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great boney shell of the Guinea turtle spikes above the waterline, like a small, mountainous island.
    “It’s late. I can’t buy meat from the wharf.” I gaze from the stone to the washing cask. I will plunge Old Rub’s head and body beneath the waterline until the bleeding stops. I will scrub her shell and flesh with the catch brush, then paddle her to shore, where I’ll boil her until her feet and head turn white.
    I will kill my friend for my father.
    Old Rub floats motionless, near enough to grab, and I lean over the edge and pause. “No. How can I save a stranger and undo a friend in the same day?” One tear falls into the Shallows. “I’ll say I couldn’t catch you. That there are no more turtles. Father doesn’t know. He’ll understand, and I’ll make him lobster. Under the weight of tomorrow’s importance, he’ll forget.” I peek over my shoulder. “Now swim. Far from here.”
    Old Rub doesn’t move, and I push at her side with my oar. “You can’t live here. There will be more requests for stew, you stupid turtle!”
    I strike her shell and she submerges.
    And I weep. I weep for my loss. I weep from relief and joy. I weep because I’m not allowed to weep, and of all my agemates, I alone seem to feel the need.
    I weep because I’m all alone.
    Old Rub resurfaces and slowly climbs onto the rock. Shelays down in the indentation on the rock’s surface and slowly stretches out her neck.
    Old Rub is a turtle with a pea-sized brain, yet she knows more about sacrifice than I do. She is willing to give my father what I was not, and I feel shame.
    I sniff and draw the boat close to my friend. I remove the knife from its sheath.
    “You will not feel it. I promise. Thanks for being my friend.” I raise the knife — and then hear a shout from the shanty.
    Father!
    The blade splashes into the water, and I look toward the wall. Ten men crouch on the top, their feet unaffected by the shattered glass that would deter the most persistent thief.
    The Amongus are here
.
    “Father Massa!” I paddle furiously toward the dock.
    “Luca!” Dad’s voice pushes strong through the darkness. “Fill my five casks with water. Prepare the boat for my descent. I’ll return tomorrow. Remember that I love you. And your package … it’s safe. I removed it from the storage room. I’m very proud of you.”
    Why do you share your feelings in front of them? Why make it so easy for them to condemn you?
    “Father!”
    The Amongus jump backward off the wall, leaving a dreadful silence. Was it my tears? My words to Old Rub? Did I cause the wrinkle that drew them? Or was it Walery? Did they come for him? I leap to the deck and run inside. There is no sign of resistance, but Walery sits shaking at the table and Father is gone.

CHAPTER
3
    I t is the seventh of the seventh, and my agemates are jittery. Each home has prepared for the Feast of Exchange; every parent has given final instructions: Avoid Luca in school today. He must remain calm. His father descends this afternoon.
    And they obey. Even Lendi and Javo, Fifteens like myself.
    School is about to begin, and students move silently through the streets. Though we shuffle side by side, nobody will speak and risk a wrinkle.
    My mind wanders to the colors of New Pert. So much gray. I’m told there once were plazas of green, when the rains fell often and grass grew lush. Freshwater trees sprung toward the skies that nurtured them. Father tells me the world was beautiful.
    But sprinkles are now so rare, they do little more than extract squeals from the young. The plazas have browned and cracked, yielding shrubs both brittle and yellow. It is not so on the outer islands, where saline-tolerant plants and trees givethe illusion of a healthy world. Yet all know the truth: the earth itself cries out to drink, and won’t bring forth life until satisfied.
    Together, we all file into the building of concrete and stone. Our school, Pert #3, is a circular tower, as are all the other