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The time and place comes quicker than expected, as it turns out a lot of the recreational events for Intermediates take place with those from Full. Having already overheard someone saying Marcus has training as a paramedic, I make it a point during a really lame volley ball game to leap towards the net and end up supposedly twisting my ankle in the most painful way possible. I quickly fall to the floor and start to yelp in pain.

“Ow! My ankle! It could be broken! Ow!” I rock from side to side, trying to remember how Hannah acted when she really might have fractured something.

Marcus instantly rushes over, as well as my interventionist Holly. “What happened?” Holly asks, trying to feel my ankle. “Are you okay?”

I pull away from her and writhe around the floor some more. “I need a doctor!” I yelp. “Someone help me, please!”

Marcus bends down and carefully feels my ankle. “There’s no break,” he says calmly. “And I don’t notice any swelling as yet. What say I take you to the benches over there so we can elevate your foot and put some ice on it. Sound good?”

“I should really be the one who…” Holly begins.

Marcus looks at her, his big eyes clear and dark, his eyelashes a woman’s delight. “I don’t think that will be necessary, do you, Holly? Given that I’m the one most qualified to assess the situation and to treat the injury?”

Holly blushes. “I guess so. Okay you two, off to the benches.”

I let Marcus help pick me up, then limp over towards the benches, trying to remember exactly which ankle is supposed to be twisted. Once there, Marcus gets me an ice pack and then puts my ankle in his lap, applying the cold to it.

Just as I’m about to try and come up with something catchy to start the conversation, Marcus begins talking.

“I know who you are,” he says. “And I have to say I don’t really appreciate you or your family trying to get me involved in your shenanigans once more.”

“Shenanigans?” I say, trying to make my face look innocent and young. “I’m afraid I don’t know exactly what you mean.”

Marcus pushes the ice pack harder against my ankle, making me flinch. “Look, all I know is your brother made a promise to me and he obviously broke it.”

“How do you know he broke it?” I ask, trying to pull my ankle away with little success.

“Look, kid, your brother made a promise to me that if I helped him escape he would disappear. And by disappear, I mean that he’d have no contact with anyone, especially family members or nosy little sisters.”

I open my mouth to speak, then shut it again, not knowing what else to say.

Marcus gently lifts my ankle off of his lap and lowers it to the floor. “I’d advise you to keep icing it every two hours for the next six hours or so and then it’ll be as good as new. If you notice any swelling, of course, go immediately to the Nursing Station. Otherwise, you’re good to go.”

“But, wait!” I burst out.

“We’re done here, Sophie,” he says solemnly. “I fixed your ankle, and you’re now fine. We have no more business to figure out together, none. Got it?”

I nod into my chest, my heart pounding, knowing that despite his tough demeanour, Marcus might be someone I can convince to help the Group in the future. After all, he helped one of us before. someone I can’t help but keep in contact with, whether he likes it or not.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I suppose he had a private sort of greatness, but he kept it to himself.

—Herman Mankiewicz

In the days
that follow, I find Jessie and Brendan, but don’t say anything to them, just like I’ve been told. While waiting to meet them, I focus on trying to speak a bit more with Marcus. I can’t stop thinking about the fact my brother owes his life to an interventionist. I observe the rhythm to his days as an interventionist at Full, and try to match some of my steps with his own. Whether our schedules overlap (and they do more often than I would have expected, with our Morning Walk combining with their outdoor time, and our Rec Period shared by the more mobile of the Fulls), I make a point to walk over to Marcus and say hi. Usually he ignores me, pretending to be deeply involved in whatever he is doing, whether it is tying someone’s shoe lace or cleaning up vomit by the basketball net.

After a few days of failed attempts at contact, I finally corner him in a room while he’s putting volley balls into large net bags.

“Hi, Marcus!” I say, coming over to him.

He looks up, startled. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Relaxation Training or something?”

I shrug. “I kind of came to see you instead.”

“Not a good idea, kid.”

“It’s the only thing I can do, Marcus. I have so many questions to ask, and you’re the only one who can answer them!”

“If I answer them, will you leave me alone once and for all?”

I nod.

He sighs, shaking his head. “Fine. If this means you’ll stop following me and stop putting us both at more risk than your kiddie brain can even contemplate, I’ll answer your questions. You have three minutes, so go.”

