escapes Hayes’s throat, and immediately I feel defensive. “Well, how would you explain it?”
    He flicks his palms upwards. “Luck. Chance. In any case, you’re not what I would have expected.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He shrugs. “Just that I can’t see any weaknesses.”
    I sigh and lean on my knees. “Grandad always told me that there was nothing wrong with me. I thought it was just his way of reassuring me that I was all right, in his eyes. I always hoped there really was nothing wrong with me.”
    He is unwilling to follow this train of thought, but offers a suggestion, “You might be a carrier.”
    Much as I don’t want to discuss my so-called “problem” with him, this is a term I haven’t heard before. “A carrier?”
    “Someone who doesn’t show signs of sickness themselves, but passes it on anyway. They are the most dangerous kind of Unworthy.”
    It’s my turn to scoff, but the sound doesn’t quite make its way from my mouth. I want to find the idea that I’m dangerous ludicrous, but somehow my mind is connecting ideas together and the thought of being a “carrier” and spreading something invisible without showing signs of it myself makes a lot of sense.
    I’m thankful for the darkness because I don’t want him to see my face as I process the thought.
    His curiosity in my status is a refreshing change from revulsion, and feeling bold, I take the opportunity to ask, “Are there many of us? Unworthy?”
    He shrugs, as though it’s not something which he’d given much thought. “There aren’t many in the hubs. Maybe more in some hubs than others, but generally your tradition of exposing sick babies sees to that.”
    “Not my tradition,” I retort, testily. “Are there more in the Polis?”
    “I don’t know. Probably,” he replies, casually.
    “Probably? You don’t actually know?” I feel annoyed at his disinterest.
    At my tone he looks directly at me, and the evasive tone disappears. “Unworthy aren’t visible in the City. We all know they’re there, but they remain unseen.” The words sting, as intended.
    A large raindrop lands on my face. He turns away and begins to organise the campsite, and I move to gather my belongings, relieved to have something