Hale hauls me up to the church loft and then slams the door shut. I curl up in the blanket and try to keep Kile's face in my mind's eye.

Wait. I am wasting an opportunity. Hale is off guard and surprised for the first time since this nightmare started. I have to find a chink in his set-up.  

 I kneel in front of the metal box and try to pry it open. Locked still, of course. I scour the room for a key.

I find nothing. It's odd how tidy the small loft is. I assume he is letting me sleep on the floor in his room to keep an eye on me, after the close call with Burke. I find it unsettling to prefer one hateful man over another despicable man.  

I stare at the pile of mattresses. It looks warm and soft.

Why does he get the comfort? What could I do to wreck it? I sit on the mattresses and sigh. So, so soft. I lie back and put my grungy socked feet up on his blankets. 

I am as comfortable as I have been in days. I'll jump up when he walks in. After finding a position that doesn't hurt my back, I try not to fall asleep. My blinks come more and more slowly, the toll of the day's work sapping me. The last dash for freedom took all I had, and probably didn't work. What if the fabric fell out? What if Kile doesn't find it? What if the groom who cares for his horse throws it away? What if he doesn't understand it? Thinks it's a mistake?

My only hope is a pinpricked scrap of fabric.

I sigh, dizzy with fatigue. I tried, that's something.

I hear distant voices. I sit up and strain my brain to focus. From this position, I can hear another part of the church. My captors are arguing. 

Concentrate, Eadlyn!

Hale's voice.

Sounding angry.

A woman's voice, Neena? Yes, it sounds like her. I shiver with hate for her. Other voices sound out. A man. Maybe two.

They must be below me and tucked under, maybe in an office behind the pulpit. I bet the first floor walls and doors are rotted and patched poorly. This might be my chance to find out who is in charge.

"Enough!" Hale shouts. The rest go quiet.

"It was too close," he says loudly. "From now on, we need to know where the search parties are at all times, and where he is. If he finds out they are looking for her, it will be twice as hard to hide her. The people love him more than they love America or Maxon, that's for sure. The houses he's churning out are miracles."

"I don't like the way he looked at you," says Neena. "I think he suspects."

"It doesn't matter. He didn't see her. When he comes back to see the prototype, I'll make sure it sucks and that she's miles away. It would be too weird if we flat out refused to cooperate with him. No one would turn away business like his without trying. It'd raise red flags."

"Do you think he saw me?" Neena asks.

"Of course not. And for all he knows I'm a laid back guy who loves fashion. We don't have anything in common. It makes sense I'd be in the textile business. Good thing he didn't see me in the mines. Or, maybe he's heard rumors about me. No matter. He can't prove a thing. How's the pyro team doing?"

"On schedule. We should be ready by Friday," a male voice says.

"Any extra?"

"No, we had enough for eight bombs and we made eight bombs. Nothing was wasted. I'm proud of my team."

"Okay, down buddy. I get it. You had a tightrope walk and you made it across. Now we have to deliver the packages."

"Are you sure you just want to take out the walls?" Neena asks.

"Yes."

"What about the royal chambers?" She suggests.

"No, Neena, I told you. We want to win trust and lead Illea to a better way of life. Not punish the tyrants and then scurry out with our tails between our legs. The staff in the castle are our own people. You of all people should remember that. What if you were in the royal chamber when it blew?"

"I'd pay that price."

"Well, you'd not have the choice. No innocent lives lost."

"What about the b*tch?"

"I didn't kill her, now, did I?"

"You should have."

"No, I'll break her though. It's better. Shows mercy. People eat that up. Humbling her gets my point across. No one is better than anyone. We are all humans who deserve a good life and a chance at happiness."

Silence.

"You're not up to anything without us knowing are you?"

"No, why'd you ask that?"

"Heard you sleeping with her. Could be trouble. I know how a pretty woman can mess with your brain."

"That's enough. It's not like that. Burke's the one who made it an issue. How is he by the way?"

"Healing."

"Good. Keep him out of my sight."

"Gotcha."

Doors slam. Footsteps ring out in the church. I jump out of his bed and run to my spot near the metal box. I lean on it as if I'm asleep. With every beat of my heart, the word bomb echoes.

