contentsCHAPTERONE

CHAPTERTWO

CHAPTERTHREE

CHAPTERFOUR

CHAPTERFIVE

CHAPTERSIX

CHAPTERSEVEN

CHAPTEREIGHT

CHAPTERNINE

CHAPTERTEN

CHAPTERELEVEN

CHAPTERTWELVE

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

CHAPTERNINETEEN

CHAPTERTWENTY

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE

CHAPTERTHIRTY

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO

CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AbouttheAuthor

PRAISEFORDIVERGENT

Divergent

Tomymother,

whogavemethemomentwhenBeatricerealizeshowstrong

hermotherisandwondershowshemisseditforsolong

CHAPTERONE

THERE IS ONE mirror in my house. It is behind a sliding panel in thehallwayupstairs.Ourfactionallowsmetostandinfrontofitontheseconddayofeverythirdmonth,thedaymymothercutsmyhair.

I sit on the stool and my mother stands behind me with the scissors,trimming.Thestrandsfallonthefloorinadull,blondring.

When she finishes, shepullsmyhair away frommy face and twists itintoaknot.Inotehowcalmshelooksandhowfocusedsheis.Sheiswell-practicedintheartoflosingherself.Ican’tsaythesameofmyself.

Isneakalookatmyreflectionwhensheisn’tpayingattention—notforthe sake of vanity, but out of curiosity. A lot can happen to a person’sappearanceinthreemonths.Inmyreflection,Iseeanarrowface,wide,roundeyes,andalong,thinnose—Istilllooklikealittlegirl,thoughsometimeinthe last fewmonths I turnedsixteen.Theother factionscelebratebirthdays,butwedon’t.Itwouldbeself-indulgent.

“There,”shesayswhenshepinstheknotinplace.Hereyescatchmineinthemirror.Itistoolatetolookaway,butinsteadofscoldingme,shesmilesatourreflection.Ifrownalittle.Whydoesn’tshereprimandmeforstaringatmyself?

“Sotodayistheday,”shesays.

“Yes,”Ireply.

“Areyounervous?”

Istareintomyowneyesforamoment.TodayisthedayoftheaptitudetestthatwillshowmewhichofthefivefactionsIbelongin.Andtomorrow,attheChoosingCeremony,Iwilldecideonafaction;Iwilldecidetherestofmylife;Iwilldecidetostaywithmyfamilyorabandonthem.

“No,”Isay.“Thetestsdon’thavetochangeourchoices.”

“Right.”Shesmiles.“Let’sgoeatbreakfast.”

“Thankyou.Forcuttingmyhair.”

She kissesmy cheek and slides the panel over themirror. I thinkmymothercouldbebeautiful,inadifferentworld.Herbodyisthinbeneaththegrayrobe.Shehashighcheekbonesandlongeyelashes,andwhensheletsherhairdownatnight, ithangsinwavesoverhershoulders.ButshemusthidethatbeautyinAbnegation.

Wewalk together to the kitchen.On thesemorningswhenmy brother

makes breakfast, and my father’s hand skims my hair as he reads thenewspaper, and my mother hums as she clears the table—it is on thesemorningsthatIfeelguiltiestforwantingtoleavethem.

Thebusstinksofexhaust.Everytimeithitsapatchofunevenpavement,

it jostles me from side to side, even though I’m gripping the seat to keepmyselfstill.

Myolderbrother,Caleb,standsintheaisle,holdingarailingabovehisheadtokeephimselfsteady.Wedon’tlookalike.Hehasmyfather’sdarkhairandhookednoseandmymother’sgreeneyesanddimpledcheeks.Whenhewasyounger,thatcollectionoffeatureslookedstrange,butnowitsuitshim.Ifhewasn’tAbnegation,I’msurethegirlsatschoolwouldstareathim.

Healsoinheritedmymother’stalentforselflessness.HegavehisseattoasurlyCandormanonthebuswithoutasecondthought.

TheCandormanwearsablacksuitwithawhite tie—Candor standarduniform.Theirfactionvalueshonestyandseesthetruthasblackandwhite,sothatiswhattheywear.

Thegapsbetweenthebuildingsnarrowandtheroadsaresmootherasweneartheheartofthecity.ThebuildingthatwasoncecalledtheSearsTower—wecall it theHub—emergesfromthefog,ablackpillar intheskyline.Thebuspassesundertheelevatedtracks.Ihaveneverbeenonatrain,thoughtheyneverstoprunningandtherearetrackseverywhere.OnlytheDauntlessridethem.

Fiveyearsago,volunteerconstructionworkersfromAbnegationrepavedsomeoftheroads.Theystartedinthemiddleofthecityandworkedtheirwayoutward until they ran out of materials. The roads where I live are stillcrackedandpatchy,and it’snot safe todriveon them.Wedon’thaveacaranyway.

Caleb’sexpressionisplacidasthebusswaysandjoltsontheroad.Thegrayrobefallsfromhisarmasheclutchesapoleforbalance.Icantellbytheconstantshiftofhiseyesthatheiswatchingthepeoplearoundus—strivingtoseeonlythemandtoforgethimself.Candorvalueshonesty,butourfaction,Abnegation,valuesselflessness.

The bus stops in front of the school and I get up, scooting past theCandorman.IgrabCaleb’sarmasIstumbleovertheman’sshoes.Myslacksaretoolong,andI’veneverbeenthatgraceful.

TheUpperLevelsbuildingistheoldestofthethreeschoolsinthecity:Lower Levels,Mid-Levels, and Upper Levels. Like all the other buildings

aroundit,itismadeofglassandsteel.Infrontofitisalargemetalsculpturethat the Dauntless climb after school, daring each other to go higher andhigher.LastyearIwatchedoneofthemfallandbreakherleg.Iwastheonewhorantogetthenurse.

“Aptitudeteststoday,”Isay.CalebisnotquiteayearolderthanIam,soweareinthesameyearatschool.

He nods as we pass through the front doors. My muscles tighten thesecondwewalkin.Theatmospherefeelshungry,likeeverysixteen-year-oldistryingtodevourasmuchashecangetofthislastday.Itislikelythatwewill not walk these halls again after the Choosing Ceremony—once wechoose,ournewfactionswillberesponsibleforfinishingoureducation.

Ourclassesarecutinhalftoday,sowewillattendallofthembeforetheaptitudetests,whichtakeplaceafterlunch.Myheartrateisalreadyelevated.

“Youaren’tatallworriedaboutwhatthey’lltellyou?”IaskCaleb.

Wepauseat thesplit in thehallwaywherehewillgooneway, towardAdvancedMath,andIwillgotheother,towardFactionHistory.

Heraisesaneyebrowatme.“Areyou?”

IcouldtellhimI’vebeenworriedforweeksaboutwhattheaptitudetestwilltellme—Abnegation,Candor,Erudite,Amity,orDauntless?

InsteadIsmileandsay,“Notreally.”

Hesmilesback.“Well…haveagoodday.”

I walk toward Faction History, chewing on my lower lip. He neveransweredmyquestion.

Thehallwaysarecramped,thoughthelightcomingthroughthewindowscreates the illusion of space; they are one of the only places where thefactionsmix,atourage.Todaythecrowdhasanewkindofenergy,alastdaymania.

Agirlwith long curly hair shouts “Hey!” next tomy ear,waving at adistantfriend.Ajacketsleevesmacksmeonthecheek.ThenanEruditeboyinabluesweatershovesme.Ilosemybalanceandfallhardontheground.

“Outofmyway,Stiff,”hesnaps,andcontinuesdownthehallway.

My cheekswarm. I get up and dustmyself off.A fewpeople stoppedwhenIfell,butnoneofthemofferedtohelpme.Theireyesfollowmetotheedgeof thehallway.This sort of thinghasbeenhappening toothers inmyfactionformonthsnow—theEruditehavebeenreleasingantagonisticreportsaboutAbnegation,andithasbeguntoaffectthewaywerelateatschool.The

grayclothes,theplainhairstyle,andtheunassumingdemeanorofmyfactionare supposed to make it easier for me to forget myself, and easier foreveryoneelsetoforgetmetoo.Butnowtheymakemeatarget.

IpausebyawindowintheEWingandwaitfortheDauntlesstoarrive.Idothiseverymorning.Atexactly7:25,theDauntlessprovetheirbraverybyjumpingfromamovingtrain.

MyfathercallstheDauntless“hellions.”Theyarepierced,tattooed,andblack-clothed.Theirprimarypurposeistoguardthefencethatsurroundsourcity.Fromwhat,Idon’tknow.

They shouldperplexme. I shouldwonderwhat courage—which is thevirtue they most value—has to do with a metal ring through your nostril.Insteadmyeyesclingtothemwherevertheygo.

The train whistle blares, the sound resonating in my chest. The lightfixed to the front of the train clicks on and off as the train hurtles past theschool,squealingonironrails.Andasthelastfewcarspass,amassexodusofyoungmenandwomenindarkclothinghurlthemselvesfromthemovingcars, some dropping and rolling, others stumbling a few steps beforeregaining their balance. One of the boys wraps his arm around a girl’sshoulders,laughing.

Watching them isa foolishpractice. I turnaway from thewindowandpressthroughthecrowdtotheFactionHistoryclassroom.

CHAPTERTWO

THETESTSBEGINafterlunch.Wesitatthelongtablesinthecafeteria,andthetestadministratorscalltennamesatatime,oneforeachtestingroom.IsitnexttoCalebandacrossfromourneighborSusan.

Susan’sfathertravelsthroughoutthecityforhisjob,sohehasacaranddrivesher toand fromschooleveryday.Heoffered todriveus, too,butasCalebsays,weprefertoleavelaterandwouldnotwanttoinconveniencehim.

Ofcoursenot.

ThetestadministratorsaremostlyAbnegationvolunteers,althoughthereis anErudite inoneof the testing roomsandaDauntless in another to testthoseofusfromAbnegation,becausetherulesstatethatwecan’tbetestedbysomeonefromourownfaction.Therulesalsosay thatwecan’tprepareforthetestinanyway,soIdon’tknowwhattoexpect.

MygazedriftsfromSusantotheDauntlesstablesacrosstheroom.Theyare laughing and shouting and playing cards. At another set of tables, theEruditechatteroverbooksandnewspapers,inconstantpursuitofknowledge.

AgroupofAmitygirlsinyellowandredsitinacircleonthecafeteriafloor, playing somekind of hand-slapping game involving a rhyming song.Every few minutes I hear a chorus of laughter from them as someone iseliminatedandhastositinthecenterofthecircle.Atthetablenexttothem,Candorboysmakewidegestureswiththeirhands.Theyappeartobearguingabout something,but itmustnotbe serious,because someof themare stillsmiling.

AttheAbnegationtable,wesitquietlyandwait.Factioncustomsdictateevenidlebehaviorandsupersedeindividualpreference.IdoubtalltheEruditewant to study all the time, or that everyCandor enjoys a livelydebate, buttheycan’tdefythenormsoftheirfactionsanymorethanIcan.

Caleb’snameiscalledinthenextgroup.Hemovesconfidentlytowardthe exit. I don’t need towish him luck or assure him that he shouldn’t benervous.Heknowswherehebelongs,andasfarasIknow,healwayshas.Myearliestmemoryofhimisfromwhenwewerefouryearsold.Hescoldedmefornotgivingmyjumpropetoalittlegirlontheplaygroundwhodidn’thaveanything toplaywith.Hedoesn’t lecturemeoften anymore,but I havehislookofdisapprovalmemorized.

Ihavetriedtoexplaintohimthatmyinstinctsarenotthesameashis—itdidn’tevenentermymindtogivemyseattotheCandormanonthebus—buthedoesn’tunderstand.“Justdowhatyou’resupposedto,”healwayssays.It

isthateasyforhim.Itshouldbethateasyforme.

Mystomachwrenches. Iclosemyeyesandkeep themcloseduntil tenminuteslater,whenCalebsitsdownagain.

Heisplaster-pale.Hepusheshispalmsalonghis legs likeIdowhenIwipeoffsweat,andwhenhebringsthemback,hisfingersshake.Iopenmymouthtoaskhimsomething,butthewordsdon’tcome.Iamnotallowedtoaskhimabouthisresults,andheisnotallowedtotellme.

An Abnegation volunteer speaks the next round of names. Two fromDauntless, two fromErudite, two fromAmity, two fromCandor, and then:“FromAbnegation:SusanBlackandBeatricePrior.”

IgetupbecauseI’msupposedto,butifitwereuptome,Iwouldstayinmy seat for the rest of time. I feel like there is a bubble inmy chest thatexpandsmorebythesecond,threateningtobreakmeapartfromtheinside.IfollowSusan to theexit.Thepeople Ipassprobablycan’t tellusapart.Wewear the sameclothesandwewearourblondhair the sameway.TheonlydifferenceisthatSusanmightnotfeellikeshe’sgoingtothrowup,andfromwhatIcantell,herhandsaren’tshakingsohardshehastoclutchthehemofhershirttosteadythem.

Waitingforusoutsidethecafeteriaisarowoftenrooms.Theyareusedonly for the aptitude tests, so I have never been in one before. Unlike theotherroomsintheschool,theyareseparated,notbyglass,butbymirrors.Iwatchmyself,paleandterrified,walkingtowardoneofthedoors.Susangrinsnervouslyatmeasshewalks intoroom5,andIwalk intoroom6,whereaDauntlesswomanwaitsforme.

Sheisnotassevere-lookingastheyoungDauntlessIhaveseen.Shehassmall, dark, angular eyes andwears ablackblazer—likeaman’s suit—andjeans.ItisonlywhensheturnstoclosethedoorthatIseeatattooonthebackofherneck,ablack-and-whitehawkwitharedeye. If Ididn’t feel likemyheart hadmigrated tomy throat, Iwould ask herwhat it signifies. Itmustsignifysomething.

Mirrorscovertheinnerwallsoftheroom.Icanseemyreflectionfromallangles:thegrayfabricobscuringtheshapeofmyback,mylongneck,myknobby-knuckledhands,redwithabloodblush.Theceilingglowswhitewithlight. In the center of the room is a reclined chair, like a dentist’s, with amachinenexttoit.Itlookslikeaplacewhereterriblethingshappen.

“Don’tworry,”thewomansays,“itdoesn’thurt.”

Herhairisblackandstraight,butinthelightIseethatitisstreakedwithgray.

“Haveaseatandgetcomfortable,”shesays.“MynameisTori.”

ClumsilyIsitinthechairandrecline,puttingmyheadontheheadrest.Thelightshurtmyeyes.Toribusiesherselfwiththemachineonmyright.Itrytofocusonherandnotonthewiresinherhands.

“Whythehawk?”Iblurtoutassheattachesanelectrodetomyforehead.

“NevermetacuriousAbnegationbefore,”shesays,raisinghereyebrowsatme.

Ishiver,andgoosebumpsappearonmyarms.Mycuriosityisamistake,abetrayalofAbnegationvalues.

Humming a little, she presses another electrode to my forehead andexplains,“Insomepartsoftheancientworld, thehawksymbolizedthesun.BackwhenIgotthis,IfiguredifIalwayshadthesunonme,Iwouldn’tbeafraidofthedark.”

I try to stopmyself from asking another question, but I can’t help it.“You’reafraidofthedark?”

“I was afraid of the dark,” she corrects me. She presses the nextelectrodetoherownforehead,andattachesawiretoit.Sheshrugs.“NowitremindsmeofthefearI’veovercome.”

Shestandsbehindme.Isqueezethearmrestssotightlytherednesspullsawayfrommyknuckles.Shetugswirestowardher,attachingthemtome,toher,tothemachinebehindher.Thenshepassesmeavialofclearliquid.

“Drinkthis,”shesays.

“Whatisit?”Mythroatfeelsswollen.Iswallowhard.“What’sgoingtohappen?”

“Can’ttellyouthat.Justtrustme.”

Ipressairfrommylungsandtipthecontentsofthevialintomymouth.Myeyesclose.

Whentheyopen,aninstanthaspassed,butIamsomewhereelse.Istand

in the school cafeteria again, but all the long tables are empty, and I seethroughtheglasswallsthatit’ssnowing.Onthetableinfrontofmearetwobaskets.Inoneisahunkofcheese,andintheother,aknifethelengthofmyforearm.

Behindme,awoman’svoicesays,“Choose.”

“Why?”Iask.

“Choose,”sherepeats.

Ilookovermyshoulder,butnooneisthere.Iturnbacktothebaskets.“WhatwillIdowiththem?”

“Choose!”sheyells.

Whenshescreamsatme,myfeardisappearsandstubbornnessreplacesit.Iscowlandcrossmyarms.

“Haveityourway,”shesays.

Thebasketsdisappear.Ihearadoorsqueakandturntoseewhoit is.Iseenota“who”buta“what”:Adogwithapointednosestandsafewyardsaway fromme. It crouches lowandcreeps towardme, its lipspeelingbackfromitswhite teeth.Agrowlgurglesfromdeep in its throat,andIseewhythecheesewouldhavecomeinhandy.Ortheknife.Butit’stoolatenow.

Ithinkaboutrunning,butthedogwillbefasterthanme.Ican’twrestleit to theground.Myheadpounds. Ihave tomakeadecision. If Ican jumpoveroneofthetablesanduseitasashield—no,Iamtooshorttojumpoverthetables,andnotstrongenoughtotiponeover.

Thedogsnarls,andIcanalmostfeelthesoundvibratinginmyskull.

Mybiologytextbooksaidthatdogscansmellfearbecauseofachemicalsecretedbyhumanglandsinastateofduress,thesamechemicaladog’spreysecretes.Smelling fear leads them to attack.Thedog inches towardme, itsnailsscrapingthefloor.

Ican’trun.Ican’tfight.InsteadIbreatheinthesmellofthedog’sfoulbreathand trynot to thinkaboutwhat it justate.Therearenowhites in itseyes,justablackgleam.

WhatelsedoIknowaboutdogs?Ishouldn’tlookitintheeye.That’sasign of aggression. I remember askingmy father for a pet dogwhen Iwasyoung, and now, staring at the ground in front of the dog’s paws, I can’trememberwhy.Itcomescloser,stillgrowling.Ifstaringintoitseyesisasignofaggression,what’sasignofsubmission?

Mybreathsareloudbutsteady.Isinktomyknees.ThelastthingIwanttodo is liedownon theground in frontof thedog—making its teeth levelwithmyface—butit’sthebestoptionIhave.Istretchmylegsoutbehindmeandleanonmyelbows.Thedogcreepscloser,andcloser,untilIfeelitswarmbreathonmyface.Myarmsareshaking.

Itbarksinmyear,andIclenchmyteethtokeepfromscreaming.

Somethingroughandwettouchesmycheek.Thedog’sgrowlingstops,

andwhenIliftmyheadtolookatitagain,itispanting.Itlickedmyface.Ifrownandsitonmyheels.Thedogpropsitspawsuponmykneesandlicksmychin.Icringe,wipingthedroolfrommyskin,andlaugh.

“You’renotsuchaviciousbeast,huh?”

IgetupslowlysoIdon’tstartle it,but itseemslikeadifferentanimalthantheonethatfacedmeafewsecondsago.Istretchoutahand,carefully,soIcandrawitbackifIneedto.Thedognudgesmyhandwithitshead.IamsuddenlygladIdidn’tpickuptheknife.

Iblink,andwhenmyeyesopen,achildstandsacrosstheroomwearingawhitedress.Shestretchesoutbothhandsandsqueals,“Puppy!”

Assherunstowardthedogatmyside,Iopenmymouthtowarnher,butI am too late. The dog turns. Instead of growling, it barks and snarls andsnaps, and itsmuscles bunch up like coiledwire.About to pounce. I don’tthink, I just jump; I hurl my body on top of the dog, wrapping my armsarounditsthickneck.

Myheadhitstheground.Thedogisgone,andsoisthelittlegirl.InsteadIamalone—inthetestingroom,nowempty.Iturninaslowcircleandcan’tsee myself in any of the mirrors. I push the door open and walk into thehallway,butitisn’tahallway;it’sabus,andalltheseatsaretaken.

Istandintheaisleandholdontoapole.Sittingnearmeisamanwithanewspaper. I can’t see his face over the top of the paper, but I can see hishands.Theyarescarred,likehewasburned,andtheyclencharoundthepaperlikehewantstocrumpleit.

“Doyouknowthisguy?”heasks.Hetapsthepictureonthefrontpageof the newspaper. The headline reads: “Brutal Murderer FinallyApprehended!”Istareattheword“murderer.”IthasbeenalongtimesinceIlastreadthatword,butevenitsshapefillsmewithdread.

Inthepicturebeneaththeheadlineisayoungmanwithaplainfaceandabeard.IfeellikeIdoknowhim,thoughIdon’trememberhow.Andatthesametime,Ifeellikeitwouldbeabadideatotellthemanthat.

“Well?”Ihearangerinhisvoice.“Doyou?”

Abadidea—no,averybadidea.MyheartpoundsandIclutchthepoletokeepmyhandsfromshaking,fromgivingmeaway.IfItellhimIknowthemanfromthearticle,somethingawfulwillhappentome.ButIcanconvincehim that I don’t. I can clear my throat and shrug my shoulders—but thatwouldbealie.

Iclearmythroat.

“Doyou?”herepeats.

Ishrugmyshoulders.

“Well?”

A shudder goes throughme.My fear is irrational; this is just a test, itisn’treal.“Nope,”Isay,myvoicecasual.“Noideawhoheis.”

Hestands,andfinally Iseehis face.Hewearsdarksunglassesandhismouthisbentintoasnarl.Hischeekisrippledwithscars,likehishands.Heleans close tomy face.Hisbreath smells like cigarettes.Not real, I remindmyself.Notreal.

“You’relying,”hesays.“You’relying!”

“Iamnot.”

“Icanseeitinyoureyes.”

Ipullmyselfupstraighter.“Youcan’t.”

“If you knowhim,” he says in a low voice, “you could saveme.Youcouldsaveme!”

Inarrowmyeyes.“Well,”Isay.Isetmyjaw.“Idon’t.”

CHAPTERTHREE

IWAKETOsweatypalmsandapangofguiltinmychest.Iamlyinginthechairinthemirroredroom.WhenItiltmyheadback,IseeToribehindme.Shepinchesherlipstogetherandremoveselectrodesfromourheads.Iwaitfor her to say something about the test—that it’s over, or that I did well,althoughhowcouldIdopoorlyonatestlikethis?—butshesaysnothing,justpullsthewiresfrommyforehead.

I sit forwardandwipemypalmsoffonmyslacks. Ihad tohavedonesomethingwrong,evenif itonlyhappenedinmymind.Is thatstrangelookonTori’sfacebecauseshedoesn’tknowhowtotellmewhataterriblepersonIam?Iwishshewouldjustcomeoutwithit.

“That,”shesays,“wasperplexing.Excuseme,I’llberightback.”

Perplexing?

Ibringmykneestomychestandburymyfaceinthem.IwishIfeltlikecrying,becausethetearsmightbringmeasenseofrelease,butIdon’t.Howcanyoufailatestyouaren’tallowedtopreparefor?

Asthemomentspass,Igetmorenervous.Ihavetowipeoffmyhandsevery few seconds as the sweat collects—or maybe I just do it because ithelpsmefeelcalmer.WhatiftheytellmethatI’mnotcutoutforanyfaction?Iwouldhavetoliveonthestreets,withthefactionless.Ican’tdothat.Tolivefactionlessisnotjusttoliveinpovertyanddiscomfort;itistolivedivorcedfromsociety,separatedfromthemostimportantthinginlife:community.

Mymother told me once that we can’t survive alone, but even if wecould,wewouldn’twant to.Without a faction,wehavenopurposeandnoreasontolive.

Ishakemyhead.Ican’tthinklikethis.Ihavetostaycalm.

Finally the door opens, andToriwalks back in. I grip the arms of thechair.

“Sorrytoworryyou,”Torisays.Shestandsbymyfeetwithherhandsinherpockets.Shelookstenseandpale.

“Beatrice, your results were inconclusive,” she says. “Typically, eachstage of the simulation eliminates one ormore of the factions, but in yourcase,onlytwohavebeenruledout.”

Istareather.“Two?”Iask.Mythroatissotightit’shardtotalk.

“If youhad shownan automaticdistaste for theknife and selected thecheese, the simulation would have led you to a different scenario that

confirmedyouraptitudeforAmity.Thatdidn’thappen,whichiswhyAmityis out.” Tori scratches the back of her neck. “Normally, the simulationprogressesinalinearfashion,isolatingonefactionbyrulingouttherest.Thechoicesyoumadedidn’tevenallowCandor,thenextpossibility,toberuledout, so I had to alter the simulation to put you on the bus.And there yourinsistenceupondishonestyruledoutCandor.”Shehalfsmiles.“Don’tworryaboutthat.OnlytheCandortellthetruthinthatone.”

