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front of Janine.
    But she doesn’t even flinch. “Tell me about it. About how you’re dealing with it, I mean.” She finishes with the wrap and
     levels her eyes at me.
    “Well… I don’t really know how to talk about it, where to start. Celia disappeared back in our hometown, and suddenly there
     was this gaping hole in my chest. In my life. We did everything together, and then she was gone.”
    Janine notices my journal nearby. “Maybe try to write about it, instead of talking.”
    “Actually, I do. I’ve got…”
Should I tell her?
“A poem.” I laugh nervously. “It’s nothing. Dumb.”
    “A poem?” Janine looks startled. “Can I… hear it?”
    “Umm… I don’t think —”
    “Please, Whit. It would mean a lot to me.”
    “Okay,” I concede. “I guess. But you have to promise you won’t tell
anybody
—especially my sister. This is between us.”
    “I swear,” she promises. I trust her more than anybody but Wisty. Janine is actually a very sweet person.
    But still, I can’t believe I’m reading this to her.
Methought that joy and health alone could be
    Where I was not—and pain and sorrow here.
    And is it thus?—it is as I foretold,
    And shall be more so; for the mind recoils
    Upon itself, and the wrecked heart lies cold.…
    We feel benumbed, and wish to be no more.…
    As I finish, Janine is gazing thoughtfully. I’m not sure if she likes it or hates it. But then I think I see that her eyes
     are damp.
    “You okay?” I ask. I reach out and touch her arm. Her skin is soft, warm.
    “It’s so… beautiful,” she says, wiping away a tear with her sleeve. “Not dumb at all. Definitely not dumb.”
    And the next thing I know, Wisty’s stepping out from behind a clothing rack. “That’s a
Lady Myron
poem,” she says incredulously. “That is, if I’m recalling Ms. Magruder’s eighth-grade English class correctly.”

Chapter 17

    Wisty
    WHIT’S FACE IS so red that I actually feel a little bad about what I just said.
    “Umm,” I mumble. “Sorry to interrupt.”
    I really should’ve clapped my hands on my ears and walked away when Whit started talking about poetry. But to miss Whitford
     P. Allgood’s first poetry reading would be, well, unsisterly.
    Janine looks at me as if I’m
her
bratty little sister, not Whit’s. “Were you eavesdropping on us?”
    “What’d you expect? I’m a Resistance spy,” I counter, fending off the glares. “And don’t you forget it, kids.” Whit rolls
     his eyes. He’s clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed—or floor, as the case may be. Time to change the subject. “So,
     did you hear about the new mission yet, Bro? It’s a toughie.”
    “I didn’t want to tell him.” Janine shoots me a look. “He’ll want to go. He’s in no condition —”
    “I’ll be the judge of that,” Whit interrupts. “You’re not my mother.”
    Ouch.
We don’t ever talk about Mom and Dad casually anymore.
    Janine looks a little hurt, then shakes it off. She smoothes down her cargo pants as she stands up. “Besides, I’m not sure
     it’s one
any
of us should take. The rough intelligence makes it look worse than the mission that got Margo killed.”
    My nostrils are flaring. “The mission that got Margo killed is exactly why we need to go there, Janine. We should finish what
     she started.”
    “Where is it?” asks Whit, struggling to stand up.
    “They call it the Acculturation Facility,” Janine explains as she crouches down to help him. “They say it’s a school, not
     a prison, but… it’s actually worse. It looks like some kind of labor camp. Nothing but young kids.”
    “How many are there?”
    “Almost a hundred,” she tells us. “But it’s the brainwashing that goes on there that I’m concerned about. Instead of finding
     one hundred captives wanting escape, we’re likely to see them turning against us. In fact, the New Order is programming them
     to do just that.”
    “We’ve got to go,” I insist.
    “Yeah,”