They are always talking about the war.























It is something I have learnt not to mention. Something I can ignore, most of the time. It is not for my ears, mother says.




























All I know is, bitter citizens of our country are angry. They want to kill us all. Kill our country with violence and fear.



























They want us to die.




























I am standing outside my father’s office, my ear pressed against the door. They are talking in hushed voices, as always.




























We children mustn’t hear about the war.





















We know some things, of course. How we are only allowed in certain areas. Only allowed in our own homes, school, or a trusted friend’s house. We never get to go anywhere.











But it’s for our own protection. Because father says if a rebel got hold of any Government child, they would kidnap, torture and murder them.

















Personally, I’d rather stay in than be shot.

I listen closely to the careful talk of my Dad, of my Mum, and Marco. Marco is Dad’s best friend, and in many ways, his right-hand man. Dad is a rebel leader, and he needs all the advisers he can get.





























Because we are losing.























And if you lose? You forfeit your life.























I stick my grimy silver spoon into the jagged can, wincing a little as I cut my finger on the pointed edge. I forget, every time, that tin soup has teeth.














“We need to work on a new strategy,” Dad’s voice is low; fierce, his blue eyes sharp and searching.


































“I’d say we’re too weak to attempt an assault at the moment,” Marco says, his dark skin weather beaten and rough from years of struggle. “They’d crush us.” As he speaks, he squashes his soup can in his hand, as if to demonstrate quite how breakable we are.






I don’t like where the conversation is going. I don’t want us to be the underdogs. That is who we have been for as long as I can remember. The fragile, starving citizens. They are laughing at us, those Government people, and it fills me with rage.













“I don’t see why we can’t fight yet,” I say resentfully, looking across the fire and at my father.
































“You heard Marco,” Dad says in a weary voice. “We need to build up an army first. And armies need numbers.”




































I don’t answer.
































We have numbers. So who’s afraid to fight?






















I’m not. I’d pick up a gun right now and shoot all of them dead if I could. I’m not an idiot, of course. I know I’d be killed before I even got there. But if I could sign up – if I could be a soldier – I would be. Without hesitation. What have I got to lose?












One way or another, we can’t sit here for the rest of our lives. Plans can only get you so far. I wish we could just hunt them down and end it all.
























The fire flickers in front of me, a hissing ball of destruction. For a moment I imagine it is my anger, bottled up in flames, ready to explode. I imagine the looks on the faces of the militants as we blow their system to pieces.




























I want to hold them all to surrender as they hold us at their mercy now; blast their expensive houses to the ground and make them watch us build a new empire.












Of course, you rarely get what you want on our side.

















“Have some bread,” my mother passes me a tiny white loaf, her hair tangled and eyes ringed with shadows. “And don’t get involved.”



















Yeah, don’t get involved. Like I don’t hear. Like I don’t see what is being done to us – like I’m just a stupid kid. Well, I know a lot more than my mother would like to think. And she can talk, anyway. This is the woman who went into combat when she was eight weeks pregnant with twins. Steve and me. It’s a shame I’m a twin, because to be honest, I’d rather not have a brother.























“I can’t help it,” I know my voice is angrier than it needs to be, but I can’t seem to help that, either. “It’s all any of you talk about.”






























“Darling, when you’re older –” Mum starts to say.



















“I’m thirteen,” I tell her. “And when you were my age –”


















“Things were different then!” she says, pressing a finger to her temple. “We had no choice.”


































“Then we have something in common,” I say coolly, and watch the pain flick across her face.




































“You have a choice, Logan,” Mum says softly. “You don’t have to fight.”












But I do. Because really, I have never had a choice.





















This war is beyond me. Beyond my years. By the time I was born, the conflict had already started to divide our once united country. On one side, you have the Rebels – the poor, the poverty-stricken, the outcasts – and on the other, you have the Government forces. Militants. They control everything we do, everything we eat, everything within their reach. And now we’re fighting back. How can I not be a part of that?










I want to end this too. And besides – in my world, there is no alternative. If we lose, we go back to how we were before – mistreated, abused, the wards of the state.








But if we win…we can make things fair for everyone. And nobody will ever have to go to bed with their stomachs raw from hunger. Never again.


















All we want is freedom. All we want is our own nation. Why can’t they just leave us be?












I kick the soup can away from me. They can’t leave us alone because they want to destroy us. No, death would be too easy. It’s like Marco says. They want to crush us.







If I am ever captured, I will kill myself as soon as I can. And maybe shoot some of them on the way down.
































So, no, I don’t have a choice. But I have options. And I choose to fight.










We are the rebels. We do not back down, hide in our fancy homes. We are poor, dirty, desperate, but we know who we are and what we stand for. And I swear, I’d rather have tomato soup everyday for the rest of my life than spend one day as a Government boy.







I don’t realize Dad has sat down beside me until I hear his voice. He sounds strangely far away, like he’s speaking through a radio. And I’m not altogether sure I want to know what he is about to say.




























“I know you’re frustrated, son,” he says in a tired voice, and I try to remember he should be plotting his next move against the Government, not talking to me.













Even so, I can’t stop thinking he really doesn’t know how I feel. I’m not frustrated – I just want to fight. What’s the problem with that? I thought we all did. I thought that was the point – fight and destroy the enemy. Win. Don’t they want to win?
































If they’re expecting tears, then I don’t expect their plan to outsmart the Government to work.






































“We have to plan,” Dad says anyway. “Or we don’t stand a chance.”

















A shiver runs through me, but I pretend I was just trying to cool down. Luckily he is too distracted to notice. I sometimes think people forget how old I am.














There’s Mum, treating me like a three year old, and Dad, acting like I’m one of his rebel friends, like I should understand their strategies and their waiting and their sitting around the fire instead of taking the oppressors on. I think they are the ones missing the point, actually.

































There doesn’t seem to be any point in sticking around, so I drop my can in the filthy plastic bag we call a bin and walk to my bedroom. The door is rusty and scratched with age-long marks; and on a paper plaque, is the name ‘Logan’. I’m lucky enough that I don’t have to share with Steve.





























My bedroom is a dirty pit; full of vests with holes and ragged t-shirts and jumpers with angry stains. Even a burn mark on one from the time they burnt down the market stall.





I sit for a long time on my lumpy green mattress, wondering if things will get better soon. If we’ll ever live free from fear.



























