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At that moment I see Lee walking around the corner, heading for the main house.

“Lee!” I shout.

“I’ll grab the truck and meet you over there,” Francisco says, pointing to a paved area to the side of the building.

I nod, and he hurries away.

I look back at Lee. It’s obvious he’s seen me, but he keeps walking.

“Hold up a second,” I shout, jogging over to him.

He hesitates, then stops to wait for me.

“How are you doing?” I say.

He shrugs.

“Your dad asked me to stay for a while. I’m going home to get my stuff.”

“That’s great news.”

“He said he talked to you about last night. Whatever you said, it worked. I just wanted to tell you thanks.”

“No need,” Lee says. “I told him the truth. That’s all.”

“Right, but there are a lot of ways to tell the truth.”

“Not with my father. There’s only one.”

He looks at me, his face serious.

“Always tell him the truth, Daniel. He’s going to find out anyway. If you lie, it’s just going to be worse for you later.”

A horn beeps. A truck pulls up to the side of the building, Francisco in the driver’s seat.

“That’s my ride,” I say. “Maybe we’ll get to spend some time together when I get back.”

He nods, noncommittal. I want to leave him with a positive impression of me.

“Thanks for helping me get in here,” I say. “It means a lot to me. Really. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He smiles, warming to me.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I can’t take any more ass kissing.”

“Just one more thing,” I say. “Will you take me to the shooting range when I get back? That combat rifle scared the shit out of me.”

He laughs.

“See you when you get back,” he says.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

TWO BOYS WITH RIFLES STAND GUARD AT THE ROADBLOCK.

It has been fortified since we drove past it yesterday, a thick wooden barrier placed across the road with a spike strip below it that would puncture the tires on any vehicle smaller than a half-track.

When the armed boys see Francisco, they nod. One of them pulls back the spike strip while the other opens the gate.

“That’s a pretty serious roadblock,” I say after we pass through.

“These are serious times,” Francisco says, but he doesn’t elaborate.

One road in and out of the valley, a military-style roadblock at its base. A laser perimeter around the camp with sentries at night. High-tech digital signal blocking around and above. And these are just the defenses I’ve identified. There are likely more hidden away out of sight.

What exactly is Moore protecting inside Camp Liberty?

We drive the steep mile-long incline that leads out of the valley.

“Look over your shoulder,” Francisco says.

I look back. In the daylight, Liberty looks almost quaint, a scattering of buildings nestled in the green embrace of a mountain pass.

“What do you think?”

“It’s small,” I say.

“A tiny outpost. From up here, you see that it’s lucky to exist at all.”

“That’s why you work so hard to protect it?” I say.

“I work hard because it’s my home now.”

“Are you a permanent?”

“Where did you hear that term?”

“Lee told me.”

“Yeah, I’m a permanent,” he says. “Something like that.”

“How did you persuade your parents to let you stay?”

“They didn’t have a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m nineteen now,” he says. “My parents don’t get a vote anymore.”

Usually I can tell someone’s age, but it’s been hard to determine with Francisco. The long hair and beard make him appear older, but when I look at his eyes now, I can see that he’s just a few years older than me.

“Must be nice,” I say. “To be independent, I mean.”

“It’s got plusses and minuses,” he says.

Three white panel vans approach us heading toward the camp. It’s a narrow road, and Francisco has to slow and move to the very edge to allow them to pass. As they go by, he toots his horn once and waves. The lead driver waves back to him.

I glance through the window of the second van, and in the moment it takes to pass us, I see her.

The English teacher with wild hair. The one who tried to kill Moore.

At least I think it’s her. She’s in the passenger seat, looking away from me, a wool cap pulled low over her hair, but I’m rarely wrong about things like this. My memory works like a photographic database, logging facial structures, eye shapes, hairstyles, and postural quirks.

If it’s the English teacher, why would she be invited back to camp after what happened at the center?

I consider asking Francisco about it, but I decide against it.

A few seconds later the vans are gone, and Francisco pulls back out onto the road. We start around the long curve that leads to the other side of the mountain and civilization.

“Why do you think Moore invited me to stay?” I say.

“I know why.”

He jerks the wheel, narrowly avoiding a large rock that’s fallen onto the road from the mountainside.

“I’m all ears,” I say.

“Moore will have to tell you that himself when and if he decides. But I can guarantee you it wasn’t a spontaneous decision. We were up half the night talking about you, and then we took a vote.”

“We?”

“He and I.”

“Not Aaron?”

“I’m head of security, not Aaron.”

He sits a little straighter in his seat. It’s obviously a point of pride for him.

“Not much of a vote with just the two of you,” I say. “Tough to settle deadlocks, too.”

“Not really. His vote counts twice.”

We come down the other side of the mountain, Francisco’s speed increasing as the road widens.

“Which way did you vote?” I ask

“I voted for you to stay. Does that surprise you?”

“A little. Yeah. Especially after you were such a son of a bitch that first night.”

“It’s not my job to be nice. Not to strangers.”

“What is your job?”

“Assess. And defend if necessary.”

“Have you assessed?”

“I have. I watched you very closely last night.”

I look at Francisco. He’s a lot more astute than he appears at first. It’s easy to be thrown off by his wild-man appearance.

“And what did you decide?”

“I voted to keep you here.”

“I haven’t done anything to prove myself.”

“It doesn’t matter. I voted for potential.”

“You think I have potential?” I say.

“More than you know.”

“But I didn’t even take the gloves last night,” I say.

“You think taking the gloves was the right thing to do?”

“We have to follow orders. That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

“We follow,” Francisco says, “but not blindly. It’s a choice.”

“What the difference?”

“Everyone in the world is a follower. They follow an agenda, whether it’s set by school, parents, a job, society. The only question is who or what they choose to follow. Most people don’t even realize there’s a choice to make, so they end up stumbling blindly through their lives, wondering why they’re so unhappy when they’re doing everything right.”

“You’ve made a choice. That’s what you’re telling me.”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy with it?”

“Most days. Yes.”

He pops down the sun visor, squinting as we take a ramp that briefly turns us east.