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of my marks lives, and they want me to get to them all within the time frame, before word gets out and people start hiding from anything that looks governmental. Or anything with a Valor logo. My instructions say that if a debtor runs or I can’t find them within their twelve-hour period, I set fire to the house. Which makes me think of my mom and that stupid, fraying heating pad she sleeps with for her back and how easy it would be for my own house to go up in flames that no one would ever question or investigate. Now that I’m carrying a gun and I know what Valor can do, nothing familiar feels safe.
    She’s why I’m doing this, of course. My mom did a great job of raising me after my piece-of-crap dad left us when I was four, but when the recession hit, it hit us hard. First Bob Beard sent her packing and we were on unemployment. We were even on food stamps for a while. She took a job that was far away and paid less, but the stress really ate at her. Her last job wasn’t awesome, and the insurance was even worse. When she totaled the car on the highway six months ago and spent two weeks in the hospital, it was pretty much the last straw. Now she can barely walk, she’s depressed and addicted to pills, and I’m maxing out my hours at the pizza place just to keep the electricity on.
    Or I was. I told Roy and Jeremy that I had to cancel all my shifts and go out of town for a funeral, but I didn’t mention it might be my own.
    My mom always told me that if you worked hard and paid your dues, you would be happy. A good person. And then, a couple of months ago, she asked me if she could borrow something from my savings and use some of my work money. And to bring home an extra pizza when Jeremy dropped me off after work. She’d always said my work money was my college money, and when she asked for some of it, the wrinkles around her lips quivering, I knew things were worse than she was letting on. But I had no idea how bad they really were.
    Up until two nights ago, I never could have guessed that she was more than $100,000 in debt. That she had taken out a second mortgage. That she had pawned the title to our new piece-of-shit car. That she’d been fired for missing too much work after the car accident—and kept it from me. That under the influence of generic Vicodin, she had done everything they tell you not to do to stay afloat in an economy this bad and had hidden it from me out of shame. My mom had raised me to be humble, determined, hardworking, and tenacious, just like her.
    Turns out that was just a bunch of bullshit.
    And here I am today, seventeen and driving around a repainted mail truck, killing strangers for the megacorporation that now runsmy government. I can’t even begin to grasp what sort of threats, voodoo, and cold, hard cash are behind the fact that everyone in ­America—excuse me, Valor Nation—doesn’t seem to know to whom they are now pledging allegiance. But somehow, Valor has managed to give themselves at least five days of complete radio silence in which to set the new regime in motion by getting rid of the irresponsible scum dragging down the economy with unpaid bills.
    It’s finally open season in America the Beautiful.
    And lucky me. I get to be part of it.

    The representative who came to our door in a black suit like the CIA guys wear in movies was as composed and careful and neutral as a plastic figurine. I was sitting cross-legged on the couch when the doorbell rang, working on a knitted cozy for the flagpole at school, knee-deep in bright yellow acrylic yarn. My mom opened the door, and he scanned the room before walking right past her without being invited inside. He had wires sticking out from his ears and a precision to his haircut and sideburns that made me think they had programmed his hair to grow along a dotted line.
    â€œPatricia Klein?” he said, standing right in front of me, more a statement than a question.
    I was