I hate fear. It is the undoing of everyone, if you let it be. But I won’t. And the only way to drive out fear is to pretend it doesn’t exist.























I find myself walking over to the window, pulling the curtains back. Across the road is the hospital, filled with people too weak with hunger to carry on.



















Either that or the fever’s got them. My Dad always says that if you catch that, you’re a goner.









































I wipe a smudge of dirt away from the window frame, watching a man outside mumble to himself. That’s nothing new. But I think it’s an illness of an entirely new kind.









I don’t think the hospital can cure him. I don’t think anybody can.



















The man can see me now; and his blank eyes become pencilled with fury. He runs to the window and starts shouting things I can’t hear, dribble running down his unshaven chin.



I would call out to him, but he’d probably just start screaming then.












I realize I do know this man. It’s Sam, the guy who used to run the grocery store that got blown up. Rumour has it he lost his mind when his wife went up in flames with it.






I remember her, funnily enough. She knew none of us had much money to spare, so she always used to give us free bars of chocolate. It was the first time I had ever tasted something so sweet.






























Since she died, the only treat I’ve had is marshmallows. I make a habit of collecting them in my room.


































For a moment, the man locks my gaze, and I don’t need to hear the words to know what he’s saying. I close the curtain and lie down on my mattress, knowing I won’t be able to sleep now.

They’re coming out now.



























I leap back into my bedroom just in time as my father and his official-looking friends march out, faces grim and dark with some new strain.















That was too close. But, since I’m told nothing, there’s only one way for me to find things out. It’s an old art; eavesdropping. Works every time.




















The same longing for knowledge burns in my chest. Somehow, I have to know what’s in that office.





































But I’ve left it too late. Mother’s calling me for dinner.























Letting out a heavy sigh, I tramp down the long gold staircase. On the walls are various photographs of soldiers; both dead and alive. And along another wall is a framed picture of the Granddad I never met. He was in charge before father. Part of me wishes he’d stayed alive to run the place. That way it would feel like I have more than one parent.










Mother is waiting with plates of softly smelling meat balls. She is beautiful as ever; her carefully curled gold hair to her shoulders, green eyes framed with long black lashes, and rosy cheeks bright and unchanged by make-up. She is in another of her dresses; the pretty blue one with the white bird on front. The material is so soft I want to hug her, but then she’d probably tell me ‘not to crease the dress’ like every other time.










“Ah, there you are,” Mother says with a smile layered with pink lipstick. “Eat your dinner up quickly, sweetheart. It’s getting cold.”






















It’s not. It feels like a radiator to me. But I sit down on a tall black chair, and wonder why, like every night, a family of four needs to use the large glass dining table for every meal. I mean, I can understand when father’s got his soldiers round, but that rarely happens anymore. There isn’t much time for social gatherings. The Rebels aren’t giving up, and security is tightening. This just means even less fun for all the kids here. Yes, everything’s so pretty and expensive…but none of it means anything. Not one object in this house. School is even worse. It looks like a big grey prison with its bars and the uniformed men and women outside. You’d think we’re about to be bombed every ten seconds. I doubt that. The Rebels are gaining in numbers, yes, but they are weak in military power where we are strong. Father is the General, and he rules everything. It is his job to stamp on the opposition.


























“Coming to Rose’s tonight?” my twin brother Seth asks from across the table.









I shake my head. I know where I really need to be while everyone else is out and distracted. And it isn’t at my best friend’s house.

















“Why not?” he says, usually excitable green eyes seeming to wilt like a winter flower.





“I’m busy,” I tell him a little too stoutly. I silently hope he won’t get suspicious. “I have to get that history essay done. According to Mr Jones, I’m on my ‘last chance’.”





Seth waves an airy hand. “Since when have you cared about lessons?” he says fairly.





I think back. OK, so my record isn’t exactly clean. It drives mother mad. Apparently, as the General’s daughter, I have a reputation to uphold. It just seems like another way they can take away the fun.































“I don’t,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “But I do care about being grounded. Tell Rose I said hi, yeah?”
































Seth gives a reluctant grumble. But I know he’ll still go. Since forever, he’s had this really cute crush on her. But for such a clever girl, Rose seems to have noticed nothing. I’ve always thought of my brother as pretty backwards in terms of maturity, but whenever Rose is around, he is the model of what all girls want. I think Rose might like this other boy, though. Sorry Seth.





























I make excuses soon after that, knowing my time is limited. But I think it’s okay. Mother is going into town to see a friend. Seth is going to Rose’s house. And father’s just left. But if he returns and I’m still in the office – well, he’ll probably execute me himself.













I stand up and take my empty plate to the sink. Our cleaner, Tara, is already loaded down with various different cups and plates. Probably from when father and his army friends had a tea break.
































Tara is in her late teens, and I think she just wants to make some extra money before she goes to university. Most people in our area have plenty of money, but there are those who do not have so much.

























In fact, the currency was recently changed. We used to use tiny paper notes – they were so cute – but they were soon replaced by gold, silver and bronze. Five bronze coins equals one silver. And ten silver equals one gold piece. That’s how things work around here now. If it seems a little medieval, no one mentions it. And I have to admit, I kind of prefer having loads of coins to jangle in my pockets. They look like cool monuments; like little pieces of history. They’re almost too pretty to spend – but then again, I mostly have things paid for me. I don’t know why. I suppose it’s because my parents are important. Well, you can’t really get more important than General where we come from. Father gets to make all the decisions.




























I tiptoe up the stairs and quietly creep to the office. It is slightly ajar; but empty, I’m sure of it. I turn the brass knocker and enter.























It is as neat and stern as Father himself. Everything is stacked into ruler-straight piles; and even the black tilting chair is shiny and sprayed with hygienic liquid.











But then I see it. The one thing that has failed to fall into place.














The piece of paper is lying on the fluffy red carpet. It must have fallen from the desk above it.






































Before I’m conscious of what I’m doing, my body is bending down and I am picking it up. ‘Operation Hamish’, it reads. Well, I don’t know what that’s about, but it seems really boring.




































I’m about to root through some more drawers when something catches my eye. A small, almost unnoticeable crack in the perfect white plaster.

















But I have noticed it.































I lift the huge painting covering it and see something I have never seen before – at least, not in a wall. It’s a hole! A big, hidden hole.

































But who put it there?

































Again, my body seems to have a will of its own, because I am soon shuffling inside – and yes, it was built for someone small.


























