We sleep.

Chapter Three

Adele

I feel better waking up without the gun near me. My subconscious agrees because I have no memory of a nightmare. I feel bad about giving the cold steel weapon to Tawni, but at least I know she won’t use it. The only good kind of gun is one that hasn’t been fired. I hope I never have to again.

The other good thing about waking up is finding Tristan’s arm on me. I vaguely remember him draping it over me the night before, pulling it around me, the warmth that came with it, but overnight it moved and is now resting lightly on my side, his fingertips barely grazing my hip. His breathing is rhythmic and deep.

Ever so carefully, I use my fingers like pincers and pluck his wrist from my side, lifting his arm high enough to slide out from underneath. Freed, I watch him for a moment. Although he’s the biggest celebrity in all the Tri-Realms, sleeping he’s just a guy, almost childlike, his wavy blond hair messed and over his forehead, his magnetic blue eyes hidden beneath closed lids, his athleticism and poise all but invisible.

Less gracefully than I’d like, I clamber to my feet and pick up the long-burning lantern we use as a nightlight. As I scan the other sleeping forms, I notice I’m not the only one who enjoyed the sleeping arrangements. Roc’s and Tawni’s legs are tangled up together, whether by design or overnight movements.

Past them, snoring lips buzz through the dark. The offender: Ram. Strangely, he’s curled up the most of anyone, almost in the fetal position. It’s odd seeing such a large man in that position. I almost laugh.

Trevor’s the only one missing, his thin blanket in a ball nearby. There’s the almost imperceptible soft glow of a light down the tunnel a ways. I make for the light.

He’s sitting shirtless with his back to the wall, a flashlight in one hand and a book in the other. It’s an old, small square and reminds me of the diary Tristan gave me, which my dad gave him. It was an unexpected but appreciated gift.

“Good morning,” Trevor says without looking up from the page he’s on.

“How long have you been up?” I ask.

“A half-hour I reckon. Although time doesn’t seem to pass in this tunnel, so it’s hard to tell.”

“Did it pass better in the Star Realm?”

He laughs. “Not really.”

It’s weird to be having a relatively normal conversation with Trevor, especially given the particularly rocky start to our relationship. Without anything better to do, I sit down next to him.

“Whatcha reading?” I ask, catching a glimpse of a handwritten page over his shoulder.

He snaps the cover shut, making me jump slightly, which makes him grin. “Just my journal, nosy. I like to reflect on the past sometimes. It helps me avoid making the same mistakes twice.”

A surprisingly intelligent remark. I get the feeling there’s a lot about Trevor that will surprise me. “How’d you meet my mother?” I ask. The unspoken question: And why does she trust you so much?

“I’d do anything for her,” he says. “She saved my life.”

My head jerks to the side, locks on his wistful gaze. He’s remembering something. He answered the unspoken question first—and it’s not the answer I expected. Although I have half a dozen follow-up questions, I’m silent. I don’t want to be called nosy again.

He sighs. “Do you want to know the whole story?”

I nod hopefully.

He starts with a question. “Do you remember what I told you about my family?”

How could I forget? At the time I still had a dad, so although I was truly sorry about what had happened to Trevor’s father, I didn’t really understand. But now…now we have that in common. “He worked at the lava flow. He…he stole something,” I say.

“A bed. For my brother and I to share.”

I nod. “He went to work and never came back.”

“That wasn’t entirely true.”

“It wasn’t?” I say, suddenly back on my heels.

Trevor faces forward, speaking in a monotone voice, apparently oblivious to my trepidation. “He showed up at our doorstep a week later, badly beaten. Ribs crushed, arm broken, teeth chipped. I don’t think he’d eaten or drank since he left. He was so skinny, broken, his lips cracked and bleeding, along with his spirit. But the worst was when he turned around, pointed at the back of his head.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, try to think of something—anything—to get the visions out of my head. It’s like Cole’s story all over again, and that one didn’t end well.

“His skull was cracked open and gushing blood,” Trevor continues evenly. “It was a fresh wound. The Enforcers had abused him for a week and then brought him home, only to inflict the final wound just before dumping him on our doorstep.”

“A message,” I whisper, opening my eyes to blurred vision.

“Yeah, don’t steal from the Sun Realm.” He pauses, but I know that, just like Cole’s story, this one’s not over yet. All this is somehow leading up to my mom. “We struggled on for a while, my mom procuring flour by trading our meager possessions, which she used to bake bread. Every day she rolled her bread cart into town, traded loaves for basic necessities and more flour. We ate the leftovers.

“But eventually the trade in our subchapter dried up. She couldn’t get enough flour to make her bread, and even if she could, there was no one to trade with.”

“What did she do?” I ask.

“There was nothing to do. The only ones getting by were the miners, so she applied for a job in the mines. Yeah, she and a few hundred other star dwellers, all men, with experience to boot. She was laughed off the site.

“By then I was sixteen. Not quite old enough for the mines, but old enough to help. A friend of mine told me about a way to get food. Not legal, mind you, but we were desperate.”

I glance at him, understanding flashing in my eyes. He doesn’t have to justify his actions to me.

“The Enforcers were put up in the nicest accommodations in town, supported by the President’s ‘Safety and Security’ budget. Of course they were well fed too. My buddy learned where the food shipments came in, at what times, and how many men would be unloading them. Twice he’d managed to slip into the truck and steal whole cases of canned food. He almost got caught the second time, but he figured with a partner it would be easier to avoid detection.”

“But you got caught?” I guess.

“Actually, no. Evidently we were natural thieves, because we got away with it for weeks. The first time I brought home my share of the takings, my mom wept. She never asked me where I got it from; instead, she chose to thank God for the food in our nightly prayers.”

“So…” I say, unsure where all of this is going.

“Sorry, this is all linked—I swear,” Trevor says. “So one night I went out with my friend for our usual thieving, but someone else had beaten us to it. We were biding our time, being patient, waiting for the perfect moment to make our move, when one of the truck guys came out of the building and entered the truck via a ramp. We heard him say, ‘What the hell—you filthy rat!’ His feet stomped back down the ramp. He was carrying this scrawny, dirt-smeared kid, whose hands were clenched around a couple of bags of rice as big as his head. The trucker shouted something to someone inside, and a moment later an Enforcer the size of a house was on the loading dock, grinning like he’d just been given a gift.”

Even with my eyes open, I picture the events unfolding, like a crumpled-up paper being gradually smoothed out. Trevor puts his journal flat on the ground next to him, settles the flashlight in his lap so it’s facing up, casting an eerie spotlight on his face, and then starts punching his fist into his hand.

“My friend said, ‘Let’s get the hell outta here,’ and then took off, not waiting to see if I’d follow. Perhaps I should have. But something about the kid reminded me of myself. Hungry. Alone. Willing to do anything for a couple of bags of rice. I ran out of my hiding spot behind the truck’s tire and bashed into the trucker’s knees. It was just the distraction the scrawny kid needed. The guy dropped him and he was running before he even hit the ground. The Enforcer grabbed at him, missed, but managed to get a hand on the collar of my tunic as I tried to scramble away.” I know how the rest of the story goes. He went to a juvenile facility—like me—and then turned eighteen and ended up in the Max—just like I would have if I hadn’t escaped. But wait—