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There’s a ton of shit I want to throw at them, but I doubt the three sheets of paper will ever be enough to take all that ink.
 

I decide for one word.

Farewell

Something tells me Mother will appreciate that there’s absolutely nothing between the lines.

Katvar is fidgeting in the snow, kicking at it with his fur-lined boots while the dogs dance around him. I walk up to him, hoping he isn’t going to run away like he did every time I went outside to learn more about dog handling. Once, I’d asked him if he could tame adult wild dogs. He tipped his head and frowned, shrugged and laughed his odd throaty, huffing laugh. Then he disappeared, always with that knife gripped tightly and a tiny thing he hid the moment I approached.

Today, though, it seems as if he wants to tell me something. Both his hands are dug deep in his trouser pockets. His lower lip is pushed out a little. I wonder if he’s mad at me. Last night, he put on his darkest expression when everyone was crammed into the council’s meeting room, and we thanked them for saving our lives and announced that we’d be leaving in the morning.
 

 
The dog people — men and women with long hair that seems to melt into their fur coats — already knew. Rumour spreads faster than a dog fart, the saying here goes. When suspicions were confirmed, food and drink were carried in and cooked in two large fireplaces. Snowflakes melted on shoulders and hair, and the room began to fill with wet-dog smell, only to be replaced by rich scents of fried deer, smoked sausage, melted butter, warm bread, and baked potatoes. When I finished eating and tipped the dregs of my beer into my mouth, I noticed that Katvar was gone.
 

Now, the morning sun shines in his face and softens his unyielding features.
 

‘Hey, Katvar.’

He points his chin to the west, as if he needs to go somewhere. What is it about me that makes him want to run away as soon as he sees me? I’ve been unfriendly, yes. But he ran a rifle into my face; what does he expect? ‘I just want to say goodbye, didn’t want to disturb you,’ I mutter.

He shakes his head until the bobble on his cap is wiggling. His finger points at me, then at himself, then to the west. ‘We walk?’ I ask.

Yes!
he nods.

‘Okay. But Runner wants us to leave in an hour…’

Katvar looks at his boots, shrugs as if to shake off my comment, then walks ahead to find the exact same tree stump Runner and I were sitting on several days earlier to discuss disease in dogs and humans. He plops down and pats the small space next to him. This is the closest I’ve been to the man since he ran the butt of his rifle against my skull.
 

We sit together and say nothing because he can’t, and I hate to be the only one talking. I don’t have much to say anyway. The sun glitters in the snow, and the dogs are playing, yapping, and running circles around us. Katvar doesn’t move, so they eventually give up and lie down, eating snow to cool their bodies.
 

Exhaling a large white cloud, he clears his throat and extracts both hands from his pockets. One is balled up; the other rests on his leg. He holds out his fist to me.

I open my hand and something white and small drops on my palm. A leather string is attached to it. I pick it up.
 

A shiny and intricately carved white dog smiles up at me. ‘Beautiful,’ is all I can say as my chest clenches. I gaze at him, and he taps at his teeth.

‘It’s a tooth?’

He nods.

‘A dog? No, too large.’ I squint at Katvar. He curves both index fingers and holds them to the corners of his mouth, fingertips pointing upwards.

‘Wild boar,’ I say, and he smiles happily, then nervously before he looks away.

‘Thank you, Katvar,’ I whisper. ‘But if you think I’m angry at you because of the—’

He cuts me off with a slashing movement of his hand. He gestures at my forehead, the fading bruise, and shakes his head. Then he touches his heart. Oh shit. And he touches mine.

I gulp.

He looks away.

‘I’m leaving,’ I remind him.

He slips his hand into mine.

‘I’m leaving,’ I say again, softly.

He looks at me, tips his head in his usual slightly amused Katvar-way, and dips his finger to my lips. Then he lets go, stands, and walks away.

———

Runner doesn’t ask why I keep turning my head and looking back. The village is growing smaller. Our packs are heavy, loaded with lots of dried meat, nuts, and fruits. The dog people rarely experience food shortage. They are excellent hunters and have a lot to share, they told us when they placed two large bags of supplies next to our rucks.