It’s a tunnel, I think, a huge tunnel.




























Quickly, I drag the painting back over the crack. Someone clever designed it for precisely this purpose. Now I am left trapped in the almost darkness.


































I know I should probably go back; I know this is dangerous, but this is too good an opportunity to pass up. My knees are scrambling in dirt I have never really been able to feel before. And suddenly, I want to roll in it like some filthy animal. But when you come from a place like mine, freedom is the only thing in the world that is limited.










We have money. We have beautiful clothes. We have food on the table everyday; three meals a day. Even snacks in-between; dessert. We have everything but the power to travel; to explore. To experience new things.





















I hate this war for taking that away from us.























The further I tunnel through, the more light that reaches my adjusting eyes. Someone’s lit lamps along the underground corridor, and I want to thank them with a thousand gold coins, because without the light, I am completely in the darkness. It strikes me I have never been somewhere so dark; so grimy. But strangely enough, I don’t feel the fear I know I should.































Because this is forbidden. More than that…this could lead anywhere. I almost feel like I’ve fallen through Narnia, only I’m not sure it was so unclean in the wardrobe, and I think there was more than one child.






























My fingers come away grey with dust. Yuck. That stuff’s everywhere; even coated in the corners, where the spiders and the cobwebs lie.

























The hole is seeming to go on forever – surely nothing can go on forever?












The more sensible voice at the back of my head, the one that sounds like my bodyguard, tells me that maybe while this thing doesn’t go on forever, it might be hours before I end this journey. And end it where? I have no idea, but the fact I don’t know where I am going – the fact this isn’t home or school or Rose’s house – sends a thrill deep in my bones.






When my hands are blackened with coal and my left foot is twisted from where I got it caught on a rock, I think I see something. I think I see the end of the tunnel.














With almost desperate steps, I crawl to the end of the hole; and yes, there’s a door. Just big enough for a child to fit through.























My fingers have already decided to open it when it is done for me.


















And the first thing I see is a pair of curious brown eyes.

Spy. The first thing I think is spy.

































Because this girl is no Rebel. That much is obvious.





















For a moment we stare at each other, this girl and I. Her pale gold hair is long and straight down her back; her skin tanned white, her eyes the strangest shade of apple-scotch green. Yes, she is just a girl – but she’s from the other side.












She looks around my age, only smaller. Would they really send her to do their dirty work?






As I am thinking this, another thought comes to mind. A memory of my Dad, telling me to never underestimate the enemy. Never underestimate the lengths they will go to get what they want.
































I should call Dad, Marco, Mum. They’re still outside, by the fire. I should tell someone.





So why am I hesitating?






























She is the first one to speak.































“I came here by accident,” she says – but, far from sounding scared, her voice is smooth; confident. But is that because she’s here on a mission?




































I can’t work out what to do. I know what they would do with this girl – take her, question her, maybe hold her to ransom. She looks rich enough. There’s this glow about her that suggests she has never gone a day without food.


















I’m willing to bet she would be a very useful weapon for us. But somehow I’m rooted to the spot, unable to say anything. If I’m like this because of a squeaky clean Government girl, then how will I ever shoot the enemy to death?

















Or is she the enemy?


































The girl holds out her hand. “I’m Summer,” she says, and her smile is so open and friendly I can’t help trusting her. For a second. Is this a trick? Am I being played?

















But apparently, manners still matter, because I find myself saying: “I’m Logan.”










“Um – do you think you could help me out?” the girls says, her eyes trained on my face.




Jeez, I think, she’s really beautiful.






























I shake my head to clear it. This is why they have sent her. They want to trap me. Don’t they?































I don’t know. Should I help her?






























Well, she doesn’t look armed. Still, what if she has a companion, gun in hand?














I can’t risk it.






































“Prove you’re alone first,” I say.































The girl, Summer, rolls her eyes. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of stuck at the moment. You’ll just have to trust me.”

























Trust her? She’s one of them. I don’t care how young she is, she could be poisonous under that innocent exterior.



























But something deep in my stomach – call it instinct – tells me this girl is no danger. But how did she get here?





























One way to find out.































Cursing, I take her hand and pull her out of the hole I never knew existed. How did it get here?
























































She winces a little as she steps into my room, and it’s then I notice she’s twisted her foot. There’s no one behind her. She needs my help. I know where to get a bandage. But what would my family, my friends, say if they knew? This girl looks like she could afford the cost of any medical treatment. But she hasn’t got anything right now. If I don’t help her, or if I tell someone, does that make me a bad person?
















Or if I do, am I a traitor?






























“Wait here,” I say without looking at her. “Don’t move.”

















Sighing, I walk out of my bedroom without thinking of who’s in it, and root in the kitchen drawer. There’s one clean one left.




































I take it back to my room, where my little guest is gazing around like she’s never seen anything like it. It’s then I see what’s in her hands. One of the only valuable items I have. The Swiss army knife I got from my Dad on my eleventh birthday. Summer is turning it round in her fingers like it’s made of gold.

















Or is she feigning interest and really planning to turn my own defence against me?























“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come back in,” she says with an apologetic smile. I wait for her to put it back in the drawer, but she keeps staring at it. “I’ve always wanted one of these,” she adds without lifting her gaze from the object in her hands.


























Yeah, I bet she has. Probably so she can murder us all in cold blood.













I give a little cough, and she blushes a little and puts the knife back.














“Thanks for the bandage,” she says, taking it and wrapping it round her foot. I’m reluctantly surprised. I didn’t know they did first aid where she comes from.







“No problem,” I say. “But you do realize you’re dead if you’re found?”













Summer raises her eyebrows. “Why? Will your family kill me?” She doesn’t even look a little bit scared.




























I can’t help laughing at this, though it’s not funny at all. There are some here who’d shoot her dead in a heartbeat. Doesn’t she understand that? Doesn’t she’s know she’s walked right into the enemy lair?






























































All I can say is, she’s lucky it’s my bedroom that tunnel led to. And even I considered dropping her in it. Am still considering it. Because what does it make me if I keep her hidden?




































“So what’s your story?” I say.





























“Oh, I broke into an office,” she says. “And then I saw this weird crack in the wall – so I lifted this huge ugly painting, and there was the hole. It took ages for me to get to the end of it. That’s where you come in.”























I can’t contain myself any longer.
























“What were you thinking?” I say almost angrily. “Don’t you know you could be killed?”





