The tension and worry I've been carrying diminish when I spot the underground walkway. It is a large conveyor belt that hums along the floor, and I can't help but ask Michal dozens of questions about how it works, how large the network is, and how it is powered. He smiles and tells me he'll answer what he can while we travel. I stumble as I step onto the belt, but Michal catches me before I end up on the ground.

The walkway ride lasts the better part of an hour, much of it traveling through dimly lit tunnels. Several times we have to step off one walkway and climb onto a new one. I'm grateful for Michal's presence as he continues a steady stream of conversation. Concentrating on his voice helps me ignore the anxiety blooming in my stomach.

We arrive at our destination and step off the walkway. An elevator zooms us to the surface, where Michal says our lunch awaits. The elevator lets us off into a large room bustling with Testing officials. One official in purple holding a clipboard spots us and hurries over. He makes note of my identification bracelet symbol, scribbles something on his board, and tells Michal to take me to number 14.

Number 14 turns out to be a well-lit but airless skimmer docking bay. In the corner is a small table holding a large picnic lunch. Michal will stay with me here in this room until I've gone through the next step of Testing preparation — whatever that might be. A tiny window next to the table looks out onto a green field of grass. Beyond the grass is sparkling water. After being inside for most of the last few days and not knowing whether I will ever see healthy land like this again, I ask Michal if we can eat lunch outside. He is about to say no, but I must look pretty desperate because he tells me to wait here while he asks one of the upper-level officials.

I take one look at Michal's face when he returns and give a whoop of joy. Michal grabs the basket of food and tells me we have exactly one hour to spend outside. He presses a small button on the wall, and the docking bay door rises. A moment later we stroll into the fresh air.

Picking a spot near a large tree, I admit, "I'm surprised they let us come outside."

"As long as I'm with you and you aren't able to communicate with other Testing candidates, there's no reason to say no." He hands me an apple from the basket and smiles. "To tell you the truth, most Testing candidates are happy to follow instructions. The Testing committee is always interested to see which candidates show a bit more initiative."

Even now, before we are thrown into the wreckage of our country, we are being tested. It shouldn't surprise me. But it does. My eyes run up and down the length of the tree, looking for signs that our words are being recorded, that we are being watched.

Michal smiles. "Don't worry. Our conversation isn't being recorded out here. The Testing committee is too busy to monitor everything leading up to the fourth test. That's what I'm here for, and I don't plan on reporting this conversation. If you want to talk, this is as safe as it gets."

Do I want to talk? Yes. But do I trust Michal or is this just one more test to be graded? My father would instruct me not to trust him. As much as I want to be, I have proven over and over again since leaving home that I am not my father.

Michal hands me a sandwich from the basket and asks, "How are you holding up?"

My stomach is churning, but I make myself take a bite of the sandwich — beef, cheese, and a hearty wheat bread. It probably tastes wonderful. Swallowing, I say, "Malachi is dead. I watched him die."

"I heard." His eyes meet mine. "I'm sorry."

I believe he is. The sympathy I feel radiating off him makes me want to cry. "Why? Why is he dead?" A poisonous leaf. A nail to the eye. Those are the causes. But the reason . . .

Michal looks over his shoulder and then tells me to eat, to pretend to laugh and enjoy myself. Otherwise someone watching at a distance might wonder what we are saying. As I eat, he tells me that the Testing process was designed years ago by Dr. Barnes's father, who believed that the Seven Stages of War occurred because world leaders did not have the correct combination of intelligence, ability to perform under pressure, and strength of leadership to lead us out of confrontations. That the only way to ensure the United Commonwealth did not repeat past mistakes was to test the future leaders of our country and make sure they had the breadth of qualities that would not only help our country flourish but keep our people safe. Over the years, several Commonwealth officials have questioned the necessity of such strong penalties for failing The Testing. Some even say that the Testers rig the outcome of the tests so that those who are too smart, too strong, and too dedicated are weeded out. For those are the ones who feel not only compelled to rebuild the Commonwealth but also to question its laws and its choices. Anyone who voices negative opinions about The Testing either is relocated to an outpost or disappears.