Oneoftheknotsinmychestloosens.MaybeI’mnotanawfulperson.

“I suppose that’s not entirely true. People who tell the truth are theCandor…andtheAbnegation,”shesays.“Whichgivesusaproblem.”

Mymouthfallsopen.

“Ontheonehand,youthrewyourselfonthedogratherthanletitattackthe little girl, which is anAbnegation-oriented response…but on the other,whenthemantoldyouthatthetruthwouldsavehim,youstillrefusedtotellit.NotanAbnegation-oriented response.”Shesighs.“Not running from thedogsuggestsDauntless,butsodoestakingtheknife,whichyoudidn’tdo.”

Sheclearsherthroatandcontinues.“Yourintelligentresponsetothedogindicatesstrongalignmentwith theErudite. Ihaveno ideawhat tomakeofyourindecisioninstageone,but—”

“Wait,”Iinterrupther.“Soyouhavenoideawhatmyaptitudeis?”

“Yes and no.My conclusion,” she explains, “is that you display equalaptitudeforAbnegation,Dauntless,andErudite.Peoplewhogetthiskindofresultare…”Shelooksoverhershoulderlikesheexpectssomeonetoappearbehindher.“…arecalled…Divergent.”ShesaysthelastwordsoquietlythatIalmostdon’thearit,andhertense,worriedlookreturns.Shewalksaroundthesideofthechairandleansinclosetome.

“Beatrice,” she says, “Under no circumstances should you share thatinformationwithanyone.Thisisveryimportant.”

“Wearen’tsupposedtoshareourresults.”Inod.“Iknowthat.”

“No.” Tori kneels next to the chair now and places her arms on thearmrest. Our faces are inches apart. “This is different. I don’t mean youshouldn’tsharethemnow;Imeanyoushouldneversharethemwithanyone,ever, no matter what happens. Divergence is extremely dangerous. Youunderstand?”

Idon’tunderstand—howcouldinconclusivetestresultsbedangerous?—butIstillnod.Idon’twanttosharemytestresultswithanyoneanyway.

“Okay.” I peelmy hands from the arms of the chair and stand. I feel

unsteady.

“Isuggest,”Torisays,“thatyougohome.Youhavealotofthinkingtodo,andwaitingwiththeothersmaynotbenefityou.”

“IhavetotellmybrotherwhereI’mgoing.”

“I’lllethimknow.”

I touchmyforeheadandstareat the flooras Iwalkoutof the room. Ican’t bear to look her in the eye. I can’t bear to think about theChoosingCeremonytomorrow.

It’smychoicenow,nomatterwhatthetestsays.

Abnegation.Dauntless.Erudite.

Divergent.

I decidenot to take thebus. If I get homeearly,my fatherwill notice

whenhechecksthehouselogattheendoftheday,andI’llhavetoexplainwhathappened.InsteadIwalk.I’llhavetointerceptCalebbeforehementionsanythingtoourparents,butCalebcankeepasecret.

Iwalkinthemiddleoftheroad.Thebusestendtohugthecurb,soit’ssaferhere.Sometimes,onthestreetsnearmyhouse,Icanseeplaceswheretheyellow linesused tobe.Wehavenouse for themnowthat therearesofew cars.We don’t need stoplights, either, but in some places they dangleprecariouslyovertheroadliketheymightcrashdownanyminute.

Renovationmovesslowlythroughthecity,whichisapatchworkofnew,cleanbuildingsandold,crumblingones.Mostofthenewbuildingsarenextto the marsh, which used to be a lake a long time ago. The Abnegationvolunteer agency my mother works for is responsible for most of thoserenovations.

When I look at the Abnegation lifestyle as an outsider, I think it’sbeautiful.WhenIwatchmyfamilymoveinharmony;whenwegotodinnerparties and everyone cleans together afterwardwithout having to be asked;whenIseeCalebhelpstrangerscarrytheirgroceries,Ifall inlovewiththislifealloveragain.It’sonlywhenItrytoliveitmyselfthatIhavetrouble.Itneverfeelsgenuine.

ButchoosingadifferentfactionmeansIforsakemyfamily.Permanently.

Just past the Abnegation sector of the city is the stretch of buildingskeletons and broken sidewalks that I nowwalk through. There are placeswheretheroadhascompletelycollapsed,revealingsewersystemsandempty

subwaysthatIhavetobecarefultoavoid,andplacesthatstinksopowerfullyofsewageandtrashthatIhavetoplugmynose.

This is where the factionless live. Because they failed to completeinitiation into whatever faction they chose, they live in poverty, doing theworknooneelsewantstodo.Theyarejanitorsandconstructionworkersandgarbage collectors; theymake fabric and operate trains and drive buses. Inreturnfortheirworktheygetfoodandclothing,but,asmymothersays,notenoughofeither.

Iseeafactionlessmanstandingonthecornerupahead.Hewearsraggedbrownclothingandskinsagsfromhisjaw.Hestaresatme,andIstarebackathim,unabletolookaway.

“Excuseme,”hesays.Hisvoiceisraspy.“DoyouhavesomethingIcaneat?”

I feel a lump inmy throat.A stern voice inmyhead says,Duckyourheadandkeepwalking.

No.Ishakemyhead.Ishouldnotbeafraidofthisman.HeneedshelpandIamsupposedtohelphim.

“Um…yes,”Isay.Ireachintomybag.Myfathertellsmetokeepfoodinmybagatalltimesforexactlythisreason.Iofferthemanasmallbagofdriedappleslices.

He reaches for them, but instead of taking the bag, his hand closesaroundmywrist.Hesmilesatme.Hehasagapbetweenhisfrontteeth.

“My,don’tyouhaveprettyeyes,”hesays.“It’sashametherestofyouissoplain.”

My heart pounds. I tug my hand back, but his grip tightens. I smellsomethingacridandunpleasantonhisbreath.

“You look a little young to be walking around by yourself, dear,” hesays.

Istoptugging,andstandupstraighter.IknowIlookyoung;Idon’tneedtobereminded.“I’molderthanIlook,”Iretort.“I’msixteen.”

Hislipsspreadwide,revealingagraymolarwithadarkpitintheside.Ican’t tell if he’s smiling or grimacing. “Then isn’t today a special day foryou?Thedaybeforeyouchoose?”

“Letgoofme,”Isay.Ihearringinginmyears.Myvoicesoundsclearandstern—notwhatIexpectedtohear.Ifeellikeitdoesn’tbelongtome.

Iamready.Iknowwhattodo.Ipicturemyselfbringingmyelbowback

and hitting him. I see the bag of apples flying away from me. I hear myrunningfootsteps.Iampreparedtoact.

But then he releases my wrist, takes the apples, and says, “Choosewisely,littlegirl.”

CHAPTERFOUR

IREACHMYstreetfiveminutesbeforeIusuallydo,accordingtomywatch—which is the only adornment Abnegation allows, and only because it’spractical.Ithasagraybandandaglassface.IfItiltitright,Icanalmostseemyreflectionoverthehands.

Thehousesonmystreetareallthesamesizeandshape.Theyaremadeof gray cement,with fewwindows, in economical, no-nonsense rectangles.Their lawns are crabgrass and theirmailboxes are dullmetal. To some thesightmightbegloomy,buttometheirsimplicityiscomforting.

The reason for the simplicity isn’t disdain for uniqueness, as the otherfactionshavesometimesinterpretedit.Everything—ourhouses,ourclothes,our hairstyles—ismeant to help us forget ourselves and to protect us fromvanity,greed,andenvy,whicharejustformsofselfishness.Ifwehavelittle,andwantforlittle,andweareallequal,weenvynoone.

Itrytoloveit.

IsitonthefrontstepandwaitforCalebtoarrive.Itdoesn’t takelong.After a minute I see gray-robed forms walking down the street. I hearlaughter.Atschoolwetrynottodrawattentiontoourselves,butoncewe’rehome,thegamesandjokesstart.Mynaturaltendencytowardsarcasmisstillnot appreciated.Sarcasm is always at someone’s expense.Maybe it’s betterthat Abnegation wantsme to suppress it.Maybe I don’t have to leavemyfamily. Maybe if I fight to make Abnegation work, my act will turn intoreality.

“Beatrice!”Calebsays.“Whathappened?Areyouallright?”

“I’mfine.”HeiswithSusanandherbrother,Robert,andSusanisgivingme a strange look, like I am a different person than the one she knew thismorning. I shrug. “When the testwasover, Igot sick.Musthavebeen thatliquidtheygaveus.Ifeelbetternow,though.”

Itrytosmileconvincingly.IseemtohavepersuadedSusanandRobert,whonolongerlookconcernedformymentalstability,butCalebnarrowshiseyesatme,thewayhedoeswhenhesuspectssomeoneofduplicity.

“Did you two take the bus today?” I ask. I don’t care howSusan andRobertgothomefromschool,butIneedtochangethesubject.

“Our father had towork late,” Susan says, “and he told uswe shouldspendsometimethinkingbeforetheceremonytomorrow.”

Myheartpoundsatthementionoftheceremony.

“You’rewelcometocomeoverlater,ifyou’dlike,”Calebsayspolitely.

“Thankyou.”SusansmilesatCaleb.

Robert raisesaneyebrowatme.HeandIhavebeenexchanging looksforthepastyearasSusanandCalebflirtinthetentativewayknownonlytotheAbnegation.Caleb’seyesfollowSusandownthewalk.Ihavetograbhisarmtostartlehimfromhisdaze.Ileadhimintothehouseandclosethedoorbehindus.

He turns to me. His dark, straight eyebrows draw together so that acreaseappearsbetweenthem.Whenhefrowns,helooksmorelikemymotherthanmy father. In an instant I can seehim living the samekindof lifemyfather did: staying in Abnegation, learning a trade, marrying Susan, andhavingafamily.Itwillbewonderful.

Imaynotseeit.

“Areyougoingtotellmethetruthnow?”heaskssoftly.

“The truth is,” I say, “I’m not supposed to discuss it. And you’re notsupposedtoask.”

“All those rules you bend, and you can’t bend this one?Not even forsomethingthisimportant?”Hiseyebrowstugtogether,andhebitesthecornerofhis lip.Thoughhiswordsareaccusatory, itsounds likehe isprobingmeforinformation—likeheactuallywantsmyanswer.

Inarrowmyeyes.“Willyou?Whathappenedinyourtest,Caleb?”

Our eyes meet. I hear a train horn, so faint it could easily be windwhistlingthroughanalleyway.ButIknowitwhenIhearit.ItsoundsliketheDauntless,callingmetothem.

“Just…don’ttellourparentswhathappened,okay?”Isay.

Hiseyesstayonmineforafewseconds,andthenhenods.

Iwanttogoupstairsandliedown.Thetest,thewalk,andmyencounterwith the factionlessmanexhaustedme.Butmybrothermadebreakfast thismorning, andmymother prepared our lunches, andmy fathermade dinnerlastnight,soit’smyturntocook.Ibreathedeeplyandwalkintothekitchentostartcooking.

Aminutelater,Calebjoinsme.Igritmyteeth.Hehelpswitheverything.What irritates me most about him is his natural goodness, his inbornselflessness.

CalebandIworktogetherwithoutspeaking.Icookpeasonthestove.Hedefrosts four pieces of chicken.Most of what we eat is frozen or canned,

becausefarmsthesedaysarefaraway.Mymothertoldmeoncethat,alongtime ago, there were people who wouldn’t buy genetically engineeredproducebecausetheyvieweditasunnatural.Nowwehavenootheroption.

Bythetimemyparentsgethome,dinnerisreadyandthetableisset.Myfatherdropshisbagatthedoorandkissesmyhead.Otherpeopleseehimasanopinionatedman—tooopinionated,maybe—buthe’salso loving. I try toseeonlythegoodinhim;Itry.

“Howdidthetestgo?”heasksme.Ipourthepeasintoaservingbowl.

“Fine,”Isay.Icouldn’tbeCandor.Ilietooeasily.

“Iheardtherewassomekindofupsetwithoneofthetests,”mymothersays. Likemy father, sheworks for the government, but shemanages cityimprovement projects. She recruited volunteers to administer the aptitudetests.Mostofthetime,though,sheorganizesworkerstohelpthefactionlesswithfoodandshelterandjobopportunities.

“Really?”saysmyfather.Aproblemwiththeaptitudetestsisrare.

“Idon’tknowmuchaboutit,butmyfriendErintoldmethatsomethingwentwrongwithoneofthetests,sotheresultshadtobereportedverbally.”Mymotherplacesanapkinnext toeachplateon the table.“Apparently thestudentgotsickandwassenthomeearly.”Mymothershrugs.“Ihopethey’reallright.Didyoutwohearaboutthat?”

“No,”Calebsays.Hesmilesatmymother.

Mybrothercouldn’tbeCandoreither.

We sit at the table.We always pass food to the right, and no one eatsuntileveryoneisserved.Myfatherextendshishandstomymotherandmybrother, and they extend their hands to him and me, and my father givesthanks to God for food and work and friends and family. Not everyAbnegation family is religious,butmy father sayswe should trynot to seethosedifferencesbecausetheywillonlydivideus.Iamnotsurewhattomakeofthat.

“So,”mymothersaystomyfather.“Tellme.”

Shetakesmyfather’shandandmovesherthumbinasmallcircleoverhis knuckles. I stare at their joined hands.My parents love each other, buttheyrarelyshowaffectionlikethisinfrontofus.Theytaughtusthatphysicalcontactispowerful,soIhavebeenwaryofitsinceIwasyoung.

“Tellmewhat’sbotheringyou,”sheadds.

Istareatmyplate.Mymother’sacutesensessometimessurpriseme,but

nowtheychideme.WhywasIsofocusedonmyselfthatIdidn’tnoticehisdeepfrownandhissaggingposture?

“Ihadadifficultdayatwork,”hesays.“Well,really,itwasMarcuswhohadthedifficultday.Ishouldn’tlayclaimtoit.”

Marcusismyfather’scoworker;theyarebothpoliticalleaders.Thecityis ruled by a council of fifty people, composed entirely of representativesfromAbnegation,becauseourfactionisregardedasincorruptible,duetoourcommitment toselflessness.Our leadersareselectedby theirpeersfor theirimpeccable character,moral fortitude, and leadership skills.Representativesfrom each of the other factions can speak in the meetings on behalf of aparticular issue, but ultimately, the decision is the council’s.Andwhile thecouncil technically makes decisions together, Marcus is particularlyinfluential.

It has been thisway since the beginning of the great peace,when thefactionswereformed.Ithinkthesystempersistsbecausewe’reafraidofwhatmighthappenifitdidn’t:war.

“Is thisabout that reportJeanineMatthewsreleased?”mymothersays.JeanineMatthews isErudite’s sole representative, selected based on her IQscore.Myfathercomplainsaboutheroften.

Ilookup.“Areport?”

Caleb gives me a warning look. We aren’t supposed to speak at thedinner table unless our parents ask us a direct question, and they usuallydon’t.Ourlisteningearsareagifttothem,myfathersays.Theygiveustheirlisteningearsafterdinner,inthefamilyroom.

“Yes,”myfathersays.Hiseyesnarrow.“Thosearrogant,self-righteous—”Hestopsandclearshisthroat.“Sorry.ButshereleasedareportattackingMarcus’scharacter.”

Iraisemyeyebrows.

“Whatdiditsay?”Iask.

“Beatrice,”Calebsaysquietly.

Iduckmyhead,turningmyforkoverandoverandoveruntilthewarmthleavesmycheeks.Idon’tliketobechastised.Especiallybymybrother.

“Itsaid,”myfathersays,“thatMarcus’sviolenceandcrueltytowardhissonisthereasonhissonchoseDauntlessinsteadofAbnegation.”

FewpeoplewhoarebornintoAbnegationchoosetoleaveit.Whentheydo, we remember. Two years ago, Marcus’s son, Tobias, left us for the

Dauntless, andMarcuswas devastated. Tobiaswas his only child—and hisonlyfamily,sincehiswifediedgivingbirthtotheirsecondchild.Theinfantdiedminuteslater.

I never met Tobias. He rarely attended community events and neverjoinedhisfatheratourhousefordinner.Myfatheroftenremarkedthatitwasstrange,butnowitdoesn’tmatter.

“Cruel?Marcus?”Mymothershakesherhead.“Thatpoorman.Asifheneedstoberemindedofhisloss.”

“Ofhisson’sbetrayal,youmean?”myfathersayscoldly.“Ishouldn’tbesurprisedatthispoint.TheEruditehavebeenattackinguswiththesereportsformonths.Andthisisn’ttheend.Therewillbemore,Iguaranteeit.”

I shouldn’t speak again, but I can’t helpmyself. I blurt out, “Why aretheydoingthis?”

“Whydon’tyoutakethisopportunitytolistentoyourfather,Beatrice?”mymothersaysgently.Itisphrasedlikeasuggestion,notacommand.IlookacrossthetableatCaleb,whohasthatlookofdisapprovalinhiseyes.

I stare atmy peas. I am not sure I can live this life of obligation anylonger.Iamnotgoodenough.

“You know why,” my father says. “Because we have something theywant.Valuingknowledgeaboveallelse results ina lust forpower,and thatleadsmenintodarkandemptyplaces.Weshouldbethankful thatweknowbetter.”

I nod. I know I will not choose Erudite, even though my test resultssuggestedthatIcould.Iammyfather’sdaughter.

Myparentscleanupafterdinner.Theydon’tevenletCalebhelpthem,becausewe’resupposed tokeep toourselves tonight insteadofgathering inthefamilyroom,sowecanthinkaboutourresults.

My familymight be able to helpme choose, if I could talk aboutmyresults.But I can’t. Tori’swarningwhispers inmymemory every timemyresolvetokeepmymouthshutfalters.

CalebandIclimbthestairsand,atthetop,whenwedividetogotoourseparatebedrooms,hestopsmewithahandonmyshoulder.

“Beatrice,”he says, looking sternly intomyeyes. “Weshould thinkofour family.”There isanedge tohisvoice.“But.Butwemustalso thinkofourselves.”

For amoment I stare at him. I have never seen him think of himself,

neverheardhiminsistonanythingbutselflessness.

I amso startledbyhis comment that I just saywhat I amsupposed tosay:“Thetestsdon’thavetochangeourchoices.”

Hesmilesalittle.“Don’tthey,though?”

He squeezesmy shoulder andwalks into his bedroom. I peer into hisroomandseeanunmadebedandastackofbooksonhisdesk.Heclosesthedoor.IwishIcouldtellhimthatwe’regoingthroughthesamething.IwishIcouldspeaktohimlikeIwanttoinsteadoflikeI’msupposedto.ButtheideaofadmittingthatIneedhelpistoomuchtobear,soIturnaway.

Iwalkintomyroom,andwhenIclosemydoorbehindme,Irealizethatthe decision might be simple. It will require a great act of selflessness tochooseAbnegation,oragreatactofcouragetochooseDauntless,andmaybejust choosing one over the otherwill prove that I belong.Tomorrow, thosetwoqualitieswillstrugglewithinme,andonlyonecanwin.

CHAPTERFIVE

THEBUSWEtaketogettotheChoosingCeremonyisfullofpeopleingrayshirtsandgrayslacks.Apale ringofsunlightburns into theclouds like theendofalitcigarette.Iwillneversmokeonemyself—theyarecloselytiedtovanity—butacrowdofCandorsmokestheminfrontofthebuildingwhenwegetoffthebus.

IhavetotiltmyheadbacktoseethetopoftheHub,andeventhen,partofitdisappearsintotheclouds.Itisthetallestbuildinginthecity.Icanseethelightsonthetwoprongsonitsrooffrommybedroomwindow.

Ifollowmyparentsoffthebus.Calebseemscalm,butsowouldI, ifIknewwhat Iwasgoing to do. Instead I get thedistinct impression thatmyheartwillburstoutofmychestanyminutenow,andIgrabhisarmtosteadymyselfasIwalkupthefrontsteps.

The elevator is crowded, so my father volunteers to give a cluster ofAmityourplace.Weclimbthestairsinstead,followinghimunquestioningly.Wesetanexampleforourfellowfactionmembers,andsoonthethreeofusare engulfed in themass of gray fabric ascending cement stairs in the halflight.Isettleintotheirpace.TheuniformpoundingoffeetinmyearsandthehomogeneityofthepeoplearoundmemakesmebelievethatIcouldchoosethis. I could be subsumed into Abnegation’s hive mind, projecting alwaysoutward.

But then my legs get sore, and I struggle to breathe, and I am againdistractedbymyself.Wehave toclimb twenty flightsof stairs toget to theChoosingCeremony.

Myfatherholds thedooropenon the twentieth floorandstands likeasentry as every Abnegation walks past him. I would wait for him, but thecrowdpressesmeforward,outofthestairwellandintotheroomwhereIwilldecidetherestofmylife.

The room is arranged in concentric circles. On the edges stand thesixteen-year-olds of every faction. We are not called members yet; ourdecisions todaywillmake us initiates, andwewill becomemembers ifwecompleteinitiation.

Wearrangeourselves inalphabeticalorder,accordingto the lastnameswemay leavebehind today. I standbetweenCaleb andDaniellePohler, anAmitygirlwithrosycheeksandayellowdress.

Rows of chairs for our families make up the next circle. They arearrangedinfivesections,accordingtofaction.Noteveryoneineachfaction

comes to theChoosingCeremony,butenoughof themcomethat thecrowdlookshuge.

The responsibility to conduct the ceremony rotates from faction tofactioneachyear,andthisyearisAbnegation’s.Marcuswillgivetheopeningaddressand read thenames in reversealphabeticalorder.Calebwill choosebeforeme.

Inthelastcirclearefivemetalbowlssolargetheycouldholdmyentirebody, if I curled up. Each one contains a substance that represents eachfaction: gray stones for Abnegation, water for Erudite, earth for Amity, litcoalsforDauntless,andglassforCandor.

When Marcus calls my name, I will walk to the center of the threecircles.Iwillnotspeak.Hewilloffermeaknife.IwillcutintomyhandandsprinklemybloodintothebowlofthefactionIchoose.

Mybloodonthestones.Mybloodsizzlingonthecoals.

Beforemy parents sit down, they stand in front ofCaleb andme.MyfatherkissesmyforeheadandclapsCalebontheshoulder,grinning.

“Seeyousoon,”hesays.Withoutatraceofdoubt.

Mymotherhugsme,andwhatlittleresolveIhaveleftalmostbreaks.Iclenchmyjawandstareupattheceiling,whereglobelanternshangandfilltheroomwithbluelight.Sheholdsmeforwhatfeelslikealongtime,evenafter I let my hands fall. Before she pulls away, she turns her head andwhispersinmyear,“Iloveyou.Nomatterwhat.”

Ifrownatherbackasshewalksaway.SheknowswhatImightdo.Shemustknow,orshewouldn’tfeeltheneedtosaythat.

Calebgrabsmyhand,squeezingmypalmsotightlyithurts,butIdon’tletgo.The last timeweheldhandswasatmyuncle’s funeral,asmyfathercried.Weneedeachother’sstrengthnow,justaswedidthen.

Theroomslowlycomestoorder.IshouldbeobservingtheDauntless;IshouldbetakinginasmuchinformationasIcan,butIcanonlystareatthelanternsacrosstheroom.Itrytolosemyselfintheblueglow.

MarcusstandsatthepodiumbetweentheEruditeandtheDauntlessandclearshisthroatintothemicrophone.“Welcome,”hesays.“WelcometotheChoosing Ceremony. Welcome to the day we honor the democraticphilosophy of our ancestors,which tells us that everyman has the right tochoosehisownwayinthisworld.”

Or, itoccurs tome,oneof fivepredeterminedways. I squeezeCaleb’sfingersashardasheissqueezingmine.

“Our dependents are now sixteen. They stand on the precipice ofadulthood,andit isnowuptothemtodecidewhatkindofpeopletheywillbe.”Marcus’svoiceissolemnandgivesequalweighttoeachword.“Decadesago our ancestors realized that it is not political ideology, religious belief,race, or nationalism that is to blame for a warring world. Rather, theydetermined that it was the fault of human personality—of humankind’sinclination towardevil, inwhatever form that is.Theydivided into factionsthat sought to eradicate those qualities they believed responsible for theworld’sdisarray.”

Myeyesshifttothebowlsinthecenteroftheroom.WhatdoIbelieve?Idonotknow;Idonotknow;Idonotknow.

“ThosewhoblamedaggressionformedAmity.”