I hear Hale step into the loft.

I bite my tongue to prevent myself from screaming at him. I have a pillow and a blanket and no one will touch me tonight, not insects, rodents, or man. I have to think about what they said about bombs, and figure out a way out of this. That requires sleep. With my own permission granted, I let myself fall into the oblivion of exhausted slumber.

***

The next day Hale says he has another meeting.

"I can't just watch you all day. I have work to do." Hale shrugs.

I bite back comments about his "work"—it seems to be riling people up and recruiting for the rebellion. Some job.

I trudge behind him to the blasted cart. The cool air is still dewy. I long for a real bath. Instead I get this misting as the morning burns off. I'll take what I can get. I use a corner of my shirt to rub my face. When I pull it away and see the grime and grit, I want to scream.

But I just hold it in and start to crawl into the back of the rickety cart. Sensing his gaze, I turn and see Hale examining me with a strange expression.

"What?" I say, in a voice I would not have recognized as my own just weeks ago. It's hard and guttural, like an old, weary peasant.

Hale cocks his head and asks, "Does it hurt your back to jostle around?"

"Of course it does." I sneer at him, trying not to remember earlier this morning.

That's when he had to change my bandages: extremely awkward. I just stared forward and stayed silent through it. I sense I have an infection brewing by the intensity of pain, the grossness of the bandages he peeled off, and his sucked in breath when he saw the bare wounds. Maybe that is why he seems almost bashful right now.

Without meeting my eyes, Hale kicks the wheel of the cart and says, "Sit in front with me then. It'll look more normal."

My stubborn ego urges me to refuse, but the memory of those bandages forces me to silently climb up next to him.

The ride is not as painful when I'm sitting on the bench seat, cushioned from the jarring hoof beats. But it's hard on my pride, being next to him, being unrecognized by all the people we meet. He made me wear a scarf over my hair and my face is still peeling but somehow I thought they would all know me.

From this vantage, I can finally see where we are going. After a stretch of fields and then a twisty road through the woods, we reach a town. I don't know which it is. Hale steers us directly into a busy market place, teeming with unwashed bodies, beggars, and all sorts of people hocking all sorts of things. I'm struck by the disorder and the amount of crippled people. Many beggars are missing fingers and even hands. There are crutches everywhere and many merchants are sightless or in wheelchairs. The desperation is thick.

Worst yet, everyone waves or calls out to Hale.

"Rebel or die!"

"Monarchy is dead!"

"Resistance is our only hope!"

"All Hail Hale!"

"Down with Maxon!"

I am so shocked I curse under my breath.

Hale chuckles. "I'm glad you're hearing this."

"Who are these people?" I think they must be the dregs of Illea. But there are so many of them. Why are there so many injured people? We haven't been to war in decades. I knit my brow. What am I missing? Immigrants? No, we allow so few.

No one speaks to me or even looks at me closely. My hair is tied back, and my men's clothing is worn and dirty. My face is shiny and red where it isn't peeling and my hands scab ridden. My posture is odd looking because I kind of angle and perch so the shirt doesn't stick to my flaming back. Still, I feel like one person should recognize me. Anyone. It would only take one brave soul.

When we clear the market place, Hale is quiet, pensive even. And then we arrive.

"A poultry factory?" I say in horror.

Hale shrugs and continues steering us through a disorganized series of small shacks, tents, and boxes that look as if a strong sigh would blow them over. I wonder if they are outhouses or what. Why would they need so many? There are upwards of a hundred. Do they raise chickens in these? No, nothing could live in one. They are cramped amongst dangerous nails, splinters, spikes, and gulleys of mud and garbage slop everywhere.

Hale has clearly been here before because he doesn't blink as he expertly maneuvers us through the dilapidated shantytown.

I have so many concerns scrambling around in my head. The loudest is what I say first. "I can't chop off chicken heads. I just don't have it in me, Hale." I hope that using his name will help my case.

He chuckles. "I think you'd surprise yourself."

He stops and gets off the cart. I follow warily.

"How many factories do you own?" I ask as I take in the sprawling but ramshackle factory in front of us. It's made of shingles and has many levels, but the entire structure is slanted to one side like the earth was sloped when it was built but then righted itself.

