Pucker Read Free Page B

Within minutes the rag and my mother’s shirt were maroon with blood. Ethan 434 made no offer to help. I untied the package and ripped off the rag. We used the twine to harness the chickens’ feet together and my mother carried them upside down. By the time we got home, they would be drained of their blood.
    â€œLead me out, quickly now,” my mother said.
    Ethan 434 led us into the central courtyard, where we stumbled on a cartload of immigrants who had just arrived from America. Some were propped up on pillows, their arms and legs twisted in unthinkable ways. There was a small bald girl who was so emaciated you could see every bone, and a young woman with no legs. But this wasn’t why I stared, why I couldn’t turn away. It was their gaze. It beat out of them like wings. Was this what my mother had been talking about? Was this what living in a world with love did to you? They looked so alive . My mother and I walked closer to the cart.
    One of the immigrants stuck her fingers out of the cart and wiggled them. “Is somebody there?” she called out.
    â€œI’m here,” my mother said. Their fingers touched.
    â€œI’m scared,” the girl whispered.
    I could tell from her voice that she couldn’t be more than a teenager.
    My mother read her future quickly. “Don’t be.”
    Forecasting her future was something my mother wouldn’t be able to do after the girl was Changed. For some reason, once the Maker had molecularly changed an immigrant’s past, his or her future became unreadable.
    â€œWill I see you again?” the girl asked.
    â€œI don’t think so,” my mother told her.
    Then my mother brought the girl’s fingers to her lips and kissed them. A gasp rippled through the crowd. The Changed had never seen an Isaurian show affection.
    I looked across the clearing and saw a man leaning against a pillar, smoking a cigar. He nodded at me. I pointed him out to my mother.
    â€œHe’s what they call a Host,” she explained. “His job is to guide the new recruits through orientation.”
    â€œBut he doesn’t look Changed,” I said. I was used to the expressionless, subservient Changed who delivered our food and raised our cattle.
    â€œHe’s Changed. But there’s something different about Hosts. Something the Maker does to them, I think,” my mother said. “They’re the Ministry’s watchdogs,” she added with a frown.
    â€œCan I help you?” the Host called out, exhaling a plume of smoke. My heart began to pound its distress. Even though it would draw even more attention to us, I took my mother’s hand and squeezed it.
    â€œNo, thank you,” said my mother calmly. “We got the wrong order. We thought it’d be faster to come and exchange it ourselves.”
    The Host raised his eyebrows and took a step toward us. “There is no such thing as a wrong order,” he said. The crowd dispersed. He squinted, as if he were trying to memorize our faces.
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    When we got back home, it was late afternoon and Cook was sitting at the kitchen table chopping up the plums into tiny pieces. I could tell by the way she slammed the knife down into the cutting board that something was wrong. My mother handed her the chickens silently and disappeared into her bedroom to change her stained shirt.
    â€œWhere have you been?” Cook asked.
    â€œWe went to the Compound. She said she wanted chicken for dinner, not lamb.”
    Cook peeled the plum and handed me the skin. I loved the tart, almost bitter taste. “Who saw you?” she asked.
    I shrugged. I didn’t want to tell her about the Host.
    â€œAnyone from the Ministry?”
    I shook my head.
    Cook put down her knife. “Thomas, you must be very careful.”
    â€œI’m always careful.” I was a cautious boy. I didn’t take unnecessary risks.
    â€œThat’s not what I mean. I know you’re careful.