The Amity exchange smiles. They are dressed comfortably, in red oryellow.EverytimeIseethem,theyseemkind,loving,free.Butjoiningthemhasneverbeenanoptionforme.

“ThosewhoblamedignorancebecametheErudite.”

RulingoutEruditewastheonlypartofmychoicethatwaseasy.

“ThosewhoblamedduplicitycreatedCandor.”

IhaveneverlikedCandor.

“ThosewhoblamedselfishnessmadeAbnegation.”

Iblameselfishness;Ido.

“AndthosewhoblamedcowardiceweretheDauntless.”

But I am not selfless enough. Sixteen years of trying and I am notenough.

My legsgonumb, likeall the lifehasgoneoutof them,and IwonderhowIwillwalkwhenmynameiscalled.

“Working together, these five factions have lived in peace for manyyears, each contributing to a different sector of society. Abnegation hasfulfilledourneedforselflessleadersingovernment;Candorhasprovideduswith trustworthy and sound leaders in law; Erudite has supplied us withintelligent teachers and researchers; Amity has given us understandingcounselors and caretakers; and Dauntless provides us with protection fromthreatsbothwithinandwithout.Butthereachofeachfactionisnotlimitedtothese areas. We give one another far more than can be adequatelysummarized.Inourfactions,wefindmeaning,wefindpurpose,wefindlife.”

I think of the motto I read in my Faction History textbook: Factionbeforeblood.More thanfamily,ourfactionsarewherewebelong.Canthatpossiblyberight?

Marcusadds,“Apartfromthem,wewouldnotsurvive.”

The silence that follows hiswords is heavier than other silences. It isheavy with our worst fear, greater even than the fear of death: to befactionless.

Marcuscontinues,“Thereforethisdaymarksahappyoccasion—thedayonwhichwereceiveournewinitiates,whowillworkwithustowardabettersocietyandabetterworld.”

A roundof applause. It soundsmuffled. I try to stand completely still,because ifmykneesare lockedandmybody isstiff, Idon’t shake.Marcusreadsthefirstnames,butIcan’ttellonesyllablefromtheother.HowwillIknowwhenhecallsmyname?

One by one, each sixteen-year-old steps out of line and walks to themiddle of the room. The first girl to choose decides on Amity, the samefactionfromwhichshecame.Iwatchherblooddropletsfallonsoil,andshestandsbehindtheirseatsalone.

Theroomisconstantlymoving,anewnameandanewpersonchoosing,a new knife and a new choice. I recognizemost of them, but I doubt theyknowme.

“JamesTucker,”Marcussays.

JamesTuckeroftheDauntlessisthefirstpersontostumbleonhiswaytothebowls.Hethrowshisarmsoutandregainshisbalancebeforehittingthefloor.Hisfaceturnsredandhewalksfasttothemiddleoftheroom.Whenhestandsinthecenter,helooksfromtheDauntlessbowltotheCandorbowl—theorangeflamesthatrisehighereachmoment,andtheglassreflectingbluelight.

Marcusoffershimtheknife.Hebreathesdeeply—Iwatchhischestrise—and,asheexhales,acceptstheknife.Thenhedragsitacrosshispalmwithajerkandholdshisarmouttotheside.Hisbloodfallsontoglass,andheisthefirstofustoswitchfactions.Thefirstfactiontransfer.AmutterrisesfromtheDauntlesssection,andIstareatthefloor.

Theywill seehimasa traitor fromnowon.HisDauntless familywillhavetheoptionofvisitinghiminhisnewfaction,aweekandahalffromnowonVisitingDay,buttheywon’t,becauseheleftthem.Hisabsencewillhaunttheirhallways,andhewillbeaspacetheycan’tfill.Andthentimewillpass,

and the hole will be gone, like when an organ is removed and the body’sfluidsflowintothespaceitleaves.Humanscan’ttolerateemptinessforlong.

“CalebPrior,”saysMarcus.

Caleb squeezesmy hand one last time, and as hewalks away, casts alonglookatmeoverhisshoulder.Iwatchhisfeetmovetothecenteroftheroom,andhishands,steadyastheyaccepttheknifefromMarcus,aredeftasonepressestheknifeintotheother.Thenhestandswithbloodpoolinginhispalm,andhislipsnagsonhisteeth.

He breathes out. And then in. And then he holds his hand over theEruditebowl,andhisblooddripsintothewater,turningitadeepershadeofred.

Ihearmuttersthatliftintooutragedcries.Icanbarelythinkstraight.Mybrother, my selfless brother, a faction transfer? My brother, born forAbnegation,Erudite?

WhenIclosemyeyes,IseethestackofbooksonCaleb’sdesk,andhisshaking hands sliding along his legs after the aptitude test. Why didn’t Irealizethatwhenhetoldmetothinkofmyselfyesterday,hewasalsogivingthatadvicetohimself?

IscanthecrowdoftheErudite—theywearsmugsmilesandnudgeeachother. The Abnegation, normally so placid, speak to one another in tensewhispersandglareacrosstheroomatthefactionthathasbecomeourenemy.

“Excuseme,”saysMarcus,butthecrowddoesn’thearhim.Heshouts,“Quiet,please!”

Theroomgoessilent.Exceptforaringingsound.

I hear my name and a shudder propels me forward. Halfway to thebowls, I am sure that I will choose Abnegation. I can see it now. I watchmyself grow into awoman inAbnegation robes,marrying Susan’s brother,Robert,volunteeringon theweekends, thepeaceofroutine, thequietnightsspentinfrontofthefireplace,thecertaintythatIwillbesafe,andifnotgoodenough,betterthanIamnow.

Theringing,Irealize,isinmyears.

IlookatCaleb,whonowstandsbehindtheErudite.Hestaresbackatmeandnodsalittle,likeheknowswhatI’mthinking,andagrees.Myfootstepsfalter.IfCalebwasn’tfitforAbnegation,howcanIbe?ButwhatchoicedoIhave,nowthatheleftusandI’mtheonlyonewhoremains?Heleftmenootheroption.

I set my jaw. I will be the child that stays; I have to do this for my

parents.Ihaveto.

Marcusoffersmemyknife.I lookintohiseyes—theyaredarkblue,astrangecolor—and take it.Henods,andI turn toward thebowls.DauntlessfireandAbnegationstonesarebothonmyleft,oneinfrontofmyshoulderandonebehind.Iholdtheknifeinmyrighthandandtouchthebladetomypalm.Grittingmyteeth,Idragthebladedown.Itstings,butIbarelynotice.Iholdbothhandstomychest,andmynextbreathshuddersonthewayout.

Iopenmyeyesandthrustmyarmout.Myblooddripsontothecarpetbetween the two bowls. Then,with a gasp I can’t contain, I shiftmy handforward,andmybloodsizzlesonthecoals.

Iamselfish.Iambrave.

CHAPTERSIX

ITRAINMYeyesonthefloorandstandbehindtheDauntless-borninitiateswhochosetoreturntotheirownfaction.TheyarealltallerthanIam,soevenwhen I liftmyhead, I see only black-clothed shoulders.When the last girlmakesherchoice—Amity—it’stimetoleave.TheDauntlessexitfirst.Iwalkpast the gray-clothed men and women who were my faction, staringdeterminedlyatthebackofsomeone’shead.

ButIhavetoseemyparentsonemoretime.Ilookovermyshoulderatthe last second before I pass them, and immediately wish I hadn’t. Myfather’seyesburnintominewithalookofaccusation.Atfirst,whenIfeeltheheatbehindmyeyes,Ithinkhe’sfoundawaytosetmeonfire,topunishmeforwhatI’vedone,butno—I’mabouttocry.

Besidehim,mymotherissmiling.

Thepeoplebehindmepressmeforward,awayfrommyfamily,whowillbethelastonestoleave.Theymayevenstaytostackthechairsandcleanthebowls.I twistmyheadaroundtofindCalebinthecrowdofEruditebehindme.Hestandsamongtheotherinitiates,shakinghandswithafactiontransfer,a boywhowasCandor.The easy smile hewears is an act of betrayal.MystomachwrenchesandIturnaway.Ifit’ssoeasyforhim,maybeitshouldbeeasyforme,too.

Iglanceat theboy tomy left,whowasEruditeandnowlooksaspaleandnervousasIshouldfeel.IspentallmytimeworryingaboutwhichfactionIwouldchooseandneverconsideredwhatwouldhappenifIchoseDauntless.WhatwaitsformeatDauntlessheadquarters?

The crowd of Dauntless leading us go to the stairs instead of theelevators.IthoughtonlytheAbnegationusedthestairs.

Theneveryonestartsrunning.Ihearwhoopsandshoutsandlaughterallaroundme,anddozensof thunderingfeetmovingatdifferent rhythms. It isnotaselflessactfortheDauntlesstotakethestairs;itisawildact.

“Whatthehellisgoingon?”theboynexttomeshouts.

Ijustshakemyheadandkeeprunning.Iambreathlesswhenwereachthe first floor, and the Dauntless burst through the exit. Outside, the air iscrispandcoldand the sky isorange from the settingsun. It reflectsoff theblackglassoftheHub.

TheDauntlesssprawlacrossthestreet,blockingthepathofabus,andIsprinttocatchuptothebackofthecrowd.MyconfusiondissipatesasIrun.Ihavenotrunanywhereinalongtime.Abnegationdiscouragesanythingdone

strictlyformyownenjoyment,andthatiswhatthisis:mylungsburning,mymusclesaching,thefiercepleasureofaflat-outsprint.IfollowtheDauntlessdown the street and around the corner and hear a familiar sound: the trainhorn.

“Oh no,”mumbles the Erudite boy. “Arewe supposed to hop on thatthing?”

“Yes,”Isay,breathless.

It is good that I spent somuch timewatching the Dauntless arrive atschool.Thecrowdspreadsout ina long line.The trainglides towardusonsteel rails, its light flashing, its horn blaring.The door of each car is open,waitingfor theDauntless topile in,andtheydo,groupbygroup,untilonlythenewinitiatesare left.TheDauntless-borninitiatesareusedtodoingthisbynow,soinasecondit’sjustfactiontransfersleft.

Istepforwardwithafewothersandstart jogging.Werunwiththecarforafewstepsandthenthrowourselvessideways.I’mnotastallorasstrongassomeofthem,soIcan’tpullmyselfintothecar.Iclingtoahandlenexttothedoorway,myshoulderslammingintothecar.Myarmsshake,andfinallyaCandorgirlgrabsmeandpullsmein.Gasping,Ithankher.

Ihearashoutandlookovermyshoulder.AshortEruditeboywithredhairpumpshisarmsashetriestocatchuptothetrain.AnEruditegirlbythedoorreachesouttograbtheboy’shand,straining,butheistoofarbehind.Hefallstohiskneesnexttothetracksaswesailaway,andputshisheadinhishands.

Ifeeluneasy.HejustfailedDauntlessinitiation.Heisfactionlessnow.Itcouldhappenatanymoment.

“Youallright?”theCandorgirlwhohelpedmeasksbriskly.Sheistall,withdarkbrownskinandshorthair.Pretty.

Inod.

“I’mChristina,”shesays,offeringmeherhand.

I haven’t shakenahand in a long timeeither.TheAbnegationgreetedoneanotherbybowingheads,asignofrespect.Itakeherhand,uncertainly,andshakeittwice,hopingIdidn’tsqueezetoohardornothardenough.

“Beatrice,”Isay.

“Do you knowwhere we’re going?” She has to shout over the wind,which blows harder through the open doors by the second. The train ispickingupspeed.Isitdown.ItwillbeeasiertokeepmybalanceifI’mlowtotheground.Sheraisesaneyebrowatme.

“Afasttrainmeanswind,”Isay.“Windmeansfallingout.Getdown.”

Christinasitsnexttome,inchingbacktoleanagainstthewall.

“Iguesswe’regoingtoDauntlessheadquarters,”Isay,“butIdon’tknowwherethatis.”

“Does anyone?” She shakes her head, grinning. “It’s like they justpoppedoutofaholeinthegroundorsomething.”

Thenthewindrushesthroughthecar,andtheotherfactiontransfers,hitwithburstsofair,fallontopofoneanother.IwatchChristinalaughwithouthearingherandmanageasmile.

Overmyleftshoulder,orangelightfromthesettingsunreflectsofftheglassbuildings,andIcanfaintlyseetherowsofgrayhousesthatusedtobemyhome.

It’sCaleb’s turn tomakedinner tonight.Whowill take his place—mymother or my father? And when they clear out his room, what will theydiscover? I imaginebooks jammedbetween thedresserand thewall,booksunder his mattress. The Erudite thirst for knowledge filling all the hiddenplacesinhisroom.DidhealwaysknowthathewouldchooseErudite?Andifhedid,howdidInotnotice?

Whatagoodactorhewas.Thethoughtmakesmesicktomystomach,becauseeventhoughIleftthemtoo,atleastIwasnogoodatpretending.AtleasttheyallknewthatIwasn’tselfless.

I closemyeyes andpicturemymother and father sittingat thedinnertable in silence. Is it a lingering hint of selflessness that makes my throattightenatthethoughtofthem,orisitselfishness,becauseIknowIwillneverbetheirdaughteragain?

“They’rejumpingoff!”

I lift my head. My neck aches. I have been curled up with my backagainst the wall for at least a half hour, listening to the roaring wind andwatchingthecitysmearpastus.Isitforward.Thetrainhassloweddowninthe past few minutes, and I see that the boy who shouted is right: TheDauntlessinthecarsaheadofusarejumpingoutasthetrainpassesarooftop.Thetracksaresevenstoriesup.

Theideaofleapingoutofamovingtrainontoarooftop,knowingthereis a gapbetween the edgeof the roof and the edgeof the track,makesmewanttothrowup.Ipushmyselfupandstumbletotheoppositesideofthecar,

wheretheotherfactiontransfersstandinaline.

“Wehavetojumpofftoo,then,”aCandorgirlsays.Shehasalargenoseandcrookedteeth.

“Great,”aCandorboyreplies,“becausethatmakesperfectsense,Molly.Leapoffatrainontoaroof.”

“Thisiskindofwhatwesignedupfor,Peter,”thegirlpointsout.

“Well, I’m not doing it,” says anAmity boy behindme.He has oliveskinandwearsabrownshirt—heistheonlytransferfromAmity.Hischeeksshinewithtears.

“You’vegotto,”Christinasays,“oryoufail.Comeon,it’llbeallright.”

“No, it won’t! I’d rather be factionless than dead!” The Amity boyshakeshishead.Hesoundspanicky.Hekeepsshakinghisheadandstaringattherooftop,whichisgettingcloserbythesecond.

I don’t agree with him. I would rather be dead than empty, like thefactionless.

“Youcan’tforcehim,”Isay,glancingatChristina.Herbrowneyesarewide,andshepressesherlipstogethersohardtheychangecolor.Sheoffersmeherhand.

“Here,”shesays.Iraiseaneyebrowatherhand,abouttosaythatIdon’tneedhelp,butsheadds,“Ijust…can’tdoitunlesssomeonedragsme.”

Itakeherhandandwestandattheedgeofthecar.Asitpassestheroof,Icount,“One…two…three!”

Onthreewelaunchoffthetraincar.Aweightlessmoment,andthenmyfeet slam into solidgroundandpainprickles throughmyshins.The jarringlandingsendsmesprawlingontherooftop,gravelundermycheek.IreleaseChristina’shand.She’slaughing.

“Thatwasfun,”shesays.

Christinawillfit inwithDauntlessthrillseekers.Ibrushgrainsofrockfrommycheek.AlltheinitiatesexcepttheAmityboymadeitontotheroof,with varying levels of success. TheCandor girlwith crooked teeth,Molly,holds her ankle, wincing, and Peter, the Candor boywith shiny hair, grinsproudly—hemusthavelandedonhisfeet.

ThenIhearawail.Iturnmyhead,searchingforthesourceofthesound.ADauntlessgirlstandsat theedgeof theroof,staringat thegroundbelow,screaming.BehindheraDauntlessboyholdsheratthewaisttokeepherfromfallingoff.

“Rita,”hesays.“Rita,calmdown.Rita—”

Istandandlookovertheedge.Thereisabodyonthepavementbelowus;agirl,herarmsandlegsbentatawkwardangles,herhairspreadinafanaround her head.My stomach sinks and I stare at the railroad tracks. Noteveryonemadeit.AndeventheDauntlessaren’tsafe.

Ritasinkstoherknees,sobbing.Iturnaway.ThelongerIwatchher,themorelikelyIamtocry,andIcan’tcryinfrontofthesepeople.

Itellmyself,assternlyaspossible,thatishowthingsworkhere.Wedodangerous things and people die. People die, and wemove on to the nextdangerousthing.Thesoonerthat lessonsinksin, thebetterchanceIhaveatsurvivinginitiation.

I’mnolongersurethatIwillsurviveinitiation.

I tellmyself Iwillcount to three,andwhenI’mdone, Iwillmoveon.One. Ipicture thegirl’sbodyon thepavement,anda shuddergoes throughme.Two.IhearRita’ssobsandthemurmuredreassuranceoftheboybehindher.Three.

Mylipspursed,IwalkawayfromRitaandtheroof’sedge.

Myelbowstings. Ipullmysleeveup toexamine it,myhandshaking.Someoftheskinispeelingoff,butitisn’tbleeding.

“Ooh.Scandalous!AStiff’sflashingsomeskin!”

Iliftmyhead.“Stiff”isslangforAbnegation,andI’mtheonlyonehere.Peterpointsatme,smirking.Ihearlaughter.Mycheeksheatup,andIletmysleevefall.

“Listen up! My name is Max! I am one of the leaders of your newfaction!”shoutsamanattheotherendoftheroof.Heisolderthantheothers,withdeepcreasesinhisdarkskinandgrayhairathistemples,andhestandson the ledge like it’s a sidewalk.Like someonedidn’t just fall toherdeathfromit.“Severalstoriesbelowusisthemembers’entrancetoourcompound.Ifyoucan’tmusterthewilltojumpoff,youdon’tbelonghere.Ourinitiateshavetheprivilegeofgoingfirst.”

“Youwant us to jumpoff a ledge?” asks anErudite girl. She is a fewinchestallerthanIam,withmousybrownhairandbiglips.Hermouthhangsopen.

Idon’tknowwhyitshocksher.

“Yes,”Maxsays.Helooksamused.

“Istherewateratthebottomorsomething?”

“Whoknows?”Heraiseshiseyebrows.

Thecrowdinfrontoftheinitiatessplitsinhalf,makingawidepathforus.Ilookaround.Noonelookseagertoleapoffthebuilding—theireyesareeverywherebutonMax.Someofthemnurseminorwoundsorbrushgravelfrom their clothes. I glance at Peter. He is picking at one of his cuticles.Tryingtoactcasual.

Iamproud.Itwillgetmeintotroublesomeday,buttodayitmakesmebrave.Iwalktowardtheledgeandhearsnickersbehindme.

Maxstepsaside, leavingmywayclear. Iwalkupto theedgeandlookdown.Windwhipsthroughmyclothes,makingthefabricsnap.ThebuildingI’monformsonesideofasquarewiththreeotherbuildings.Inthecenterofthesquareisahugeholeintheconcrete.Ican’tseewhat’satthebottomofit.

Thisisascaretactic.Iwilllandsafelyatthebottom.Thatknowledgeistheonlythingthathelpsmestepontotheledge.Myteethchatter.Ican’tbackdown now. Not with all the people betting I’ll fail behind me. My handsfumblealong the collarofmy shirt and find thebutton that secures it shut.After a few tries, I undo the hooks from collar to hem, and pull it offmyshoulders.

Beneath it, I wear a gray T-shirt. It is tighter than any other clothes Iown,andnoonehaseverseenmein itbefore. Iballupmyoutershirtandlookovermyshoulder,atPeter.IthrowtheballoffabricathimashardasIcan,myjawclenched.Ithitshiminthechest.Hestaresatme.Ihearcatcallsandshoutsbehindme.

I look at the hole again.Goose bumps rise onmy pale arms, andmystomachlurches.IfIdon’tdoitnow,Iwon’tbeabletodoitatall.Iswallowhard.

Idon’tthink.Ijustbendmykneesandjump.

Theairhowlsinmyearsasthegroundsurgestowardme,growingandexpanding,orIsurgetowardtheground,myheartpoundingsofastithurts,every muscle in my body tensing as the falling sensation drags at mystomach.TheholesurroundsmeandIdropintodarkness.

Ihitsomethinghard.Itgiveswaybeneathmeandcradlesmybody.TheimpactknocksthewindoutofmeandIwheeze,strugglingtobreatheagain.Myarmsandlegssting.

Anet.Thereisanetatthebottomofthehole.Ilookupatthebuildingandlaugh,halfrelievedandhalfhysterical.MybodyshakesandIcovermyfacewithmyhands.Ijustjumpedoffaroof.

Ihavetostandonsolidgroundagain.Iseeafewhandsstretchingouttomeattheedgeofthenet,soIgrabthefirstoneIcanreachandpullmyselfacross.Irolloff,andIwouldhavefallenface-firstontoawoodfloorifhehadnotcaughtme.

“He” is theyoungmanattached to thehand Igrabbed.Hehasa spareupperlipandafulllowerlip.Hiseyesaresodeep-setthathiseyelashestouchthe skin under his eyebrows, and they are dark blue, a dreaming, sleeping,waitingcolor.

His hands grip my arms, but he releases me a moment after I standuprightagain.

“Thankyou,”Isay.

Westandonaplatformtenfeetabovetheground.Aroundusisanopencavern.

“Can’tbelieve it,”avoice says frombehindhim. Itbelongs toadark-haired girlwith three silver rings through her right eyebrow. She smirks atme.“AStiff,thefirsttojump?Unheardof.”

“There’sareasonwhysheleftthem,Lauren,”hesays.Hisvoiceisdeep,anditrumbles.“What’syourname?”

“Um…”Idon’tknowwhyIhesitate.But“Beatrice”justdoesn’tsoundrightanymore.

“Thinkaboutit,”hesays,afaintsmilecurlinghislips.“Youdon’tgettopickagain.”

Anewplace,anewname.Icanberemadehere.

“Tris,”Isayfirmly.

“Tris,”Laurenrepeats,grinning.“Maketheannouncement,Four.”

The boy—Four—looks over his shoulder and shouts, “First jumper—Tris!”

Acrowdmaterializes from thedarknessasmyeyesadjust.Theycheerandpumptheirfists,andthenanotherpersondropsintothenet.Herscreamsfollowherdown.Christina.Everyone laughs,but they follow their laughterwithmorecheering.

Foursetshishandonmybackandsays,“WelcometoDauntless.”

CHAPTERSEVEN

WHENALLTHEinitiatesstandonsolidgroundagain,LaurenandFourleadusdownanarrowtunnel.Thewallsaremadeofstone,andtheceilingslopes,soIfeellikeIamdescendingdeepintotheheartoftheearth.Thetunnelislitatlongintervals,sointhedarkspacebetweeneachdimlamp,IfearthatIamlostuntilashoulderbumpsmine.InthecirclesoflightIamsafeagain.

The Erudite boy in front ofme stops abruptly, and I smack into him,hittingmynoseonhisshoulder.IstumblebackandrubmynoseasIrecovermysenses.Thewholecrowdhasstopped,andourthreeleadersstandinfrontofus,armsfolded.

“This iswherewe divide,” Lauren says. “TheDauntless-born initiatesarewithme.Iassumeyoudon’tneedatouroftheplace.”

ShesmilesandbeckonstowardtheDauntless-borninitiates.Theybreakawayfromthegroupanddissolveintotheshadows.Iwatchthelastheelpassoutofthelightandlookatthoseofuswhoareleft.Mostoftheinitiateswerefrom Dauntless, so only nine people remain. Of those, I am the onlyAbnegation transfer, and there are no Amity transfers. The rest are fromEruditeand,surprisingly,Candor.Itmustrequirebraverytobehonestallthetime.Iwouldn’tknow.

Fouraddressesusnext.“MostofthetimeIworkinthecontrolroom,butforthenextfewweeks,Iamyourinstructor,”hesays.“MynameisFour.”

Christinaasks,“Four?Likethenumber?”

“Yes,”Foursays.“Isthereaproblem?”

“No.”

“Good.We’reabouttogointothePit,whichyouwillsomedaylearntolove.It—”

Christinasnickers.“ThePit?Clevername.”

Four walks up to Christina and leans his face close to hers. His eyesnarrow,andforasecondhejuststaresather.

“What’syourname?”heasksquietly.

“Christina,”shesqueaks.

“Well, Christina, if I wanted to put up with Candor smart-mouths, Iwouldhave joined their faction,”hehisses. “The first lessonyouwill learnfrommeistokeepyourmouthshut.Gotthat?”

