“I do,” he said in a kind way, but with a voice that demanded attention. He stood to remove a stack of books from the wooden rocking chair beside him. “I’d mind less if you joined me.”
He seemed friendly enough, so I climbed the steps past the woman and took my place beside him. From this point I still had a clear view of the road, the cookhouse, and the paths leading into camp. I would be able to see Chase and Jesse as soon as they arrived. The woman returned to her spot leaning against the porch, and though another man came to talk to her, I could tell she was keeping her eye on me. I wondered if the man was the leader of this post; he had to be someone important to have a guard.
We sat in the quiet, the porch creaking as we rocked, the crickets chirping from their secret perches. I kept eyeing his stack of books, now at his feet. There were titles there I’d never seen, and some I hadn’t seen in years. All contraband from what I could recall.
“You like to read?” he asked.
I glanced back at the fire. “I used to.”
“I like a good story,” he said. After a moment he rose, a sneaky twinkle in his eye. “Come take a look at this.”
I balanced the plate on the banister, glancing back down the path, but the man didn’t go far. He opened the front door of the cabin to reveal a dozen bookcases, all lined with paperbacks, hardcovers, pamphlets, and magazines. My mouth dropped open in awe as I stepped over the threshold.
“Not bad, huh?”
I shook my head, unable to speak. I hadn’t seen this many books in one place since before the War. Unable to help myself, I touched the nearest stack, feeling the worn covers and waterlogged pages before drawing back to wipe my hands on my pant leg.
“Where’d you get all these?” I managed.
“Here and there,” he said. “When the teams make supply runs into town sometimes they bring me back one or two if they come across them.”
“You must rank pretty high,” I said, and he laughed. I removed a children’s book with flimsy gold binding. A blue train was painted on the cover. “My mom used to read this to me when I was little.”
“My son’s favorite,” he said. “I can’t tell you how many times he brought it to bed with him. He’d memorized the words before he could read. Could play back every word.”
“Did he make it?” The nostalgia between us turned heavy. I didn’t know why I asked that. I didn’t even know this man.
“I haven’t seen him in years,” said the man. “He’s with his mother, and though I hate to admit it, they’re in a far better place right now.”
My mouth formed a small o, and a wave of pity passed over me. I hoped my mother was in a better place, too.
He smiled. “Mexico.”
“Mexico,” I said slowly, and this time when he laughed, he placed his hand on my arm.
“Sure,” he said. “That big country across the border.”
“The U.S. border,” I clarified. Surely this man was not in his right mind. I gave him my most polite, whatever-you-say smile.
“Kids these days,” he said with a sigh. “Thought you said you liked to read.”
“I know what Mexico is,” I said, keeping my voice light. “It’s just … they closed their borders during the War. They built a fence to keep us out. They sent an army to defend it.” I remembered the images from the news: people trying to climb the wall during the worst of the riots, setting homemade bombs to break through the weak spots. The Mexican Militia rounding them up and dumping them back in Texas and California. They didn’t want anything to do with America, fearing the same rise of insurgents in their own overcrowded country.
He winced. “I recall all too well.” We rounded the corner and paused in front of a series of wrinkled maps tacked to the wall, some of different continents, some of the Great Smoky Mountains.
One looked very similar to the map in the radio room in Endurance, stuck with red and green pins, but not just on the eastern side of the country, on the western half as well.
“Things change,” he said.
One of the maps highlighted the countries of the world in faded colors and he tapped Mexico, then let his hand linger over the spot. His gaze grew distant.
He couldn’t have been telling the truth—no country took U.S. citizens, especially after President Scarboro had made it illegal to jump the borders. The War had plunged the world into a depression, and when Scarboro had made economic independence a cornerstone of Reformation, it had finally abandoned us to rebuild on our own.
My gaze continued down the wall to a stack of flat wooden crates.
“You want to take a look?” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
I followed him to the boxes, where he pulled back the top lid. “Do you know what this is?”
My mouth fell open. Inside was a glass case, nestled in straw, and inside it was an old document, yellowed with age.
“IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776” was written across the top. And just underneath: “The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America.”
“It’s the Declaration of Independence,” I said. “Is this real? I thought Scarboro had it put in the archives during the Reformation Act.”
“He did,” said the man with a troubled look. “Ah, the archives. The greatest collection of noncompliant literature since the Vatican. I’m glad to see you recognize it.”
“I haven’t even seen a picture of it since I was a kid,” I said. “How’d you get it?”
“My people managed to get a few things out before I was kicked out of town.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. My gaze traveled down the page, stopping on the following words:
That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.
Jesse had told me something just like that in Endurance.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The front door opened before he could answer, and noise outside drew my attention. Laughter filtered in through the blue night. Laughter and cheering, and something else.
Singing.
Two figures stood in the doorway—the angry man with the goatee, Max, who based on his expression was still less than amused by our presence, and Jesse, who blinked when he found me. He saluted again, this time at the old librarian. This place had certainly changed his demeanor.
“Sergeant Major Waite,” introduced Max, but from the twitch in the librarian’s eye I wasn’t so sure he didn’t recognize Chase’s uncle.
“Sorry to bother you, sir,” said Jesse. He stood straighter than I’d ever seen, like he wasn’t even capable of the sarcasm I was so used to hearing come out of his mouth.
I smoothed out my sweatshirt, realizing I’d underestimated this man’s importance to the compound. The librarian only waved his hand.
“Please,” he said, dismissing Jesse’s show of respect. “Those times are long past.”
“Not for me,” said Jesse.
The man nodded somberly, then saluted him back. “Thank you, soldier.”
It finally occurred to me where I’d seen him before. Years ago, before the War, on the cover of one of my mother’s magazines.
“Oh,” I said, my eyes growing wide. A second later Jesse had reached for my arm and was escorting me from the building.
“Was that…”
“Yes,” said Jesse. “It was.”
The president before Scarboro. The man who’d lost in his reelection, blamed for the insurgents’ attacks on the major cities. The one who took the fall only to have Project Restart pick up the broken pieces.