"Learning how to think in the midst of fear," he says, "is a lesson that everyone, even your Stiff family, needs to learn. That's what we're trying to teach you. If you can't learn it, you'll need to get the hell out of here, because we won't want you."
"I'm trying." My lower lip trembles. "But I failed. I'm failing."
He sighs. "How long do you think you spent in that hallucination, Tris?"
"I don't know." I shake my head. "A half hour?"
"Three minutes," he replies. "You got out three times faster than the other initiates. Whatever you are, you're not a failure."
Three minutes?
He smiles a little. "Tomorrow you'll be better at this. You'll see."
"Tomorrow?"
He touches my back and guides me toward the dormitory. I feel his fingertips through my shirt. Their gentle pressure makes me forget the birds for a moment.
"What was your first hallucination?" I say, glancing at him.
"It wasn't a 'what' so much as a 'who.'" He shrugs. "It's not important."
"And are you over that fear now?"
"Not yet." We reach the door to the dormitory, and he leans against the wall, sliding his hands into his pockets. "I may never be."
"So they don't go away?"
"Sometimes they do. And sometimes new fears replace them." His thumbs hook around his belt loops. "But becoming fearless isn't the point. That's impossible. It's learning how to control your fear, and how to be free from it, that's the point."
I nod. I used to think the Dauntless were fearless. That is how they seemed, anyway. But maybe what I saw as fearless was actually fear under control.
"Anyway, your fears are rarely what they appear to be in the simulation," he adds.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, are you really afraid of crows?" he says, half smiling at me. The expression warms his eyes enough that I forget he's my instructor. He's just a boy, talking casually, walking me to my door. "When you see one, do you run away screaming?"
"No. I guess not." I think about stepping closer to him, not for any practical reason, but just because I want to see what it would be like to stand that close to him; just because I want to.
Foolish, a voice in my head says.
I step closer and lean against the wall too, tilting my head sideways to look at him. As I did on the Ferris wheel, I know exactly how much space there is between us. Six inches. I lean. Less than six inches. I feel warmer, like he's giving off some kind of energy that I am only now close enough to feel.
"So what am I really afraid of?" I say.
"I don't know," he says. "Only you can know."
I nod slowly. There are a dozen things it could be, but I'm not sure which one is right, or if there's even one right one.
"I didn't know becoming Dauntless would be this difficult," I say, and a second later, I am surprised that I said it; surprised that I admitted to it. I bite the inside of my cheek and watch Four carefully. Was it a mistake to tell him that?
"It wasn't always like this, I'm told," he says, lifting a shoulder. My admission doesn't appear to bother him. "Being Dauntless, I mean."
"What changed?"
"The leadership," he says. "The person who controls training sets the standard of Dauntless behavior. Six years ago Max and the other leaders changed the training methods to make them more competitive and more brutal, said it was supposed to test people's strength. And that changed the priorities of Dauntless as a whole. Bet you can't guess who the leaders' new protégé is."
The answer is obvious: Eric. They trained him to be vicious, and now he will train the rest of us to be vicious too.
I look at Four. Their training didn't work on him.
"So if you were ranked first in your initiate class," I say, "what was Eric's rank?"
"Second."
"So he was their second choice for leadership." I nod slowly. "And you were their first."
"What makes you say that?"
"The way Eric was acting at dinner the first night. Jealous, even though he has what he wants."
Four doesn't contradict me. I must be right. I want to ask why he didn't take the position the leaders offered him; why he is so resistant to leadership when he seems to be a natural leader. But I know how Four feels about personal questions.
I sniff, wipe my face one more time, and smooth down my hair.
"Do I look like I've been crying?" I say.
"Hmm." He leans in close, narrowing his eyes like he's inspecting my face. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Even closer, so we would be breathing the same air-if I could remember to breathe.