Shenods.

Four starts toward the shadow at the end of the tunnel. The crowd ofinitiatesmovesoninsilence.

“Whatajerk,”shemumbles.

“Iguesshedoesn’tliketobelaughedat,”Ireply.

It would probably be wise to be careful around Four, I realize. Heseemedplacidtomeontheplatform,butsomethingaboutthatstillnessmakesmewarynow.

Fourpushesasetofdoubledoorsopen,andwewalkinto theplacehecalled“thePit.”

“Oh,”whispersChristina.“Igetit.”

“Pit”isthebestwordforit.ItisanundergroundcavernsohugeIcan’tseetheotherendofitfromwhereIstand,atthebottom.Unevenrockwallsrise several stories abovemyhead.Built into the stonewalls areplaces forfood, clothing, supplies, leisure activities. Narrow paths and steps carvedfrom rock connect them. There are no barriers to keep people from fallingovertheside.

Aslantoforange light stretchesacrossoneof the rockwalls.FormingtheroofofthePitarepanesofglassand,abovethem,abuildingthatletsinsunlight.Itmusthavelookedlikejustanothercitybuildingwhenwepasseditonthetrain.

Bluelanternsdangleatrandomintervalsabovethestonepaths,similartotheonesthatlittheChoosingroom.Theygrowbrighterasthesunlightdies.

People are everywhere, all dressed in black, all shouting and talking,expressive,gesturing.Idon’tseeanyelderlypeopleinthecrowd.ArethereanyoldDauntless?Dotheynotlastthatlong,oraretheyjustsentawaywhentheycan’tjumpoffmovingtrainsanymore?

Agroupofchildrenrundownanarrowpathwithnorailing,sofastmyheartpounds,andIwanttoscreamatthemtoslowdownbeforetheygethurt.Amemory of the orderlyAbnegation streets appears inmymind: a line ofpeople on the right passing a line of people on the left, small smiles andinclined heads and silence. My stomach squeezes. But there is somethingwonderfulaboutDauntlesschaos.

“Ifyoufollowme,”saysFour,“I’llshowyouthechasm.”

Hewavesusforward.Four’sappearanceseemstamefromthefront,byDauntlessstandards,butwhenheturnsaround,Iseeatattoopeekingoutfromthe collar of his T-shirt. He leads us to the right side of the Pit, which isconspicuouslydark.IsquintandseethatthefloorIstandonnowendsatan

iron barrier. Aswe approach the railing, I hear a roar—water, fast-movingwater,crashingagainstrocks.

I look over the side. The floor drops off at a sharp angle, and severalstories below us is a river. Gushingwater strikes thewall beneathme andspraysupward.Tomy left, thewater is calmer,but tomy right, it iswhite,battlingwithrock.

“The chasm reminds us that there is a fine line between bravery andidiocy!”Four shouts. “Adaredevil jumpoff this ledgewill endyour life. Ithashappenedbeforeanditwillhappenagain.You’vebeenwarned.”

“This is incredible,” says Christina, as we all move away from therailing.

“Incredibleistheword,”Isay,nodding.

Four leads thegroupof initiatesacross thePit towardagapinghole inthe wall. The room beyond is well-lit enough that I can see where we’regoing:adininghallfullofpeopleandclatteringsilverware.Whenwewalkin,theDauntlessinsidestand.Theyapplaud.Theystamptheirfeet.Theyshout.Thenoisesurroundsmeandfillsme.Christinasmiles,andasecondlater,sodoI.

Welookforemptyseats.ChristinaandIdiscoveramostlyemptytableatthesideof the room,andI findmyselfsittingbetweenherandFour. In thecenter of the table is a platter of food I don’t recognize: circular pieces ofmeatwedged between round bread slices. I pinch one betweenmy fingers,unsurewhattomakeofit.

Fournudgesmewithhiselbow.

“It’sbeef,”hesays.“Putthisonit.”Hepassesmeasmallbowlfullofredsauce.

“You’veneverhadahamburgerbefore?”asksChristina,hereyeswide.

“No,”Isay.“Isthatwhatit’scalled?”

“Stiffseatplainfood,”Foursays,noddingatChristina.

“Why?”sheasks.

Ishrug.“Extravaganceisconsideredself-indulgentandunnecessary.”

Shesmirks.“Nowonderyouleft.”

“Yeah,”Isay,rollingmyeyes.“Itwasjustbecauseofthefood.”

ThecornerofFour’smouthtwitches.

Thedoors to thecafeteriaopen,andahush fallsover the room. I lookovermy shoulder.Ayoungmanwalks in, and it is quiet enough that I canhearhisfootsteps.HisfaceispiercedinsomanyplacesIlosecount,andhishairislong,dark,andgreasy.Butthatisn’twhatmakeshimlookmenacing.Itisthecoldnessofhiseyesastheysweepacrosstheroom.

“Who’sthat?”hissesChristina.

“HisnameisEric,”saysFour.“He’saDauntlessleader.”

“Seriously?Buthe’ssoyoung.”

Fourgivesheragravelook.“Agedoesn’tmatterhere.”

Icantellshe’sabouttoaskwhatIwanttoask:Thenwhatdoesmatter?ButEric’seyesstopscanningtheroom,andhestartstowardatable.HestartstowardourtableanddropsintotheseatnexttoFour.Heoffersnogreeting,soneitherdowe.

“Well,aren’tyougoingtointroduceme?”heasks,noddingtoChristinaandme.

Foursays,“ThisisTrisandChristina.”

“Ooh,aStiff,”saysEric,smirkingatme.Hissmilepullsatthepiercingsinhislips,makingtheholestheyoccupywider,andIwince.“We’llseehowlongyoulast.”

I mean to say something—to assure him that I will last, maybe—butwordsfailme.Idon’tunderstandwhy,butIdon’twantErictolookatmeanylongerthanhealreadyhas.Idon’twanthimtolookatmeeveragain.

Hetapshisfingersagainstthetable.Hisknucklesarescabbedover,rightwheretheywouldsplitifhepunchedsomethingtoohard.

“Whathaveyoubeendoinglately,Four?”heasks.

Fourliftsashoulder.“Nothing,really,”hesays.

Aretheyfriends?MyeyesflickbetweenEricandFour.EverythingEricdid—sittinghere,askingaboutFour—suggeststhattheyare,butthewayFoursits,tenseaspulledwire,suggeststheyaresomethingelse.Rivals,maybe,buthowcouldthatbe,ifEricisaleaderandFourisnot?

“Max tellsme he keeps trying tomeetwith you, and you don’t showup,”Ericsays.“HerequestedthatIfindoutwhat’sgoingonwithyou.”

FourlooksatEricforafewsecondsbeforesaying,“TellhimthatIamsatisfiedwiththepositionIcurrentlyhold.”

“Sohewantstogiveyouajob.”

TheringsinEric’seyebrowcatchthelight.MaybeEricperceivesFourasapotentialthreattohisposition.Myfathersaysthatthosewhowantpowerandgetitliveinterroroflosingit.That’swhywehavetogivepowertothosewhodonotwantit.

“Soitwouldseem,”Foursays.

“Andyouaren’tinterested.”

“Ihaven’tbeeninterestedfortwoyears.”

“Well,”saysEric.“Let’shopehegetsthepoint,then.”

HeclapsFouron the shoulder, a little toohard, andgetsup.Whenhewalksaway,Islouchimmediately.IhadnotrealizedthatIwassotense.

“Areyoutwo…friends?”Isay,unabletocontainmycuriosity.

“We were in the same initiate class,” he says. “He transferred fromErudite.”

AllthoughtsofbeingcarefularoundFourleaveme.“Wereyouatransfertoo?”

“I thoughtIwouldonlyhavetroublewiththeCandoraskingtoomanyquestions,”hesayscoldly.“NowI’vegotStiffs,too?”

“Itmust be because you’re so approachable,” I say flatly. “You know.Likeabedofnails.”

Hestaresatme,andIdon’tlookaway.Heisn’tadog,butthesamerulesapply.Lookingawayissubmissive.Lookinghimintheeyeisachallenge.It’smychoice.

Heatrushesintomycheeks.Whatwillhappenwhenthistensionbreaks?

Buthejustsays,“Careful,Tris.”

MystomachdropslikeIjustswallowedastone.ADauntlessmemberatanother tablecallsoutFour’sname,and I turn toChristina.She raisesbotheyebrows.

“What?”Iask.

“I’mdevelopingatheory.”

“Anditis?”

She picks up her hamburger, grins, and says, “That you have a deathwish.”

Afterdinner,Fourdisappearswithoutaword.Ericleadsusdownaseriesof hallways without telling us where we’re going. I don’t know why aDauntlessleaderwouldberesponsibleforagroupofinitiates,butmaybeitisjustfortonight.

At theendofeachhallway isablue lamp,butbetween themit’sdark,andIhavetobecarefulnottostumbleoverunevenground.Christinawalksbesidemeinsilence.Noonetoldustobequiet,butnoneofusspeak.

Eric stops in front of a wooden door and folds his arms. We gatheraroundhim.

“Forthoseofyouwhodon’tknow,mynameisEric,”hesays.“IamoneoffiveleadersoftheDauntless.Wetaketheinitiationprocessveryseriouslyhere,soIvolunteeredtooverseemostofyourtraining.”

The thoughtmakesmenauseous.The idea thataDauntless leaderwilloverseeourinitiationisbadenough,butthefactthatit’sEricmakesitseemevenworse.

“Somegroundrules,”hesays.“Youhavetobeinthetrainingroombyeighto’clockeveryday.Trainingtakesplaceeverydayfromeighttosix,withabreakforlunch.Youarefreetodowhateveryoulikeaftersix.Youwillalsogetsometimeoffbetweeneachstageofinitiation.”

Thephrase“dowhateveryoulike”sticksinmymind.Athome,Icouldnever do what I wanted, not even for an evening. I had to think of otherpeople’sneedsfirst.Idon’tevenknowwhatIliketodo.

“YouareonlypermittedtoleavethecompoundwhenaccompaniedbyaDauntless,” Eric adds. “Behind this door is the room where you will besleepingfor thenextfewweeks.Youwillnotice that thereare tenbedsandonlynineofyou.Weanticipatedthatahigherproportionofyouwouldmakeitthisfar.”

“But we started with twelve,” protests Christina. I closemy eyes andwaitforthereprimand.Sheneedstolearntostayquiet.

“There is always at least one transfer who doesn’t make it to thecompound,” says Eric, picking at his cuticles. He shrugs. “Anyway, in thefirst stage of initiation, we keep transfers and Dauntless-born initiatesseparate, but that doesn’tmean you are evaluated separately.At the end ofinitiation,yourrankingswillbedeterminedincomparisonwiththeDauntless-borninitiates.Andtheyarebetterthanyouarealready.SoIexpect—”

“Rankings?”asks themousy-hairedEruditegirl tomy right. “Whyareweranked?”

Ericsmiles,andinthebluelight,hissmilelookswicked,likeitwascutintohisfacewithaknife.

“Your ranking serves two purposes,” he says. “The first is that itdeterminestheorderinwhichyouwillselectajobafterinitiation.Thereareonlyafewdesirablepositionsavailable.”

My stomach tightens. I know by looking at his smile, like I knew thesecond I entered the aptitude test room, that something bad is about tohappen.

“The second purpose,” he says, “is that only the top ten initiates aremademembers.”

Painstabsmystomach.Weallstandstillasstatues.AndthenChristinasays,“What?”

“There are eleven Dauntless-borns, and nine of you,” Eric continues.“Fourinitiateswillbecutattheendofstageone.Theremainderwillbecutafterthefinaltest.”

Thatmeansthatevenifwemakeitthrougheachstageofinitiation,sixinitiateswillnotbemembers. I seeChristina lookatmefromthecornerofmyeye,butIcan’tlookbackather.MyeyesarefixedonEricandwillnotmove.

Myodds,asthesmallestinitiate,astheonlyAbnegationtransfer,arenotgood.

“Whatdowedoifwe’recut?”Petersays.

“You leave theDauntlesscompound,”saysEric indifferently,“and livefactionless.”

Themousy-hairedgirlclampsherhandoverhermouthandstiflesasob.I remember the factionless man with the gray teeth, snatching the bag ofapplesfrommyhands.Hisdull,staringeyes.Butinsteadofcrying, liketheEruditegirl,Ifeelcolder.Harder.

Iwillbeamember.Iwill.

“But that’s…not fair!” the broad-shouldered Candor girl, Molly, says.Eventhoughshesoundsangry,shelooksterrified.“Ifwehadknown—”

“Are you saying that if you had known this before the ChoosingCeremony, you wouldn’t have chosen Dauntless?” Eric snaps. “Because ifthat’s thecase,youshouldgetoutnow.Ifyouarereallyoneofus, itwon’tmattertoyouthatyoumightfail.Andifitdoes,youareacoward.”

Ericpushesthedoortothedormitoryopen.

“Youchoseus,”hesays.“Nowwehavetochooseyou.”

Ilieinbedandlistentoninepeoplebreathing.

Ihaveneversleptinthesameroomasaboybefore,buthereIhavenootheroption,unlessIwanttosleepinthehallway.Everyoneelsechangedintothe clothes the Dauntless provided for us, but I sleep in my Abnegationclothes,whichstillsmelllikesoapandfreshair,likehome.

I used to have my own room. I could see the front lawn from thewindow,andbeyondit,thefoggyskyline.Iamusedtosleepinginsilence.

HeatswellsbehindmyeyesasIthinkofhome,andwhenIblink,atearslipsout.Icovermymouthtostifleasob.

Ican’tcry,nothere.Ihavetocalmdown.

Itwillbeall righthere. Ican lookatmyreflectionwhenever Iwant. IcanbefriendChristina, andcutmyhair short, and letotherpeoplecleanuptheirownmesses.

Myhandsshakeandthetearscomefasternow,blurringmyvision.

It doesn’tmatter that the next time I seemy parents, onVisitingDay,theywill barely recognizeme—if they come at all. It doesn’tmatter that Iacheatevenasplit-secondmemoryoftheirfaces.EvenCaleb’s,despitehowmuch his secrets hurt me. I match my inhales to the inhales of the otherinitiates,andmyexhalestotheirexhales.Itdoesn’tmatter.

Astrangledsoundinterruptsthebreathing,followedbyaheavysob.Bedsprings squeal as a largebody turns, andapillowmuffles the sobs,butnotenough.They come from the bunk next tomine—they belong to aCandorboy,Al, the largest and broadest of all the initiates.He is the last person Iexpectedtobreakdown.

Hisfeetare just inchesfrommyhead. Ishouldcomforthim—Ishouldwant to comfort him, because Iwas raised thatway. Instead I feel disgust.Someonewholookssostrongshouldn’tactsoweak.Whycan’thejustkeephiscryingquietliketherestofus?

Iswallowhard.

Ifmymotherknewwhat Iwas thinking, I knowwhat look shewouldgiveme.Thecornersofhermouthturneddown.Hereyebrowssetlowoverher eyes—not scowling, almost tired. I drag the heel ofmy hand overmycheeks.

Alsobsagain.Ialmostfeelthesoundgrateinmyownthroat.Heisjust

inchesawayfromme—Ishouldtouchhim.

No.Iputmyhanddownandrollontomyside,facingthewall.NoonehastoknowthatIdon’twanttohelphim.Icankeepthatsecretburied.MyeyesshutandIfeelthepullofsleep,buteverytimeIcomeclose,IhearAlagain.

Maybemyproblemisn’tthatIcan’tgohome.IwillmissmymotherandfatherandCalebandeveningfirelightandtheclackofmymother’sknittingneedles,butthatisnottheonlyreasonforthishollowfeelinginmystomach.

My problem might be that even if I did go home, I wouldn’t belongthere,amongpeoplewhogivewithoutthinkingandcarewithouttrying.

Thethoughtmakesmegritmyteeth.IgatherthepillowaroundmyearstoblockoutAl’scrying,andfallasleepwithacircleofmoisturepressedtomycheek.

CHAPTEREIGHT

“THEFIRSTTHINGyouwilllearntodayishowtoshootagun.Thesecondthingishowtowinafight.”Fourpressesagunintomypalmwithoutlookingatmeandkeepswalking.“Thankfully,ifyouarehere,youalreadyknowhowtogetonandoffamovingtrain,soIdon’tneedtoteachyouthat.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that theDauntless expect us to hit the groundrunning, but I anticipated more than six hours of rest before the runningbegan.Mybodyisstillheavyfromsleep.

“Initiation is divided into three stages.Wewillmeasure your progressandrankyouaccordingtoyourperformanceineachstage.Thestagesarenotweighed equally in determining your final rank, so it is possible, thoughdifficult,todrasticallyimproveyourrankovertime.”

Istareattheweaponinmyhand.NeverinmylifedidIexpecttoholdagun, let alone fireone. It feels dangerous tome, as if just by touching it, Icouldhurtsomeone.

“Webelieve that preparation eradicates cowardice,whichwedefine asthe failure to act in themidst of fear,” says Four. “Therefore each stage ofinitiation is intended to prepare you in a different way. The first stage isprimarily physical; the second, primarily emotional; the third, primarilymental.”

“Butwhat…”Peteryawns throughhiswords.“Whatdoesfiringagunhavetodowith…bravery?”

Fourflipstheguninhishand,pressesthebarreltoPeter’sforehead,andclicksabulletintoplace.Peterfreezeswithhislipsparted,theyawndeadinhismouth.

“Wake.Up,”Foursnaps.“Youareholdingaloadedgun,youidiot.Actlikeit.”

Helowersthegun.Oncetheimmediatethreatisgone,Peter’sgreeneyesharden.I’msurprisedhecanstophimselffromresponding,afterspeakinghismindallhislifeinCandor,buthedoes,hischeeksred.

“Andtoansweryourquestion…youarefarlesslikelytosoilyourpantsand cry for yourmother if you’re prepared to defend yourself.” Four stopswalkingattheendoftherowandturnsonhisheel.“Thisisalsoinformationyoumayneedlaterinstageone.So,watchme.”

He faces thewallwith the targets on it—one square of plywoodwiththreeredcirclesonitforeachofus.Hestandswithhisfeetapart,holdstheguninbothhands,andfires.Thebangissoloudithurtsmyears.Icranemy

necktolookatthetarget.Thebulletwentthroughthemiddlecircle.

Iturntomyowntarget.Myfamilywouldneverapproveofmefiringagun.Theywouldsaythatgunsareusedforself-defense,ifnotviolence,andthereforetheyareself-serving.

Ipushmyfamilyfrommymind,setmyfeetshoulder-widthapart,anddelicatelywrapbothhandsaroundthehandleofthegun.It’sheavyandhardtoliftawayfrommybody,butIwantittobeasfarfrommyfaceaspossible.Isqueeze the trigger,hesitantlyat firstand thenharder,cringingawayfromthegun.Thesoundhurtsmyearsandtherecoilsendsmyhandsback,towardmynose. I stumble, pressingmyhand to thewall behindme forbalance. Idon’tknowwheremybulletwent,butIknowit’snotnearthetarget.

Ifireagainandagainandagain,andnoneofthebulletscomeclose.

“Statisticallyspeaking,”theEruditeboynexttome—hisnameisWill—says, grinning atme, “you should have hit the target at least once by now,even by accident.”He is blond,with shaggy hair and a crease between hiseyebrows.

“Isthatso,”Isaywithoutinflection.

“Yeah,”hesays.“Ithinkyou’reactuallydefyingnature.”

Igritmyteethandturntowardthetarget,resolvingtoatleaststandstill.If Ican’tmaster thefirst task theygiveus,howwill Ievermakeit throughstageone?

I squeeze the trigger, hard, and this time I’m ready for the recoil. Itmakesmyhandsjumpback,butmyfeetstayplanted.Abulletholeappearsattheedgeofthetarget,andIraiseaneyebrowatWill.

“Soyousee,I’mright.Thestatsdon’tlie,”hesays.

Ismilealittle.

Ittakesmefiveroundstohitthemiddleofthetarget,andwhenIdo,arushofenergygoesthroughme.Iamawake,myeyeswideopen,myhandswarm.Ilowerthegun.Thereispowerincontrollingsomethingthatcandosomuchdamage—incontrollingsomething,period.

MaybeIdobelonghere.

Bythetimewebreakforlunch,myarmsthrobfromholdingupthegun

and my fingers are hard to straighten. I massage them on my way to thedininghall.ChristinainvitesAltositwithus.EverytimeIlookathim,Ihearhissobsagain,soItrynottolookathim.

Imovemypeasaroundwithmyfork,andmythoughtsdriftbacktotheaptitude tests.WhenToriwarnedme thatbeingDivergentwasdangerous, Ifeltlikeitwasbrandedonmyface,andifIsomuchasturnedthewrongway,someonewouldseeit.Sofarithasn’tbeenaproblem,butthatdoesn’tmakemefeelsafe.WhatifIletmyguarddownandsomethingterriblehappens?

“Oh,comeon.Youdon’trememberme?”ChristinaasksAlasshemakesasandwich.“WewereinMathtogetherjustafewdaysago.AndIamnotaquietperson.”

“IsleptthroughMathmostofthetime,”Alreplies.“Itwasfirsthour!”

Whatifthedangerdoesn’tcomesoon—whatifitstrikesyearsfromnowandIneverseeitcoming?

“Tris,”saysChristina.Shesnapsherfingersinfrontofmyface.“Youinthere?”

“What?Whatisit?”

“I asked if you remember ever taking a class with me,” she says. “Imean, no offense, but I probably wouldn’t remember if you did. All theAbnegationlookedthesametome.Imean,theystilldo,butnowyou’renotoneofthem.”

Istareather.AsifIneedhertoremindme.

“Sorry,amIbeingrude?”sheasks.“I’musedtojustsayingwhateverison my mind. Mom used to say that politeness is deception in prettypackaging.”

“Ithinkthat’swhyourfactionsdon’tusuallyassociatewitheachother,”I say,with a short laugh.Candor andAbnegationdon’t hate eachother theway Erudite and Abnegation do, but they avoid each other. Candor’s realproblemiswithAmity.Thosewhoseekpeaceaboveallelse, theysay,willalwaysdeceivetokeepthewatercalm.

“CanIsithere?”saysWill,tappingthetablewithhisfinger.

“What, you don’t want to hang out with your Erudite buddies?” saysChristina.

“They aren’t my buddies,” says Will, setting his plate down. “Justbecause we were in the same faction doesn’t mean we get along. Plus,EdwardandMyraaredating,andIwouldrathernotbethethirdwheel.”

Edward andMyra, the other Erudite transfers, sit two tables away, soclosetheybumpelbowsastheycuttheirfood.MyrapausestokissEdward.Iwatchthemcarefully.I’veonlyseenafewkissesinmylife.

EdwardturnshisheadandpresseshislipstoMyra’s.Airhissesbetweenmyteeth,andIlookaway.Partofmewaitsforthemtobescolded.Anotherpart wonders, with a touch of desperation, what it would feel like to havesomeone’slipsagainstmine.

“Dotheyhavetobesopublic?”Isay.

“She just kissed him.” Al frowns at me. When he frowns, his thickeyebrowstouchhiseyelashes.“It’snotlikethey’restrippingnaked.”

“Akissisnotsomethingyoudoinpublic.”

Al,Will,andChristinaallgivemethesameknowingsmile.

“What?”Isay.

“YourAbnegation is showing,” says Christina. “The rest of us are allrightwithalittleaffectioninpublic.”

“Oh.”Ishrug.“Well…IguessI’llhavetogetoverit,then.”

“Or you can stay frigid,” says Will, his green eyes glinting withmischief.“Youknow.Ifyouwant.”

Christinathrowsarollathim.Hecatchesitandbitesit.

“Don’tbemeantoher,”shesays.“Frigidityisinhernature.Sortoflikebeingaknow-it-allisinyours.”

“Iamnotfrigid!”Iexclaim.

“Don’tworryaboutit,”saysWill.“It’sendearing.Look,you’reallred.”

Thecommentonlymakesmyfacehotter.Everyoneelsechuckles.Iforcealaughand,afterafewseconds,itcomesnaturally.

Itfeelsgoodtolaughagain.

After lunch,Four leadsus toanewroom.It’shuge,withawoodfloor

thatiscrackedandcreakyandhasalargecirclepaintedinthemiddle.Ontheleftwallisagreenboard—achalkboard.MyLowerLevelsteacherusedone,but I haven’t seen one since then. Maybe it has something to do withDauntlesspriorities:trainingcomesfirst,technologycomessecond.

Our names are written on the board in alphabetical order. Hanging atthree-footintervalsalongoneendoftheroomarefadedblackpunchingbags.