I touch the small dog at my neck, remembering how cold it was when I put it there. Cold like the snow, where Katvar and his dogs play. My skin warms it now.

‘Should you decide on an apprenticeship, you’ll have to say goodbye a lot,’ Runner says without turning to me.

‘I’ve long decided.’

He stops, looks down at me, and holds out his hand. ‘The letter.’

I take it out of my inner coat pocket and he slips it into his, marching on as if nothing had happened.

‘Runner!’ I call to him. ‘What will we be doing in the next seven years?’

‘I’ll tell you once we’ve arrived in the city and I’ve dropped off your letter.’

‘Dammit, Runner! You try very hard to piss me off.’

‘Yes.’ And on he trudges, as if we’d just conversed about the weather.

———

The skyline — a jagged shape, dotted with hundreds of lights, a sharp contrast to the dark evening sky. I’ve never seen anything like it.

‘Where does all this energy come from?’ I ask.

‘There’s solar paint on all roofs and outer walls, and a large river driving several turbines to supply power for the industry.’

‘Industry?’

‘They make steel, a variety of metal alloys, magnets, and they manufacture parts and machines. Anything from the blade of your knife to parts for a train, for example.’

I walk faster. ‘Can we look at it? The industry? And…um.’ I scratch my head where the woollen cap itches my scalp. ‘Who grows food for all these people?’

‘No time for sightseeing, Micka. The food is produced mostly by farms along the south bank of the river. They make good wine there.’ He shows me a grin.
 

‘I had a sip of plum wine once and it tasted like vinegar,’ I say. The memory makes an acrid appearance at the back of my throat.

‘Then it was most likely just that. Wine making is an art. Very few who drink it know how to make it.’ He’s walking faster now, as if he can already taste it.

‘What about the water? We must be at sea level. Why are they not sick?’ I stop walking. ‘Or are they?’

‘No, they aren’t. The hydropower plant provides energy for the waterworks where groundwater is filtered through a multitude of membranes. Each household has ultraviolet lights installed at their taps to fry the DNA of all bacteria and viruses.’

My mind cannot comprehend the luxuries: safe drinking water, the lowlands’ fertile soil, energy to light up the night sky. Do these people even know what hunger means?
 

‘Why don’t we all live like this?’

‘Are you envious, Micka?’

‘Umm…maybe.’

‘I’m pretty sure that you don’t want to live like this.’ He claps my shoulder and urges me forward. ‘There’s a reason they keep that gate locked. The city is a stronghold. It even has artillery to keep the outskirts safe.’

‘They have a what?’

‘You’ll see.’

He pulls out the SatPad, logs in, and sends out our IDs long before we arrive. The city appears like a massive block. The closer we get, the more details I can make out. A black wall, about ten metres tall, looks as if it holds the many buildings inside captive. A shiny steel gate is hugged by two stone towers. I feel ant-sized.

Beams of light blind us and I stop automatically. ‘Keep walking,’ Runner warns.

‘Your names,’ someone barks from above.

‘Runner McCullough and Mickaela Capra. We sent our IDs an hour ago.’

That’s the first time I hear his family name. McCullough…it sounds oddly familiar. ‘Runner?’ I whisper.

‘Later. Walk through the gate. Don’t speak.’

A bang and the gate creaks open. Two men stand on either side, pointing large rifles at us. The same kind Runner warned me about. If I truly listened to him, I would have to run and hide now. What a circus.

I avoid eye contact and silently walk past the guards. ‘Mr. McCullough.’ One of them nods at Runner. ‘The rooms are prepared.’

‘Thank you.’

Runner indicates the row of weapons sitting idle atop the wall. They look like large versions of the rocket launcher I saw in the train. ‘Wall-mounted defensive artillery,’ he says.

We’re passing through streets and alleys, and with each step, terror seeps in and makes my knees wobbly. Faces of demons have been hewn in stone pillars, walls, and pavements. Death can be seen at every corner — a cloaked statue, sometimes holding a scythe, sometimes an enormous axe. I thought that stuff was banned.
 

