The Dark and Hollow Places Read Free Page A

sleepless night standing on the roof of my empty building waiting for dawn. I stared at the few remaining lights flickering in the skyscrapers along the bottom edge of the island and tried tofind the strength to leave it behind. Elias fought so hard for our flat in the Dark City, scraping together the exorbitant rent just for the promise of safety, and I feel wrong abandoning it.
    What if he comes home tomorrow and I’m not here? What if he’s just over the edge of the horizon, dreaming of me, fighting his way back to me?
    But then I remember that woman. Her falling through the air. If I only had a few days left to live would I spend them like her, huddled on a roof, waiting for a stranger to stumble upon me?
    And the answer is no.
    By the time I arrive at the Palisade wall it’s early afternoon. No one challenges me as I make my way through the series of gates separating the Dark City from the Neverlands. It’s only those coming the opposite direction—those trying to gain access into the Dark City—they care about. People leave every day.
    The journey through the Neverlands is uneventful as I stick to the well-traveled avenues, keeping safe in the crush of people scurrying about. Streets of broken buildings spread out around me, dark alleys with sinister promises that I walk past gripping my knife tightly, promising a fight if anyone tries to mess with me.
    There’s already a line at the bridge when I arrive in the late afternoon, the process of leaving the island a slow and sometimes arduous one. No one meets my eyes. No one glances at me or cares, even when they brush past to shove their way forward, knocking against me as if I’m invisible. It’s easiest when I keep my hair pulled over my face, my head tilted forward as if I’m examining the ground.
    My scars make me stand out—they mark me as a distinctindividual, and I’ve learned well enough that it’s better to stay inconspicuous, especially since the Rebellion. The Recruiters like to make examples of people, and their methods have grown crueler and harsher day by day. It used to be their cruelty was a form of keeping order, but now with the Protectorate no longer around to hold them in check, it seems more like some sort of sick pleasure.
    I’ve heard rumors of Recruiters enslaving women who catch their eye and taking anything that isn’t theirs. There have been even worse murmurings: black-market dealings in the dead, people disappearing, heads staked throughout the City as proof of Recruiter power. Things I choose not to contemplate but that have convinced me to avoid causing trouble as much as possible.
    Around me people shuffle anxiously. Some of them carry bags and one or two push a cart piled with crates. Those are the ones I try to stay away from—they’ll only attract attention from the Recruiters interested in looting, and there’s no one to stop them.
    The main bridge spanning the river between the Neverlands and the mainland is cut into sections by thick metal walls, each with two doors: one for those leaving the island and one for those entering. Running along the center of the bridge is a metal fence separating the coming from the going. A bell rings, the doors slide open and people pool from one lock into the next, and then the doors close and we wait, trapped in a pen until the bell signals again.
    People push past me, elbows digging into my arms and back. I’m wearing most of the clothes I own: thick trousers under a skirt, three shirts layered over one another and a worn coat hanging down to my thighs. A small pack holdingmy old quilt rests against my lower back, and I’ve tucked my knife against my hip. I was afraid anything else I packed might be taken. The layers of clothing make my skin slick with sweat as the sun beats down, the day unseasonably warm for winter.
    The door to the next airlock slides open and a man steps in front of me as I start walking through. He knocks me back and just as I catch myself from falling, palms