"None," Hale answers. "I own none."

"How many do you run?" I amend.

"None," he replies.

I stop walking. "Then why are we visiting them all? Is this like a twisted internship process for me? Because I...I..." I trail off as Hale grips my wrist and walks rapidly toward the building.

Panting, I say, "This building is going to fall down. I don't think we should go in." I try to pull back but his vise-like hand easily tows me through a peeling door.

"I run a network," he says curtly. "Anyone of any status or standing I try to speak with, meet with, try to understand their needs. I want the resistance to serve their needs, but I have to know them first. I have to know they're honest, trying to be fair, and working toward what I'm working toward, a better way of life."

"If they aren't?" I ask, truly interested. I think Hale is more involved in the leadership of the resistance than I first thought.

He turns to me and stops walking. I almost bump into his chest but I manage to veer back and end up staring at his bristly chin.

He answers, "I make sure they are replaced with someone who does."

"You stock your people in positions of power so your boss can be the puppeteer."

"It's all in the wording."

"Right," I say sarcastically. Something about him makes me unafraid to snark even though I am his captive. "So you drop in for a payoff or else your goons teach them a lesson?"

"No, what movies have you watched? I stop in to get an update and make sure they know who put them there, or who's keeping them there. I want to make sure the workers are okay, that they are all willing to fight for the cause."

"Are they?"

"Yes. It's a matter of time. In the end, you might be glad you aren't in the castle."

"You're going to massacre my family?" I think about the talk of bombs. A shiver runs through my veins. I have never felt so helpless.

"No, I'd rather not murder anyone. Just replace them with elected leaders."

"Strip them of their family heritage and titles."

"Okay, better wording than massacre, at least."

"They never did anything to you!"

"Oh, that's where you're wrong, spoiled girlie. I'm top in my class and I never had a chance. Street cleaner was the best of my career choices and that was a stretch. How does that feed my 4 brothers and 3 sisters? How does that prevent my dad from working double shifts in the mines until his heart gives out? Your family is why my dad died. Why my blind mother has to work twenty hours a day. Why we all go to bed hungry every night. Why my brothers have to beg in the streets. Why my sisters have to—never mind." He shakes his head and turns away.

I touch his shoulder. "I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't," he says angrily. "Ridding us of castes does not keep our bellies full or grant us schooling or better jobs. I will change things, Eadlyn. I have to."

"I want to help, but you have to go about it—"

"Stop giving me orders. In case you didn't notice, you're alive because I spared you. I'm in charge now. You're going to follow me around like a good pet and make yourself useful while I organize your family's downfall. Don't think I won't put you on a leash. The idea of you in a collar is kind of hot." He sneers at me. I pushed him too far. After a second of his eyes roaming over my formless clothing, he turns and drags me forward.

He leads me through a dark, twisting series of rooms that smell metallic and rotten. I glimpse machinery, blank faces, and many hands without fingers and people without legs and arms. After I see a vat of gore and a pile of lifeless bald chickens, I stop looking and start staring at Hale's back as we climb endless sets of rickety stairs.

In the middle of an abandoned stairway, Hale turns ferocious eyes on me and in a low, fury-filled voice, says, "This is your glorious Illea. This," he gestures to the building around us. "Is why you never left the castle walls. They were keeping us out and you in."

"Hale," I gulp. "I don't think my father knows of this place. He would not allow it to stand. He's a good man—"

Hale cuts me off with a barking scoff. "We have petitioned for safety standards to be enforced by the kingdom. We have begged for inspections, medical benefits, insurance, policy..." 

I stomp my foot and interrupt, "You feel unheard? Well so do I. My father rarely leaves the castle walls either. He focuses on diplomatic affairs. It's a delicate balance for peace with our neighboring countries. His cabinet is responsible for domestic affairs. It's considered the more stable priority." 

Hale puts hands on both sides of the rail and leans his entire weight to one side then the other. The entire stairway sways. 

 I feel the blood rush out of my face and my vision narrows. I step up one stair and grab Hale by the waist, fearing for my life and everyone in the building. 