“I didn’t know where it led,” Summer says with a shrug. “And I figured I’d take my chances.”


































Well, you’ve got to admire guts like that. She broke into some rich Government officials’ office and went through a hole that could have led anywhere? Crazy. Insanely stupid.





“You probably think I’m an idiot,” she says. “But it’s just…we never get to do anything back home. It’s so boring.”





























And then she starts to tell me what it’s really like to live as a Government child. How they are told nothing, protected wherever they go, have armed soldiers round every block. She tells me about her school, a big grey building with officers guarding the door. It’s then I learn the kids there have a remarkably different timetable. Where we are trained, they learn useless parts of history; learn to play the piano and write essays and speak in grammatically correct sentences. It’s then I learn they are not trained in combat at all.







They must be so arrogant, so confident in their numbers that they think they won’t need the soldiers of tomorrow. They think their children do not need to learn how to fight. Well, I’ve got news for them. They will all die when we invade. I don’t think this with malice or bloodthirsty hope. It’s the truth. If they aren’t even handy with knives, what are they going to do when we come with our guns; our fierce determination? How are they going to live as the second-class citizens when they have been pampered their whole lives?
































“I was hoping you could teach me,” Summer says, biting her lip. Then she shakes her head. “No, you won’t want to. It’s okay, I understand.”

















Damn this girl with her sweet friendliness and her trusting smile and her cute Government accent. Damn her for landing in my bedroom. Because I almost want to teach her. I almost wish she wasn’t one of them.

















But she is. The trouble is, she’s starting to feel more like a friend than an enemy. And that is very dangerous, because how will I kill her friends, her family? How can I watch her face as we tear their Government apart?
























And I want to build a new system. I want us to win. I just wish this girl had been born on our side. She doesn’t act like she’s one of them. Well, not that I’ve ever seen one in person, but we’ve all heard the stories. How they are posh, stuck up, think we’re scum. But this girl has sat in my grubby bedroom and not said a single word against it, and I can bet she lives in the lap of luxury. She hasn’t even batted an eyelid.














This must seem like such a dump to her.



































When the girl sees the time, she lets out a little shriek – and a swear word, which sounds odd coming from her mouth. You’d have thought they were more disciplined than that.



She sees me staring.





































“I’m always being grounded for that,” she says with a raise of her eyebrows, like she couldn’t care less her side is so strict when it comes to thirteen-year-olds using words they apparently shouldn’t know. “But I don’t see the point. It’s just a word.” She gets up more steadily than I’d have thought, with her foot.





















“What are they going to say about the injury?” I say as she prepares to go back through.















Summer shrugs. “I’ll think of something,” she says with a mischievous grin. She starts to clamour in the hole, but at the last minute turns back.























“And by the way,” she says. “I stole a marshmallow.”























She gives me a final smirk, pops the sweet in her mouth, and shuts the door behind her.









I try to work out whether I should be angry, but all I can seem to feel is shock.











Maybe I imagined the whole thing.


























I sit down on my mattress for a long time, and decide she’s not so bad after all.









For a Government girl.

I wake up thinking it was all a dream.























It seemed real at the time, but in the cold light of morning; in my warm, glossy bedroom, it seems like an illusion.





































And if it was, then I don’t care. It’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. This even tops playing a prank on my bodyguard to stop him knowing I’d gone to my friend Amanda’s pool party. This is even better than the time I slipped off to town by myself and brought that beautiful pearl.



























If I concentrate, I can almost smell the faint taste of marshmallow, melting on my tongue. I’ve tasted many different things over the years, but I think that one may have been the sweetest. Maybe because it was stolen.























Who’d have thought accidentally stumbling on a hole would led to all this?












I step out of bed, my toes brushing the plush white carpet. It’s a Monday morning, and that means school, but for the first time, I’m smiling on this day.












My brother Seth isn’t in such a good mood.
























“We have double history,” he says when we’re seated at the table for Breakfast.







Oh crap. I was supposed to do that essay later!

















“Wait for me after school?” I say as we’re spooning up sugary cereal.













“Why?” he says. “You did do the homework, didn’t you?” he sees my face. “Summer! It was only one stupid sheet. And it’s already overdue.”


























I shrug. “I went to bed early,” I say. “I had a headache.”

















“Try telling that to Mr Jones,” Seth says.

























“Yes, alright, Mr Moral,” I say sourly, pushing the bowl away. “On second thoughts, I’m not hungry.”

































Then I think of the Rebel boy’s bedroom; small and covered in dirt, clothes with rips and the crumbling ceiling above. I think of those who are starving, even though they want to kill us, and spoon up every last piece.
























“You changed your mind,” Seth says, grabbing his rucksack.
















“Let’s just go,” I say, tying my hair into a long ponytail down my chest. “We’re going to miss the bus.”




























































Yes, the bus. I hate that big old thing. It’s silver like everything else outside; with black wheels sharp enough to shred your fingernails. The driver, a grumpy man with a grey moustache, has a personal vendetta against kids. According to old legend, he’s forced to take us to school as a punishment for something he did in the past. If you’re ever late, he drives the bus and pretends he hasn’t seen you, even though he knows you’ll get in trouble at school. But our bodyguard usually makes sure we get there on time.
































His name is Frank. He wears a simple black suit, and never says anything that isn’t part of his instructions. I once asked him if he had kids, and he reported me to my father.







I was grounded for two weeks.
























But in a funny way, I was kind of glad, because it was the first time I had spoken to him in five months. Father is very busy with all his work.





























For a moment, I wonder what he would say if he found out I was at a Rebel’s boy house last night. Well, it seemed like more of a hut but it was homely all the same. Cosy. Like it had been lived in. Not like here.





















We make the bus with five minutes to spare. I give the driver a cheerful hello, but he just sighs at me. I got off lightly. You should see what he says to the kids he doesn’t like.




And anyway, he has to be nice to me because my father is his boss. Everyone’s boss, really. He controls everything.


























It’s not like I’d ever report him or anything, but he doesn’t seem to get that. He always looks kind of scared when I say hi, but I never stop bothering.
















Seth and me sit down at the back of the bus, where our friends Rose, Amanda and Tristan have saved us seats next to the window.






















“Hi,” Rose says. “So why couldn’t you come to my house last night? I don’t believe it was really homework. If you wanted it done, you’d pay someone to do it for you.”





I blush nervously. I’ve forgotten how much my best friend knows me.










