Unspoken

Chapter 16

I have another sleepless night. Baya's small apartment is cluttered and filled to the brim; all necessary things, but not enough space for them all. For the first part of the night, claustrophobia gnaws at my racing mind as I try to grow used to the cramped room.

The smell of flowers makes it even harder. Every time I breathe, I see my mother's face and hear her laugh. I can even taste the smell on my tongue. I feel like it's taking me over from the inside out.

The only redeeming quality of the apartment is the surprisingly comfortable-though-battered couch. The cream-colored linen is ripped in a multitude of places and seems to be spewing an obscene amount of stuffing, but is almost as soft as my bed back home.

After hours, I give up on trying to sleep. I throw the covers off my body and sit up on the sofa. My hands rake through my clean, soft hair as I breathe deeply. At this rate, I'm not sure I'll ever get a full night's rest again. What I would give for my nightly Transmitters right now.

But I'll never get that again, will I?

Even though I hardly trust the Free Speaks, part of me doesn't trust the Movement any more. They killed my mother for their own, selfish reasons. They let me think she died because it was her time.

My whole life has been a lie.

"Can't sleep either, huh?"

I look up to find Baya leaning against the frame of the first of three doorways. She wears a different cotton shirt from earlier, paired with loose shorts that go to her knees. Her long hair has been pulled back into a ponytail. Her face now seems fuller and tired eyes seem larger. I look harder. No, not just tired; she'd been crying.

I shake my head and move so she can take the spot next to me. She turns on the dim light overhead as she moves toward me.

For a while we sit in silence. She stares forward and I stare at her, trying to read her and figure her out the way only my people can. I'm surprised she doesn't try to read me, too.

As I look her over, my eyes finally catch her full Data Tag. Her letters are bold and daunting, even though they're exactly like any other Tag in the Movement.

There's more to her name than letters, though.

There is power.

Baya Marie Smithe.

I have to read the name more times than I can count. Gently, I reach for her wrist and pull it closer. I trace the last name with my finger once, then find her eyes. They have a sad smile in them as she realizes my question.

Slowly, she nods. "Brailyn was my grandfather."

Her oceans stare into my eyes. I can smell the salt in the air above the flowers, like I'm on the West Coast with my father again. Did she ever visit the West Coast with her grandfather before he passed?

How amazing it must have been to know Brailyn Smithe.

But now she's here; the past Movement leader's granddaughter has abandoned her people for the Free Speaks.

She reads the betrayed wonder in my eyes and projects her own confidence back. "The Movement killed my mother at 572 words when she should have had about 1,000. I was thirteen then and old enough to realize something was wrong. My search for answers brought me here."

I pull my hand away from her and look into my lap. Almost immediately, she grabs my own wrist, my own Data Tag. I catch her eye again. She pleads for me to listen to her.