Sparks Rise

When I first got here, I panicked at how little time there was to find Mia and get her out, but the swift guilt that came with the thought of having to leave the others boiled the contents of my stomach. But, now that I’m here, I am so damn elated that these kids are getting out, no matter the circumstances. Nowhere in the world is worse than this camp. No place as damp, cold, and filthy. I think the sun has forgotten this place exists.

“Put her down,” Olsen says sharply. I can’t drop her, but I can’t set her down with the care I want to. Sam slumps forward on her hands and knees at the center of the old kennel. Olsen cuts the restraints on her wrist. I’m actually stupid enough to think, This could be worse.

“You know where to go.” It takes a second to realize that she’s talking to Sammy, not me. She tries to get up onto her feet, but pitches forward, off-balance. My body instinctively moves toward her. Olsen holds out an arm, blocking me—she watches, her face void of anything resembling emotion as Sam crawls toward the cage at the center of the bottom row. I don’t want her so close to it—the pile looks unstable, one small knock away from crashing down. The movements are stiff and agonizingly slow as she struggles forward. She doesn’t stop.

She hesitates a moment, then pulls the door open.

She crawls inside.

I am in shock.

I am...

Fire is calling my name. It is whispering words of encouragement, sweet things. It wants out, for me to fan the heat until it’s a vortex that can’t and won’t be stopped. Olsen’s back is to me, and there’s no power feeding the camera in the upper corner of the room. It becomes an option, a real one, to turn her, this place, to ash. I think I can overpower even the storm outside.

“You deserve this for provoking him. He—” Olsen catches herself before another word can slip out. She hooks a padlock through the crate’s door. Sam inches back, along the metal interior. The crate is just big enough for her to sit up with her back hunched over her knees. It’s as far as she can get from this woman, her dirty lies and accusations. “Don’t come into the Factory with your face clean. I will find you a larger uniform. Don’t look at him, don’t act like you want it. He will leave you alone if you stop tempting him.”

This has happened before. Maybe not to Sam—maybe to a different girl. Many different girls? I’m surprised I’m not glowing in the dark. The pain in my head, in my chest, makes me sway.

“He likes your hair, I think,” Olsen says, almost more to herself than to Sam. “That’s easy enough to take care of.”

Sam doesn’t look up. Just nods. What choice does she have? This is a place that turns beautiful things into shadows. They’ll cut off her hair and the traces of sunshine in it. They’ll rough her up, make her harder, uglier, skinnier, instead of solving the real problem.

Olsen stands up, kicks at the door one last time to test it, and then turns back to me and inclines her head toward the exit. I set my jaw and follow, pressing my arms against my sides to hide the involuntary jerk my left shoulder gives. Shit. Twice in a single day. I need to cool it.

Just as I think she’s going to force me to leave with her, she turns her back toward the crates and murmurs, “Stay here until notified by Control that surveillance is operational, then return to your assigned posting.”

I don’t have to leave her here alone. I don’t know who to thank for tossing me this life ring of mercy, so I settle on God. Olsen waits for my curt nod before opening the door and ducking out into the storm, letting the door slam shut behind her.

For the first time in seven years, there is no one watching me. There is a camera in the corner of the room, but if the power is out in this craphole, what are the chances it’s feeding out to Control Tower? The weight bearing down on me from all sides pulls back, and I feel boneless as I lean forward against the door and press my hands against my face. I don’t want her to see me on the verge of losing it.

Minutes pass before a soft sound reaches my ears. I spin on my heel, mistaking it for moans of pain. But it’s...there’s a melody. It’s raw, carried out on uneven breaths, but she’s humming. The words come to me, rising up through bleak memories. I know this. He’s got the whole world in His hands, He’s got the whole world in his hands, He’s got the whole world in his hands. How many times did we sing this in Sunday school while kicking each other under our table?

I step closer and see her shaking, her whole body. From the cold, from exhaustion, from pain, it doesn’t matter. She tries to smother it by curling up tight, but her breath hitches and I know she’s trying as hard as she can not to cry. She’s fighting fear itself with both hands tied behind her back.

I know it’s not actually meant for me when I shuffle forward again, and the song dies on her lips. She looks up just as I crouch down, dark eyes flashing uncertainly. I brace myself for this. If she doesn’t remember, then—I shake my head.

“This little light of mine,” I sing softly into the silence. “I’m gonna let it shine...”

Her breath catches again, but the look on her face hardens and her words come out in a snarl. “If you’re making fun of me, you can go to hell with the rest of them.”

She doesn’t remember. It’s pathetic how my heart gives a painful jerk. I force a small smile on my face, which only deepens her scowl. “The last time I made fun of Sammy Dahl, she beaned me with a sword and almost knocked me out of a tree.”