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touching my arm, just below the elbow, his fingertips light, moving toward my hand before stepping away just as the doors to the crematorium opened.
    A bald man in a black suit stood there, watching us both before he said gently, “Brynn, Cray, you’re needed in your mourning rooms.”
    We nodded in unison, followed the man down the narrow hallway and turned off at our appointed rooms, not saying another word or even daring to glance at one another.

 
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 5
     
     
     
    My father used to tell me to save my thoughts for solitude. When I asked him what he meant, he gave the sign of silence and said that it’s best to meditate alone.
    It didn’t take long for me to understand this meant to voice my opinions in the wilderness, leaving the home for trivialities and nonsense. I hadn’t thought much about it then, but after my encounter with Cray, I wondered if every word I’d spoken in my own home had been listened to, monitored and critiqued. So, if that were the case, what about school? Were the school sessions recorded, our conversations with our friends listened to and analyzed? What I still hadn’t figured out though, was what they were listening for.
                  The darkened classroom had entertained my thoughts, allowing me time to drift away to a world of spy technology and government dominion. The history lesson had only fueled my growing imagination, and I knew that if anyone in the room could have read my thoughts, they’d have told me how crazy I sounded. Because it was crazy talk, I told myself. My brain responded that it wasn’t. I was being listened to and so was everyone in this classroom. That was creepy and upsetting.
    I turned off my PCA as the front wall of the auditorium faded back to white and the teacher’s face disappeared. Our advisor stood and walked to the center of the enormous classroom and clasped her hands behind her back.
    A podium just large enough to hide the advisor from the waist down sat center stage. She didn’t touch it, simply stood behind it and rocked back on her heels as she always did after a lesson.
                  I shifted in my seat, the cushion worn so thin springs nearly burst through the fabric. Couldn’t my last class be excused a few minutes early? As if hearing the thought, my advisor glanced at the clock at the back of the room and waited thirty seconds to be sure she stalled us long enough for the bell to ring. “To reiterate,” she stated, crisply, clearly. “Read sections 497 through 582. Your quizzes will be ready at the start of class Friday and must be submitted before you leave the classroom.”
    One second passed—the bell jarred all the students awake.
    I shoved my PCA in my small backpack and stood with the rest of the students, filing out of one of the three doorways of the mathematics room. As I stepped from the hallway, my advisor caught me, motioning me back inside the classroom. My heart pounded but I obeyed, standing just inside the doorway until the others had vacated the space.
    Her black hair was slicked back in a bun like all the girls in this academy, her clothing starched so that I thought it could stand on its own. She couldn’t be any older than my mother but her stern expressions had always made me assume her older. She pursed her bright red lips together and clasped her hands behind her back. “You’re distracted,” she said.
    My mouth gaped but somehow I made it work and replied, “My father was shot through the head last week. Am I supposed to pretend it didn’t happen?”
    Her face pinched , and I waited for the reprimand. Instead, she took a calming breath and said, “There are people watching you, Miss Aberdie, people who want to see you score well on Friday’s test. It could have a significant impact on your job placement.”
    I’d received the lectures before, and I’d already made up my mind to pass but not excel. Neither my advisor nor my hologram teacher would change