Replica by Lauren Oliver Page A

untouched, since it had, decades earlier, belonged to a timber company. Now it was a repository of old equipment, sealed chemical drums, and trailers mounted on cinder blocks and padlocked off, for the most part, with heavy chains. Lyra paused at a rusted gate hung with a large sign warning of biohazardous material. But the gate was unlocked, and she decided to risk it. Half of Haven contained biohazardous material anyway.
    Here there were no neatly trimmed hedges or stone walkways. This area was cooler, shaded by coast oak and mature pines with old, sweeping branches, although to Lyra it all looked the same. As she walked, she thoughtabout animals concealed in dark hiding places, gators crawling up beneath the fence, snakes nesting in the trees. Two years earlier, a wild hog had come bursting out of the undergrowth and run circles around the guards in front of the Box. It was one of the few times Lyra could remember seeing any of the doctors laughing.
    Old tractors; rusted, coiled-up chains; plastic garbage bins; Dumpsters; even an old crane, arm raised as if reaching for the sky: Lyra moved down the long alley of broken-down equipment, her feet squelching in mud that became thicker and deeper as she approached the tidal flats. The insects were thicker here, and louder, too. She knew she was still within the limits of Haven—she could see the fence through the trees, and the flashing of the late sun on the vivid green marshes, and knew that the nearest guards were only a few hundred feet away—but she felt almost as if she had entered another world. As if she could keep walking forever, moving deeper and deeper into the trees, and never be found. She didn’t know whether the idea excited or scared her.
    She spotted an old motorboat, propped up on cinder blocks and covered with a blue plastic tarp slicked with mold and moisture. A perfect hiding place. She felt a rush of sudden relief. She was so tired. For a second, when she stopped walking, she thought she heard footsteps behind her. But when she turned around, she didn’t see anyone.
    She peeled back a portion of the tarp and froze, confused. The bottom of the boat was spotted with rust but relatively dry—and someone, she saw, was already using it for a hiding place. There was a folded brown blanket, standard Haven issue, as well as two neatly folded changes of pants, two shirts, and two folded pairs of male’s underwear. There was, additionally, a flashlight and several cardboard containers of powdered milk, a can opener marked Property of Haven Kitchens , and half a dozen cans of soup.
    Something stirred in her mind—an association, a connection —but before she could bring the idea into focus, someone spoke.
    â€œThat’s mine,” a voice said behind her. “Don’t touch it.”
    She turned and her breath caught in her chest.
    Her first thought was that the boy was an outsider and had somehow made his way in. He looked so wild, so fierce , she felt he must be a different species. Her second thought was that he was hungry. His cheeks stood out sharply from his face, as if they’d been whittled with a knife. His forearms were marked with little diagonal scars, like a tiny staircase cut into his flesh.
    Then she noticed the Haven bracelet—a White—and the idea she’d been reaching for earlier arrived, neat and obvious and undeniable: this was 72. The Code Black. The runaway.
    Except he hadn’t run away, or at least he hadn’t run far. He’d been here, on the north side of the island, the whole time.
    â€œI know you,” she said. “You’re seventy-two.”
    He didn’t deny it. “How did you find me?” He took a step toward her, and Lyra could smell him then—a sharp animal smell, not completely unpleasant. “Which of them sent you?”
    â€œNobody sent me,” she said. She didn’t like being so close to him. She’d never been this close to one of