Marie Lu

I’ve wanted to kiss you, Hideo thinks to me, leaning closer, since the night I saw you in that white dress.

My hair, as usual, is tucked inside an old newsboy cap.

“For John. An early birthday gift.” My older brother turns nineteen later this week. He works fourteen-hour shifts in the neighborhood plant’s friction stoves and always comes home rubbing his eyes from the smoke. These goggles were a lucky steal from a military supply shipment.

“A lamp’s lit. Look at those candles. Mom would never waste candles if no one was home.”

. But John’s the only one who knows I’m alive, and he’s promised not to tell Mom or Eden.

Every time they stop at a home, one soldier pounds on the door while a second stands next to him with his gun drawn. If no one opens the door within ten seconds, the first soldier kicks it in. I can’t see them once they rush inside, but I know the drill: a soldier will draw a blood sample from each family member, then plug it into a handheld reader and check for the plague. The whole process takes ten minutes.

They see her now. The soldier with the drawn weapon approaches, while the eleven others stay where they are and look on. One plague victim isn’t much of a threat. The soldier lifts his gun and aims. A volley of sparks engulfs the infected woman.

Like all guns, it has precision, guided by magnets and electric currents, and can accurately shoot a target three blocks away.

But the real problem with having a gun isn’t the expense. It’s that it’s so easy to trace back to you. Each gun has a sensor on it that reports its user’s hand shape, thumbprints, and location.

I’m left with my homemade weapons, PVC pipe slingshots, and other trinkets.