6 Digit Passcode (2 page)

“Maybe we can,” I say softly, and he looks up at me, tears in his eyes. “Someday, I’ll bring you back. I promise. But for right now we need to leave. Do you understand?”

He nods and hums his assent, and I exhale sharply. He is a smart boy. He understands more than he should, and that is not always a good thing.

“Will they come looking for us too?” He doesn’t have to clarify his question any more. I know he’s talking about the Digits who killed our parents.

“I don’t think so,” I answer honestly. “If they wanted us, they could have done something to us while they were here. I don’t think we’re in any danger. We’re safe, at least for now.”

‘Safe’ is a word that has a different meaning now than it used to. It doesn’t mean
happy
, or
free
, or even
content
. It means alive, if only for a moment. Nobody can predict what the future will hold. It’s been nearly a century since the Digits were created, and still we are unable to live in complete harmony with them. If our current way of life continues, I don’t believe that the archaic definition of ‘safety’ will ever re-emerge.

I take one last look around my room before I leave it. Untouched, it will continue to look like it’s frozen in time – like the small girl who lives here will return at the end of the day, put her clothes in the closet, and sleep in the bed. Fray’s room is cleaner than mine, but I expect that it looks much the same. Lived in, worn, comfortable. Our two rooms remain protected from the horrors contained within the rest of the house. I wish I could say the same about the children who own them.

There is a staircase branching off of the end of the hallway that leads to the kitchen. Fray latches onto my hand again and tugs me down until I’m stooping behind him, trying to walk with my back bent uncomfortably. We take the stairs two at a time, our suitcases bouncing along behind us. The air smells fresher the closer we get to the back door, and by the time we are at the bottom of the stairs I can breathe without holding my shirt to my mouth.

The sunlight is warm on my face when we step outside. It was early in the day when our parents were murdered, so I assume it is close to midday now. The breeze in the air chills me, and Fray shivers at my side. It feels colder outside now than it has in the past couple of weeks. I wonder why that is.

There are only a few other people out in the open. It is a Tuesday, so all of the adults are at work, and many of the children, too. Today, I am supposed to be at school with the other kids who do not have work to do, but I don’t care that I’m skipping. Fray is in school, too, but we only go on our days off. When children are assigned jobs – such as picking crops, washing clothes, or cleaning shops – we are allowed a small amount of time away from school. Each of the classes takes turns working so that no one misses any important lessons when they’re working; younger children like Fray have to work less often, but my class has to do it at least twice a week. We still have to complete our homework, but the Digits are lenient about how much we learn. I think it’s because they are afraid that if we learn too much, we will become smarter than they are. I don’t know what they expect will happen after that, though.

People give us odd looks as we pass, and it takes me a moment to realize why. We are both covered in blood, with tears in our eyes, pulling bloated suitcases behind us down the street. Some of them look horrified, but a few of them have sympathy in their faces. Those are the people who can read in our appearances what has happened to us. We have experienced death, and now we are orphans looking for a place to call home.

We walk along in silence, the sound of the wheels bumping along the cement behind us echoing like drum beats. Fray’s hand is cold and impossibly heavy in my own, but I’m too afraid of the distance between us to let it go.

Fray takes a deep breath that rattles when he exhales. “Why did they kill Mommy and Papa?” he asks.

“I don’t know, Fray,” I tell him. It’s the truth, but it hurts like a lie. “They didn’t deserve it, no matter what anybody says. They were good people.”

“Does that mean the Digits are bad people?”

“Maybe,” I say. This is a question I have been asking myself since long before our parents were killed. “Some of them probably are. But some humans are bad too. That doesn’t mean that they all are, though.”

“Our parents were good people,” Fray says, parroting my words back at me. “We’re good people.”

I bump my elbow on his shoulder and smile a little, even though there are tears on my cheeks. The smell of blood has followed us out of the house, clinging to our clothes and skin. I wonder how long it will be before I am able to breathe without feeling like I’m drowning.

Chapter two

When Crissy opens the door, the sequence of emotions that pass over her face is almost too painful to watch. Shock, confusion, realization, sadness, pity. It’s kind of like the five stages of grief, except her parents didn’t die, and I am not experiencing them even though mine did.

I am cold, tired, and bloody. Crissy looks like she’s about to say something, but I let go of the handle of my suitcase and hold up my hand. Her eyes travel from my stained fingers down the sleeves of my ruined sweater, and she clamps her mouth shut tightly. She pulls the door open wider and motions for us to come inside, shutting and locking it behind her after we do.

“Everly, what’s going on?” she hisses as soon as the lock clicks into place. “Why are you covered in
blood
?”

Crissy has been my friend for as long as I can remember, but I don’t think we would have gotten along half as well if our parents hadn’t also been friends. Crissy’s attitude is a little harsher than mine, and even though her family is just as poor as mine, she is an only child and is used to being spoiled. She is sixteen years old – just one year older than I am – and she fluctuates between trying to act like an adult and behaving like a rotten toddler. But she is kind to me and Fray, and I know that if I was in trouble she would go to great lengths to defend me. That’s why we’re here.