WelineupbehindthemandFourstandsinthemiddle,wherewecanallseehim.

“As I said thismorning,” saysFour,“nextyouwill learnhow to fight.

Thepurposeofthisistoprepareyoutoact;toprepareyourbodytorespondtothreatsandchallenges—whichyouwillneed,ifyouintendtosurvivelifeasaDauntless.”

Ican’teventhinkoflifeasaDauntless.AllIcanthinkaboutismakingitthroughinitiation.

“Wewillgoover technique today,andtomorrowyouwillstart tofighteachother,”saysFour.“SoIrecommendthatyoupayattention.Thosewhodon’tlearnfastwillgethurt.”

Fournamesafewdifferentpunches,demonstratingeachoneashedoes,firstagainsttheairandthenagainstthepunchingbag.

Icatchonaswepractice.Likewiththegun,Ineedafewtriestofigureouthowtoholdmyselfandhowtomovemybodytomakeit looklikehis.The kicks are more difficult, though he only teaches us the basics. Thepunching bag stings my hands and feet, turning my skin red, and barelymovesnomatterhowhardIhitit.Allaroundmeisthesoundofskinhittingtoughfabric.

Four wanders through the crowd of initiates, watching us as we gothroughthemovementsagain.Whenhestopsinfrontofme,myinsidestwistlikesomeone’sstirringthemwithafork.Hestaresatme,hiseyesfollowingmy body from my head to my feet, not lingering anywhere—a practical,scientificgaze.

“Youdon’thavemuchmuscle,”hesays,“whichmeansyou’rebetteroffusingyourkneesandelbows.Youcanputmorepowerbehindthem.”

Suddenlyhepressesahandtomystomach.Hisfingersaresolongthat,thoughtheheelofhishandtouchesonesideofmyribcage,hisfingertipsstilltouchtheotherside.Myheartpoundssohardmychesthurts,andIstareathim,wide-eyed.

“Neverforgettokeeptensionhere,”hesaysinaquietvoice.

Four lifts his hand and keepswalking. I feel the pressure of his palmeven after he’s gone. It’s strange, but I have to stop and breathe for a fewsecondsbeforeIcankeeppracticingagain.

WhenFourdismissesusfordinner,Christinanudgesmewithherelbow.

“I’msurprisedhedidn’tbreakyou inhalf,”shesays.Shewrinkleshernose.“Hescaresthehelloutofme.It’sthatquietvoiceheuses.”

“Yeah. He’s…” I look over my shoulder at him. He is quiet, andremarkably self-possessed. But I wasn’t afraid that he would hurt me. “…definitelyintimidating,”Ifinallysay.

Al, who was in front of us, turns around once we reach the Pit andannounces,“Iwanttogetatattoo.”

Frombehindus,Willasks,“Atattooofwhat?”

“Idon’tknow.”Allaughs.“IjustwanttofeellikeI’veactuallylefttheoldfaction.Stopcryingaboutit.”Whenwedon’trespond,headds,“Iknowyou’veheardme.”

“Yeah,learntoquietdown,willyou?”ChristinapokesAl’sthickarm.“Ithinkyou’reright.We’rehalfin,halfoutrightnow.Ifwewantallthewayin,weshouldlookthepart.”

Shegivesmealook.

“No.Iwillnotcutmyhair,”Isay,“ordyeitastrangecolor.Orpiercemyface.”

“Howaboutyourbellybutton?”shesays.

“Oryournipple?”Willsayswithasnort.

Igroan.

Nowthattrainingisdonefortheday,wecandowhateverwewantuntilit’stimetosleep.Theideamakesmefeelalmostgiddy,althoughthatmightbefromfatigue.

ThePitisswarmingwithpeople.ChristinaannouncesthatsheandIwillmeetAlandWillatthetattooparloranddragsmetowardtheclothingplace.Westumbleupthepath,climbinghigherabovethePitfloor,scatteringstoneswithourshoes.

“What is wrong with my clothes?” I say. “I’m not wearing grayanymore.”

“They’reuglyandgigantic.”Shesighs.“Willyoujustletmehelpyou?If you don’t like what I put you in, you never have to wear it again, Ipromise.”

Ten minutes later I stand in front of a mirror in the clothing placewearingaknee-lengthblackdress.Theskirtisn’tfull,butitisn’tstucktomythighs, either—unlike the first one she picked out, which I refused. Goosebumpsappearonmybarearms.SheslipsthetiefrommyhairandIshakeitoutofitsbraidsoithangswavyovermyshoulders.

Thensheholdsupablackpencil.

“Eyeliner,”shesays.

“Youaren’tgoingtobeabletomakemepretty,youknow.”Iclosemyeyes and hold still. She runs the tip of the pencil along the line of myeyelashes. I imagine standing before my family in these clothes, and mystomachtwistslikeImightbesick.

“Whocaresaboutpretty?I’mgoingfornoticeable.”

Iopenmyeyesandforthefirsttimestareopenlyatmyownreflection.My heart rate picks up as I do, like I am breaking the rules and will bescoldedfor it. Itwillbedifficult tobreak thehabitsof thinkingAbnegationinstilled in me, like tugging a single thread from a complex work ofembroidery. But I will find new habits, new thoughts, new rules. I willbecomesomethingelse.

Myeyeswerebluebefore,butadull,grayishblue—theeyelinermakesthem piercing.Withmy hair framingmy face,my features look softer andfuller.Iamnotpretty—myeyesaretoobigandmynoseis toolong—butIcanseethatChristinaisright.Myfaceisnoticeable.

Lookingatmyselfnowisn’tlikeseeingmyselfforthefirsttime;it’slikeseeing someone else for the first time. Beatrice was a girl I saw in stolenmoments at themirror,whokept quiet at thedinner table.This is someonewhoseeyesclaimmineanddon’treleaseme;thisisTris.

“See?”shesays.“You’re…striking.”

Underthecircumstances,it’sthebestcomplimentshecouldhavegivenme.Ismileatherinthemirror.

“Youlikeit?”shesays.

“Yeah.”Inod.“Ilooklike…adifferentperson.”

Shelaughs.“Thatagoodthingorabadthing?”

Ilookatmyselfhead-onagain.Forthefirsttime,theideaofleavingmyAbnegationidentitybehinddoesn’tmakemenervous;itgivesmehope.

“Agoodthing.”Ishakemyhead.“Sorry,I’vejustneverbeenallowedtostareatmyreflectionforthislong.”

“Really?”Christinashakesherhead.“Abnegationisastrangefaction,Ihavetotellyou.”

“Let’sgowatchAlgettattooed,”Isay.DespitethefactthatIhaveleftmyoldfactionbehind,Idon’twanttocriticizeityet.

Athome,mymotherandIpickedupnearlyidenticalstacksofclothingeverysixmonthsorso.It’seasytoallocateresourceswheneveryonegetsthesamething,buteverythingismorevariedattheDauntlesscompound.Every

Dauntlessgetsacertainamountofpointstospendpermonth,andthedresscostsoneofthem.

ChristinaandIracedownthenarrowpathtothetattooplace.Whenwegetthere,Alissittinginthechairalready,andasmall,narrowmanwithmoreinkthanbareskinisdrawingaspideronhisarm.

Will andChristina flip throughbooksof pictures, elbowing eachotherwhen they find agoodone.When they sit next to eachother, I noticehowopposite they are,Christina dark and lean,Will pale and solid, but alike intheireasysmiles.

Iwander around the room, looking at the artwork on thewalls. Thesedays,theonlyartistsareinAmity.Abnegationseesartasimpractical,anditsappreciationastimethatcouldbespentservingothers,sothoughIhaveseenworksof art in textbooks, Ihaveneverbeen inadecorated roombefore. Itmakestheairfeelcloseandwarm,andIcouldgetlosthereforhourswithoutnoticing.Iskimthewallwithmyfingertips.ApictureofahawkononewallremindsmeofTori’stattoo.Beneathitisasketchofabirdinflight.

“It’saraven,”avoicebehindmesays.“Pretty,right?”

IturntoseeToristandingthere.IfeellikeIambackintheaptitudetestroom,withthemirrorsallaroundmeandthewiresconnectedtomyforehead.Ididn’texpecttoseeheragain.

“Well,hello there.”Shesmiles.“Never thoughtIwouldseeyouagain.Beatrice,isit?”

“Tris,actually,”Isay.“Doyouworkhere?”

“Ido. I just tookabreak to administer the tests.Mostof the time I’mhere.”She tapsherchin.“I recognize thatname.Youwere thefirst jumper,weren’tyou?”

“Yes,Iwas.”

“Welldone.”

“Thanks.”Itouchthesketchofthebird.“Listen—Ineedtotalktoyouabout…”IglanceoveratWillandChristina.Ican’tcornerTorinow;they’llaskquestions.“…something.Sometime.”

“I amnot sure thatwouldbewise,” she saysquietly. “IhelpedyouasmuchasIcould,andnowyouwillhavetogoitalone.”

I pursemy lips. She has answers; I know she does. If shewon’t givethem tomenow, Iwill have to findaway tomakeher tellme someothertime.

“Wantatattoo?”shesays.

The bird sketch holdsmy attention. I never intended to get pierced ortattooedwhen I camehere. Iknow that if Ido, itwillplaceanotherwedgebetween me and my family that I can never remove. And if my life herecontinuesasithasbeen,itmaysoonbetheleastofthewedgesbetweenus.

ButIunderstandnowwhatTorisaidabouthertattoorepresentingafearsheovercame—areminderofwhereshewas,aswellasareminderofwheresheisnow.MaybethereisawaytohonormyoldlifeasIembracemynewone.

“Yes,”Isay.“Threeoftheseflyingbirds.”

I touch my collarbone, marking the path of their flight—toward myheart.OneforeachmemberofthefamilyIleftbehind.

CHAPTERNINE

“SINCETHEREAREanoddnumberofyou,oneofyouwon’tbefightingtoday,” says Four, stepping away from the board in the training room. Hegivesmealook.Thespacenexttomynameisblank.

Theknotinmystomachunravels.Areprieve.

“Thisisn’tgood,”saysChristina,nudgingmewithherelbow.Herelbowprods one of my sore muscles—I have more sore muscles than not-soremuscles,thismorning—andIwince.

“Ow.”

“Sorry,”shesays.“Butlook.I’mupagainsttheTank.”

ChristinaandIsattogetheratbreakfast,andearliersheshieldedmefromtherestofthedormitoryasIchanged.Ihaven’thadafriendlikeherbefore.Susan was better friends with Caleb than with me, and Robert only wentwhereSusanwent.

IguessIhaven’treallyhadafriend,period.It’simpossibletohaverealfriendship when no one feels like they can accept help or even talk aboutthemselves. That won’t happen here. I already knowmore about ChristinathanIeverknewaboutSusan,andit’sonlybeentwodays.

“TheTank?”I findChristina’snameon theboard.Writtennext to it is“Molly.”

“Yeah, Peter’s slightly more feminine-looking minion,” she says,noddingtowardtheclusterofpeopleontheothersideoftheroom.Mollyistall like Christina, but that’s where the similarities end. She has broadshoulders,bronzeskin,andabulbousnose.

“Those three”—Christina points at Peter, Drew, and Molly in turn—“havebeeninseparablesince theycrawledoutof thewomb,practically. Ihatethem.”

Will andAl stand across from each other in the arena. They put theirhandsupbytheirfacestoprotectthemselves,asFourtaughtus,andshuffleina circle around each other. Al is half a foot taller thanWill, and twice asbroad.As I stare at him, I realize that evenhis facial features are big—bignose,biglips,bigeyes.Thisfightwon’tlastlong.

I glance at Peter and his friends. Drew is shorter than both Peter andMolly,buthe’sbuiltlikeaboulder,andhisshouldersarealwayshunched.Hishairisorange-red,thecolorofanoldcarrot.

“What’swrongwiththem?”Isay.

“Peterispureevil.Whenwewerekids,hewouldpickfightswithpeoplefromotherfactionsandthen,whenanadultcametobreakitup,he’dcryandmakeupsomestoryabouthowtheotherkidstarted it.Andofcourse, theybelievedhim,becausewewereCandorandwecouldn’tlie.Haha.”

Christinawrinkleshernoseandadds,“Drewisjusthissidekick.Idoubthe has an independent thought in his brain. AndMolly…she’s the kind ofperson who fries ants with a magnifying glass just to watch them flailaround.”

Inthearena,AlpunchesWillhardinthejaw.Iwince.Acrosstheroom,EricsmirksatAl,andturnsoneoftheringsinhiseyebrow.

Willstumblestotheside,onehandpressedtohisface,andblocksAl’snextpunchwithhisfreehand.Judgingbyhisgrimace,blockingthepunchisaspainfulasablowwouldhavebeen.Alisslow,butpowerful.

Peter,Drew,andMollycastfurtivelooksinourdirectionandthenpulltheirheadstogether,whispering.

“Ithinktheyknowwe’retalkingaboutthem,”Isay.

“So?TheyalreadyknowIhatethem.”

“Theydo?How?”

Christina fakes a smile at them and waves. I look down, my cheekswarm.Ishouldn’tbegossipinganyway.Gossipingisself-indulgent.

WillhooksafootaroundoneofAl’slegsandyanksback,knockingAltotheground.Alscramblestohisfeet.

“BecauseI’vetoldthem,”shesays,throughthegrittedteethofhersmile.Herteetharestraightontopandcrookedonthebottom.Shelooksatme.“Wetry to be pretty honest about our feelings inCandor. Plenty of people havetoldmethattheydon’tlikeme.Andplentyofpeoplehaven’t.Whocares?”

“Wejust…weren’tsupposedtohurtpeople,”Isay.

“I like to think I’m helping them by hating them,” she says. “I’mremindingthemthattheyaren’tGod’sgifttohumankind.”

Ilaughalittleatthatandfocusonthearenaagain.WillandAlfaceeachotherforafewmoreseconds,morehesitantthantheywerebefore.Willflickshispalehairfromhiseyes.TheyglanceatFourlikethey’rewaitingforhimtocallthefightoff,buthestandswithhisarmsfolded,givingnoresponse.Afewfeetawayfromhim,Ericcheckshiswatch.

After a few seconds of circling, Eric shouts, “Do you think this is aleisureactivity?Shouldwebreakfornap-time?Fighteachother!”

“But…”Alstraightens,lettinghishandsdown,andsays,“Isitscoredorsomething?Whendoesthefightend?”

“Itendswhenoneofyouisunabletocontinue,”saysEric.

“According to Dauntless rules,” Four says, “one of you could alsoconcede.”

EricnarrowshiseyesatFour.“Accordingtotheoldrules,”hesays.“Inthenewrules,nooneconcedes.”

“Abravemanacknowledgesthestrengthofothers,”Fourreplies.

“Abravemanneversurrenders.”

Four and Eric stare at each other for a few seconds. I feel like I amlooking at two different kinds of Dauntless—the honorable kind, and theruthlesskind.ButevenIknowthatinthisroom,it’sEric,theyoungestleaderoftheDauntless,whohastheauthority.

Beads of sweat dotAl’s forehead; hewipes themwith the backof hishand.

“This is ridiculous,” Al says, shaking his head. “What’s the point ofbeatinghimup?We’reinthesamefaction!”

“Oh,youthinkit’sgoingtobethateasy?”Willasks,grinning.“Goon.Trytohitme,slowpoke.”

Will puts his hands up again. I see determination in Will’s eyes thatwasn’ttherebefore.Doeshereallybelievehecanwin?OnehardshottotheheadandAlwillknockhimoutcold.

Thatis,ifhecanactuallyhitWill.Altriesapunch,andWillducks,theback of his neck shining with sweat. He dodges another punch, slippingaroundAlandkickinghimhardintheback.Allurchesforwardandturns.

When I was younger, I read a book about grizzly bears. There was apicture of one standingon its hind legswith its pawsoutstretched, roaring.ThatishowAllooksnow.HechargesatWill,grabbinghisarmsohecan’tslipaway,andpuncheshimhardinthejaw.

I watch the light leaveWill’s eyes, which are pale green, like celery.Theyrollbackintohishead,andallthetensionfallsfromhisbody.HeslipsfromAl’s grasp, deadweight, and crumples to the floor.Cold rushesdownmybackandfillsmychest.

Al’s eyeswiden, andhe crouchesnext toWill, tappinghis cheekwithone hand. The room falls silent aswewait forWill to respond. For a fewseconds, he doesn’t, just lies on the groundwith an armbent beneath him.

Thenheblinks,clearlydazed.

“Gethimup,”Ericsays.HestareswithgreedyeyesatWill’sfallenbody,like the sight is ameal andhehasn’t eaten inweeks.The curl of his lip iscruel.

FourturnstothechalkboardandcirclesAl’sname.Victory.

“Nextup—MollyandChristina!”shoutsEric.AlpullsWill’sarmacrosshisshouldersanddragshimoutofthearena.

Christinacracksherknuckles. Iwouldwishher luck,but Idon’tknowwhatgoodthatwoulddo.Christinaisn’tweak,butshe’smuchnarrowerthanMolly.Hopefullyherheightwillhelpher.

Across theroom,FoursupportsWillfromthewaistandleadshimout.Alstandsforamomentbythedoor,watchingthemgo.

Four leavingmakesme nervous. Leaving uswithEric is like hiring ababysitterwhospendshistimesharpeningknives.

Christina tucks her hair behind her ears. It is chin-length, black, andpinnedbackwithsilverclips.Shecracksanotherknuckle.Shelooksnervous,andnowonder—whowouldn’tbenervousafterwatchingWillcollapselikearagdoll?

IfconflictinDauntlessendswithonlyonepersonstanding,Iamunsureofwhat this part of initiationwill do tome.Will I beAl, standing over aman’sbody, knowing I’m theonewhoput himon theground, orwill I beWill,lyinginahelplessheap?Andisitselfishofmetocravevictory,orisitbrave?Iwipemysweatypalmsonmypants.

IsnaptoattentionwhenChristinakicksMollyintheside.Mollygaspsandgritsherteethlikeshe’sabouttogrowlthroughthem.Alockofstringyblackhairfallsacrossherface,butshedoesn’tbrushitaway.

Al stands next tome, but I’m too focused on the new fight to look athim,orcongratulatehimonwinning,assumingthat’swhathewants.Iamnotsure.

Molly smirks at Christina, and without warning, dives, handsoutstretched,atChristina’smidsection.Shehitsherhard,knockingherdown,andpinshertotheground.Christinathrashes,butMollyisheavyanddoesn’tbudge.

Shepunches, andChristinamovesher headout of theway, butMollyjustpunchesagain,andagain,untilherfisthitsChristina’sjaw,hernose,hermouth.Withoutthinking,IgrabAl’sarmandsqueezeitastightlyasIcan.Ijust need something toholdon to.Blood runsdown the sideofChristina’s

faceandsplattersonthegroundnexttohercheek.ThisisthefirsttimeIhaveeverprayedforsomeonetofallunconscious.

Butshedoesn’t.Christinascreamsanddragsoneofherarmsfree.ShepunchesMolly in the ear, knocking her off-balance, andwriggles free. Shecomes to her knees, holding her face with one hand. The blood streamingfrom her nose is thick and dark and covers her fingers in seconds. ShescreamsagainandcrawlsawayfromMolly.Icantellbytheheavingofhershouldersthatshe’ssobbing,butIcanbarelyhearheroverthethrobbinginmyears.

Pleasegounconscious.

MollykicksChristina’sside,sendinghersprawlingonherback.Alfreeshishandandpullsmetighttohisside.Iclenchmyteethtokeepfromcryingout.IhadnosympathyforAlthefirstnight,butIamnotcruelyet;thesightofChristinaclutchingherribcagemakesmewanttostandbetweenherandMolly.

“Stop!”wailsChristinaasMollypullsherfootbacktokickagain.Sheholdsoutahand.“Stop!I’m…”Shecoughs.“I’mdone.”

Mollysmiles,andIsighwithrelief.Alsighstoo,hisribcageliftingandfallingagainstmyshoulder.

Eric walks toward the center of the arena, his movements slow, andstandsoverChristinawithhisarmsfolded.Hesaysquietly,“I’msorry,whatdidyousay?You’redone?”

Christinapushesherselftoherknees.Whenshetakesherhandfromtheground, it leaves a red handprint behind. She pinches her nose to stop thebleedingandnods.

“Getup,”hesays.Ifhehadyelled,Imightnothavefeltlikeeverythinginsidemystomachwasabouttocomeoutofit.Ifhehadyelled,Iwouldhaveknownthattheyellingwastheworstheplannedtodo.Buthisvoiceisquietandhiswordsprecise.HegrabsChristina’s arm,yanksher toher feet, anddragsheroutthedoor.

“Followme,”hesaystotherestofus.

Andwedo.

Ifeeltheroaroftheriverinmychest.

Westandneartherailing.ThePitisalmostempty;itisthemiddleoftheafternoon,thoughitfeelslikeit’sbeennightfordays.

Iftherewerepeoplearound,IdoubtanyofthemwouldhelpChristina.WearewithEric,foronething,andforanother,theDauntlesshavedifferentrules—rulesthatbrutalitydoesnotviolate.

EricshovesChristinaagainsttherailing.

“Climboverit,”hesays.

“What?”Shesaysitlikesheexpectshimtorelent,butherwideeyesandashenfacesuggestotherwise.Ericwillnotbackdown.

“Climbovertherailing,”saysEricagain,pronouncingeachwordslowly.“If you can hang over the chasm for five minutes, I will forget yourcowardice.Ifyoucan’t,Iwillnotallowyoutocontinueinitiation.”

Therailingisnarrowandmadeofmetal.Thesprayfromtherivercoatsit,makingitslipperyandcold.EvenifChristinaisbraveenoughtohangfromtherailingforfiveminutes,shemaynotbeabletoholdon.Eithershedecidestobefactionless,orsherisksdeath.

WhenIclosemyeyes,Iimagineherfallingontothejaggedrocksbelowandshudder.

“Fine,”shesays,hervoiceshaking.

Sheistallenoughtoswingherlegovertherailing.Herfootshakes.Sheputshertoeontheledgeassheliftsherotherlegover.Facingus,shewipesherhandsonherpantsandholdsontotherailingsohardherknucklesturnwhite. Then she takes one foot off the ledge.And the other. I see her facebetweenthebarsofthebarrier,determined,herlipspressedtogether.

Nexttome,Alsetshiswatch.

For the first minute and a half, Christina is fine. Her hands stay firmaroundtherailingandherarmsdon’tshake.IstarttothinkshemightmakeitandshowErichowfoolishhewastodoubther.

But then the river hits the wall, and white water sprays againstChristina’sback.Herfacestrikesthebarrier,andshecriesout.Herhandsslipso she’s justholdingonbyher fingertips.She tries toget abettergrip,butnowherhandsarewet.

IfIhelpher,Ericwouldmakemyfatethesameashers.WillIletherfalltoherdeath,orwillIresignmyselftobeingfactionless?What’sworse:tobeidlewhilesomeonedies,ortobeexiledandempty-handed?

Myparentswouldhavenoproblemansweringthatquestion.

ButIamnotmyparents.

AsfarasIknow,Christinahasn’tcriedsincewegothere,butnowherface crumples and she lets out a sob that is louder than the river. Anotherwavehitsthewallandthespraycoatsherbody.Oneofthedropletshitsmycheek.Herhandsslipagain,andthistime,oneofthemfallsfromtherailing,soshe’shangingbyfourfingertips.

“Come on, Christina,” says Al, his low voice surprisingly loud. Shelooksathim.Heclaps.“Comeon,grabitagain.Youcandoit.Grabit.”

WouldIevenbestrongenoughtoholdontoher?WoulditbeworthmyefforttotrytohelpherifIknowI’mtooweaktodoanygood?

Iknowwhatthosequestionsare:excuses.Humanreasoncanexcuseanyevil;thatiswhyit’ssoimportantthatwedon’trelyonit.Myfather’swords.

Christina swingsher arm, fumbling for the railing.Noone else cheersheron,butAlbringshisbighandstogetherandshouts,hiseyesholdinghers.IwishIcould; IwishIcouldmove,but I juststareatherandwonderhowlongIhavebeenthisdisgustinglyselfish.

IstareatAl’swatch.Fourminuteshavepassed.Heelbowsmehardintheshoulder.

“Comeon,”Isay.Myvoiceisawhisper.Iclearmythroat.“Oneminuteleft,”Isay,louderthistime.Christina’sotherhandfindstherailingagain.HerarmsshakesohardIwonderiftheearthisquakingbeneathme,jigglingmyvision,andIjustdidn’tnotice.

“Comeon,Christina,”Aland I say,andasourvoices join, Ibelieve Imightbestrongenoughtohelpher.

