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PART ONE

THE BOY WHO WALKS IN THE LIGHT

MY MOTHER THINKS I’M DEAD

Obviously I’m not dead, but it’s safer for her to think so

At least twice a month, I see hout don Los Angeles It looks out of place up there Most of the pictures on the screens are of happy things: sht blue sky, tourists posing before the Golden Gate Ruins, Republic coanda “The Colonies want our land,” the ads declare “They hat they don’t have Don’t let them conquer your homes! Support the cause!”

Then there’s hts up the Julory:

WANTED BY THE REPUBLIC

FILE NO: 462178-3233 “DAY”

------------------------------------–

WANTED FOR ASSAULT, ARSON, THEFT,

DESTRUCTION OF MILITARY PROPERTY,

AND HINDERING THE WAR EFFORT

200,000 REPUBLIC NOTES FOR

INFORMATION LEADING TO ARREST

They always have a different photo running alongside the report One tilasses and a head full of thick copper curls Another time it was a boy with black eyes and no hair at all Sometimes I’m black, sometimes white, sometimes olive or brown or yellow or red or whatever else they can think of

In other words, the Republic has no idea what I look like They don’t see and that when they run erprints they don’t find a match in their databases That’s why they hate erous criminal in the country, but the most wanted I make them look bad

It’s early evening, but it’s already pitch-black outside, and the JumboTrons’ reflections are visible in the street’s puddles I sit on a crue three stories up, hidden from view behind rusted steel beams This used to be an apartment colass shards litter the floor of this roo from every wall In one corner, an old portrait of the Elector Priround I wonder who used to live here—no one’s cracked enough to let their portrait of the Elector sit discarded on the floor like that

My hair, as usual, is tucked inside an old newsboy cap My eyes are fixed on the small one-story house across the road My hands fiddle with the pendant tied around my neck