I sit down on a nearby crate. “I just want to know more about you. About why you’re doing this job.”

Marcus sighs, then pulls up a crate next to me.

Before speaking, he reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a bag of cookies. After taking one for himself, he tosses the bag at me. I pull out what looks like an oatmeal chocolate-chip. My favourite.

Marcus sighs again, then begins. “My parents were Indian, from Mumbai, where they attended a traditional Indian school and were taught to be somewhat suspicious of this new-fangled Western approach to society. Right after they got married, my father was offered a pretty prestigious job in England. There was a lot of civil unrest in India at the time, so my parents both jumped at the chance to move to England. Before getting in, they had to both pledge to raise any children to be Typologists.” He takes a big bite from his cookie and chews. “By the time my twin sister and I were born, my father was a die-hard Typologist.”

“And your mom?”

Marcus puts down his cookie and shrugs. “You need to understand how much she missed her home, her India. It just wasn’t the same in England, with Introverted that and Extraverted this. My mom lasted as long as she could, until the day of me and my sister’s Assessment, actually. Once we were sent to Secondary, that was it. One day she was home cooking in our flat in Bromley, and the next day—poof! She was on her way back to India, gone forever.” Marcus gets a faraway look in his eye.

“Do you ever regret it?” I ask. “Being raised in Typology, I mean. Maybe if you’d all stayed in India, your mom would have stayed with you, too.”

Marcus picks up his cookie again. “Nah. What they had there at the time was much worse. Despite a history of great culture and traditions, there was rampant unemployment and poverty, not to mention a caste system that was hard to break out of.” He sighs. “Typology helps people to understand why others may act differently than they do, why they might want different things. To me, at its purest form, Typology teaches that despite such differences between us, regardless of race, culture, or creed, we are all equal. That’s a belief I can respect.” He pauses. “For all its possible warts, give me Typology any day.”

“I guess so,” I say, taking a bite from my cookie.

“Girl, you’re the strangest little ISTJ I’ve ever met!” Marcus says.

“That’s because I’m not one,” I blurt, before I can stop myself. It feels so good to tell the truth to a regular person, outside of the Group.

Marcus stands up abruptly and takes a step away from me. “Don’t ever say that to me again, do you understand me?” He turns his head left and then right, as if expecting Dr. Anders to appear out of mid-air. “Your three minutes are officially up and any contact between us is permanently over. Got that?”

I nod, lowering my head. Marcus leaves through the open door, slamming it behind him. I’m left still sitting on a crate, holding a cookie. Maybe Marcus is right. Maybe Typology isn’t the problem. Maybe the problem is me. Maybe I am crazy and do belong here, just like the girl who screams out each night for her dead grandfather.
Noah, what should I do now
?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The best thing we can do is go on with our daily routine.

—
Kenneth Elton Kesey

For the next
few weeks I do exactly what Marcus asked and ignore him, spending any free time I’ve got with Jessie and Brendan, with whom I’ve finally started talking.. At first we just said quick hellos to each other, but now it seems natural to have actual brief conversations. All that time, though, I’m aware the adults may be watching. Jessie is in Intermediate like me, while Brendan is finishing his first five week stay at Temporary, supposedly having experienced repeated panic attacks at his Home School that required one round of the treatment protocol. A roly-poly boy who is sixteen but looks more like a young eleven, Brendan wears glasses with thick lenses and is always carrying around a book from the limited Harmony library. Brendan looks like the kind of person who’d walk around a bug on the sidewalk, rather than step on it. Within minutes of meeting him, however, I learn not to judge this book by its cover.

Jessie is seventeen. Her grandparents moved to the States from Japan in order to attend what was the first Typology Secondary schools. Like most of their generation, they quickly believed all they were taught and became converts of all things related to Type. Like me, Jessie’s father is one of the Head members of The Association. For reasons she hasn’t yet shared, Jessie also can’t stand anything Type stands for.

My first chance to have an actual conversation with Jessie without raising suspicion happens when we’re both assigned to sweep out the dorm room. At first we sweep opposite sides of the room, but gradually we move closer and closer to each other, moving piles of dust towards the centre of the dorm.