Iwillhelpher.Ifsheslipsagain,Iwill.

AnotherwaveofwatersplashesagainstChristina’sback,andsheshrieksasbothherhandsslipoff therailing.Ascreamlaunchesfrommymouth.Itsoundslikeitbelongstosomeoneelse.

Butshedoesn’tfall.Shegrabsthebarsof thebarrier.HerfingersslidedownthemetaluntilIcan’tseeherheadanymore;theyareallIsee.

Al’swatchreads5:00.

“Fiveminutesareup,”hesays,almostspittingthewordsatEric.

Eric checkshisownwatch.Takinghis time, tiltinghiswrist, allwhilemystomachtwistsandIcan’tbreathe.WhenIblink,IseeRita’ssisteronthepavement below the train tracks, limbs bent at strange angles; I see Ritascreamingandsobbing;Iseemyselfturningaway.

“Fine,”Ericsays.“Youcancomeup,Christina.”

Alwalkstowardtherailing.

“No,”Ericsays.“Shehastodoitonherown.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Al growls. “She did what you said. She’s not acoward.Shedidwhatyousaid.”

Ericdoesn’trespond.Alreachesovertherailing,andhe’ssotallthathecan reachChristina’swrist.Shegrabshis forearm.Alpullsherup,his faceredwithfrustration,andIrunforwardtohelp.I’mtooshorttodomuchgood,asIsuspected,butIgripChristinaundertheshoulderonceshe’shighenough,andAlandIhaulheroverthebarrier.Shedropstotheground,herfacestillblood-smearedfromthefight,herbacksoakingwet,herbodyquivering.

I kneel next to her.Her eyes lift tomine, then shift toAl, andwe allcatchourbreathtogether.

CHAPTERTEN

THATNIGHTIdreamthatChristinahangsfromtherailingagain,byhertoesthistime,andsomeoneshoutsthatonlysomeonewhoisDivergentcanhelpher.SoI runforward topullherup,butsomeoneshovesmeover theedge,andIwakebeforeIhittherocks.

Sweat-soakedandshakyfromthedream,Iwalktothegirls’bathroomtoshower and change. When I come back, the word “Stiff” is spray-paintedacrossmymattressinred.Thewordiswrittensmalleralongthebedframe,andagainonmypillow.Ilookaround,myheartpoundingwithanger.

Peter stands behind me, whistling as he fluffs his pillow. It’s hard tobelieveIcouldhatesomeonewholookssokind—hiseyebrowsturnupwardnaturally,andhehasawide,whitesmile.

“Nicedecorations,”hesays.

“DidIdosomethingtoyouthatI’munawareof?”Idemand.Igrabthecornerofasheetandyankitawayfromthemattress.“Idon’tknowifyou’venoticed,butweareinthesamefactionnow.”

“Idon’tknowwhatyou’rereferringto,”hesayslightly.Thenheglancesatme.“AndyouandIwillneverbeinthesamefaction.”

IshakemyheadasIremovemypillowcasefromthepillow.Don’tgetangry.Hewantstogetariseoutofme;hewon’t.Buteverytimehefluffshispillow,Ithinkaboutpunchinghiminthegut.

Alwalksin,andIdon’tevenhavetoaskhimtohelpme;hejustwalksoverandstripsbeddingwithme.Iwillhavetoscrubthebedframelater.Alcarries thestackofsheets to the trashcanand togetherwewalk toward thetrainingroom.

“Ignorehim,”Alsays.“He’san idiot,and ifyoudon’tgetangry,he’llstopeventually.”

“Yeah.” I touchmycheeks.Theyarestillwarmwithanangryblush. Itry to distract myself. “Did you talk to Will?” I ask quietly. “After…youknow.”

“Yeah. He’s fine. He isn’t angry.” Al sighs. “Now I’ll always berememberedasthefirstguywhoknockedsomeoneoutcold.”

“Thereareworsewaystoberemembered.Atleasttheywon’tantagonizeyou.”

“There are better ways too.” He nudges me with his elbow, smiling.“Firstjumper.”

Maybe Iwas the first jumper,but I suspect that’swheremyDauntlessfamebeginsandends.

Iclearmy throat.“Oneofyouhad togetknockedout,youknow.If ithadn’tbeenhim,itwouldhavebeenyou.”

“Still,Idon’twanttodoitagain.”Alshakeshishead,toomanytimes,toofast.Hesniffs.“Ireallydon’t.”

WereachthedoortothetrainingroomandIsay,“Butyouhaveto.”

Hehasakindface.MaybeheistookindforDauntless.

IlookatthechalkboardwhenIwalkin.Ididn’thavetofightyesterday,buttodayIdefinitelywill.WhenIseemyname,Istopinthemiddleofthestep.

MyopponentisPeter.

“Ohno,”saysChristina,whoshufflesinbehindus.Herfaceisbruised,and she looks like she is trying not to limp.When she sees the board, shecrumples themuffinwrappersheisholdingintoherfist.“Aretheyserious?They’rereallygoingtomakeyoufighthim?”

PeterisalmostafoottallerthanIam,andyesterday,hebeatDrewinlessthan five minutes. Today Drew’s face is more black-and-blue than flesh-toned.

“Maybe you can just take a few hits and pretend to go unconscious,”suggestsAl.“Noonewouldblameyou.”

“Yeah,”Isay.“Maybe.”

Istareatmynameontheboard.Mycheeksfeelhot.AlandChristinaarejust trying to help, but the fact that they don’t believe, not even in a tinycorneroftheirminds,thatIhaveachanceagainstPeterbothersme.

I stand at the side of the room, half listening to Al and Christina’schatter,andwatchMollyfightEdward.He’smuchfasterthansheis,soI’msureMollywillnotwintoday.

Asthefightgoesonandmyirritationfades,Istarttogetnervous.Fourtold us yesterday to exploit our opponent’sweaknesses, and aside fromhisutterlackoflikablequalities,Peterdoesn’thaveany.He’stallenoughtobestrong but not so big that he’s slow; he has an eye for other people’s softspots;he’sviciousandwon’tshowmeanymercy.Iwouldliketosaythatheunderestimatesme,butthatwouldbealie.Iamasunskilledashesuspects.

MaybeAl is right, and I should just take a fewhits andpretend to beunconscious.

ButIcan’taffordnottotry.Ican’tberankedlast.

By the time Molly peels herself off the ground, looking only half-consciousthankstoEdward,myheartispoundingsohardIcanfeelitinmyfingertips.Ican’trememberhowtostand.Ican’trememberhowtopunch.IwalktothecenterofthearenaandmygutswritheasPetercomestowardme,tallerthanIremembered,armmusclesstandingatattention.Hesmilesatme.Iwonderifthrowinguponhimwilldomeanygood.

Idoubtit.

“Youokay there,Stiff?”he says. “You look likeyou’reabout to cry. Imightgoeasyonyouifyoucry.”

Over Peter’s shoulder, I see Four standing by the door with his armsfolded.Hismouthispuckered,likehejustswallowedsomethingsour.NexttohimisEric,whotapshisfootfasterthanmyheartbeat.

OnesecondPeterandIarestandingthere,staringateachother,andthenextPeter’shandsareupbyhisface,hiselbowsbent.Hiskneesarebenttoo,likehe’sreadytospring.

“Comeon,Stiff,”hesays,hiseyesglinting.“Justonelittletear.Maybesomebegging.”

ThethoughtofbeggingPeterformercymakesmetastebile,andonanimpulse,Ikickhimintheside.OrIwouldhavekickedhimintheside,ifhehadn’tcaughtmyfootandyankedit forward,knockingmeoff-balance.Mybacksmacksintothefloor,andIpullmyfootfree,scramblingtomyfeet.

Ihavetostayonmyfeetsohecan’tkickmeinthehead.That’stheonlythingIcanthinkabout.

“Stopplayingwithher,”snapsEric.“Idon’thaveallday.”

Peter’smischievouslookdisappears.Hisarmtwitchesandpainstabsmyjawandspreadsacrossmyface,makingmyvisiongoblackattheedgesandmyearsring.Iblinkandlurchtothesideastheroomdipsandsways.Idon’trememberhisfistcomingatme.

Iamtoooff-balancetodoanythingbutmoveawayfromhim,asfarasthe arena will allow. He darts in front of me and kicks me hard in thestomach.Hisfootforcestheairfrommylungsandithurts,hurtssobadlyIcan’tbreathe,ormaybethat’sbecauseofthekick,Idon’tknow,Ijustfall.

Onyourfeetistheonlythoughtinmymind.Ipushmyselfup,butPeterisalreadythere.Hegrabsmyhairwithonehandandpunchesmeinthenosewiththeother.Thispainisdifferent,lesslikeastabandmorelikeacrackle,crackling inmybrain, spottingmyvisionwithdifferentcolors,blue,green,

red.Itrytoshovehimoff,myhandsslappingathisarms,andhepunchesmeagain,thistimeintheribs.Myfaceiswet.Bloodynose.Morered,Iguess,butI’mtoodizzytolookdown.

He shoves me and I fall again, scraping my hands on the ground,blinking, sluggish and slowandhot. I cough anddragmyself tomy feet. Ireallyshouldbelyingdowniftheroomisspinningthisfast.AndPeterspinsaroundme;Iamthecenterofaspinningplanet, theonlythingstayingstill.SomethinghitsmefromthesideandIalmostfalloveragain.

Onmyfeetonmyfeet.Iseeasolidmassinfrontofme,abody.Ipunchas hard as I can, andmy fist hits something soft. Peter barely groans, andsmacksmy earwith the flat of his palm, laughing under his breath. I hearringingand try toblinksomeof theblackpatchesoutofmyeyes;howdidsomethinggetinmyeye?

Outofmyperipheralvision, I seeFour shove thedooropenandwalkout. Apparently this fight isn’t interesting enough for him. Or maybe he’sgoingtofindoutwhyeverything’sspinninglikeatop,andIdon’tblamehim;Iwanttoknowtheanswertoo.

My knees give out and the floor is cool againstmy cheek. SomethingslamsintomysideandIscreamforthefirsttime,ahighscreechthatbelongstosomeoneelseandnotme,anditslamsintomysideagain,andIcan’tseeanythingatall,notevenwhateverisrightinfrontofmyface,thelightsout.Someoneshouts,“Enough!”andIthinktoomuchandnothingatall.

WhenIwakeup,Idon’tfeelmuch,buttheinsideofmyheadisfuzzy,

likeit’spackedwithcottonballs.

IknowthatIlost,andtheonlythingkeepingthepainatbayiswhatismakingitdifficulttothinkstraight.

“Ishereyealreadyblack?”someoneasks.

Iopenoneeye—theotherstaysshut like it’sglued thatway.Sitting tomyrightareWillandAl;Christinasitsonthebedtomyleftwithanicepackonherjaw.

“Whathappenedtoyourface?”Isay.Mylipsfeelclumsyandtoolarge.

Shelaughs.“Lookwho’stalking.Shouldwegetyouaneyepatch?”

“Well, Ialreadyknowwhathappened tomyface,” I say.“Iwas there.Sortof.”

“Didyou justmakea joke,Tris?”Will says,grinning. “Weshouldget

youonpainkillersmoreoftenifyou’regoingtostartcrackingjokes.Oh,andtoansweryourquestion—Ibeatherup.”

“Ican’tbelieveyoucouldn’tbeatWill,”Alsays,shakinghishead.

“What? He’s good,” she says, shrugging. “Plus, I think I’ve finallylearnedhowtostoplosing.Ijustneedtostoppeoplefrompunchingmeinthejaw.”

“Youknow,you’dthinkyouwouldhavefiguredthatoutalready.”Willwinksather.“NowIknowwhyyouaren’tErudite.Nottoobright,areyou?”

“Youfeelingokay,Tris?”Alsays.Hiseyesaredarkbrown,almostthesamecolorasChristina’sskin.Hischeeklooksrough,likeifhedidn’tshaveit,hewouldhaveathickbeard.Hardtobelievehe’sonlysixteen.

“Yeah,”Isay.“JustwishIcouldstayhereforeversoIneverhavetoseePeteragain.”

ButIdon’tknowwhere“here”is.Iamina large,narrowroomwitharowofbedsoneitherside.Someofthebedshavecurtainsbetweenthem.Onthe right side of the room is a nurse’s station. This must be where theDauntlessgowhenthey’resickorhurt.Thewomantherelooksatusoveraclipboard.I’veneverseenanursewithsomanypiercingsinherearbefore.SomeDauntlessmustvolunteer todo jobs that traditionallybelong tootherfactions.Afterall,itwouldn’tmakesensefortheDauntlesstomakethetrektothecityhospitaleverytimetheygethurt.

ThefirsttimeIwenttothehospital,Iwassixyearsold.Mymotherfellonthesidewalkinfrontofourhouseandbrokeherarm.Hearingherscreammademeburst into tears,butCaleb just ran formy fatherwithout sayingaword. At the hospital, an Amity woman in a yellow shirt with cleanfingernailstookmymother’sbloodpressureandsetherbonewithasmile.

I rememberCaleb tellingher that itwouldonly takeamonth tomend,because itwas a hairline fracture. I thought hewas reassuring her, becausethat’s what selfless people do, but now I wonder if he was repeatingsomethinghehadstudied;ifallhisAbnegationtendencieswerejustEruditetraitsindisguise.

“Don’t worry about Peter,” says Will. “He’ll at least get beat up byEdward,whohasbeenstudyinghand-to-handcombatsinceweweretenyearsold.Forfun.”

“Good,” saysChristina. She checks herwatch. “I thinkwe’remissingdinner.Doyouwantustostayhere,Tris?”

Ishakemyhead.“I’mfine.”

ChristinaandWillgetup,butAlwaves themahead.Hehasadistinctsmell—sweetandfresh,likesageandlemongrass.Whenhetossesandturnsatnight,IgetawhiffofitandIknowhe’shavinganightmare.

“I justwanted to tell you thatyoumissedEric’s announcement.We’regoingonafieldtriptomorrow,tothefence,tolearnaboutDauntlessjobs,”hesays.“Wehavetobeatthetrainbyeightfifteen.”

“Good,”Isay.“Thanks.”

“Anddon’tpayattentiontoChristina.Yourfacedoesn’tlookthatbad.”Hesmilesalittle.“Imean,itlooksgood.Italwayslooksgood.Imean—youlookbrave.Dauntless.”

Hiseyesskirtmine,andhescratches thebackofhishead.Thesilenceseemstogrowbetweenus.Itwasanicethingtosay,butheactslikeitmeantmorethanjustthewords.IhopeIamwrong.IcouldnotbeattractedtoAl—Icouldnotbeattractedtoanyonethatfragile.Ismileasmuchasmybruisedcheekwillallow,hopingthatwilldiffusethetension.

“Ishouldletyourest,”hesays.Hegetsuptoleave,butbeforehecango,Igrabhiswrist.

“Al,areyouokay?”Isay.Hestaresblanklyatme,andIadd,“Imean,isitgettinganyeasier?”

“Uh…”Heshrugs.“Alittle.”

He pulls his hand free and shoves it in his pocket. The questionmusthaveembarrassedhim,becauseI’veneverseenhimsoredbefore.IfIspentmy nights sobbing intomy pillow, I would be a little embarrassed too. AtleastwhenIcry,Iknowhowtohideit.

“I lost toDrew.AfteryourfightwithPeter.”Helooksatme.“I tookafewhits,felldown,andstayedthere.EventhoughIdidn’thaveto.Ifigure…IfigurethatsinceIbeatWill,ifIlosealltherest,Iwon’tberankedlast,butIwon’thavetohurtanyoneanymore.”

“Isthatreallywhatyouwant?”

Helooksdown.“Ijustcan’tdoit.MaybethatmeansI’macoward.”

“You’renotacowardjustbecauseyoudon’twanttohurtpeople,”Isay,becauseIknowit’stherightthingtosay,evenifI’mnotsureImeanit.

Foramomentwearebothstill,lookingateachother.MaybeIdomeanit. Ifhe isacoward, it isn’tbecausehedoesn’tenjoypain. It isbecauseherefusestoact.

Hegivesmeapained lookandsays,“You thinkour familieswillvisit

us?TheysaytransferfamiliesnevercomeonVisitingDay.”

“Idon’tknow,”Isay.“Idon’tknowif itwouldbegoodorbadif theydid.”

“Ithinkbad.”Henods.“Yeah,it’salreadyhardenough.”Henodsagain,asifconfirmingwhathejustsaid,andwalksaway.

In less than aweek, theAbnegation initiateswill be able to visit theirfamiliesforthefirst timesincetheChoosingCeremony.Theywillgohomeandsitintheirlivingroomsandinteractwiththeirparentsforthefirsttimeasadults.

Iusedtolookforwardtothatday.IusedtothinkaboutwhatIwouldsaytomymother and fatherwhen Iwas allowed to ask them questions at thedinnertable.

Inless thanaweek, theDauntless-borninitiateswillfindtheirfamiliesonthePitfloor,orintheglassbuildingabovethecompound,anddowhateverit is the Dauntless do when they reunite. Maybe they take turns throwingknivesateachother’sheads—itwouldn’tsurpriseme.

Andthetransferinitiateswithforgivingparentswillbeabletoseethemagaintoo.Isuspectminewillnotbeamongthem.Notaftermyfather’scryofoutrageattheceremony.Notafterboththeirchildrenleftthem.

Maybe if I could have told them IwasDivergent, and Iwas confusedaboutwhattochoose,theywouldhaveunderstood.Maybetheywouldhavehelped me figure out what Divergent is, and what it means, and why it’sdangerous.ButIdidn’ttrustthemwiththatsecret,soIwillneverknow.

Iclenchmyteethasthetearscome.Iamfedup.Iamfedupwithtearsandweakness.Butthereisn’tmuchIcandotostopthem.

MaybeIdriftofftosleep,andmaybeIdon’t.Laterthatnight,though,Islipoutoftheroomandgobacktothedormitory.Theonlythingworsethanletting Peter put me in the hospital would be letting him put me thereovernight.

CHAPTERELEVEN

THE NEXT MORNING, I don’t hear the alarm, shuffling feet, orconversationsastheotherinitiatesgetready.IwaketoChristinashakingmyshoulder with one hand and tappingmy cheek with the other. She alreadywears a black jacket zipped up to her throat. If she has bruises fromyesterday’sfight,herdarkskinmakesthemdifficulttosee.

“Comeon,”shesays.“Upandat’em.”

IdreamtthatPetertiedmetoachairandaskedmeifIwasDivergent.Iansweredno,andhepunchedmeuntilIsaidyes.Iwokeupwithwetcheeks.

Imean to say something, but all I cando is groan.Mybody aches sobadlyithurtstobreathe.Itdoesn’thelpthatlastnight’sboutofcryingmademyeyesswell.Christinaoffersmeherhand.

The clock reads eight. We’re supposed to be at the tracks by eightfifteen.

“I’ll run andget us somebreakfast.You just…get ready.Looks like itmighttakeyouawhile,”shesays.

Igrunt.Tryingnottobendatthewaist,Ifumbleinthedrawerundermybed for a clean shirt. Luckily Peter isn’t here to see me struggle. OnceChristinaleaves,thedormitoryisempty.

I unbutton my shirt and stare at my bare side, which is patched withbruises.For a second the colorsmesmerizeme, bright green anddeepblueandbrown.IchangeasfastasIcanandletmyhairhangloosebecauseIcan’tliftmyarmstotieitback.

I look atmy reflection in the smallmirror on the backwall and see astranger.Sheisblondlikeme,withanarrowfacelikemine,butthat’swherethesimilaritiesstop.Idonothaveablackeye,andasplitlip,andabruisedjaw.Iamnotaspaleasasheet.Shecan’tpossiblybeme,thoughshemoveswhenImove.

BythetimeChristinacomesback,amuffinineachhand,I’msittingontheedgeofmybed,staringatmyuntiedshoes.Iwillhavetobendovertotiethem.ItwillhurtwhenIbendover.

ButChristinajustpassesmeamuffinandcrouchesinfrontofmetotiemyshoes.Gratitudesurgesinmychest,warmandalittlelikeanache.MaybethereissomeAbnegationineveryone,eveniftheydon’tknowit.

Well,ineveryonebutPeter.

“Thankyou,”Isay.

“Well,wewouldnevergetthereontimeifyouhadtotiethemyourself,”shesays.“Comeon.Youcaneatandwalkatthesametime,right?”

We walk fast toward the Pit. The muffin is banana-flavored, withwalnuts.Mymotherbakedbreadlikethisoncetogivetothefactionless,butInevergottotryit.Iwastoooldforcoddlingatthatpoint.IignorethepinchinmystomachthatcomeseverytimeIthinkofmymotherandhalfwalk,halfjogafterChristina,whoforgetsthatherlegsarelongerthanmine.

WeclimbthestepsfromthePittotheglassbuildingaboveitandruntotheexit.Everythumpofmyfeetsendspainthroughmyribs,butIignoreit.Wemakeittothetracksjustasthetrainarrives,itshornblaring.

“Whattookyousolong?”Willshoutsoverthehorn.

“Stumpy Legs over here turned into an old lady overnight,” saysChristina.

“Oh,shutup.”I’monlyhalfkidding.

Four stands at the front of the pack, so close to the tracks that if heshiftedevenaninchforward,thetrainwouldtakehisnosewithit.Hestepsbacktoletsomeoftheothersgetonfirst.Willhoistshimselfintothecarwithsome difficulty, landing first on his stomach and then dragging his legs inbehindhim.Fourgrabsthehandleonthesideofthecarandpullshimselfinsmoothly,likehedoesn’thavemorethansixfeetofbodytoworkwith.

Ijognexttothecar,wincing,thengritmyteethandgrabthehandleontheside.Thisisgoingtohurt.

Algrabsmeundereacharmandliftsmeeasilyintothecar.Painshootsthroughmyside,butitonlylastsforasecond.IseePeterbehindhim,andmycheeks get warm. Al was trying to be nice, so I smile at him, but I wishpeopledidn’twanttobesonice.AsifPeterdidn’thaveenoughammunitionalready.

“Feelingokaythere?”Petersays,givingmealookofmocksympathy—his lips turned down, his arched eyebrows pulled in. “Or are you a little…Stiff?”

Hebursts into laughterathis joke,andMollyandDrewjoin in.Mollyhasanuglylaugh,allsnortingandshakingshoulders,andDrew’sissilent,soitalmostlookslikehe’sinpain.

“Weareallawedbyyourincrediblewit,”saysWill.

“Yeah,areyousureyoudon’tbelongwiththeErudite,Peter?”Christinaadds.“Iheartheydon’tobjecttosissies.”

Four, standing in the doorway, speaks before Peter can retort. “Am Igoingtohavetolistentoyourbickeringallthewaytothefence?”

Everyonegetsquiet,andFourturnsbacktothecar’sopening.Heholdsthehandlesoneitherside,hisarmsstretchingwide,andleansforwardsohisbodyismostlyoutsidethecar,thoughhisfeetstayplantedinside.Thewindpresseshisshirttohischest.Itrytolookpasthimatwhatwe’repassing—aseaofcrumbling,abandonedbuildingsthatgetsmalleraswego.

Every few seconds, though,my eyes shift back to Four. I don’t knowwhat Iexpect tosee,orwhat Iwant tosee, ifanything.But Ido itwithoutthinking.

IaskChristina,“Whatdoyouthinkisoutthere?”Inodtothedoorway.“Imean,beyondthefence.”

Sheshrugs.“Abunchoffarms,Iguess.”

“Yeah, but I mean…past the farms. What are we guarding the cityfrom?”

Shewigglesherfingersatme.“Monsters!”

Irollmyeyes.

“Wedidn’tevenhaveguardsnear the fenceuntil fiveyearsago,” saysWill. “Don’t you remember when Dauntless police used to patrol thefactionlesssector?”

“Yes,”Isay.IalsorememberthatmyfatherwasoneofthepeoplewhovotedtogettheDauntlessoutofthefactionlesssectorofthecity.Hesaidthepoordidn’tneedpolicing;theyneededhelp,andwecouldgiveittothem.ButI would rather not mention that now, or here. It’s one of the many thingsEruditegivesasevidenceofAbnegation’sincompetence.

“Oh,right,”hesays.“Ibetyousawthemallthetime.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask, a little too sharply. I don’t want to beassociatedtoocloselywiththefactionless.

“Becauseyouhadtopassthefactionlesssectortogettoschool,right?”

“Whatdidyoudo,memorizeamapofthecityforfun?”saysChristina.

“Yes,”saysWill,lookingpuzzled.“Didn’tyou?”

