smaller and somehow transparent.
The dark-haired, beetle-browed boy sang quietly to himself as he climbed up and swooshed off the
slide over and over again. His nose ran, and every time he mounted the stairs he'd wipe the snot with the
back of his hand, then wipe his hand on his greasy corduroys. When he tired of the sliding board, he
sauntered over to the swings to pump and pull himself into the clear blue sky. His blank expression never
changed, and the song under his breath never faltered. I watched him for nearly an hour, and in that
whole time, he expressed absolutely no emotion, content to play alone until his mother came. A thin smile
creased his face when she arrived, and without a word he jumped down from the swing, grabbed her
hand, and off they went. Their behavior and interaction baffled me. Parents and children take such
everyday moments for granted, as if there is an endless supply.
Had my parents forgotten me completely? The man who cried after me that long-ago morning
surely had been my father, and I resolved to go see him, my mother, and my baby sisters one day soon.
Perhaps after we had ab-ducted the poor misfortunate bastard from the playground. The swing stopped,
and the early June day faded. A swallow appeared, chasing insects in the air above the iron bars, and all
of my desires were tipped by the wings as the bird scissored away into the milky dusk. I felt sorry for the
boy, although I knew that changing places was the natural order. His capture would mean Igel's release
and one more step toward the head of the line for me.
The child was an easy mark; his parents would barely be aware of the change. He had few friends,
caused neither excitement nor alarm as a student, and was so ordinary as to be almost invisible. Ragno
and Zanzara, who had taken residence in the family's attic for months, reported that aside from peas and
carrots, the boy ate anything, preferred chocolate milk with his meals, slept on rubber sheets, and spent
a lot of time in the living room watching a small box that let one know when to laugh and how to
schedule bedtime. Our boy was a good sleeper, too, up to twelve hours at a stretch on weekends. Kivi
and Blomma reported that he liked to play outdoors in a sandbox by the house, where he had set up an
elaborate tableau of small plastic dolls in blue and gray. The doleful fellow seemed satisfied to go on
living life as it is. I envied him.
No matter how we pestered him, Igel refused to hear our report. We had been spying on Oscar for
over a year, and everyone was ready for the change. I was running out of paper in McInnes's book, and
one more dispatch from the field would not only be a waste of time, but a waste of precious paper as
well. Haughty, distracted, and burdened by the responsibilities of leadership Igel kept to himself, as if he
both yearned for and flinched at the possibility of freedom. His normally stoic disposition changed to a
general peevishness. Kivi came to dinner once with a red welt under her eye.
"What happened to you?"
"That son of a bitch. Igel hit me, and all I asked him was if he was ready. He thought I meant ready
to go, but all I meant was for dinner."
No one knew what to say to her.
"I can't wait till he leaves. I am sick and tired of the old crab. Maybe the new boy will be nice."
I stood up from the meal and stormed through the camp, looking for Igel, resolving to confront him,
but he was not to be found in his usual places. I poked my head into the entranceway of one of his
tunnels and called out, but no answer. Perhaps he had gone out to spy on the boy. Nobody knew where
he might be found, so I spent several hours walking in circles, until chancing upon him alone down by the
river, where he was staring at his re-flection in the broken surface of water. He looked so alone that I
forgot my anger and quietly crouched down beside him.
"Igel? Are you all right?" I addressed the image on the water.
"Do you remember," he asked, "your life before this life?"
"Vaguely. In my dreams, sometimes my father and mother and a sister, or maybe two. And a
woman in a red coat. But no, not really."
"I have been gone so long. I'm not sure I know how to go back."
"Speck says there are three choices but only one ending for us all."
"Speck." He spat out her name. "She is a foolish child, almost as foolish as you, Aniday."
"You should read our report. It will help you make the change."
"I will be glad to be rid of such fools. Have her come see me in the morning. I don't want to talk to
you, Aniday. Have Béka make your report."
He stood up, brushed dirt from the seat of his pants, and walked away. I hoped he would
disappear forever.
• C H A P T E R 1 7 •