Since my internship began a few weeks ago, I have learned that while a few young, dedicated members of the president’s staff can be found working on Saturdays and Sundays, rarely does the president herself walk these halls on the Commonwealth’s designated days of rest. With the president scheduled to call for a debate on Monday, I expect more officials to be working. I’m not disappointed. The hallways I pass through to get to the president’s first-floor office teem with activity. The air crackles with tension as officials huddle around desks, talking in hushed voices. A few look my way as I pass by, but most are too preoccupied with their own business to notice me. I walk through a large meeting space where a board displays this week’s debate schedule. TESTING AND UNIVERSITY OVERSIGHT is marked in red letters under the date two days from now.

Finally I come to the large white wooden door of the president’s office. The desk to the left of the door sits empty. I put my hand on the doorknob and turn it.

Locked. A knock confirms my suspicion. The office is empty.

I retrace my steps back to the main hall and climb the iron staircase to the second floor. Weeks ago, I made this climb for the first time while following behind Michal. I’d been shocked to see him here. He’d pretended not to know me as he gave me the tour of the building—one of the oldest in Tosu City. After climbing the last step, I slowly walk down the hallway toward a set of double doors flanked by two purple-clad officials. Michal said the doors lead to the president’s private quarters.

Wishing he were standing beside me now, I walk up to the officials and say, “I have a message for the president.”

The dark-haired official on the right frowns. “The president is not on the premises. You can leave the message on the desk outside her office downstairs. A member of her upper-level staff will receive it tomorrow.”

I recognize the words for what they are. A dismissal. Though being cleared into the building says I have a right to walk these halls, no amount of confidence can hide my youthful face or small stature. Both mark me as a student who should not have any reason to send missives to the leader of the United Commonwealth.

“There must be a way to get a message to the president.” I use the firm, measured tone my father employed whenever he talked to Mr. Taubs about his goat eating the new seedlings planted near his farm.

“There is,” the gray-haired man to the left admits.

Before he can order me to leave, I say, “My name is Malencia Vale. I’m the president’s intern. President Collindar asked me several weeks ago to speak to her about a specific subject. I would like someone to get her a message that I am here and am willing to discuss that topic now.”

“The president does not take—”

The gray-haired official holds up a hand, cutting off his partner’s angry words. Quietly, he says, “I will have your message sent, and I hope it is as important as you believe. If not, you’ll discover there’s a cost to your misjudgment. Is that a price you are willing to pay?”

Cost. I know what Dr. Barnes’s price is for a failure in judgment. Does the president require the same payment? I have not worked in this office long enough to know its secrets, but I know Michal did not fully place his faith in President Collindar. I don’t either, but I have only to think of Tomas and all those whose lives could be threatened to know that no matter the price, I will pay it.

A nod is all it takes for the gray-haired official to disappear through a small door to the left. When he returns he says, “I’ve relayed your message. You’re to wait here.”

For what, he doesn’t say. The president? Officials who have deemed my request inappropriate? The only thing I am certain of is that my request to speak to the president has not gone unnoticed. Younger officials whom I have seen working in the cramped offices on the upper floors whisper to each other as they walk down the stairs in groups of twos and threes. While they pretend to be on some kind of errand, the looks they send in my direction speak of their true purpose. I hear one whisper that they hope I know what I am doing.

I hope I do, too. The more people who walk by, the more certain I am that news of this meeting request will spread beyond this building. Michal’s job in this office was arranged through Symon’s connections within the government. Symon planted Michal here to keep an eye on the president and report her plans, but I doubt Michal was the only informant assigned to that task.

Resisting the urge to pace, I keep my eyes straight ahead and hope the nerves I feel do not show on my face. After what seems like hours, a dark-haired woman in ceremonial red appears at the top of the stairs. She gives me a considering look before handing the gray-haired official a note. He reads it, nods, and walks over to me. “This way.”

He leads me to the double doors of the president’s private quarters. Opening the doors, he steps back and says, “You are to wait in this room. They will come for you when they are ready.”

Before I can ask who “they” is, the official nudges me into a small antechamber. The doors behind me close. The dim lights and gray walls make the room feel as if it is caught in shadow. A bright white door stands directly in front of me. The silver knob is polished to a shine.

A memory stirs. Six white doors with silver handles. Five marked with black numbers. The sixth is the exit. This door resembles the ones I stood in front of during the third part of The Testing. A test designed not only to evaluate our individual academic skills, but to examine our ability to assess correctly the strengths and weaknesses of our teammates.