Michal laughs as though he has said something funny. I laugh, too, though nothing has ever seemed less amusing. What constitutes too smart and too strong? Does asking to go outside mark me a rebel? My head spins, but I continue to smile as though my life depends on it.

And it might.

I eat the entire sandwich, then another because it won't keep in my bag and I know I need to be well fueled when I start the next test. Michal leans back in the grass and watches. When the sandwiches are gone, Michal glances at his watch. Ten minutes of freedom remain.

"Are you scared?" he asks, handing me a bottle of water.

I take a sip and feel emotions crash against the carefree wall that I had erected. I nod. Yes, I am terrified. Trying not to lose my composure, I slide the uneaten apples, oranges, and rolls into my bag. My fingers tremble as I try to close the fasteners. Michal helps me and whispers, "Don't worry about being the first to arrive back. Every year candidates think the order you return in matters. It doesn't. Be smart. Be safe. Trust your friends from Five Lakes if you can, but no one else. Every year there are Testing candidates who think taking out their competition is the best way to ensure their entrance to the University. More often than not they are right. Don't let them be this time."

The bag closes. I sit down as the world around me starts to spin and then fades to black. The last thing I remember is feeling strong arms lifting me while a soft, warm voice says, "You're smart, Cia. You're strong. There are people like me on your side who know you can make it. Please, prove I'm right."

Then everything fades away.

The next thing I hear is water dripping. My eyes fly open. I am lying on a cot in what can only be described as a metal box. The whole thing is probably six feet by six feet. I try to squelch the panic I feel at being in such a small, confined space and take in the rest of my surroundings. There are electric lights illuminating the space. A small basket of food sits on the floor next to me. A toilet and tiny sink occupy the corner at the end of my bed. On the wall across from me is a countdown clock with a sign that says: TESTING BEGINS IN THIRTY MINUTES. No. Strike that. Twenty-nine minutes.

I use the toilet. Flush the grogginess from my eyes and the metallic taste from my mouth that are clear signs I was drugged. I think back to the water Michal handed me and feel a stab of betrayal. Then it is gone as I remember the whispered words. The drugs were part of Testing protocol. His words and the care they contained were not. For whatever reason, Michal genuinely believes I will make it through this test. He even claims others I don't know are offering their support. I will not prove them wrong.

As the clock counts down, I strip the bed of its sheet and stuff it into the bottom of my bag. Who knows when I might need the warmth. I then check the food basket. More sandwiches. Dried fruit. A bottle of water. A small box of crackers and three perfectly ripe strawberries. I eat the sandwiches, sniff the water for traces of drugs, and then sip at it while storing the crackers and the dried fruit in my bulging bag. If nothing else, I'll have enough food to see me through a week. More if I'm careful. One by one I eat the juicy strawberries as I watch the clock tick down. When it reaches five minutes, I wash my hands, dig Zeen's Transit Communicator out of my bag, and turn on the compass. The compass swings wildly, searching for direction, and finds none. I can only guess the metal box is confusing the signal and hope the situation remedies itself when I am able to leave.

Two minutes left to go.

I take one last sip of water and store the bottle in my bag.

One minute.

I realize anything could be outside that door. Putting Zeen's Communicator in the side pocket of my bag, I reach into it one last time. When the clock hits zero, I stand with my bag on my shoulder and the small black gun in my hand.

The side of the metal box swings open as a recorded voice says, "The fourth round of Testing has now begun."

CHAPTER 10

THEY DIDN'T WISH us luck. Perhaps that is a strange thought to be having at this moment, but my mind can't seem to focus on anything else as I step from my tiny Testing candidate cell onto a patch of brown grass growing up through concrete. I can barely breathe as I look at the decaying devastation around me. Steel and rock. Glass and wood. Buildings broken and collapsed. Cars completely rusted and overturned. A layer of sooty grime covers it all. Here and there heartier plants are fighting to get beyond the rubble — yearning toward the sun. Vines cover the wreckage of broken cars and buildings. Trees that have been corrupted by the tainted earth but are determined to survive twist through the pieces of the broken city on their way to the sky. Not too far away from where my metal box sits is what looks like a collapsed brick arch that is partially covered by dark, prickly vines. In the rising sunlight, I think I can see words etched on the brick, and I cautiously take a few steps toward it.

