Chapter 8: The Wire

"Open the gate," I said.

The old salvage man looked at me. "You sure?"

"Just the outer one. He doesn't come past the yard."

They rolled one bus chassis back on its chain.

My uncle limped into the dirt yard between the two walls.

I climbed down the ladder.

Brand came down right behind me without being asked. He stopped three steps back.

My uncle reached for me with both arms.

"Sweetheart. Thank God."

He smelled of cologne and nerves, just like the morning of the champagne.

"They came to the flat at night," he said into my hair. "Two collars."

"They said I'd sold them a bad pairing. They said next time they'd break my hands."

"Who said?"

"Perrin. His mother." He pulled back and held my face.

"Come home. Say the bond was a mistake. They'll forgive both of us."

I looked at the cut over his eye.

It was very neat for a beating.

I put my thumb on the bruise along his cheekbone and pressed.

He flinched. But he didn't flinch enough.

When I took my thumb away, there was purple on it.

I held it up so the wall could see.

"Stage paint," I said. "The Institute drama club uses it. I did a season."

Somebody up on the wall laughed.

My uncle's face went still.

"Ember, I don't know what you think..."

I took his right wrist.

His shirt cuff was buttoned tight. I unbuttoned it.

He tried to pull away. Brand took one step forward and my uncle stopped pulling.

Around his wrist, under the cuff, was a thin black Registry band with a green light in it.

I knew that band.

In the ward, in my first life, the collars who guarded my door wore them.

Everything they heard went straight to the Director's office.

"Who's listening, Uncle?"

He didn't answer.

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