Thetrain’sbrakessqueal,andwealllurchforwardasthecarslows.Iamgratefulforthemovement;itmakesstandingeasier.Thedilapidatedbuildingsaregone,replacedbyyellowfieldsandtraintracks.Thetrainstopsunderanawning.Ilowermyselftothegrass,holdingthehandletokeepmesteady.

In front ofme is a chain-link fencewith barbedwire strung along thetop.When Iwalk forward, I notice that it continues farther than I can see,perpendiculartothehorizon.Pastthefenceisaclusteroftrees,mostofthemdead,somegreen.MillingaroundontheothersideofthefenceareDauntlessguardscarryingguns.

“Followme,”saysFour.IstayclosetoChristina.Idon’twanttoadmitit,noteven tomyself,but I feelcalmerwhen I’mnearher. IfPeter tries totauntme,shewilldefendme.

SilentlyIscoldmyselfforbeingsuchacoward.Peter’sinsultsshouldn’tbotherme,andIshouldfocusongettingbetteratcombat,notonhowbadlyIdidyesterday.AndIshouldbewilling,ifnotable,todefendmyselfinsteadofrelyingonotherpeopletodoitforme.

Fourleadsustowardthegate,whichisaswideasahouseandopensuptothecrackedroadthatleadstothecity.WhenIcameherewithmyfamilyasachild,werodeinabusonthatroadandbeyond,toAmity’sfarms,wherewespentthedaypickingtomatoesandsweatingthroughourshirts.

Anotherpinchinmystomach.

“If you don’t rank in the top five at the end of initiation, you willprobably end up here,” says Four as he reaches the gate. “Once you are afenceguard,thereissomepotentialforadvancement,butnotmuch.YoumaybeabletogoonpatrolsbeyondAmity’sfarms,but—”

“Patrolsforwhatpurpose?”asksWill.

Fourliftsashoulder.“Isupposeyou’lldiscoverthatifyoufindyourselfamongthem.AsIwassaying.Forthemostpart,thosewhoguardthefencewhentheyareyoungcontinuetoguardthefence.Ifitcomfortsyou,someoftheminsistthatitisn’tasbadasitseems.”

“Yeah.Atleastwewon’tbedrivingbusesorcleaningupotherpeople’smesseslikethefactionless,”Christinawhispersinmyear.

“Whatrankwereyou?”PeterasksFour.

Idon’texpectFourtoanswer,buthelookslevellyatPeterandsays,“Iwasfirst.”

“Andyouchose todo this?”Peter’seyesarewideandroundanddarkgreen.TheywouldlookinnocenttomeifIdidn’tknowwhataterriblepersonheis.“Whydidn’tyougetagovernmentjob?”

“Ididn’twantone,”Foursaysflatly.Irememberwhathesaidonthefirstday, about working in the control room, where the Dauntless monitor thecity’s security. It is difficult for me to imagine him there, surrounded by

computers.Tomehebelongsinthetrainingroom.

We learned about faction jobs in school. The Dauntless have limitedoptions.Wecanguardthefenceorworkforthesecurityofourcity.WecanworkintheDauntlesscompound,drawingtattoosormakingweaponsorevenfighting each other for entertainment. Or we can work for the Dauntlessleaders.Thatsoundslikemybestoption.

Theonlyproblemisthatmyrankisterrible.AndImightbefactionlessbytheendofstageone.

Westopnexttothegate.AfewDauntlessguardsglanceinourdirectionbutnotmany.Theyaretoobusypullingthedoors—whicharetwiceastallastheyareandseveraltimeswider—opentoadmitatruck.

Themandrivingwearsahat,abeard,andasmile.Hestopsjustinsidethegateandgetsout.Thebackofthetruckisopen,andafewotherAmitysitamongthestacksofcrates.Ipeeratthecrates—theyholdapples.

“Beatrice?”anAmityboysays.

Myheadjerksatthesoundofmyname.OneoftheAmityinthebackofthetruckstands.Hehascurlyblondhairandafamiliarnose,wideatthetipand narrow at the bridge. Robert. I try to remember him at the ChoosingCeremonyandnothingcomestomindbutthesoundofmyheartinmyears.Who else transferred? Did Susan? Are there any Abnegation initiates thisyear?IfAbnegationisfizzling,it’sourfault—Robert’sandCaleb’sandmine.Mine.Ipushthethoughtfrommymind.

Roberthopsdownfromthetruck.HewearsagrayT-shirtandapairofbluejeans.Afterasecond’shesitation,hemovestowardmeandfoldsmeinhisarms.Istiffen.OnlyinAmitydopeoplehugeachotheringreeting.Idon’tmoveamuscleuntilhereleasesme.

His own smile fades when he looks at me again. “Beatrice, whathappenedtoyou?Whathappenedtoyourface?”

“Nothing,”Isay.“Justtraining.Nothing.”

“Beatrice?”demandsanasalvoicenexttome.Mollyfoldsherarmsandlaughs.“Isthatyourrealname,Stiff?”

Iglanceather.“WhatdidyouthinkTriswasshortfor?”

“Oh, I don’t know…weakling?”She touches her chin. If her chinwasbigger, itmightbalanceouthernose,butit isweakandalmostrecedesintoherneck.“Ohwait,thatdoesn’tstartwithTris.Mymistake.”

“There’snoneedtoantagonizeher,”Robertsayssoftly.“I’mRobert,and

youare?”

“Someonewhodoesn’tcarewhatyournameis,”shesays.“Whydon’tyou get back in your truck? We’re not supposed to fraternize with otherfactionmembers.”

“Whydon’tyougetawayfromus?”Isnap.

“Right.Wouldn’twanttogetbetweenyouandyourboyfriend,”shesays.Shewalksawaysmiling.

Robertgivesmeasadlook.“Theydon’tseemlikenicepeople.”

“Someofthemaren’t.”

“You could go home, you know. I’m sureAbnegationwouldmake anexceptionforyou.”

“WhatmakesyouthinkIwanttogohome?”Iask,mycheekshot.“YouthinkIcan’thandlethisorsomething?”

“It’snotthat.”Heshakeshishead.“It’snotthatyoucan’t,it’sthatyoushouldn’thaveto.Youshouldbehappy.”

“This is what I chose. This is it.” I look over Robert’s shoulder. TheDauntless guards seem to have finished examining the truck. The beardedmangetsbackintothedriver’sseatandclosesthedoorbehindhim.“Besides,Robert.Thegoalofmylifeisn’tjust…tobehappy.”

“Wouldn’titbeeasierifitwas,though?”hesays.

BeforeIcananswer,hetouchesmyshoulderandturnstowardthetruck.Agirlinthebackhasabanjoonherlap.ShestartstostrumitasRoberthoistshimselfinside,andthetruckstartsforward,carryingthebanjosoundsandherwarblingvoiceawayfromus.

Robertwavestome,andagainIseeanotherpossiblelifeinmymind’seye.Iseemyself in thebackof the truck,singingwith thegirl, thoughI’venever sung before, laughing when I am off-key, climbing trees to pick theapples,alwayspeacefulandalwayssafe.

TheDauntlessguardsclosethegateandlockitbehindthem.Thelockisontheoutside.Ibitemylip.Whywouldtheylockthegatefromtheoutsideandnot the inside? It almost seems like theydon’twant tokeep somethingout;theywanttokeepusin.

Ipushthethoughtoutofmyhead.Thatmakesnosense.

Four steps away from the fence, where he was talking to a femaleDauntlessguardwithagunbalancedonhershoulderamomentbefore.“Iam

worried thatyouhaveaknack formakingunwisedecisions,”hesayswhenhe’safootawayfromme.

Icrossmyarms.“Itwasatwo-minuteconversation.”

“I don’t think a smaller time frame makes it any less unwise.” Hefurrows his eyebrows and touches the corner of my bruised eye with hisfingertips.Myheadjerksback,buthedoesn’ttakehishandaway.Insteadhetiltshisheadandsighs.“Youknow,ifyoucouldjustlearntoattackfirst,youmightdobetter.”

“Attackfirst?”Isay.“Howwillthathelp?”

“You’refast.Ifyoucangetafewgoodhitsinbeforetheyknowwhat’sgoingon,youcouldwin.”Heshrugs,andhishandfalls.

“I’m surprised you know that,” I say quietly, “since you left halfwaythroughmyoneandonlyfight.”

“Itwasn’tsomethingIwantedtowatch,”hesays.

What’sthatsupposedtomean?

Heclearshisthroat.“Lookslikethenexttrainishere.Timetogo,Tris.”

CHAPTERTWELVE

ICRAWLACROSSmymattressandheaveasigh.Ithasbeentwodayssincemy fight with Peter, andmy bruises are turning purple-blue. I have gottenused to aching every time Imove, so now Imove better, but I am still farfromhealed.

Even though I amstill injured, I had to fight again today.Luckily thistime,IwaspairedagainstMyra,whocouldn’tthrowagoodpunchifsomeonewas controlling her arm for her. I got a good hit in during the first twominutes. She fell down and was too dizzy to get back up. I should feeltriumphant,butthereisnotriumphinpunchingagirllikeMyra.

The second I touch my head to the pillow, the door to the dormitoryopens, and people stream into the room with flashlights. I sit up, almosthittingmyheadon thebedframeaboveme,andsquint through thedark toseewhat’sgoingon.

“Everybody up!” someone roars. A flashlight shines behind his head,makingtheringsinhisearsglint.Eric.SurroundinghimareotherDauntless,someofwhomIhaveseeninthePit,someofwhomIhaveneverseenbefore.Fourstandsamongthem.

His eyes shift to mine and stay there. I stare back and forget that allaroundmethetransfersaregettingoutofbed.

“Didyougodeaf,Stiff?”demandsEric.Isnapoutofmydazeandslideout from beneath the blankets. I am glad I sleep fully clothed, becauseChristinastandsnexttoourbunkwearingonlyaT-shirt,herlonglegsbare.ShefoldsherarmsandstaresatEric. Iwish,suddenly, thatIcouldstaresoboldlyatsomeonewithhardlyanyclotheson,butIwouldneverbeabletodothat.

“Youhavefiveminutestogetdressedandmeetusbythetracks,”saysEric.“We’regoingonanotherfieldtrip.”

Ishovemyfeet intoshoesandsprint,wincing,behindChristinaonthewaytothetrain.Adropofsweatrollsdownthebackofmyneckaswerunupthe paths along thewalls of thePit, pushing pastmembers on ourway up.They don’t seem surprised to see us. I wonder howmany frantic, runningpeopletheyseeonaweeklybasis.

WemakeittothetracksjustbehindtheDauntless-borninitiates.Nexttothetracksisablackpile.Imakeoutaclusteroflonggunbarrelsandtriggerguards.

“Arewegoingtoshootsomething?”Christinahissesinmyear.

Nexttothepileareboxesofwhatlookslikeammunition.Iinchclosertoreadoneoftheboxes.Writtenonitis“PAINTBALLS.”

I’ve never heard of them before, but the name is self-explanatory. Ilaugh.

“Everyonegrabagun!”shoutsEric.

Werushtowardthepile.Iamtheclosesttoit,soIsnatchthefirstgunIcanfind,whichisheavy,butnottooheavyformetolift,andgrababoxofpaintballs.Ishovetheboxinmypocketandslingthegunacrossmybacksothestrapcrossesmychest.

“Timeestimate?”EricasksFour.

Fourcheckshiswatch.“Anyminutenow.Howlongis itgoingtotakeyoutomemorizethetrainschedule?”

“WhyshouldI,whenIhaveyoutoremindmeofit?”saysEric,shovingFour’sshoulder.

Acircleoflightappearsonmyleft,faraway.Itgrowslargerasitcomescloser,shiningagainstthesideofFour’sface,creatingashadowinthefainthollowbeneathhischeekbone.

He is the first to get on the train, and I run after him, notwaiting forChristinaorWillorAl to followme.Four turnsaroundas I fall into stridenexttothecarandholdsoutahand.Igrabhisarm,andhepullsmein.Eventhemusclesinhisforearmaretaut,defined.

Iletgoquickly,withoutlookingathim,andsitdownontheothersideofthecar.

Onceeveryoneisin,Fourspeaksup.

“We’ll be dividing into two teams to play capture the flag.Each teamwill have an evenmix ofmembers, Dauntless-born initiates, and transfers.Oneteamwillgetofffirstandfindaplacetohidetheirflag.Thenthesecondteamwillgetoffanddothesame.”Thecarsways,andFourgrabsthesideofthedoorwayforbalance.“ThisisaDauntlesstradition,soIsuggestyoutakeitseriously.”

“Whatdowegetifwewin?”someoneshouts.

“Sounds like the kind of question someone not fromDauntlesswouldask,”saysFour,raisinganeyebrow.“Yougettowin,ofcourse.”

“Four and Iwill be your team captains,” says Eric.He looks at Four.“Let’sdivideuptransfersfirst,shallwe?”

Itiltmyheadback.Ifthey’repickingus,Iwillbechosenlast;Icanfeelit.

“Yougofirst,”Foursays.

Ericshrugs.“Edward.”

Four leans against the door frame and nods.Themoonlightmakes hiseyes bright. He scans the group of transfer initiates briefly, withoutcalculation,andsays,“IwanttheStiff.”

Afaintundercurrentoflaughterfillsthecar.Heatrushesintomycheeks.Idon’tknowwhethertobeangryatthepeoplelaughingatmeorflatteredbythefactthathechosemefirst.

“Gotsomethingtoprove?”asksEric,withhistrademarksmirk.“Orareyou just picking theweakones so that if you lose, you’ll have someone toblameiton?”

Fourshrugs.“Somethinglikethat.”

Angry. I should definitely be angry. I scowl at my hands. WhateverFour’s strategy is, it’s based on the idea that I am weaker than the otherinitiates. And it gives me a bitter taste in mymouth. I have to prove himwrong—Ihaveto.

“Yourturn,”saysFour.

“Peter.”

“Christina.”

That throws awrench in his strategy.Christina is not one of theweakones.Whatexactlyishedoing?

“Molly.”

“Will,”saysFour,bitinghisthumbnail.

“Al.”

“Drew.”

“Last one left isMyra. So she’swithme,” says Eric. “Dauntless-borninitiatesnext.”

Istoplisteningoncethey’refinishedwithus.IfFourisn’ttryingtoprovesomethingbychoosingtheweak,whatishedoing?Ilookateachpersonhechooses.Whatdowehaveincommon?

Oncethey’rehalfwaythroughtheDauntless-borninitiates,Ihaveanideaofwhat it is.With the exceptionofWill and a couple of theothers,we all

sharethesamebodytype:narrowshoulders,smallframes.AllthepeopleonEric’steamarebroadandstrong.Justyesterday,FourtoldmeIwasfast.WewillallbefasterthanEric’steam,whichwillprobablybegoodforcapturetheflag—I haven’t played before, but I know it’s a game of speed rather thanbruteforce.Icoverasmilewithmyhand.EricismoreruthlessthanFour,butFourissmarter.

Theyfinishchoosingteams,andEricsmirksatFour.

“Yourteamcangetoffsecond,”saysEric.

“Don’tdomeanyfavors,”Fourreplies.Hesmilesalittle.“YouknowIdon’tneedthemtowin.”

“No, I know that you’ll lose nomatter when you get off,” says Eric,bitingdownbrieflyononeof therings inhis lip.“Takeyourscrawny teamandgetofffirst,then.”

Weallstandup.Algivesmeaforlornlook,andIsmilebackinwhatIhopeisareassuringway.IfanyofthefourofushadtoenduponthesameteamasEric,Peter, andMolly, at least itwashim.Theyusually leavehimalone.

Thetrainisabout todiptotheground.Iamdeterminedtolandonmyfeet.

JustbeforeIjump,someoneshovesmyshoulder,andIalmosttoppleoutofthetraincar.Idon’tlookbacktoseewhoitis—Molly,Drew,orPeter,itdoesn’tmatterwhichone.Beforetheycantryitagain,Ijump.ThistimeIamreadyforthemomentumthetraingivesme,andIrunafewstepstodiffuseitbutkeepmybalance.Fiercepleasurecourses throughmeandIsmile. It’sasmallaccomplishment,butitmakesmefeelDauntless.

One of the Dauntless-born initiates touches Four’s shoulder and asks,“Whenyourteamwon,wheredidyouputtheflag?”

“Tellingyouwouldn’treallybeinthespiritoftheexercise,Marlene,”hesayscoolly.

“Come on, Four,” she whines. She gives him a flirtatious smile. Hebrushesherhandoffhisarm,andforsomereason,Ifindmyselfgrinning.

“Navy Pier,” another Dauntless-born initiate calls out. He is tall, withbrownskinanddarkeyes.Handsome.“Mybrotherwasonthewinningteam.Theykepttheflagatthecarousel.”

“Let’sgothere,then,”suggestsWill.

Nooneobjects,sowewalkeast,towardthemarshthatwasoncealake.

WhenIwasyoung,Itriedtoimaginewhatitwouldlooklikeasalake,withnofencebuiltintothemudtokeepthecitysafe.Butitisdifficulttoimaginethatmuchwaterinoneplace.

“We’re close to Erudite headquarters, right?” asks Christina, bumpingWill’sshoulderwithherown.

“Yeah.It’ssouthofhere,”hesays.Helooksoverhisshoulder,andforasecondhisexpressionisfulloflonging.Thenit’sgone.

Iamlessthanamileawayfrommybrother.Ithasbeenaweeksincewewerethatclosetogether.Ishakemyheadalittletogetthethoughtoutofmymind. I can’t think about him today, when I have to focus on making itthroughstageone.Ican’tthinkabouthimanyday.

Wewalk across the bridge.We still need the bridges because themudbeneath them is toowet towalkon. Iwonder how long it’s been since theriverdriedup.

Once we cross the bridge, the city changes. Behind us, most of thebuildingswereinuse,andevenif theyweren’t, theylookedwell-tended.Infrontofusisaseaofcrumblingconcreteandbrokenglass.Thesilenceofthispartof thecity iseerie; it feels likeanightmare. It’shard toseewhere I’mgoing,becauseit’saftermidnightandallthecitylightsareoff.

Marlenetakesoutaflashlightandshinesitatthestreetinfrontofus.

“Scaredofthedark,Mar?”thedark-eyedDauntless-borninitiateteases.

“Ifyouwanttosteponbrokenglass,Uriah,bemyguest,”shesnaps.Butsheturnsitoffanyway.

I have realized that part of being Dauntless is being willing to makethingsmoredifficultforyourselfinordertobeself-sufficient.There’snothingespeciallybraveaboutwanderingdarkstreetswithnoflashlight,butwearenotsupposedtoneedhelp,evenfromlight.Wearesupposedtobecapableofanything.

Ilikethat.Becausetheremightcomeadaywhenthereisnoflashlight,thereisnogun,thereisnoguidinghand.AndIwanttobereadyforit.

Thebuildingsendjustbeforethemarsh.Astripoflandjutsoutintothemarsh,andrisingfromitisagiantwhitewheelwithdozensofredpassengercarsdanglingfromitatregularintervals.TheFerriswheel.

“Think about it. People used to ride that thing. For fun,” says Will,shakinghishead.

“TheymusthavebeenDauntless,”Isay.

“Yeah,butalameversionofDauntless.”Christinalaughs.“ADauntlessFerris wheel wouldn’t have cars. You would just hang on tight with yourhands,andgoodlucktoyou.”

We walk down the side of the pier. All the buildings on my left areempty,theirsignstorndownandtheirwindowsclosed,butitisacleankindof emptiness. Whoever left these places left them by choice and at theirleisure.Someplacesinthecityarenotlikethat.

“Dareyoutojumpintothemarsh,”saysChristinatoWill.

“Youfirst.”

Wereachthecarousel.Someofthehorsesarescratchedandweathered,their tailsbrokenoffor theirsaddleschipped.Four takes theflagoutofhispocket.

“In ten minutes, the other team will pick their location,” he says. “Isuggestyoutakethistimetoformulateastrategy.WemaynotbeErudite,butmentalpreparednessisoneaspectofyourDauntlesstraining.Arguably,itisthemostimportantaspect.”

He is right about that. What good is a prepared body if you have ascatteredmind?

WilltakestheflagfromFour.

“Somepeople should stayhere andguard, and somepeople shouldgooutandscouttheotherteam’slocation,”Willsays.

“Yeah?Youthink?”MarlenepluckstheflagfromWill’sfingers.“Whoputyouincharge,transfer?”

“Noone,”saysWill.“Butsomeone’sgottodoit.”

“Maybeweshoulddevelopamoredefensivestrategy.Waitforthemtocometous,thentakethemout,”suggestsChristina.

“That’s thesissywayout,”Uriahsays.“Ivotewegoallout.Hide theflagwellenoughthattheycan’tfindit.”

Everyonebursts into theconversationatonce, theirvoices louderwitheach passing second. Christina defends Will’s plan; the Dauntless-borninitiates vote for offense; everyone argues about who should make thedecision.Foursitsdownontheedgeofthecarousel,leaningagainstaplastichorse’s foot.Hiseyes lift to the sky,where thereareno stars,onlya roundmoon peeking through a thin layer of clouds. Themuscles in his arms arerelaxed;hishandrestsonthebackofhisneck.Helooksalmostcomfortable,holdingthatguntohisshoulder.

I closemy eyes briefly.Why does he distractme so easily? I need tofocus.

What would I say if I could shout above the sniping behindme?Wecan’t act until we knowwhere the other team is. They could be anywherewithin a two-mile radius, although I can rule out the empty marsh as anoption. The bestway to find them is not to argue about how to search forthem,orhowmanytosendoutinasearchparty.

It’stoclimbashighaspossible.

Ilookovermyshouldertomakesurenooneiswatching.Noneofthemlook at me, so I walk toward the Ferris wheel with light, quiet footsteps,pressingmyguntomybackwithonehandtokeepitfrommakingnoise.

When I stare up at the Ferris wheel from the ground,my throat feelstighter.ItistallerthanIthought,sotallIcanbarelyseethecarsswingingatthe top. The only good thing about its height is that it is built to supportweight.IfIclimbit,itwon’tcollapsebeneathme.

Myheartpumpsfaster.WillIreallyriskmylifeforthis—towinagametheDauntlessliketoplay?

It’s sodark Icanbarely see them,butwhen I stareat thehuge, rustedsupportsholdingthewheelinplace,Iseetherungsofaladder.Eachsupportisonlyaswideasmyshoulders,andtherearenorailingstoholdmein,butclimbingaladderisbetterthanclimbingthespokesofthewheel.

Igraba rung. It’s rustyand thinand feels like itmightcrumble inmyhands.Iputmyweightonthelowestrungtotestitandjumptomakesureitwillholdmeup.Themovementhurtsmyribs,andIwince.

“Tris,”alowvoicesaysbehindme.Idon’tknowwhyitdoesn’tstartleme. Maybe because I am becoming Dauntless, and mental readiness issomething I am supposed to develop.Maybe because his voice is low andsmoothandalmostsoothing.Whatever thereason,I lookovermyshoulder.Fourstandsbehindmewithhisgunslungacrosshisback,justlikemine.

“Yes?”Isay.

“Icametofindoutwhatyouthinkyou’redoing.”

“I’mseekinghigherground,”Isay.“Idon’tthinkI’mdoinganything.”

Iseehissmileinthedark.“Allright.I’mcoming.”

Ipauseasecond.Hedoesn’tlookatmethewayWill,Christina,andAlsometimesdo—likeIamtoosmallandtooweaktobeofanyuse,andtheypitymeforit.Butifheinsistsoncomingwithme,itisprobablybecausehe

doubtsme.

“I’llbefine,”Isay.

“Undoubtedly,”hereplies.Idon’thearthesarcasm,butIknowit’sthere.Ithastobe.

Iclimb,andwhenI’mafewfeetofftheground,hecomesafterme.HemovesfasterthanIdo,andsoonhishandsfindtherungsthatmyfeetleave.

“So tell me…,” he says quietly as we climb. He sounds breathless.“Whatdoyouthinkthepurposeofthisexerciseis?Thegame,Imean,nottheclimbing.”

Istaredownatthepavement.Itseemsfarawaynow,butI’mnotevenathird of the way up. Aboveme is a platform, just below the center of thewheel.That’smydestination.Idon’teventhinkabouthowIwillclimbbackdown. The breeze that brushed my cheeks earlier now presses against myside.Thehigherwego,thestrongeritwillget.Ineedtobeready.

“Learningaboutstrategy,”Isay.“Teamwork,maybe.”

“Teamwork,”he repeats.A laughhitches inhis throat. It sounds likeapanickedbreath.

“Maybenot,”Isay.“Teamworkdoesn’tseemtobeaDauntlesspriority.”