“I would not,” I say, but I can’t look her directly in the eye. “I just thought it was time to – take control of my education.”



























“Liar,” Seth says, and I shoot him a warning glance. He ignores me, because he has an audience now, as all our friends are waiting for him to rat me out. “She didn’t really do it. Apparently she got all lightweight and went to bed early.” He pretends to spit in disgust, but I know the truth. My brother cares about homework about as much as he cares about the bus driver. Very much, in case you were wondering.












“Snitch,” I say under my breath. Seth shrugs.
























“Here, copy mine,” Amanda says, even when everyone groans at her.











“Thanks!” I say, starting to write out all the dull facts and figures. “You’re a life saver.”









Tristan shakes his head at me. “We should tell your parents what kind of example you’re setting your friends,” he says.






























I look up briefly from my copying. “Don’t you dare,” I say seriously. “Or I’ll hire a sniper to kill you.”




























“Summer!” Rose says, because she knows I really could do that if I wanted to. All’s fair if you’re the General’s daughter.























“Don’t worry,” I say. “As if I would ever do that.” Where only Seth can see, I do the shifty-eye thing. We both laugh and give Tristan murderous glances.












“Right, everyone off!” the driver says in what I imagine is a relieved voice. “Or you can all explain to your parents why you’re back home at nine o’clock!”














“He’s crazy,” Amanda says to me, and I nod. He’s completely unhinged.











Still, we hurry off the bus without a moment’s look back, just in case. I wave hi to the soldiers outside the school building, and they give me curt nods. Well, it’s progress.







When you get to year nine, they don’t bother with form groups anymore, so we simply take off for History class.





























I already know what we’re going to be learning about. World War Two again, just to prove why fighting is necessary for the good to prevail. Please. I bet it’s scripted, anyway.





According to the register, I should sit next to Seth, but we always mess around in class when we’re together, so eventually we were separated. Now I sit next to Rose, because her surname is Stevens, mine Spear. And while it’s great to sit with my best friend, there’s a lot less fooling around and a lot more work where she’s concerned.







In the middle of the lecture, I can’t stop my thoughts drifting back to Logan. He told me his school isn’t like mine – so what is he doing now?




















I imagine him in soldier-uniform, hand up in a salute, and giggle to myself. His life is so weird.


































“Summer Spear,” Mr Jones says, bearing down on me. “Please step outside.”







“For laughing?” I say, raising my eyebrows so high it’s a wonder they don’t disappear. “Sorry, sir, is fun prohibited in this classroom?”

















He’s angry I have used one of his own terms against him, shocked I would dare disrespect a teacher. Where I live, people in power are supposed to have the upmost importance. Well, where my philosophy comes from, respect has to be earned.












“Fine,” I say, ignoring Rose’s moan beside me. “This class smells of boredom, anyway.”



I turn on my heel and stalk out, heart thumping hard. OK, so I’ve shown him, but where does that leave me now?



























Oh, great. I’ll be grounded again. And Tristan has a party at the weekend!










I scruff the shiny floor underneath me. Damn that stupid history teacher. He’s been ruining my life for as long as I can remember.
















I lean my head against the hard wall behind me, thinking of another wall…one that led to danger, to a Rebel house, and a boy with curious brown eyes. More than brown. There was something in them. Like cinnamon.
























I wish I could go to his school. Training, whatever they call it. And for the first time, I wish I could live the life of a Rebel. Well, it’s got to be more fun than here, hasn’t it?






In this world, you swear and your mother drops dead. You give your bodyguard the slip and you’re grounded for a month. You put one step out of line and your life is unbearable.






























Traitor, hisses a voice in my ear. You’re a Government girl, and the Rebels wish you were dead.


































Do they? Logan was certainly suspicious at first, but I think he warmed to me. Or was that a trick so he could lure me in – have me kidnapped, killed, up for ransom?










But then I think or how he warned me of what could happen. You wouldn’t do that if you wanted someone to trust you, would you?






















I take a deep breath in, and hope the answer is no.

I set off for training in the afternoon without a backwards glance. Footsteps behind me hint Steve may be following after me, but I don’t care about that. To be honest, I wish he’d stay away from me. I mean, I know he has to walk on the road too, but couldn’t he have picked a better time? Such as, when I’m not around.
















I’m nearly late, largely due to the fact I dropped a silver piece down a drain and took fifteen minutes fishing it out. Everyone here knows how precious these colour coins are. Nobody has gold, so silver is prestige here. Besides, if I lost it, I might not see food for a week.




































Mr Blake, our mentor, has already started his lecture when I stride in. He glares at me with his bushy grey eyebrows halfway up his forehead, and tells me to sit down.






I choose a seat at the back next to Richard, Isadora, and Beatrix. They throw me quick smiles and whisper I’ll be kicked out if I don’t sort out my timing.




















They’re not exaggerating. There was a boy – William Redding – who skipped Training one day because his little sister had the flu, and he was given a formal warning. The next time





he was late, they expelled him.
































You can’t really blame them, though. If you want to be a soldier, you have to be able to follow instructions. And the first rule here is to be on time. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Not even William’s. It’s just how it is, like it or not. And I’m determined not to give them a reason to kick me out. They want the best, and there is no time for wasters. And if you want to destroy the enemy, you have to be a soldier first. That’s my aim.













“Today we will be learning how to hit a target,” Mr Blake says to general assent.







We’ve been waiting ages to get to master some actual combat skills. All around, speculation rises, which some debating whether or not we’ll be assembling guns yet, or if we’ll have to hit each other squarely in the chest with paint guns. Excitement is building, and no one wants to miss out on a practical. You never know when it might make the difference in your life. Say you’re arrested by a Government soldier, and you need to act fast. A quick slit of the throat. A boot in a face. Or maybe a gunshot wound in the leg.





“Finally,” Richard says, stretching an arm lazily. “All we’ve had this year is rants on ‘knowing the enemy’. Right. I think we know who that is.”















“Actually, I think Mr Blake’s lessons have been pretty helpful so far,” Isadora says as she fluffs up her long brown hair. “All you guys can think about is violence. But it’s important to be mentally ahead, too.”

























Groans greet this statement. Isadora is a well known teacher’s pet, but she can be good for a laugh sometimes. She’s just a little…I dunno, girly-girly. Most people round here don’t have time to file their nails, but she always finds a way. Come to think of it, I think if she pointed a gun at somebody, she would be in more danger than the victim. Well, that’s what Richard and me always say behind her back.





















