The Prey by Tom Isbell Page A

to trust the Brown Shirts. Whyshould she help them? All they’ve done is make her life a living hell.
    But if she covers up the fact that she’s hiding someone and the boy is found, she’ll be the one who’s punished. Why should she help him out—a perfect stranger? For all she knows, he’s the enemy. One of the Crazies her father warned her about.
    â€œWell?” the Brown Shirt prompts.
    Is it her imagination or does she feel the boy’s eyes boring into the back of her head?
    â€œI didn’t see anyone,” she says at last.
    â€œThen where’d he go?”
    She shrugs.
    The soldier does another circle, then makes a step for the ladder. “You sure he’s not up there?”
    Hope spreads her arms wide. “Come see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
    The Brown Shirt stares at her, unsure whether to climb up. Finally he hurries away and exits the barn.
    Hope doesn’t move. Now that the soldier has gone, it’s just her and this intruder. If she’s made a mistake—if she’s misjudged him—she’ll pay for it.
    She slowly pivots in place. At first, she thinks he’s disappeared—his departure as abrupt and secret as his arrival. Then she finds him—peeking through a crack between hay bales. His eyes flick anxiously from one side to another.
    â€œHe’s gone,” she says. “You may as well come out.” Just to be safe, she picks up the pitchfork. Her damp palms grip the wooden handle.
    The boy eases forward, brushing hay from his arms. He walks with a slight limp.
    â€œThank you,” he says. “He would’ve killed me.”
    â€œHe would’ve killed me ,” she responds, not hiding her irritation.
    A look of regret sweeps across the boy’s face. “I’m sorry I put you in that—”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I just thought—”
    â€œIt’s bad enough the other girls want to kill me, now the guards will as well.”
    â€œI said I’m sorry.”
    They stand there, facing each other, saying nothing. Separating them is a slice of sunlight, dancing with dust.
    â€œCan I just ask one question and then I’ll get out of your hair?”
    She nods curtly.
    â€œWhat is this place? What’s going on here?”
    â€œCamp Freedom,” she says.
    â€œWhy are you here? Why’re there guards and barbed wire? Are you all criminals or orphans or what?”
    She doesn’t know how to answer that—not in any brief kind of way.
    â€œLook, I don’t have much time,” he says, “and I know I shouldn’t have bothered you . . .”
    â€œI’ll say.”
    â€œ. . . and I’m sorry if I’ve gotten you in trouble, but I’m a Less Than from Camp Liberty and—”
    â€œA Less Than?”
    He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s what they call us. We’re looking for an escapee and we thought he might’ve come here.”
    She gives her head a shake. “Here? Why on earth would someone come here ?”
    â€œWhat I’m really asking is: If someone wanted to get to the next territory, what’s the fastest way?”
    For the longest time Hope doesn’t speak. Ever since she and Faith came into camp, they’ve been ignored by everyone. Now, finally, someone is talking to her. Needing something from her. And that someone is this boy, whose honest expression and probing eyes set her heart racing.
    â€œCan you help me or not?” he asks.
    That’s when she realizes what she recognizes in him. It’s not like she’s met him before—it’s not like that—but there’s something in his eyes. Kindness. Maybe even warmth. She doesn’t mean to stare, but she can’t look away.
    â€œThe Brown Forest,” she blurts out.
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œThat’s where