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the rough-hewn boards. Little invisible feet climb the ladder, and ghostly children shriek as they speed toward the earth on the slide.
    The playground had been a paradise for the little ones until the Chesanings banned it many years ago. They said it was too dangerous having children that close to the forest, but there was nowhere closer to the apartments to put it. I think Mrs. Chesaning just didn’t like the sound of the kids laughing and playing. She sends her own brats out often enough with their nannies.
    But no matter how much she tries, Mrs. Chesaning can’t banish the ghosts. Everywhere I look—behind the slide, underneath the tire swing, sitting next to the doll drinking tea, and nestled between teddy bears and ragdolls—are tiny handmade wooden crosses. Where the playground was once filled with laughter, it’s now a place no mother ever wants her child to visit.
    Living on the edge of the wilderness, we have more than our share of losses. But we’re Texans, the losers of a long-ago war, so it doesn’t really matter what happens to us, as long as there are enough workers in the fields and kids in the Second pool to fill the lineup whenever a First comes to call. It seems as though a kid dies at least once a year. Sometimes, it’s because they get lost in the woods, like my sister; other times, it’s a farming accident, like getting kicked by a horse. Then, there’s the plague. My family’s been lucky. We’ve been spared the coughing, bloody vomit, and the bone-jarring seizures. Others, not so much. The last time disease hit our farm, it was pretty bad. Twenty-eight people died. Nineteen of them were kids.
    I make my way through the knee-high weathered crosses, some leaning, some missing their crossties altogether. A few stand tall, obviously recent. Many of the names are worn smooth from the elements, their identities lost like the children who disappeared, faded away, or breathed their last, only to be taken away by blue-clothed cleaners in the dead of night.
    The cross I stop in front of, Rosie’s, is like that. Lopsided and gray, the wood doesn’t even display the barest etching of her name, but the letters weren’t worn off from snow or the rain. I rubbed them away myself by running my fingers over them, as if that could somehow bring us closer together. It hasn’t worked yet. I kneel and pull up the tufts of grass surrounding the cross. By its base, a small patch of clover sprouts. I run my fingers over the soft white flowers and leave them to grow.
    “I’m sorry I haven’t been back to see you in a couple days,” I murmur as I sit in the grass next to her marker. “I know it’s not an excuse, but I was chosen by a First. And, well, I’m going to have to leave. I don’t want to, but I don’t think I have a choice.” My eyes sting, and I pluck a blade of grass from the ground, letting it go when an evening breeze picks up and whisks it away.
    “I never thought anyone would pick me, not after what happened.” The wind picks up, and I can almost hear her laugh the way she always did, even though the sound of her voice is fading. It’s been so long. “I’m so sorry, Rosie. I never meant for you to die.”

“It’s no mistake.”
    Socrates
    “Y ou know, Socrates, if you don’t feel up to it, I’m certain they can do the grand opening without you.” The sun slants through the narrow window slits of the huge air-bus, shadowing Eliot’s face. On her white suit, it reflects a brilliant, blinding glow. The smooth hum of the vehicle slows as we reach our destination, the National Museum of American History.
    “Nonsense, Eliot. It’s not every day someone creates a museum exhibit in my honor. And we’d best not forget the reporters and how they love their photo opportunities.” My head throbs, and I rub the old, round scars that dot my skull, but the pain doesn’t go away. If anything, it gets worse.
    “Just for you, is it?” She chuckles, a throaty, masculine sound incongruent