Every single person we come across carries a weapon. No one talks to us, but I think I spot occasional flickers of recognition when they see Runner’s face.

‘This way,’ he says, pushing me through a door and into a building. We walk up several flights of stairs. Then he knocks at a door. A woman opens.

‘Runner, finally! And who’s this?’

‘Regina, this is Micka,’ he says and enters without waiting for an invitation. ‘I have to leave, but I’ll be back soon. Your letter will be dispatched in a few minutes. Are you certain about this, Micka?’

‘Obviously. Send the damn thing.’

He leaves without a word. He must be enjoying this superhero show. What a letdown it will be once he can’t do his “Oh, it’s so dangerous, I can’t tell you” shit anymore.

I look at the woman and wonder if she’s one of Runner’s flings. My eyes can’t help but search for kids’ toys. But the apartment seems free of knee-biters of all ages. Then, I remember he said he has a contraceptive implant. He must have received it after he met Kaissa. Otherwise, Ezra wouldn’t exist. I guess I’ll get one soon; maybe here in this city?

‘Are you his apprentice?’ she asks.

I turn around. Am I? Theoretically, yes. But practically, not yet. I nod anyway, because that’s simplest.

‘I’m Regina.’

‘Yes. Hey. I’m Micka.’ I hold out my hand, but seeing how dirty it is I quickly withdraw it.

‘Would you like to take a bath?’

I gape. ‘Can you afford it?’

She pulls up her eyebrows. ‘Of course, everyone can,’ she says, turning on her heels and disappearing into what must be the bathroom. Soon, I hear the opening of a tap and the splashing of water.

I drop my backpack, my coat, boots, shawl, mittens, and hat. Everything appears so dirty in this clean place, I’m ashamed. Regina returns with a large basket. ‘Give me all your clothes and I’ll get them to the cleaners. You can wear the nightgown and the bathrobe. It’s all in the bathroom. Fresh towels, too.’

I pull all my dirty shirts, pants, underwear, and socks from the backpack and place them in the basket. ‘There’s a lot of blood on Runner’s sleeping bag,’ I tell her.

‘I’ll get his things cleaned when he’s back. The tub should be full now. Go ahead. I’ll fix dinner soon.’

‘Thank you,’ I mumble and enter the bathroom, undress, push my dirty clothes through the door, and lock it.
 

A large mirror startles me. I look like a savage. Every inch of my body is dirty. The dog people weren’t much for washing. They smelled like their dogs, and so do I. Or of fox den, I’m not sure.

The bathroom is warm, full of steam and soapy scents. I close the tap and stick my feet in the water. Oh…wonderful! I slide under water, close my eyes, and pinch my nose. My stomach gurgles, my heart thumps. I hear Regina’s heels clacking down the stairs. And I hear muffled conversations, maybe in a room below me. Runner’s voice is nowhere to be heard. I surface and begin scrubbing my skin. The layer of dirt is hiding my scars, but the brush peels it off and reveals pink lines cutting through freckles. I’ve never seen anyone with such a fly-shit pattern and sometimes I wonder if it’s a disease I contracted. The fly-shit disease.

Anyway, I can’t scrub them off, so there’s no use in discussing the issue with myself or anyone else. Besides, if the freckles were to magically disappear overnight, I’d still have scars all over my arms, chest, and thighs. Dots and lines. Dots and lines. Like a code.

———

Runner returns when the table is set and spicy odours are wafting off our dinner. The man reeks. I only notice it now that I’m all washed and polished. So that’s how much I’ve stunk. Impressive.

Regina and he are absorbed in small talk while I rest my brain and eat all I can. The stew is delicious. I have no clue what it is, but I could totally eat the whole pot.

‘What’s the white stuff?’ I ask, suppressing a belch.

‘River mussel.’ There’s pride in her voice, her cheeks are glowing. ‘From our new aquaculture plant. We grow fish, mussel, crayfish, and algae in purified river water. The animals are eaten, the algae used to make fuel.’