Among the Free by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

than two children. According to the Government, there had been too many people.
    This village looked like there hadn’t been enough people—not enough to fill the houses, to patch the roofs, to putty the walls, to trim back the trees.
    Luke pushed against the door of one of the houses. It creaked back on rusty hinges, revealing a room full of broken chairs and tattered wallpaper.
    Did the people leave quickly? Luke wondered. Or did they have time to pack, to sort out what they wanted to take and what they wanted to leave behind? His stomach growled, reminding him that this wasn’t just a philosophical question. Did they leave any food?
    He walked on through the house to a kitchen in the back, where linoleum peeled up from the floor, a sink dangled from a rotted board, and rusty pipes hung out from the wall. He left muddy footprints across the linoleum, but he didn’t see how that could matter. He opened cupboard doors, hoping for canned food—canned food and maybe a can opener, too, for good measure. Or maybe jars of preserves like his mother used to prepare every year, with every fruit and vegetable that came into season. He remembered the rows of corncobs cooling on her kitchen counters, the bushel baskets full of tomatoes, the cooked apples she always let him smash up into sauce. His mouthwatered and his eyesight blurred, making it hard to see that the cupboards in front of him now were bare.
    Of course they’re bare, Luke told himself. Of course there’s no food. People were starving, remember? They wouldn’t have left any food behind.
    He slipped to the floor, bending his head down in despair against his knees. He was so hungry. He was so tired. He’d walked so far and been so scared for so long—what would it hurt if he rested for just a few minutes? He tilted sideways until he was lying on the floor, his head resting against a coil of the linoleum that had been heaved up from the decaying floor. He wrapped his arms around his knees, drawing them toward his chest.
    Just for a few minutes, he told himself, slipping almost instantly off to sleep.
    The next thing he knew there were voices talking. Talking in the same house he was in.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    B ut sir, this is an unauthorized village,” someone was arguing from the front room of the house. “Can’t you see no one’s been here in years?”
    â€œA lot has happened lately that the Population Police didn’t authorize,” another voice growled. “Our orders are to search every house in every village we come to and kill any unauthorized person we find. And we will follow orders.”
    Luke’s eyes sprang open. With his head against the linoleum, he had a clear line of sight to the muddy footprints he’d tracked across the floor. He scrambled up, and began frantically scrubbing the mud away with his sleeve. But that just left streaks.
    They’ll still be able to see that it’s fresh mud.
    â€œThe Population Police will prevail,” the growly voice went on. “We always have. It’s just a matter of time.”
    The sound of footsteps echoed through the house, moving closer to the kitchen.
    Did I leave muddy footprints everywhere? Luke wondered. How much time do I have before they notice?
    He was standing now, glancing around for any exit. Why hadn’t he looked for anything in the kitchen besides food? Incredibly enough, the window in this room wasn’t broken, and when Luke shoved against the window frame, it seemed to be warped permanently shut. But beneath the window there was a hole in the wall, a place where mold had eaten the drywall away and the boards behind didn’t meet exactly. Luke thought it looked like small animals had crawled in and out through that hole—raccoons, perhaps, or possums. Could Luke fit through too?
    He didn’t have time to measure carefully. He dived for the hole, shoving his shoulders against the rotting, splintering wood.