“You’re praying to God, aren’t you?” she’d asked while tightening his leather belt around his disappearing waist. “You’re asking for forgiveness, for Him to make you well?”
He’d opened his mouth as if to answer, and viscous, black vomit spilled out.
Vomit that smelled of acid and, very clearly, of death.
Terror had seized Agnes then. She’d screamed for her mother, who stumbled bleary-eyed from her bedroom. She’d taken one look at Ezekiel, her last baby, trembling in Agnes’s arms, and did what only a woman raised Outside would ever think to do.
Called the hospital.
“Don’t send an ambulance,” she’d said curtly into the phone. “The neighbors can’t know.” A pause. “Yes, we’re in Red Creek. No, we aren’t allowed to leave.”
Matilda, the nurse on the phone, volunteered to come herself.
By the time she arrived, Agnes’s mother had retreated back into her bedroom. So it was Agnes who learned that Ezekiel had something called type 1 diabetes, and that he’d die without insulin, no matter how hard she prayed. It was Agnes who arranged for Matilda to visit every day whenever Father was out, until she’d wrestled Ezekiel’s blood sugar back under control.
In a week’s time, Ezekiel was playing outside with Sam and the twins again, and Agnes understood what she must do—what she must sacrifice—if she meant to keep him alive.
She couldn’t bear to watch him suffer. Not him, the baby of the family—and, since his mother had abandoned him as an infant, her baby, almost.
In the meadow, Agnes shook away that dark memory and fished a granola bar out of her pocket.
Ezekiel took a bite, chewed, and dissolved into hiccups and sobs.
“Ezekiel,” she said, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Tommy King.”
She scowled. “Don’t worry. I’ll speak with his mother. I’ll—”
Ezekiel shook his head. “No. Agnes, he said there’s sickness among the Outsiders. Plague!”
Instinctively, they both looked east. The Underground Temple lay that way—a hidden bunker, where the faithful would one day shelter from the apocalypse.
Hadn’t Matilda said something about sickness? About taking on extra shifts?
Agnes kept her voice carefully neutral. “Where did Tommy hear that?”
“He heard it from his father,” Ezekiel whispered. “He said the Outsiders are dying and we’ll all be in the Temple soon.” The color drained from his face. “He said we’d better not be afraid of the dark!”
Agnes rubbed his back in rhythmic circles. “Don’t get upset. Remember, your blood sugar—”
He cried ever harder, and what could she say to soothe him?
She only knew what she believed, in her heart’s core.
Gently, she prompted, “Do you know why the Prophet’s grandfather chose this land for us, so many years ago?”
“Because he was persecuted,” Ezekiel mumbled.
“That’s right. The Outsiders believe plural marriage is wrong. So he found a land far from the wicked, with a forest protecting it on one side and a canyon on the other. And that’s where we stay.”
“Except when we need something from Walmart.” He brightened at the familiar story. “Like shoes, or crayons.”
“Exactly. There are lots of sicknesses Outside, Ezekiel. And violence, thieving, and adultery. But as long as you’re in Red Creek, the Prophet will keep you safe.”
Ezekiel wiped his eyes. “Promise?”
Her baby brother, so small and trusting. She held him close, inhaling his scent.
“The Rapture won’t be a surprise. The Prophet will warn us, because God will warn him. I promise, you won’t hear it from Tommy King first. Now, let’s get you inside.”
Wending her way to the porch stoop with Ezekiel’s hand in hers, Agnes truly believed her own words. There was always chaos among Outsiders, because they chose to live in sin. But Red Creek was just the opposite: a land of peace and order. Even if sickness raged elsewhere, Agnes knew the Prophet would protect them. As long as they remained here, they’d be safe.
Under the wide white sky, Sam and the twins whooped and laughed, gleefully playing the Apocalypse Game. In the game, two children—the “angels”—chased after “sinners.” When they caught them, they pierced their hearts with an invisible blade.
Mary shrieked, “Down, blasphemer!”
Sam crumpled, gripping his chest in imaginary agony.
The evening bell tolled. The sound spread like ink through the darkening sky, and Agnes’s heart plummeted. Beth had been missing far too long. It was nearly sunset, the meadow’s edges tinted red, and Father would be home soon.
In the meadow, the game burned on, blazing with make-believe brimstone. Agnes kept her eyes on the horizon, feeling obscurely frightened.
A crow lighted on their trailer’s tin roof, claws clicking. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Where are you, sister? Oh, Beth, where have you gone?
4
BETH
Endure hardship without complaint. Your reward awaits you at life’s end.
—PROPHET JACOB ROLLINS
After suffering the longest, most boring Sunday school lesson imaginable, Beth lingered with her family in the church lobby just long enough to catch Cory Jameson’s eye.
She was wearing her favorite prairie dress—a pale blue that felt like wearing the sky—and had loosed a few locks of hair, the better to highlight the gold flecks in her eyes. She’d also viciously pinched her cheeks to bring out the blush. While technically she wasn’t breaking the Law—no painted faces or unbraided hair—she felt no compunction about bending rules that struck her, increasingly, as senselessly unfair.
Nosy matrons shot her sidelong looks, but it was worth it to see Cory’s jaw drop, ever so slightly, at the sight of her. Pride straightened her spine—a rare sense of power, like a firework going off in her chest.
Cory winked, and she winked back.
Their signal.
A smile broke over his face like a shaft of sun through parted clouds. He was easily the handsomest boy in Red Creek, and all the girls mooned over him (except Agnes, of course). Better still, Cory’s father, the powerful Matthew Jameson, had declared that he’d be a great patriarch one day, the inheritor of his lands. Cory was Matthew’s seventh boy child, but like Joseph in the Bible, he was the favorite. And everyone knew it.
Watching him slip away, Beth smiled like a satisfied cat. Then she caught sight of her oh-so-dutiful older sister, who was showing the young Mrs. Hearn (a fourteen-year-old new mother clearly on the verge of tears) how to swaddle her baby.
Beth’s heart squeezed small as a pomegranate seed. The truth was, she’d been thrilled to catch Agnes sneaking out last night, because Agnes rebelling meant Beth was free to tell her everything—about Cory, and about her own rebellious thoughts—without fear of disapproval. She’d even allowed herself to hope that they’d be confidantes again. Beth couldn’t think of anything she wanted more.
But Agnes had cut her dead.
It’s none of your business where I go, she’d said.
Well. Her sister wasn’t the only one with a secret, and Beth, smarting from rejection, meant to indulge her own in full today.