"Oh my...stop, for the love of...stop, please!" I beg. I look up and see his face changing from rage to confusion. He stops his crazy pedulum movements and stares down at my arms around his waist. 

I let them drop to my sides. The stairs slowly stop swaying. I press my hand to my racing heart. 

"You are unhinged," I murmur, rattled at the way he toys with risk and my life.

"We did it all the time growing up. Ten kids playing pirate boat," he says nostalgically. 

I stare at him in horror.  

He sighs loudly and turns his back on me. "Forget it." He begins climbing again, towing me along.  

I climb up after him. It's pointless to memorize our route. I could never find my way out of this dark maze of misery. I swear some of the stairs go sideways and have no incline.

Finally, he pushes open a door to reveal a two level spacious room, filled to the top with machinery and a foul smell. The light is dim and the air is moist and rank.

I have to grab Hale's elbow to steady myself. It looks like a mini roller coaster was set up in here, made of scrap metal, and then after several earthquakes and hurricanes, it was doused with filth, mold, and something fetid.

"What is this place," I whisper in horror.

Hale pulls me through an obstacle course into the center of the room, ducking under conveyor belts, dodging around precariously tilted vats, and stepping over chains and cords and bags seeping wet substances.

We reach a woman whose skin is gray and dirty like the metal contraption surrounding her. Her hair is salt and pepper speckled and her wrinkled face strangely blank. 

"This is Patel," Hale says. "She's going to watch over you while I work in the office. It's a simple job, the easiest on the line." Hale bends down and shackles me to the foot of the metal table with the rubber tread top.

Then he says to me in a threatening growl, "Be good to her."

He stalks off without another word.

I snort and try to figure out what I'm up against here.

The slight woman to my right says nothing. She presses a small button on the edge of the table. A roaring clank sounds and then a chinking pattern whirs into the air like chains overlapping themselves.

The woman hovers her hands over the tread in front of us. She turns to me and gives me a small smile, while each of her eyes look in two different places over my shoulder. I doubt she can see. Yet she is the first person to smile at me, to even acknowledge me, in days. Something about her small but earnest face nodding at me with that gentle smile makes me want to carry my own weight in this job. At least for one day.

I put my hands the same way as hers. Suddenly, a hatch opens from the metal box above and sickly, whitish pink chicken carcasses start dropping onto the table and rolling toward us.

The first one passes me. I clasp my hand over my mouth to prevent myself from vomiting on it. It is gouged open and entrails are poking out. The head is gone. Blood congeals on its prickly looking skin. I will never eat chicken again.

The woman next to me smacks her hand on the conveyor belt until she locates the chicken.

I think she is blind.

Once she has the carcass in her grasp, she shoves her hand into it.

I turn aside and vomit, narrowly missing my socked feet. I stand back up. The woman is three chickens in. More of the pale lumps pile up near my hands.

She claps her hands frantically and makes odd, disjointed noises.

When she claps, a spray of clumpy blood splatters on my shirt and neck. I gag again.

The smell of fresh vomit joins the fetid stench of innards. I watch her do another chicken. I think she is removing the gizzard and entrails.

She flashes me a nod and another encouraging smile, while using one hand to motion for me to help, all while barely missing a beat on her work.

Unlike the other people who have watched over me as Hale met with his supporters, this woman is quiet and not unkind. She seems very dedicated to doing her job well, and puts her whole body into the disgusting task. It makes me want to genuinely help her. So I try.

I watch what she is grabbing and emulate her movements with the carcass in front of me. I grab at the gushy, cold slime. I manage to grip a handful and tear. It's the worst. I do as she does and drop the globule into a large cauldron just in front of the conveyor line.

After an hour, I feel dizzy from standing. I can't adjust my position much because of the shackles. The woman is silent and fast, but bones of the chicken keep snagging her knuckles. Her blood comingles with the chicken's. I am glad I stand before her, because of her blood but also because she fixes what I mess up or miss because I am slower. Luckily, if that word can ever apply to me again, I avoid being cut by the bones. Obviously, because my eyesight is better. Even so, she is good at her job, despite the effects on her poor hands. And nose.