Even Beatrix is shaking her head, or maybe this is because she can’t wait for a fight; still, she usually has enough feminism in her to go on the girl’s side.















“What are you going to do?” she says to Isadora. “Start reading a book when someone tries to kill you?”






























“She’s got a point there,” I say as Richard snorts with laughter.













Isadora turns her face back towards Mr Blake as he patiently starts talking again. I’m beginning to think she has a bit of a thing for him.
























“As I was saying,” Mr Blake says calmly. “We will be learning to –”











“Yes?” Richard says, on the edge of his seat.






















“- hit a target,” he continues. “And this will involve the use of sharp weapons, so health and safety precautions shall have to be taken. Now, are there any questions?”







“What kind of weapons are we using, sir?”





























“Are we shooting at each other?”


























“Are we using Government prisoners, Mr Blake?”


















“Can we have gloves to protect our hands?”

























“Everybody shut up!” Mr Blake says, eyes boring into every last one of us. “I cannot train a class of juniors who cannot even ask questions sensibly. One at a time. If I wanted children, I would have asked to train five-year-olds on the alphabet. Now, are there any questions?”































A subdued atmosphere has come over the murky class room, so I stick my hand up.




“Yes, Mr Turner?” Mr Blake says. Am I imagining it, or is he still glaring at me over my almost-late entrance?




























“What are we using, sir?” I say, putting extra empathize on the last word.












“Knives,” he says, and a disappointed ‘ooh’ sound goes through the class. “An essential weapon that isn’t as flashy as machine guns and rifles, but is nonetheless an object worth mastering.”










































“Knives,” Richard sounds like he’s tasting the words. “Well, I suppose they can be useful – if your opponent hasn’t got a rifle or a machine gun.” The four of us laugh, though I do think there’s something in Mr Blake’s argument. It’s better to be prepared for anything. Anyway, what if you get caught in a trap, or need to make a speedy getaway? What if you have no more bullets, and the guards are closing in?














I wonder if that sort of weapon would work as an element of surprise – because if everyone is like Richard and thinks knives are beneath them, then wouldn’t it be worth me making this skill worth my while? It could give me a huge advantage one day.









We start to file out of the class room when the clock hits two in the afternoon, anticipant whispers still running among students. I keep quiet, wondering if focus will mean I can come out on top in today’s lesson. Then, if I can perfect every skill, I can be a solider someday soon. And then I can help bring all of this to an end.



















Lined on the grass are a row of bulls eye targets. Large dart boards, in short. My fingers are already itching to hit the red circle.























We start on basic knives with curved kitchen edges, and most people, predictably, aim badly. I hit the edge of my board on my fifth try, but from the cries of my friends around me, you’d think I’d hit the centre.






















I start to concentrate more as different sets of knives are passed round; some huge and chunky, others small and sharp and deadly. We are very careful not to target one another, but of course, accidents happen. Nothing major. A slice of the finger every half hour; a knife in a tree trunk occasionally. But, fortunately, the thin wad of protective clothing (and gloves) usually keeps us safe. More of it’s about relying on instinct, though, and if you don’t have your wits about you, you’re going to get hurt. I don’t see it as any different as going into combat; focus, aim, hit, duck, practise. If you learn these skills, you cannot go far wrong. Of course, there are always other factors. And there is always someone faster, better, more experienced, than you. But, what you’ve got to remember, is that you could be that person for somebody else. And in the end, the underdog sometimes succeeds, because their enemy underestimates them, and they don’t do the same in return. I am opting for a similar strategy, hoping a skinny thirteen-year-old boy will be easily dismissed. I’m well built, it’s true; years of training has given me that; but to an adult, to a soldier, I am just a boy. And I can use that to defeat the ignorant Government official, the keen-eyed solider or the gun-crazy parent. I can use that to ensure I don’t die.

































For a moment I think of Summer, of how she found a weakness. Of how I didn’t hand her in, even though she was an intruder and came through a strange gap in my bedroom I never knew was there. Even though she was one of them. The enemy. Does that make me weak, or human?
































Well, look where being human has got us.
























Still, if it comes down to it, I don’t think I could kill her. Maybe because I have already helped her, and that would feel too much like betrayal. Maybe because we started to talk like we were friends. Or maybe because when I spoke to her, I forgot our families want to kill each other. For the first time, the war didn’t matter. Not like it does now.





I steady my hand and throw my knife at the target. Right on the bulls eye.

When I get back from school, the house is empty.






















Well, not really empty. It’s never empty – just as much as it’s going to be.










For one thing, there’s our bodyguard Frank, then there’s Tara and the cook; Joanne. But, apart from them, my brother and me, there’s no one in.



























“Where’s our parents?” I ask Frank, glancing his way. For a second, I wonder if I’m allowed to know. But it’s too late to agonize over that. So I don’t.













“Your father is attending to business in town,” he says in an old, gravelly voice. “And your mother is organizing a member meeting.”























I nod. This makes sense to me. Father is always doing business, and Mother is in charge of social affairs, particularly for the town hall. You have to be really high up in society to get membership – but if you do, you get to make all kinds of decisions. Important ones. Round here, having a say is something you don’t take for granted, because most people need power to have an opinion.


























“Like usual,” Seth says, sitting down at the table and waiting for the daily snack we’re entitled to after a hard day pretending to do work.



















“Well, I’m glad they’re not here,” I say, giving a mock scared-face.













“Well, you shouldn’t have got yourself sent out then, should you?” Seth says with a petulant edge to his voice. Jeez, what’s his problem?






















“It’s not my fault we have useless parents,” I say, pushing my salad baguette away from me.






























Without another word, I stand up and stalk up the stairs. I can’t deal with one of his I-need-father-to-son-bonding moods right now. Especially not if he’s going to lecture me for getting in trouble for giggling. How stupid can these people get?
























Laugh and the world ends. I don’t think so.





























I’m still sulking ten minutes later, though there isn’t much point because nobody’s here. So I go to the window and peer out – and sure enough, soldiers with big black guns stand patiently on the lawn, some behind the grand gold gates and some in front. Is that all they do all day; protect us from having a life?




























I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest. When mother and father find out what I’ve done, will I have to stay here for the foreseeable future?


















It’s not like I don’t spend enough time here, but there’s something really depressing about being boxed in.






