I swallow down a lump in my throat and say, “Our parents.”

That is all I need to say. From the look on her face, Crissy understands what I mean. Her eyes are wide, and she leans against the doorframe heavily.

Crissy is just a little bit taller than I am, but that’s mainly because I am short for my age. She’s curvier than I am, too – where I am wiry and thin, puberty has given Crissy hips and breasts and thighs that catch the attention of all of the boys at school, and some of the girls as well. Her hair is flaming red and curly, hanging down her back and bunching at her shoulders, and her eyes are brown like mine, but a much lighter, softer shade. I have always envied that about her.

“Both of them?” Crissy asks, whispering like she expects that if she talks softly enough, Fray won’t hear her.

I nod. “The Digits. Two of them. They came for my mother, but my father got in the way.”

“How did you get out?”

Fray takes a step closer to me and presses his cheek against my leg. “They left,” I say. “We hid, but I know they saw us. I… I blacked out, and when I came to, they were gone.”

Crissy looks me up and down again, more thoroughly this time, and her eyes linger on my right shoulder. I follow them with my own, and my stomach lurches.

“Oh my gosh, Everly, you’re
bleeding
.”

I gingerly touch the edge of the piece of metal in my skin and wince. When I pull my fingers away, there is fresh, wet blood on their tips. Once the flood of adrenaline leaves my body, the pain and dizziness that replaces it may be enough to make me pass out again.

“It’s fine,” I breathe. “I’m okay. I just need… um… If we could just stay here for a couple of days…”

I feel winded. I turn and press my back against the wall, slouching forward to catch my breath. Fray follows the motion and settles beside me with his arms wrapped around my leg.

“Of course!” Crissy says immediately. “You don’t even need to ask. You can stay as long as you want.”

“Thank you. You’re sure your parents won’t mind?”

She smiles. “God, no. They love you. And if you’re so worried about it, my mom’s home. You can ask her right now.”

Crissy’s mother is one of my favorite people, second only to my parents and Fray. Crissy is a good person at heart, but her mother is a wonderful individual both inside and out. Crissy inherited most of her looks and personality from her father – the only parts of her mother I can see in her are her curves and her soft brown eyes.

“Laundry day?” I guess, and Crissy shakes her head.

“Sewing,” she answers. “Close enough, though.”

Most of the women who are given the tasks of doing the laundry of their neighbors or stitching up tears and imperfections in their clothing choose to do so in their own homes. This explains why Crissy is here instead of in class, where we all should be – she is helping her mother sew, meaning that today is her day to work instead of go to school.

Sewing is a skill I have not been able to master. My mother spent most of her days working in the fields with my father, so she never had time to properly teach me. But I am good at laundering clothes and cleaning shops and houses, so when I’m not helping my parents with their jobs I am usually doing one of those things. Fray helps when he can, but the Digits don’t usually make children his age work very often. When he is older, if he’s strong enough, he will probably become a soldier. Our father was never strong enough, and I’m certain that I’m not, either.

Crissy leads Fray and I to the spare bedroom – which is really just a small room off of the main hallway with a folding mattress laid out in the middle – and tells us to make ourselves comfortable. We set our suitcases next to the bed, and make our way to the bathroom down the hall to clean ourselves off.

My entire body feels dirty, even though most of the blood is on my clothes. I wash my hands in the sink, watching the water turn red and splash onto the sides of the basin, and furiously scrub my face with a washcloth. Fray has stains behind his ears and under his chin, and I do my best to wash them off, but they leave ghostly light marks on his dark skin even after they are gone.

My hair is filthy, but I don’t want to ask Crissy if I can bathe just yet. Maybe tonight, if I’m feeling more comfortable. For now I run water onto my hands and smooth them through my hair, shaking out as much blood and grime as I can.

Fray and I peel off our dirty clothes and set them aside. I don’t know if we can wash them or not, but I didn’t bring so many items of clothing with me that I can afford to toss them out without at least trying to clean them. I pull on a burgundy jumper and a sweater that hangs over my hands, and even though the blood is gone, I still don’t feel clean.

Crissy’s mother, Roma, greets us as we leave the bathroom. There are pins stuck in the hem of her dress, and a spool of thread poking out of her pocket.

“I’m so sorry, my dears. Crissy told me about your parents.”

She pulls us both into a hug, her hands around our necks and her chin resting on the top of my head. I can feel a pin poking into my leg.

“You’re injured! You poor child…” she says, running her finger over the shard still buried in my shoulder; the metal is poking out against my sweater, and already it has begun to bleed into the fabric. I flinch before I can stop myself. “Come into the living room. I’ve got a first aid kit in the bathroom. I’m no doctor, but I’ve handled my fair share of injuries having such a clumsy daughter.”

Crissy shoots her mother a look that makes a laugh burn in the back of my throat. I may not be very good at working, but Crissy is far worse. She still hasn’t found something she can do that doesn’t cause some kind of injury – to herself or to the equipment she is working with. Right now, I can see two bandages on her fingers, and I assume she’s already had some difficulty sewing today.