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Sandy put several drops in her mouth and the bag back in her pocket. “No way,” she mumbled, arranging the pieces with her tongue so she could talk. “I don’t get a lot of what he says, and it creeps me out when he takes his leg off.”

“I’ll try to keep him under control,” I promised, chuckling to myself. As if anyone could control Pops. “Maybe we should go to the zoo. It’s probably the only way we’ll get Mike away from all the new verts downtown.”

“We are going to Gran’s before we meet up with him, right?”

I laughed. We both knew that if Mike came with us, he’d talk Pops into taking his leg off. Mike was fascinated by the prosthesis. “Sandy, it’s just an old GI leg.”

“GI-wha?”

“For the billionth time, microbrain . . .” I tapped her head. “Government issue. Remember back in the 2000s the soldiers were called GIs because everything they had was issued to them by the government? That’s where Pops got his leg after the accident, from the government. He says that’s why it doesn’t work right. It’s cheap. Like something from Megaworld or Sale-o-rama.”

“Hey, come on! These jeans are from Sale.”

“I meant that when rich people get body parts, they get the good stuff, bionic, acts like the real thing.” We both shopped the discount stores, like everyone else who was lower tier. “And,” I added, “I love those jeans.”

Sandy smiled and ran her hands around her waist. “Thanks,” she said. “They fit good, don’t they?”

Her clothes fit her a lot better than mine fit me. As Gran would say, “She’s built like an MK lunar pod.” Which I’m sure is why her stepdad looks at her the way he does.

The men I knew were either crazy, like Pops; half creepy and weird, like Sandy’s stepdad; or mean cheaters, like Ed. He’s Ginnie’s married boyfriend, who also happens to be my little sister Dee’s dad. I had no idea what it was like to have a father, real or otherwise, since mine died the day I was born. All I had was an old photo chip and the stories Gran used to tell me about him. Sandy pulled a mirror out of her purse and fluffed her hair, pouting at her reflection.

“Do I need more lipstick? Mascara?”

“Come on, Sandy, we’re just meeting Mike and Derek—you know, friends.” That’s how I preferred guys, as friends. Any other way freaked me out. Sometimes I wondered if I was some kind of freak myself. Most every girl my age was getting primed for turning sex-teen. I had my reasons for never wanting to have sex. I just didn’t have anyone to talk about my reasons with. Especially not Sandy or Ginnie.

Sandy sighed and put her mirror back. “You never know who might be looking at you.” She gazed longingly across the aisle.

The guy who’d noticed her earlier glanced at me, quickly taking in all the important details. He cocked one eyebrow and licked his lips. I held my breath, scared he was going to speak, but the other guys drew his attention back into their huddle. I exhaled. At least for a few more months I was fifteen—and safe.

It was late September, blue sky, crisp air—not at all typical fall weather in Chicago. I wondered if this was how the country felt, clean and fresh. Sealed up in the express from Cementville to the city, you couldn’t experience it. I glanced at Sandy, doubting she ever gave the weather a thought, unless it mussed her hair or forced her to wear a coat over some new outfit.

“Let’s walk.” I took off down the street, Sandy next to me.

On State Street, the verts were so constant and annoying they bombarded us from every store.
“Get the latest Personal Audio/ Video, virtually invisible in your ear, compatible with any omni-PAV receiver, only $29.95 . . . Visit the Dark Side—moon shuttle special—buy one ticket and a companion travels free, Sunday through Thursday . . . Mars burgers, for a taste that’s out of this world.”

Sandy and I talked via our PAVs so we could hear ourselves over the verts. We were plotting out the day’s events when there was a loud bang, followed by two more. Three trannies had slammed into each other right in the middle of the street. All the other traffic stopped. We clicked off our PAVs. Not one vert was blaring. There was total silence. Which was more jarring than the crash of the accident.

Sandy stared at me, her eyes grew huge. For a moment, I thought she was going to cry. Instead, she whispered, “NonCons.“

Panic clutched at my throat; I glanced around, looking for anyone out of the ordinary, but everyone appeared normal—except for their confused looks. The homeless guy slipping into the alley behind the Media station barely registered in my brain.

