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broom.
    â€œHere,” she says, thrusting it in Hope’s hand. “Clean up your mess.”
    Hope grits her teeth and does as commanded, but not before running a hand over her bald, patchy head. She feels as naked as a plucked bird. But it’s more than that; it’s almost as if—somehow—she’s lost a piece of herself. A piece of her mother.
    A male guard with a jutting chin enters. In his hand dangles an odd-looking tool with a pointy end. His gaze lands on Faith.
    â€œRight arm,” he commands.
    When Faith doesn’t move, the Brown Shirt sighsnoisily and yanks up Faith’s sleeve. He turns on the device, tattooing a number on the outside of her arm. Tears roll down Faith’s cheeks as F-738 is branded into her skin. The guard motions for Hope. She pulls up her sleeve without being told. Her skin prickles as F-739 is engraved.
    F-738 and F-739—their new identities.
    Photographs are snapped, and then the Brown Shirts usher them back outside to a tar-paper shack. On the front, painted in garish yellow, is a large letter B . A thick chain snakes between the door’s handle and a security bar. The guards open the lock and shove the twins inside.
    â€œYou’re in luck.” Jutting Chin smirks. “We have a vacancy.”
    Once their eyes adjust to the gloom, Hope and Faith see a series of cots crammed too close together.
    And girls. Around twenty or so, all approximately their age. Their expressions are openly hostile.
    No one bothers to say anything. “I’m Hope. This is my sister, Faith.” No response. “We’re new.”
    â€œNo shit,” someone mutters.
    Finally, one of the girls asks, “What happened to your hair?”
    Hope runs a hand over her head, still not used to the stubbled absence. “They cut it off.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe ’cause I killed a Brown Shirt.”
    If Hope thinks that will impress the others, she’s wrong. The girls don’t react at all. They just climb into their narrow cots and prepare for sleep.
    â€œCome on,” Hope says to her sister. “Maybe they’ll be more talkative in the morning.” She leads Faith to two empty beds jammed into the corner.
    â€œI meant what I said back there,” Faith says, her first words in hours. “About Dad wanting me to die.”
    â€œNo you didn’t,” Hope says.
    She cleans her sister’s wound as best she can and helps her get ready for bed. They haven’t slept on anything resembling a mattress in ten years, and Hope can’t get comfortable. Only when she lies on the floor is she able to find a position that’s right.
    Stretched out on raw, warped pine, she can’t get her mind off these girls. There’s something odd about them that Hope can’t put her finger on. Something deeply . . . disturbing.

9.
    C AT TOOK TWO OF us: Flush and me.
    It was midafternoon when we exited the north side of camp. A couple of Brown Shirts watched us with mild interest; there were no fences at Camp Liberty, and in its twenty-year history, no one had bothered to escape. Where would you go?
    After a thirty-minute climb, we veered west, heading up Skeleton Ridge. Finally, we came to a stop, lowered ourselves to the ground, and poked our heads above the ridge. Far below us lay a quiet valley: a meandering stream, dozens of scattered boulders.
    â€œWhy are we here again?” Flush asked. He was a few years younger, and not as patient as some of the others.
    Cat just gave him a look. You’ll see.
    An hour passed. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, we heard the growl of an engine and watched as a faded red pickup truck rounded a far ridge. It came to a stop and two Brown Shirts emerged from the cab, each sporting rifles.
    They made their way to the back of the pickup and unhitched the gate, revealing six LTs. One of the soldiers reached up and grabbed an LT by the back