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starts shouting at me again.
    “You do know who they are! What aren’t you telling me, Molly?”
    I falter again. But after all, she’s my mother. What harm could come of telling her? I throw a glance behind me to assure myself that no one can hear us here.
    “That’s the Rebellion.”
                  “The Rebellion? Molly, they’re just a myth, for Christ’s sake! A myth you have to stop pretending exists!”
                  That hurts.
                  “Actually, you can clearly see that they’re not a myth. And they’re here, right now,” I spit out venomously and turn away from our house. I run back to Centre Street, still stung by my mother’s words. Most of the people have gone back inside and closed their shutters and I am alone on the street except for the drunks, and even they seem quieter today, as if they sense the uncertainty of the situation.
    I run back to work. Maybe the monotonous action of pouring drinks will take my mind off of-
                  No way.
                  Parked outside the door are the four snowmobiles.
                  I stop. Should I enter?
    The two opposing instincts of safety and curiosity battle inside of me. Nobody would miss me if I didn’t return to work today. In fact, I’m not sure I’m welcome back at all. I bite my lip in indecision, but the choice has already been made. Of course I should. The Rebellion is here. How can I miss it? They will only be here for one day. And what happens today is inconsequential; after all, I’ll never see them again. I enter.
                  Our usually busy bar is now completely empty except for the Rebellion. They are all sitting in a spot of grimy illumination at the edge of the bar. I move myself into one of Thirty One’s many shady corners and observe them from a distance. I don’t want them to know that I work here, for some reason.
    The Rebellion is composed of two men and two women. They are all pretty young, not much older than I am. I wonder if this is all of them. That seems fairly unlikely to me —could four people make that big of a difference?— but then again, how much do I know about the Rebellion? Anything could be possible.
    The young man who I had argued with earlier is taking puffs from his cigarette. One of the girl s – she has straight, shoulder-length, blond hair and is very tall – sits next to him, muttering what sounds like reproaches for smoking indoors. Next to her sits another young man, seemingly younger and also good looking, by my standards, at least. Not that it matters, I remind myself.
    At the end of the bar and slightly distanced from the others, sits the fourth member of their party. This is the one that analyzed me earlier. She has light golden curls spilling over her shoulder and holds herself very straight. They all sport black leather jackets and wear their helmets around their necks. They look as if they don’t belong here, although I can’t place what it is exactly about them that suggests that.
    The bartender brings them four glasses of white wine, and they clink their glasses together.
                  “To victory,” the young man who appears to be their leader says.
    “To victory,” everyone else echoes and then drinks. I wonder if they know what victory means in this town. If they know how taboo it is and how afraid everybody is of rebellion and change. I wonder if they know that everybody here has long stopped believing in anything other than survival. Or maybe they haven’t been in a bar in so long, they’ve forgotten that the walls have eyes and the floor has ears.
                  The young man says something indistinct and everyone laughs.
                  “Shut up Mike, you can’t hold your liquor,” the tall blond one tells him. The other man snorts.
                  “The only thing he can hold is liquor.” They all laugh, except for