A man’s voice spoke through the vert system.
“This moment of silence has been brought to you by the Resistance. In quietness, people can think for themselves. Which is just what the Governing—”

A loud electronic screeching cut off the words, causing half of the people on the street, Sandy and me included, to slap their hands over their ears. A dual trannie squealed up and two men armed with tool kits jumped out and rushed over to the Media station.

Just when I thought I couldn’t take the piercing tone any longer, there was a crackle, and then,
“. . . the End-of-Wars extravaganza sale ends at midnight tonight. Don’t battle for bargains, shop Sale-o-rama, where every deal is a good deal.”

Several police had arrived on the scene. Some were conferring with the Media repairmen while others questioned the drivers involved in the accident. I overheard one of them say,
“
Officer, I don’t know what to do. It was so quiet, all of a sudden like. I figured it was some kind of emergency. So, I hit the brakes . . .
”

Traffic picked back up and Sandy and I clicked our PAVs back on. Passing by the cops, I dipped my head down. Pretending to examine a spot on my jeans, I glanced down the alley where the homeless guy had disappeared. It was empty.

“Two weeks ago, when Mom and I came into town, the same thing happened. Not the accident, but the silence,” Sandy said. “It freaked me out then, too. Mom says it’s happening more often.” She frowned. “Damn NonCons. How dare they say that people don’t think for themselves?”

I wasn’t about to say that I liked the silence, NonCons or not. The constant bombardment of verts really didn’t give anyone a chance to think. Ginnie always taught us that thinking for yourself is the most important thing. When I see how Sandy blindly follows whatever the latest Media-induced frenzy is—I know my mom is right. But it’s hard being the only person who thinks like me. Sometimes I wish I could just be like everyone else my age and not think at all.

We were almost to Gran and Pops’s, so I changed the subject. Pointing across the Chicago River at their building, I said, “The reflection’s pretty cool, huh?”

Sandy barely looked up. “Yeah. That broadcast better not have messed with this.” She tapped the face of her new chronos all-in-one. “Says it’s eleven-thirty, the temperature is sixty-two and we’re on the corner of LaSalle and Wacker.” She squinted up at the street sign. “Guess it’s okay.”

While we waited for the light to change, I stared at the shimmering wall of glass caused by sunlight bouncing off the water. It reminded me of a painting I’d seen on a field trip to the Art Institute.

Inside, the lobby hardly resembled art: subsidized housing for retirees and disability pensioners like Pops; decorated on the blech side of ugly in lifeless beige and gray, standard government building colors. Gran often threatened to make a sneak attack on the lobby with a can of rainbow spray paint just to get some life in there.

I wondered again, like I’ve done all my life, what our lives would’ve been like if Pops hadn’t had that accident. He’d been on his way up tier, on his way to becoming Corporate, before it happened. Everything would be so much different, maybe my dad would even still be alive . . . if only—

“Hey, Nina, what planet are you on?” Sandy tapped my shoulder. “Light’s changed.”

I shook my head back to reality, determined not to let myself get caught up in wishful, impossible thoughts. We hurried across the bridge.

At the entrance, I flashed a cheesy grin into the security panel and put my hand on the auto-recognition pad announcing, “Nina Oberon and guest.” I grabbed Sandy’s shoulders, pointing her face at the panel—she grinned, too.

“Did I tell you last week was Gran and Pops’s anniversary?” I steered her into the revolving door and got in the next compartment. “Thirty-eight years,” I hollered through the glass. Before she could exit, I spun us around a couple more times. We finally whirled out the other side in a fit of laughter. “Most of the time Gran and Pops kind of pick at each other—you know, like those chickens at the zoo.” I picked Sandy’s sleeve and she smacked at my hand, giggling. “But they really love each other.”

“Just because people are married doesn’t mean they’re in love. If Ed loved his wife he wouldn’t be with your mom.”

“Don’t.” I gave her a sideways glance.

“Sorry.”

She knew I hated Ed. More times than I could remember, Ginnie would send me and Dee over to Sandy’s when Ed was coming over. That way we hardly ever saw the full force of his rages. Although I always had a front-row seat for the aftermath. Mostly, I did my best not to think about him. Especially not about him and my mother, together.