But since I’m not the sort to sit around feeling sorry for myself, I decide to take action. And there is only one place left I can go. Somewhere not even Frank can find me.








I get off my bed and push the door open. It creaks, but I don’t stop. It seems I have picked another perfect day to sneak into father’s office.
































It smells of soap and lemon, and one look upwards gives me the source. A fitted-in air freshener. It’s not altogether unpleasant, but if you inhale too much, it starts to become unbearably sweet. Like poison.

































































Heaving a little, I lift the ugly painting off the wall, revealing the badly cut-out hole in the plaster. Without hesitation, I crawl inside, making sure I cover my tracks. Then I start the long journey to Logan’s bedroom. Of course, this only works if he’s in, but I’m sure I’ll find something to do. In fact, I can already feel my previously deflated mood blowing up again. I could even go in disguise, couldn’t I? Grab some old clothes and roam the streets like a Rebel. I don’t really know much about their lives, to be honest. Whether they have town squares or meeting halls or business strategies or sweet shops. I don’t even know what they eat. One look at Logan’s dirt-strained walls told me all I needed to know. And somehow, I don’t think he has a snack waiting for him when he comes home from Training.

































What do they do at training? Learn how to shoot and use poisoned arrows and stuff? Or do they work on stamina and focus, obliterating the enemy?

















I’m the enemy. So maybe Logan and his friends learn how to kill me and mine.









It’s not like he can help it. But still, it’s a pretty disturbing thought. I almost shiver, though the lamps are dim today so I can’t really tell if I do or not. Maybe this place is running out of power. If so, I hope whoever’s behind this sorts it. The thought of travelling in the dark isn’t very appealing – because in the shadows, anybody could be there. And right now, neither side is my best friend. If I meet a Government soldier, I am arrested. But if I meet a Rebel, my throat is cut.






















Well, apart from one. And I really hope he hasn’t thought about that.



















Evidently, I must be pretty loud, because for the second time, he has opened the door before I have. I wipe a cobweb out of my hair and clamour out. I’m not as shocked by his bedroom this time around, but I still mentally plan on washing it down one day.










“Hi,” I say. For some reason, I’m more nervous than I was the first time, even though I didn’t know who I was facing then. But maybe it’s because I came here specifically to talk to him, and it was by chance last time. Either way, I feel a little weird standing here in my neatly ironed school clothes. Self-consciously, I twirl my ponytail in my fingers and wait for him to speak.































“So, you just couldn’t keep away from the marshmallows,” he says, and soon it doesn’t matter I turned up out of the blue because we’re both laughing and I can feel my muscles starting to relax. I don’t know what was wrong with me, anyway. I don’t usually get shy like that.







































“You wear a uniform?” he says, looking at my crisp grey jumper and black skirt – now filthy with dust, but still miraculously smart. There must be something in the iron.













I wonder how I’ll explain the dirt later, but decide I’ll jump that hurdle when I come to it.





“Unfortunately,” I say, rolling my eyes. “It’s mandatory.”















He raises his eyebrows, at the uniform or my words, I don’t know. “What’s the point?” he says. “Your ordinary clothes are kind of like uniform, too.”

















“You mean because they’re ironed?” I say. He nods. “Well, I don’t know. I guess they want us to be identifiable. We literally have guards everywhere.”













“We don’t,” he says. “Just outside major buildings. We don’t even have a solider outside our Training block.”
































“That’s awful!” I say, hand over my mouth. Logan smirks. “You could…I don’t know, get bombed! It’s not funny! Is everyone this fearless here?”


















“Pretty much,” he says. “It doesn’t really matter. If the Government wants you dead, they’ll make sure you’re dead. I hardly think a couple of well-placed foot soldiers will save us, to be honest.” He sees the expression on my face. “What?”













“Well, don’t you care?” I say. “About being killed, I mean?” I realize I must look more upset than I need to be. I’m not on his side, anyway. That’s a given.


















“Not really,” he shrugs. “We win, everything changes. We lose, everything’s the same. It’s much worse for your lot. You guys don’t know how to live like we do.”











I look at his rickety old chest of drawers, and don’t answer. He’s right, though. We don’t know how to live like this.































I think of how people complain if the water gets switched off, or if the electricity gets cut. Or even if the new clothes shop in town doesn’t have the right kind of dresses. Of course he’s right. We’re shameless. I feel ashamed, though. Of how we live. It’s funny, but you’d expect Logan to be embarrassed about his home – I know what mother would say, what father would call them. I know that even Seth would think this is the deepest of pits. Then again, Seth hates the Rebels for making us go into lockdown. Literally. He blames them because we can’t go anywhere.


















But the more I listen to Logan talk of his life, the more I start to think. If we had played fair in the first place, would they have revolted? I don’t think so.





















I talk about how I am possibly grounded, how my school teachers hate me, and Logan doesn’t frown or judge me or give me a lecture. He listens, too.














“I’ve always thought you guys had it easy,” he says. I start to interrupt him, but he keeps talking. “But from what you’ve told me…I hate to say this, Summer, but your life sucks.”



We’re both laughing again because it’s so ridiculous but true, and I don’t know why, but my lack of a life is somehow funny. Something I can look back on and hit myself on the head for.



































We stay in his room for a long time, talking and eating marshmallows and bullying each other’s sides. I have so many insults for the Rebels, but each time, he deflects it with an evil jibe or a rich-kid put-down.























By evening, the war is no longer something scary.























It’s a joke. And a bad one.

I start gathering my things at the weekend. An army-style rucksack, my good black boots with the same layer of grime they had a year ago, and Dad’s knife. My shoes pinch and squeak and I wander out to the squalid pit that is our living room, and sit down.










Things seem quiet today. Well, the usual hushed voices have been replaced by an ominous silence. But still no one says anything. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something going on that I don’t know. But surely they’d tell me if they were planning anything?






























Dad, however, smiles like he does every day. “We’ll get going around ten,” he says to me.



Every Saturday, we go fishing at the old lake. Steve doesn’t come. He doesn’t have the patience. Besides, no one wants him there.




















Well, that’s not true. Dad can stand the sight of him. It’s just me. And before I’m made out as the villain, the feeling’s mutual.