I squint to make out the letters: CHICA O STOC EXCH E B

Even with one letter unreadable, I now know for certain where I am. Chicago. The third city destroyed during the Fourth Stage of War. The first two cities had some warning — announced evacuations. Hundreds of thousands of people died, but it could have been worse. Like it was here. Books tell us the attack was fast. Undetected until the first bombs had been dropped. Who the enemy was who breached the country's defenses and destroyed a city unprepared has never been confirmed, although the president and his advisers believed they knew. They struck back, and the world collapsed.

Wind whistles through the abandoned streets. But they aren't abandoned — not now. Fifty-eight other Testing candidates are here. Some are my friends, but according to Michal, others will happily cut me down with the weapons provided for our defense just to ensure their spot in the University class. How do I find one without risking running into the others? Or the weapons they might have selected? Being forced to use the gun in my bag?

Tomas said to meet him at the tallest building, but from my current vantage point, it is hard to tell what that might be. I walk back to my box and hoist myself up to the roof to get a better look. More broken concrete and twisted steel. Mountains of rubble that form the graves of the people who used to call this city home. The enormity of the destruction pulls at my heart, but I don't have time to grieve for the people who died here. I have to find Tomas.

As I prepare to climb down, I spot something that catches the light above the rest of the destruction. It doesn't look like a building, but it's the tallest thing I can see from my location. Distance is hard to judge, but I'm guessing it isn't too far away. I don't know if Tomas will head there, but I have to take a shot.

The Transit Communicator's compass is working now. So is the mapping tool that determines longitude and latitude. At least I know my coordinates. I can find my way back if I need to.

Jumping down, I set off with my compass directing me north to my destination. I scramble over piles of broken rock and avoid large gaping holes in the ground, stopping every few feet to listen. Do I hear other footsteps? Is anyone else nearby? All I hear is the wind rustling the dried, clawlike leaves on a nearby tree.

While my goal didn't appear to be all that far from my metal perch, the sun is much higher in the sky when I approach what I can now see is a grayish-looking spire shooting up from what used to be a building. How the spire survived destruction is a mystery. I wonder if Tomas can see it from his designated starting point.

I sit on a fallen piece of stone and take several sips from my water bottle. The sun is hot. Sweat is dripping down my back. I need to keep hydrated if I am going to survive this test. My stomach growls, and I break off a small piece of raisin bread while I try to decide how long to wait here for Tomas. He might not see the spire. He might have decided that the tall-building plan is a bust and is now trekking his way west to the fence line that was our second rendezvous point.

Checking the position of the sun, I decide it must be sometime after noon. Hours have passed since I first stepped onto the city streets. While I would like to wait as long as it takes to find Tomas, I also need to find shelter when night comes. The idea of sleeping out in the open with Testing candidates and whatever unknown dangers are lurking freaks me out. One hour. That's how long I decide I can give Tomas before I leave this spot. Then I will move on.

I finish my sparse lunch and decide to explore my surroundings a bit until it is time to leave. Hoisting the bag onto my shoulder, I scramble over debris. I almost trip on a tree root and end up directly on the other side of the spire, looking at a large metal box sitting on a broken street.

A Testing candidate box.

My heart picks up speed as I tread slowly toward the box, careful not to make any noise as I walk. It is too much to hope for that Tomas's box would be the first one I come across after leaving my own, or that he would still be in it hours after the test began. Still, I have to look.

The clock inside is no longer lit. The basket of food contains only a discarded apple core and the container the crackers came in. This is definitely not Tomas's box. He wouldn't have been reckless enough to eat food that could be stored for later. And he would have stripped the cot of its sheet like I did. I'm considering adding the sheet to my inventory when I hear a stone skitter over the ground.