“Jessie?” I ask, bringing my broom closer to her. “I’m not sure if you know or anything, but I’m Sophie.”

Jessie nods, without smiling. “Yes, I know.”

“Oh, good,” I say. “There’s stuff I need to tell you.”

Another nod. “Have you spoken to Brendan yet? Because he’ll be going back to INFP in less than two weeks.”

“He is? Really? I guess I thought I had more time.”

This time Jessie shakes her head. “He’s been waiting for you to make a move, so I hope you finally have already.”

One of the monitors walks by us, and I sweep more vigorously. “I was told to wait at least a week, but I will today.”

“You better.”

“And he’s an INFP? Really?”

Jessie shrugs. “Are any of us who we seem?” She starts to sweep in another direction, clearly wanting me to stay where I am.
So much for first impressions
.

My first meeting with Brendan goes much smoother. I volunteer to shelve books in the Harmony library, where he spends all of his free time. Within minutes of arriving, I see him in an aisle, looking over the different titles.

“Hi,” I say, pushing my cart of books towards him. “You’re Brendan, right?”

“The one and only,” he says. He turns back to the shelves.

“I’m Sophie,” I say.

He turns to give me a distracted smile, then keeps looking at the books.

In exasperation, I lift up my hair and show him the nape of my neck. “See, it’s me!” I say. “Sophie! Sophie Jenkins, okay?”

He grabs my arm and my hair falls back down. “Never do that again,” he whispers fiercely. “Someone could be watching us!”

I nod. I can feel my cheeks flush with heat. “Sorry.”

Brendan nods. “You just need to be more careful. Always assume someone might be watching, all right?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” He hands me a pile of books to shelf. “What cocktail do they have you on?”

“I dunno. Some kind of tranquilizer? And something called a mood stabilizer? I always cheek them but sometimes I can’t spit them out for fifteen minutes or so.”

“So you’re still getting some of the juice, huh?” He sighs. “How old are you anyway, kid?”

“I’m almost thirteen!” I whisper. “Or I will be, in a few months.”

“Did you know the drugs you’re taking were tested primarily on adults, who had adult bodies and weights? No offense meant.” He sighs again. “I think it was around the time The Association took over that the money being put to mental health drug research was really cut down. You’re being given old drugs, meant for old people. Not a twirp like you.”

“Again, I’m almost thirteen. And besides, you don’t look so old yourself!”

“Are you defending the drugs you don’t even need?” Brendan asks. His voice sounds strong and grownup, so unfitting for his body that it’s shocking. He pushes the book cart towards another aisle. I follow his lead and together we keep shelving.

“No, sorry,” I say. “So, I’m supposed to tell you some stuff that’s been going on. Like that Phase A has now started. Also that my brother James is heading to New York to try and connect with some of the kids there, and my friend Taylor was almost Ended, even though there’s nothing wrong with her other than being afraid of thunderstorms, and…”

“Hold on,” Brendan whispers, raising up his hand. “Are you trying to tell me that if something had been wrong with Taylor Ending her would have been okay? Because it wouldn’t.” His eyes blaze and suddenly I’m afraid of this harmless-looking kid.

“No, I didn’t! I’m sorry! I really didn’t mean that!”

“Shhh,” he reminds me. He lowers his voice a bit more. “My brother was Ended last year, just because he had Down Syndrome. He was a great guy, pretty smart, too. It didn’t matter that my parents went through the procedure so they’d have no more
defective
kids. It didn’t matter that poor Nathaniel himself had to go through the procedure. Nope. My parents sent him to another Harmony in good faith and what happens? The authorities end up killing him. Too expensive to house for taxpayers, I guess.”

When I hear what Brendan is saying, I feel faint and lean against the book cart. Where’s Thomas? What about Thomas?

“The thing that kills me is that my parents would have loved to raise Nathaniel themselves, you know? They were pressured into sending him to a Harmony, told that he’d receive a better education than they could provide. And they missed him so much. Every damn day they missed that kid! But did they have the chance to take him home again when he became too much for the stupid system? Hell, no!” Brendan wipes at his eyes angrily. “The rates of Down Syndrome have plummeted in the last fifty years! It’s a miracle, folks! Ha!” He wipes at his eyes again. “And that, my friend, is why I am part of the Group. Got it?”