Mum comes out of our cramp of a kitchen with four steaming bowls of broth. I take mine eagerly for once, because supplies have been short this week. It almost hurts to feel the hot liquid burn its way down my throat, because my stomach’s that raw. I think about raiding my marshmallow supply again, but that’s almost used up. Mostly from that time Summer came round. But she wasn’t to know. Still, I mentally decide to pick up another packet the next time I get the chance. A woman called Julie owns the main grocery store. Luckily, it hasn’t been burnt down yet. To be honest, I don’t know what we’d do if it was. People wouldn’t know where to go for food. Not just food. Medicine. Bandages. Cigarettes and the odd beer. We’re almost entirely dependent on that one small shop, and that bugs me. How long before the Government decide to invade, burn down everything?



































Like usual when I think about them, a pulsing surge of hate runs through me. What I wouldn’t give to -

































“Budge up,” Mum says to me. I snap out of it and give her room on the lumpy sofa.







“So what’s the plan for today?” I ask, hoping to prise some information from her. If they won’t tell me what’s up, I’ll have to do some digging.





















Mum looks up from her bowl. “We might have another meeting,” she says mildly as she blows on the broth. Her hair is tangled as always, but her eyes tell a different story. She looks strained, and she’s usually one of those people who just get on with things. She’s always struck me as kind of wild, and yet she’s still the woman who puts a meal on the table every day. With Dad a full time leader in the war effort, she brings the main silver coins to our family. And even our squashed, dirty house is a luxury compared to most. Many have taken to living in tents in the forest, but most just go hungry and homeless. We’re so used to seeing them no one gives them a second glance anymore. But sometimes we help, Mum and me. Set up some kind of food kitchen. It’s not much, but to these people, it speaks volumes. Because most wouldn’t dare, or else are unwilling to sacrifice their own dinner for the sake of other people’s. You can’t really blame them though. In these times, people have to be selfish. It’s not like they want to. Still, I like to think that one day someone would help me if I needed it, so I try to hand out a bowl of soup here and there. Nothing major. We get by.


















At exactly ten o’clock, Dad and I get up, wave goodbye to Mum, and set off for the river. On the way, Dad talks to me about Training. I tell him about the knives and the bulls eye, and he laughs and says it’s his bad influence. I can’t work out if he’s worried I’m getting handy with weapons or pleased I want to be one of them. A Rebel. Only for real – one who knows what they’re doing. I’m sick of sitting around logs and pretending angry words are enough to crush the Government. But the truth is, the only way to sort things out is to take action. In my eyes, meetings are a waste of breath. Unfortunately, no one round here listens to what I think.

























Well…Summer listened, but she’s not from round here. And anyway, on her side, they don’t really know about the war. From what she’s told me, the kids of Government officials know nothing. I wonder if their history books will save them when we invade with guns.






























We reach the lake within twenty minutes, and that’s at a slow walk. We usually stop off at Julie’s for a few herbs, some mints, new bandages.





















The fish are biting today, luckily for us. Still, it’s hardly a fast game. When we’ve caught our second salmon, I dare ask the question that’s been preying on my mind all day. Like the end of a fish hook, I rise to the bait.




























“So what’s new?” I say as Dad puts the dead fish in a plastic bag.












“What do you mean?” Dad says brusquely as he makes a knot. Nice and tight, like always.




“I mean I know there’s something going on,” I say stubbornly. I’m going to make him admit it, whether he likes it or not. It’s time people stopped treating me like a kid. Do I have to be a soldier to be treated like an adult? There are no children in this war. Not really. We all know.































“Just more plans,” Dad says, finishing up the knot. “Nothing for you to worry about, son. Now, tell me about Training – you hit it in the centre, didn’t you? With what knife?”







“Tell me what’s going on,” I say. Like that cheap distraction would work.











Dad sighs. “You’re a perspective kid.”



























There’s the word. Kid. Still, I better play nice if I want to find out.



















“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “What’s really going on, Dad?”





















And abruptly his voice becomes more low; urgent. “There’s been a new development,” he says. “We’ve got an operation running at the moment. I don’t know if it’s going to work, but it’s certainly ambitious.” he straightens up and the hush falls from his tone. “It’s just a minor thing. Just to give them a bit of a scare. Let them know they’re not untouchable, either. That’s all I can tell you.”


























“OK,” I say. That seems fair enough.





























After that, we say no more about Rebel plans. Occasionally we talk about the fish, but most of the time is spent in calm silence. That’s what I like the most about fishing. It’s not like it’s the most thrilling thing around. But it’s quiet.
















When we’ve got enough for dinner – and Marco’s – we start to get our things together. It’s over for another weekend.




























Dad turns to me at the last minute.




























“Not a word to your mother, OK?”


































“OK,” I say.







































When we get back home, there is a crowd of people outside, by the fire. Well, not a crowd so much as a huddle. Four or five of Dad’s army mates – plus Marco and Mum – are sitting on one long log, talking. Yes, there is an operation going on. I just don’t know which one.
































Dad glances my way. “Go inside and put the fish away, Logan.”
















That roughly translates as: go inside and don’t listen to our secret plans, Logan. But because no one ever got anywhere by shouting and kicking up a fuss, I grab the plastic bag and put the fish in the freezer. It looks like it hasn’t seen dinner in weeks.









It’s all I can do not to go out by the fire, cook the meat, and listen in, but I’ve got to bide my time. Maybe wait till they’ve had a few beers or two – or, better still, bring them out for some cool refreshment. Now that sounds like a plan.




















“Where’s the fish?”
































I turn round, a sneer already on my lips. Here’s the boy, sat at home like always, demanding food when he’s done nothing to earn it. Mum works, Dad helps lead the rebellion, I gather fish and hand out soup, and what does he do? Sit on his lazy arse, clicking his fingers like a Government boy. Well, I’ve had it.




















“Just get out of my face, Steve,” I say without even looking at him, grabbing a few beers and tossing them in the air.




























“Where’s the fish?” he repeats.




























“Do you not get the message?” I say, starting for the door. “Fuck off back to your pit like you always do.”








































In one movement, he’s in my face. “You think you’re so great, don’t you?” he says roughly, and I fight the urge to punch his face in. That would be too easy a victory. “Running around after Mummy and Daddy – you’re such a good boy, aren’t you, Logan?”





I shove his ugly face away from me, and shut the door on his toe.















The adults stop talking as I come nearer, instead babbling on about stupid things, like whether we have enough herbs or if they’ll be enough to cover the grocery bill or if I had a nice time fishing. But we all know what I really want to know.
















And they won’t tell me.