The smell is so foul I have to stop breathing through my nose and keep my mouth open to breathe. My hands are covered in a thick slime of organs and blood and guts.

Another hour passes and I start to feel seriously lightheaded. I'm surviving on two pieces of bread a day and one bottle of water. The smell is noxious and I vomited everything I had up. I feel myself swaying, so I try to hold the edge of the line to keep upright. I'm sure I'd dislocate my ankle if I faint while shackled. At least.

The woman wraps an arm around my waist. I'm surprised and I startle, but I really need the anchor, so I hold her shoulder.

"Thank you, I'm sorry, I'm dozzy...I mean dizzy..."

The line suddenly stops.

The woman pats my back. I wince and she pulls away. She doesn't know I am injured. She pulls a towel out of a cubby type opening in the machinery. It's stained but dry. She wipes her hands and offers it to me.

"Thank you so much," I say quietly. I find a non-bloody section and wipe my face and then my hands, taking care to not to let it touch the wet conveyor belt.

Then Patel pulls out a metal box and opens it to reveal two drumsticks and two lumpy pieces of corn bread. I gasp. It's the best food I've seen in weeks.

She passes me a drumstick without any fanfare.

"Oh no, I couldn't," I say, grabbing for it. Even though it's chicken, and I am not thoroughly washed up, I devour it. In seconds I am gnawing on the bone and then breaking it in half and sucking it dry. I'm ashamed, but the woman pays me no mind and eats hers the same way, only less quickly. Then she hands me half of her cornbread and I start crying.

Her blank eyes stray eerily around the room, not in sync. But her kindness negates any creepiness. 

I try to stop crying as I eat the thick, moist corn bread. It is delicious.

"Thank you so much," I say. I consider pleading for myself, saying who I am. But the smell of my vomit is still strong around us and the line starts again. It was a mere five minute break, but more than any other job I've had.

The woman is on her feet working immediately.

I join her and work until I feel like a robot. Insert hand. Tug. Pull out. Drop. Repeat repeat repeat.

When I see Hale picking his way through the clutter to retrieve me, I am sore and exhausted but I don't want to leave this woman who has shown me the only kindness I have seen despite her lack of speech and sight. The line slows and then stops. The day is over. I made it. I'm done.

Impulsively, before Hale is close enough to see, I hug the woman tightly.

To my surprise, she hugs me back.

As he approaches, I let go. When he sees me standing idle, he says, "I hope you didn't bug her all day."

The woman makes a flat sound and wipes up with her towel.

He unshackles me and I shake the numbness out of my foot. Then, he points ahead of him and has me lead the way out with his finger hooked in my belt loop. Close to his idea of a leash. I have to be careful where I step, so I don't comment. He steers me down the stairs, out the door, into the dark. The entire day has passed.

"They need windows. Sinks. Longer breaks. Chain link gloves. Music." I'm dead tired, thinking out loud, trying to stay awake.

"They need to tear it down, and start over," Hale says firmly. "It's a fire hazard. I grew up on the floors of that death trap and have seen more fingers and hands lost to faulty machinery than I can count."

I can see through the scant moonlight that the boxes in front of the factory, the ones I thought were outhouses, are actually being entered by bedraggled looking workers. 

"They live here?" I ask.

"If they are lucky. Otherwise they squat in the town alleys or on side of the road. The woods are full of scumbags or else they'd camp there. This is safe, but it takes half their wages to 'rent' an eight by eight plot." He air quotes around the word rent. "They scavenge for supplies to make a roof of some sort."

We are almost to the cart when I stop walking. "Hale, I didn't know. Let me have a chance to change things before you do something drastic. If you truly care about these people, let me try before you hurt someone. Let me. Trust me. You believe I didn't know about this, right?"

He looks put out, like I'm dawdling.

"All of this is new to me, I have ideas though. I can make this change. I would not be able to live with myself if I didn't! These are my people. You don't have to force me to care or force me to step down so your leaders can rule. I can do this without a revolution. Believe me. I can!"

He exhales through his nose.

"We need to go." He guides me to the cart and we climb up.

I'll make him see. I just have to do it before any bombs go off. I have three days to accomplish what a lifetime, mine and Dad's, has not even touched.