Rincon takes this as his cue to end the meeting—something he’s clearly wanted to do since the moment he arrived. “Hey, I’m just the messenger—don’t take this out on me!”

But there are some things Connor simply cannot help, and he finds himself swinging Roland’s fist at “Call-Me-Joe” Rincon’s face. The punch connects with the man’s eye, and he stumbles backward into the bulkhead. He looks at Connor not with contempt, but with fear, as if Connor might not stop there. So much for nonviolence. Connor backs off.

“There’s my message,” he says. “Please take it back to the people who sent you.”

•   •   •

There’s a wingless Boeing 747 airliner that has been gutted, like just about every other plane in the Graveyard, and retrofitted with gym equipment. It’s been named GymBo, although some call it “the fight deck” since so many brawls seem to break out there.

This is where Connor goes to get out his frustrations.

A big punching bag before him, he pounds it like a prize-fighter hell-bent on a first-round knockout. He imagines the faces of all the kids who pissed him off that day. All the ones who have excuses for not doing what they’re supposed to do. And he spreads his anger further to people like Rincon, and the Juvey-cops that he’s had to face, to the smiling counselors at the harvest camp who tried to make unwinding seem like a wholesome family-friendly activity, and finally to the faces of his parents, who set in motion the clockwork that landed him here. For them he can’t hit that bag hard enough and yet can’t stomach the guilt he feels for feeling that way.

The punches from his left hand are nothing compared to those from his right. He looks at the shark tattoo staring at him from the forearm; that tiger shark even uglier than the real thing. He has to admit to himself that he’s gotten used to it, but he’ll never like it. The color of the hair that grows on that arm is also thicker and darker than that of his other arm. He’s here, Connor tells himself. Roland is here with every punch I throw with his hand. And the worst part about it is that throwing those punches feels good—as if the arm itself is enjoying it.

He moves toward a bench press, and a couple of kids who had been sharing it make way for him—a perk of being in charge. He looks at the weight, adds another five pounds on either side, then leans back, ready to pump. Every day he does this, and every day this is the part he hates the most . . . because nowhere is the difference between his left arm and his right clearer than on the bench press. The arm he was born with struggles to raise that bar. And suddenly he realizes that even now he’s still fighting Roland.

“Need someone to spot you?” says a kid behind him. Connor tilts his neck to see standing above him the kid everyone just calls Starkey.

“Yeah, sure,” says Connor. “Thanks.” He goes for another set, already feeling his natural arm aching but not wanting to give into it . . . but after seven reps it starts to give out, and Starkey has to help him get the barbell back onto the cradle.

Starkey points at the shark on his right arm. “You get that after Happy Jack?”

Connor sits up, nursing the burn in his muscles, and looks at the tattoo. “It came with the arm.”

“Actually,” says Starkey, “I was talking about the arm. The way I figure it, if the guy who’s so against unwinding has an Unwind’s arm, it probably wasn’t by choice. I’d love to hear how it happened.”

Connor laughs, because no one’s ever asked the question so blatantly. It’s actually a relief to talk about it.

“There was this kid—a real tough guy. He tried to kill me once but couldn’t go through with it. Anyway, he was the last kid unwound at Happy Jack. I was supposed to be next, but that’s when the clappers blew up the Chop Shop. I lost my arm and woke up with this one. Trust me, it wasn’t my choice.”

Starkey takes in the story and nods, not offering any judgment.

“Badge of honor, man,” he says. “Wear it out loud.”

Connor tries to get to know every kid who arrives, at least a little bit, so they don’t feel like just a number waiting to be caught and unwound. So what does he know about Starkey? He’s got personality, and a smile that’s a little hard to read. He’s got wavy red hair that didn’t start that way, as evidenced by dark roots that have grown almost an inch since he arrived a month ago. He’s a little short, solid, not scrawny. Stocky, that’s the word—like a wrestler—and yet he has a confidence that makes him seem taller. There are also rumors that he killed a Juvey-cop or two while escaping, but they’re only rumors.

Connor remembers the day Starkey arrived. Every group of new arrivals has at least one kid who thinks blowing up harvest camps is a good idea. Actually, most of them probably think that, but most kids are too intimidated upon arrival to shout it out. The ones who do turn out to either be problems or overachievers. Starkey, however has kept a very low profile since his arrival. He’s assigned to mess duty as a food server, and in the evenings he goes around performing little magic tricks for anyone who’s interested. That makes Connor think back to his own first AWOL night. He was given shelter by a trucker who showed him an arm grafted on at the elbow. It was the arm of an Unwind that came with an ability to do card tricks.

“You’ll have to let me see some of your magic tricks, Starkey,” Connor says, and Starkey seems a little surprised.

“You know everyone’s name here?”

“Only the ones who make an impression. Here, let’s switch,” says Connor. “I’ll spot you.” They switch positions, and Starkey tries to lift the weight but can barely do two reps.

“I think I’ll pass.”

Starkey sits up, taking a long look at him. Most people can’t hold eye contact with Connor. It’s either the scars or his legend that are too intimidating for them. Starkey, however, doesn’t look away. “Is it true that you risked getting caught to save a storked baby?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Not one of my brightest moments.”

“Why’d you do it?”

Connor shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He tries to laugh it off, but Starkey’s not laughing.

“I was a storked baby,” Starkey tells him.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, it’s all good. I just want you to know I respect you for what you did.”

“Thanks.” Outside, someone calls for Connor in that my-problem-is-earth-shattering tone of voice that he hears on a regular basis. “Duty calls. Take it easy, Starkey.” And he leaves, feeling a little bit better than when he came in.

But what he doesn’t see is what happens after he’s gone: Starkey lying back on the bench press, doing twenty reps of that same weight without even breaking a sweat.

•   •   •

After the sun sets, Connor calls a meeting of his inner circle—a group of seven that Hayden has dubbed the Holy of Whollies, and the name stuck. They meet in Connor’s private jet at the north head of the main aisle, rather than the old Air Force One, which still reeks of his meeting with Call-Me-Joe, the resistance rep.

It wasn’t Connor’s idea to have his own private jet any more than it was his idea to wear blue camo. They were both Trace’s suggestions to help solidify Connor’s image as the fearless leader.

“What the hell kind of army wears blue camouflage anyway?” he griped when Trace first suggested it.

“It’s for air attacks by jetpack,” Trace told him. “Never actually attempted, but it works in theory.”

The idea was to set Connor apart from everyone else. The Admiral had his uniform, all festooned with war medals; Connor needed something to match his own leadership style, whatever that might be. Although he wasn’t too thrilled to be running the place like a boot camp, the Admiral had already set things up as a military dictatorship. It wasn’t broke, so Connor didn’t try to fix it.