“Anyway,” Sandy said, “my mom and dad were in love. I remember how they used to laugh and dance around the house when I was little. Daddy would twirl Mom and then swoop me up with them.” Her face darkened and she jabbed the elport button. “Stupid forays.”

I thought I’d dodged the subject of NonCons after the Resistance’s announcement—guess not. I knew better than to say anything. Sandy’s real dad had been a policeman. When she was five, he and his partner were on a foray in the tunnels under the Chicago River searching for NonCons. Police had been tipped off that there was a pocket of the Resistance living in an underground city hidden in the ancient storm drains. An overflow door got jammed open (on purpose, the Media said) and water poured into the room the cops were in. They all drowned.

Ginnie was sure it was a setup to make it look like NonCons were responsible; she knew they weren’t killers. She might be right, but I’d never say that to Sandy. Besides, Ginnie’s just a cafeteria cashier at Cor-Cem Works, so how would she know something about NonCons that the rest of the world doesn’t?

I’d barely pressed the buzzer when the apartment door swung open and there stood Pops leaning on his crutch—holding the GI leg in his hand. “Damn thing, ain’t good for nothin’!” He waved it in our faces and Sandy shrank back into the hallway.

“Pops.” I lowered his arm and whispered, “Please, don’t, you’re scaring Sandy.”

“Huh?” He stopped brandishing the leg and stared at me, confused. I smiled back, waiting for his brain to catch up with his eyes. It took a second. “Little Bit!” He hugged me as best as he could considering the circumstances.

I took the prosthesis and shook it back at him, grinning. “Little bit more than you.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sandy looking everywhere except at us. I lowered the leg and urged Pops inside. “Let me help you get this on.” Guiding him to his favorite chair, I asked, “What were you doing at the door like that?”

“Foray. Cops all over the building; I thought you were them again.” He eased himself down onto the cushion. “Didn’t have time to get my leg back on.” Pointing at the top of it, he said, “There’s something irritating there.”

There was always something there. The whole leg was just uncomfortable, from what Gran said. I knelt down beside him and brushed off the nonexistent offending particle—then inspected his stump. “Looks good, Pops.” I handed the prosthesis back to him. “There was a vert silence downtown and a Resistance announcement. That must be what the foray’s about.”

“Guess so.” He snorted. “Supposed to be a NonCon in the building. We’re all too damn old to be NonCons.” He jerked the straps of his prosthesis into place. “Not that I wouldn’t be, mind you, if I had the body parts. Someone needs to put the GC in their place. World’s gone to hell in a—”

“Pops, stop.” If surveillance was aimed at the apartment, those cops would be back in a second. Besides, I didn’t want Sandy to hear him go on about wanting to be a NonCon. She was uncomfortable enough around him as it was.

Fortunately, he noticed her still standing in the hall. “Sorry, little missy, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Oberon.” She came inside, but left the door open.

She had on her dutiful face—expressionless with wide eyes. The same one I use when I have to listen to her mother go on and on about her weight and whatever new diet she’s trying. It’s what best friends do—try to ignore the crazies in each other’s family.

“Where’s Gran?” I asked.

“She’ll be right back. Harriet called her after the checker heads left.”

Oh, Pops! Why did he have to insult cops in front of Sandy? He knew about her dad. I snuck a peek; she must not have heard.

“No school today, Little Bit?”

“It’s End-of-Wars Day. We had a choice to take it or Moon Settlement Day off. The class chose today because everything’s still open and there’s plenty to do.”

“Plus”—Sandy finally shut the door behind her—“on MSD we have a big party at school and the AVs tune into our sister school on the Dark Side. My aunt’s a teacher there. It’s the only time I get to see her.”

Pops made a funny half-cough, half-spew sound and grimaced.

He doesn’t think we should have settled the moon, says it’s sacrilegious. I didn’t see anything religious about the moon, or anything else. Religion went out with automobiles, except for people like him and Gran. Sometimes they would go to a tiny church near Grant Park. Gran even reads the Bible. But everyone knows that’s mythology. Although sometimes when I see how good it seems to make Gran feel, I have to wonder if there’s some truth to it.

“I like Moon Settlement Day, too.” I glared at Pops and he averted his eyes, like a little kid who thinks you won’t see him if he isn’t looking at you.