Thewindisstrongernow.IpressclosertothewhitesupportsoIdon’tfall,butthatmakesithardtoclimb.Belowmethecarousellookssmall.Icanbarelyseemyteamunder theawning.Someof themaremissing—asearchpartymusthaveleft.

Foursays,“It’ssupposedtobeapriority.Itusedtobe.”

But I’m not really listening, because the height is dizzying.My handsachefromholdingtherungs,andmylegsareshaking,butI’mnotsurewhy.Itisn’ttheheightthatscaresme—theheightmakesmefeelalivewithenergy,everyorganandvesselandmuscleinmybodysingingatthesamepitch.

ThenIrealizewhatit is.It’shim.SomethingabouthimmakesmefeellikeIamabouttofall.Orturntoliquid.Orburstintoflames.

Myhandalmostmissesthenextrung.

“Nowtellme…,”hesaysthroughaburstingbreath,“whatdoyouthinklearningstrategyhastodowith…bravery?”

Thequestionremindsmethatheismyinstructor,andIamsupposedtolearnsomethingfromthis.Acloudpassesoverthemoon,andthelightshiftsacrossmyhands.

“It…itpreparesyoutoact,”Isayfinally.“Youlearnstrategysoyoucanuse it.” I hear him breathing behindme, loud and fast. “Are you all right,Four?”

“Are you human, Tris? Being up this high…” He gulps for air. “Itdoesn’tscareyouatall?”

Ilookovermyshoulderattheground.IfIfallnow,Iwilldie.ButIdon’tthinkIwillfall.

Agustofairpressesagainstmy leftside, throwingmybodyweight totheright.Igaspandclingtotherungs,mybalanceshifting.Four’scoldhandclampsaroundoneofmyhips,oneofhisfingersfindingastripofbareskinjustunderthehemofmyT-shirt.Hesqueezes,steadyingmeandpushingmegentlytotheleft,restoringmybalance.

NowIcan’tbreathe.Ipause,staringatmyhands,mymouthdry.Ifeeltheghostofwherehishandwas,hisfingerslongandnarrow.

“Youokay?”heasksquietly.

“Yes,”Isay,myvoicestrained.

I keep climbing, silently, until I reach the platform. Judging by thebluntedendsofmetalrods,itusedtohaverailings,butitdoesn’tanymore.Isit down and scoot to the end of it so Four has somewhere to sit.Withoutthinking,Iputmylegsovertheside.Four,however,crouchesandpresseshisbacktothemetalsupport,breathingheavily.

“You’reafraidofheights,”Isay.“HowdoyousurviveintheDauntlesscompound?”

“Iignoremyfear,”hesays.“WhenImakedecisions,Ipretenditdoesn’texist.”

I stare at him for a second. I can’t help it. Tome there’s a differencebetweennotbeingafraidandactinginspiteoffear,ashedoes.

Ihavebeenstaringathimtoolong.

“What?”hesaysquietly.

“Nothing.”

Ilookawayfromhimandtowardthecity.Ihavetofocus.Iclimbeduphereforareason.

Thecity ispitch-black,buteven if itwasn’t, Iwouldn’tbeable to seeveryfar.Abuildingstandsinmyway.

“We’renothighenough,”Isay.Ilookup.Abovemeisatangleofwhite

bars, the wheel’s scaffolding. If I climb carefully, I can wedge my feetbetween the supports and the crossbars and stay secure. Or as secure aspossible.

“I’mgoingtoclimb,”Isay,standingup.Igraboneofthebarsabovemyheadandpullmyselfup.Shootingpainsgo throughmybruisedsides,but Iignorethem.

“ForGod’ssake,Stiff,”hesays.

“Youdon’thavetofollowme,”Isay,staringatthemazeofbarsaboveme.Ishovemyfootontotheplacewheretwobarscrossandpushmyselfup,grabbinganotherbarintheprocess.Iswayforasecond,myheartbeatingsohard I can’t feel anything else. Every thought I have condenses into thatheartbeat,movingatthesamerhythm.

“Yes,Ido,”hesays.

This is crazy, and I know it. A fraction of an inch of mistake, half asecondofhesitation,andmylifeisover.Heattearsthroughmychest,andIsmileasIgrabthenextbar.Ipullmyselfup,myarmsshaking,andforcemylegundermesoI’mstandingonanotherbar.WhenIfeelsteady,IlookdownatFour.Butinsteadofseeinghim,Iseestraighttotheground.

Ican’tbreathe.

Iimaginemybodyplummeting,smackingintothebarsasitfallsdown,andmylimbsatbrokenanglesonthepavement, just likeRita’ssisterwhenshedidn’tmake itonto the roof.Fourgrabsabarwitheachhandandpullshimself up, easy, like he’s sitting up in bed. But he is not comfortable ornaturalhere—everymuscleinhisarmstandsout.ItisastupidthingformetothinkwhenIamonehundredfeetofftheground.

Igrabanotherbar,findanotherplacetowedgemyfoot.WhenIlookatthe city again, the building isn’t in my way. I’m high enough to see theskyline.Mostofthebuildingsareblackagainstanavysky,buttheredlightsatthetopoftheHubarelitup.Theyblinkhalfasfastasmyheartbeat.

Beneaththebuildings,thestreetslookliketunnels.ForafewsecondsIsee only a dark blanket over the land in front ofme, just faint differencesbetween building and sky and street and ground. Then I see a tiny pulsinglightontheground.

“Seethat?”Isay,pointing.

Four stops climbing when he’s right behind me and looks over myshoulder,hischinnext tomyhead.Hisbreathsflutteragainstmyear,andIfeelshakyagain,likeIdidwhenIwasclimbingtheladder.

“Yeah,”hesays.Asmilespreadsoverhisface.

“It’scomingfromtheparkattheendofthepier,”hesays.“Figures.It’ssurroundedbyopenspace,butthetreesprovidesomecamouflage.Obviouslynotenough.”

“Okay,”Isay.Ilookovermyshoulderathim.WearesocloseIforgetwhereIam;insteadInoticethatthecornersofhismouthturndownnaturally,justlikemine,andthathehasascaronhischin.

“Um,”Isay.Iclearmythroat.“Startclimbingdown.I’llfollowyou.”

Fournodsandstepsdown.Hislegissolongthathefindsaplaceforhisfooteasilyandguideshisbodybetweenthebars.Evenindarkness,Iseethathishandsarebrightredandshaking.

Istepdownwithonefoot,pressingmyweightintooneofthecrossbars.Thebarcreaksbeneathmeandcomes loose,clatteringagainsthalfadozenbarsonthewaydownandbouncingonthepavement.I’mdanglingfromthescaffoldingwithmytoesswinginginmidair.Astrangledgaspescapesme.

“Four!”

I try to findanotherplace toputmyfoot,but thenearest foothold isafew feet away, farther than I can stretch.Myhandsare sweaty. I rememberwipingthemonmyslacksbeforetheChoosingCeremony,beforetheaptitudetest,beforeeveryimportantmoment,andsuppressascream.Iwillslip.Iwillslip.

“Holdon!”heshouts.“Justholdon,Ihaveanidea.”

Hekeepsclimbingdown.He’smovinginthewrongdirection;heshouldbecomingtowardme,notgoingawayfromme.Istareatmyhands,whichare wrapped around the narrow bar so tightly my knuckles are white. Myfingersaredarkred,almostpurple.Theywon’tlastlong.

Iwon’tlastlong.

Isqueezemyeyesshut.Betternottolook.Bettertopretendthatnoneofthisexists.IhearFour’ssneakerssqueakagainstmetalandrapidfootstepsonladderrungs.

“Four!”Iyell.Maybeheleft.Maybeheabandonedme.Maybethisisatestofmystrength,ofmybravery.Ibreatheinmynoseandoutmymouth.Icountmybreathstocalmdown.One,two.In,out.Comeon,FourisallIcanthink.Comeon,dosomething.

ThenIhearsomethingwheezeandcreak.ThebarI’mholdingshudders,andIscreamthroughmyclenchedteethasIfighttokeepmygrip.

Thewheelismoving.

Airwraps aroundmy ankles andwrists as thewind gushes up, like ageyser.Iopenmyeyes.I’mmoving—towardtheground.Ilaugh,giddywithhysteriaasthegroundcomescloserandcloser.ButI’mpickingupspeed.IfIdon’tdropattherighttime,themovingcarsandmetalscaffoldingwilldragatmybodyandcarrymewiththem,andthenIwillreallydie.

EverymuscleinmybodytensesasIhurtletowardtheground.WhenIcanseethecracksinthesidewalk,Idrop,andmybodyslamsintotheground,feetfirst.MylegscollapsebeneathmeandIpullmyarmsin,rollingasfastasIcantotheside.Thecementscrapesmyface,andIturnjustintimetoseeacarbearingdownonme,likeagiantshoeabouttocrushme.Irollagain,andthebottomofthecarskimsmyshoulder.

I’msafe.

Ipressmypalms tomy face. Idon’t try togetup. If Idid, I’msure Iwouldjustfallbackdown.Ihearfootsteps,andFour’shandswraparoundmywrists.Ilethimprymyhandsfrommyeyes.

Heenclosesoneofmyhandsperfectlybetweentwoofhis.Thewarmthofhisskinoverwhelmstheacheinmyfingersfromholdingthebars.

“Youallright?”heasks,pressingourhandstogether.

“Yeah.”

Hestartstolaugh.

Afterasecond,Ilaughtoo.Withmyfreehand,Ipushmyselftoasittingposition. I am aware of how little space there is between us—six inches atmost.Thatspacefeelschargedwithelectricity.Ifeellikeitshouldbesmaller.

Hestands,pullingmeupwithhim.Thewheelisstillmoving,creatingawindthattossesmyhairback.

“YoucouldhavetoldmethattheFerriswheelstillworked,”Isay.Itrytosoundcasual.“Wewouldn’thavehadtoclimbinthefirstplace.”

“I would have, if I had known,” he says. “Couldn’t just let you hangthere,soItookarisk.Comeon,timetogettheirflag.”

Four hesitates for a moment and then takes my arm, his fingertipspressingtotheinsideofmyelbow.Inotherfactions,hewouldgivemetimeto recover, but he is Dauntless, so he smiles at me and starts toward thecarousel,whereourteammembersguardourflag.AndIhalfrun,halflimpbesidehim.Istillfeelweak,butmymindisawake,especiallywithhishandonme.

Christinaisperchedononeofthehorses,herlonglegscrossedandherhandaround thepoleholding theplastic animalupright.Our flag is behindher, a glowing triangle in the dark. Three Dauntless-born initiates standamong the other worn and dirty animals. One of them has his hand on ahorse’s head, and a scratched horse eye stares at me between his fingers.Sitting on the edge of the carousel is an older Dauntless, scratching herquadruple-piercedeyebrowwithherthumb.

“Where’dtheothersgo?”asksFour.

HelooksasexcitedasIfeel,hiseyeswidewithenergy.

“Didyouguysturnonthewheel?”theoldergirlsays.“Whatthehellareyouthinking?Youmightaswellhavejustshouted‘Hereweare!Comeandget us!’”She shakes her head. “If I lose again this year, the shamewill beunbearable.Threeyearsinarow?”

“Thewheeldoesn’tmatter,”saysFour.“Weknowwheretheyare.”

“We?”saysChristina,lookingfromFourtome.

“Yes,whiletherestofyouweretwiddlingyourthumbs,TrisclimbedtheFerriswheeltolookfortheotherteam,”hesays.

“What do we do now, then?” asks one of the Dauntless-born initiatesthroughayawn.

Four looks at me. Slowly the eyes of the other initiates, includingChristina,migratefromhimtome.Itensemyshoulders,abouttoshrugandsay I don’t know, and then an image of the pier stretching out beneathmecomesintomymind.Ihaveanidea.

“Splitinhalf,”Isay.“Fourofusgototherightsideofthepier,threetotheleft.Theotherteamisintheparkat theendofthepier,sothegroupoffourwillchargeasthegroupofthreesneaksbehindtheotherteamtogettheflag.”

Christina looks atme like she no longer recognizesme. I don’t blameher.

“Soundsgood,” says theoldergirl, clappingherhands together. “Let’sgetthisnightoverwith,shallwe?”

Christina joins me in the group going to the right, along with Uriah,whosesmilelookswhiteagainsthisskin’sbronze.Ididn’tnoticebefore,buthehasatattooofasnakebehindhisear.Istareatitstailcurlingaroundhisearlobeforamoment,butthenChristinastartsrunningandIhavetofollowher.

Ihavetoruntwiceasfasttomatchmyshortstridestoherlongones.AsI run, I realize that only one of uswill get to touch the flag, and it won’tmatterthatitwasmyplanandmyinformationthatgotustoitifI’mnottheonewhograbsit.ThoughIcanhardlybreatheasitis,Irunfaster,andI’monChristina’sheels.Ipullmygunaroundmybody,holdingmyfingeroverthetrigger.

We reach the end of the pier, and I clampmymouth shut to keepmyloudbreathsin.Weslowdownsoourfootstepsaren’tasloud,andIlookfortheblinkinglightagain.NowthatI’montheground,it’sbiggerandeasiertosee.Ipoint,andChristinanods,leadingthewaytowardit.

ThenIhearachorusofyells,soloudtheymakemejump.Ihearpuffsofairaspaintballsgoflyingandsplatsastheyfindtheirtargets.Ourteamhascharged, the other team runs tomeet us, and the flag is almost unguarded.Uriahtakesaimandshootsthelastguardinthethigh.Theguard,ashortgirlwithpurplehair,throwsherguntothegroundinatantrum.

IsprinttocatchuptoChristina.Theflaghangsfromatreebranch,highabovemyhead.Ireachforit,andsodoesChristina.

“Comeon,Tris,”shesays.“You’realreadytheherooftheday.Andyouknowyoucan’treachitanyway.”

She gives me a patronizing look, the way people sometimes look atchildren when they act too adult, and snatches the flag from the branch.Withoutlookingatme,sheturnsandgivesawhoopofvictory.Uriah’svoicejoinshersandthenIhearachorusofyellsinthedistance.

Uriahclapsmyshoulder,andItrytoforgetaboutthelookChristinagaveme.Maybeshe’sright;I’vealreadyprovedmyselftoday.Idonotwanttobegreedy;IdonotwanttobelikeEric,terrifiedofotherpeople’sstrength.

Theshoutsoftriumphbecomeinfectious,andIliftmyvoicetojoinin,runningtowardmyteammates.Christinaholdstheflaguphigh,andeveryoneclustersaroundher,grabbingherarmtolifttheflagevenhigher.Ican’treachher,soIstandofftotheside,grinning.

Ahandtouchesmyshoulder.

“Welldone,”Foursaysquietly.

“I can’t believe Imissed it!”Will says again, shaking his head.Wind

comingthroughthedoorwayofthetraincarblowshishairineverydirection.

“Youwereperformingtheveryimportantjobofstayingoutofourway,”saysChristina,beaming.

Algroans.“WhydidIhavetobeontheotherteam?”

“Because life’s not fair, Albert. And the world is conspiring againstyou,”saysWill.“Hey,canIseetheflagagain?”

Peter,Molly,andDrewsitacrossfromthemembersinthecorner.Theirchests and backs are splattered with blue and pink paint, and they lookdejected. They speak quietly, sneaking looks at the rest of us, especiallyChristina.Thatisthebenefitofnotholdingtheflagrightnow—Iamnoone’starget.Oratleast,nomorethanusual.

“SoyouclimbedtheFerriswheel,huh,”saysUriah.Hestumblesacrossthecarandsitsnexttome.Marlene,thegirlwiththeflirtysmile,followshim.

“Yes,”Isay.

“Pretty smart of you. Like…Erudite smart,” Marlene says. “I’mMarlene.”

“Tris,”Isay.Athome,beingcomparedtoanEruditewouldbeaninsult,butshesaysitlikeacompliment.

“Yeah,Iknowwhoyouare,”shesays.“Thefirstjumpertendstostickinyourhead.”

It has been years since I jumped off a building in my Abnegationuniform;ithasbeendecades.

Uriahtakesoneof thepaintballsfromhisgunandsqueezesitbetweenhis thumb and index finger. The train lurches to the left, and Uriah fallsagainst me, his fingers pinching the paintball until a stream of pink, foul-smellingpaintspraysonmyface.

Marlene collapses in giggles. I wipe some of the paint frommy face,slowly,andthensmearitonhischeek.Thescentoffishoilwaftsthroughthetraincar.

“Ew!”Hesqueezestheballatmeagain,buttheopeningisatthewrongangle, and the paint sprays into his mouth instead. He coughs and makesexaggeratedgaggingsounds.

Iwipemyfacewithmysleeve,laughingsohardmystomachhurts.

Ifmyentirelifeislikethis,loudlaughterandboldactionandthekindofexhaustionyoufeelafterahardbutsatisfyingday,Iwillbecontent.AsUriahscrapes his tonguewith his fingertips, I realize that all I have to do is getthroughinitiation,andthatlifewillbemine.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

THENEXTMORNING,when I trudge into the training room, yawning, alargetargetstandsatoneendoftheroom,andnexttothedoorisatablewithknivesstrewnacrossit.Targetpracticeagain.Atleastitwon’thurt.

Ericstands in themiddleof theroom,hisposturesorigid it looks likesomeonereplacedhisspinewithametalrod.Thesightofhimmakesmefeellikealltheairintheroomisheavier,bearingdownonme.Atleastwhenhewas slouched against awall, I could pretend hewasn’t here. Today I can’tpretend.

“Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one,” Eric says. “You willresumefightingthen.Today,you’llbelearninghowtoaim.Everyonepickupthreeknives.”Hisvoiceisdeeperthanusual.“AndpayattentionwhileFourdemonstratesthecorrecttechniqueforthrowingthem.”

Atfirstnoonemoves.

“Now!”

Wescramblefordaggers.Theyaren’tasheavyasguns,buttheystillfeelstrangeinmyhands,likeIamnotallowedtoholdthem.

“He’sinabadmoodtoday,”mumblesChristina.

“Isheeverinagoodmood?”Imurmurback.

But Iknowwhatshemeans. Judgingby thepoisonous lookEricgivesFourwhenheisn’tpayingattention,lastnight’slossmusthavebotheredEricmorethanheleton.Winningcapturetheflagisamatterofpride,andprideisimportanttotheDauntless.Moreimportantthanreasonorsense.

I watch Four’s arm as he throws a knife. The next time he throws, Iwatch his stance. He hits the target each time, exhaling as he releases theknife.

Ericorders,“Lineup!”

Haste,Ithink,willnothelp.MymothertoldmethatwhenIwaslearninghow to knit. I have to think of this as a mental exercise, not a physicalexercise.SoIspendthefirstfewminutespracticingwithoutaknife,findingtherightstance,learningtherightarmmotion.

Ericpacestooquicklybehindus.

“IthinktheStiff’stakentoomanyhitstothehead!”remarksPeter,afewpeopledown.“Hey,Stiff!Rememberwhataknifeis?”

Ignoringhim,Ipractice the throwagainwithaknife inhandbutdon’t

releaseit.IshutoutEric’spacing,andPeter’sjeering,andthenaggingfeelingthat Four is staring at me, and throw the knife. It spins end over end,slammingintotheboard.Thebladedoesn’tstick,butI’mthefirstpersontohitthetarget.

IsmirkasPetermissesagain.Ican’thelpmyself.

“Hey,Peter,”Isay.“Rememberwhatatargetis?”

Nexttome,Christinasnorts,andhernextknifehitsthetarget.

Ahalfhourlater,Alistheonlyinitiatewhohasn’thitthetargetyet.Hisknives clatter to the floor, or bounce off the wall. While the rest of usapproachtheboardtocollectourweapons,hehuntsthefloorforhis.

The next time he tries and misses, Eric marches toward him anddemands,“Howslowareyou,Candor?Doyouneedglasses?ShouldImovethetargetclosertoyou?”

Al’sfaceturnsred.Hethrowsanotherknife,andthisonesailsafewfeettotherightofthetarget.Itspinsandhitsthewall.

“Whatwasthat,initiate?”saysEricquietly,leaningclosertoAl.

Ibitemylip.Thisisn’tgood.

“It—itslipped,”saysAl.

“Well, I think you should go get it,” Eric says. He scans the otherinitiates’faces—everyonehasstoppedthrowingagain—andsays,“DidItellyoutostop?”

Knivesstarttohittheboard.WehaveallseenEricangrybefore,butthisisdifferent.Thelookinhiseyesisalmostrabid.

“Gogetit?”Al’seyesarewide.“Buteveryone’sstillthrowing.”

“And?”

“AndIdon’twanttogethit.”

“Ithinkyoucantrustyourfellowinitiatestoaimbetterthanyou.”Ericsmilesalittle,buthiseyesstaycruel.“Gogetyourknife.”

Aldoesn’tusuallyobjecttoanythingtheDauntlesstellustodo.Idon’tthinkhe’safraidto;hejustknowsthatobjectingisuseless.ThistimeAlsetshiswidejaw.He’sreachedthelimitsofhiscompliance.

“No,”hesays.

“Whynot?”Eric’sbeadyeyesfixonAl’sface.“Areyouafraid?”

“Ofgettingstabbedbyanairborneknife?”saysAl.“Yes,Iam!”

Honestyishismistake.Nothisrefusal,whichEricmighthaveaccepted.

“Everyonestop!”Ericshouts.

Theknives stop, and sodoes all conversation. I holdmy small daggertightly.

“Clearoutofthering.”EriclooksatAl.“Allexceptyou.”

Idropthedaggerandithitsthedustyfloorwithathud.Ifollowtheotherinitiates to theedgeof the room,and they inch in frontofme,eager to seewhatmakesmystomachturn:Al,facingEric’swrath.

“Standinfrontofthetarget,”saysEric.

Al’sbighandsshake.Hewalksbacktothetarget.

“Hey,Four.”Ericlooksoverhisshoulder.“Givemeahandhere,huh?”

Four scratches one of his eyebrowswith a knife point and approachesEric.Hehasdarkcirclesunderhiseyesandatensesettohismouth—he’sastiredasweare.

“You’regoingtostandthereashethrowsthoseknives,”EricsaystoAl,“untilyoulearnnottoflinch.”

“Is this really necessary?” says Four.He sounds bored, but he doesn’tlookbored.Hisfaceandbodyaretense,alert.

I squeezemyhands into fists.Nomatter how casual Four sounds, thequestionisachallenge.AndFourdoesn’toftenchallengeEricdirectly.

AtfirstEricstaresatFourinsilence.Fourstaresback.Secondspassandmyfingernailsbitemypalms.

“Ihavetheauthorityhere,remember?”Ericsays,soquietlyIcanbarelyhearhim.“Here,andeverywhereelse.”

Color rushes into Four’s face, though his expression does not change.HisgripontheknivestightensandhisknucklesturnwhiteasheturnstofaceAl.

IlookfromAl’swide,darkeyestohisshakinghandstothedeterminedset of Four’s jaw. Anger bubbles inmy chest, and bursts frommymouth:“Stopit.”

Four turns theknife inhishand,his fingersmovingpainstakinglyoverthemetaledge.HegivesmesuchahardlookthatIfeellikehe’sturningmeto stone. I knowwhy. I amstupid for speakingupwhileEric ishere; I am

stupidforspeakingupatall.

“Any idiot can stand in front of a target,” I say. “It doesn’t proveanything except that you’re bullying us. Which, as I recall, is a sign ofcowardice.”

“Thenitshouldbeeasyforyou,”Ericsays.“Ifyou’rewillingtotakehisplace.”

ThelastthingIwanttodoisstandinfrontofthattarget,butIcan’tbackdown now. I didn’t leavemyself the option. Iweave through the crowd ofinitiates,andsomeoneshovesmyshoulder.

“Theregoesyourpretty face,”hissesPeter. “Oh,wait.Youdon’thaveone.”

IrecovermybalanceandwalktowardAl.Henodsatme.Itrytosmileencouragingly, but I can’tmanage it. I stand in front of the board, andmyheaddoesn’tevenreachthecenterofthetarget,butitdoesn’tmatter.IlookatFour’sknives:oneinhisrighthand,twoinhislefthand.

My throat is dry. I try to swallow, and then look at Four.He is neversloppy.Hewon’thitme.I’llbefine.

Itipmychinup.Iwillnotflinch.IfIflinch,IprovetoEricthatthisisnotaseasyasIsaiditwas;IprovethatI’macoward.

“If you flinch,” Four says, slowly, carefully, “Al takes your place.Understand?”

Inod.

Four’seyesarestillonminewhenheliftshishand,pullshiselbowback,andthrowstheknife.It isjustaflashintheair,andthenIhearathud.Theknifeisburiedintheboard,halfafootawayfrommycheek.Iclosemyeyes.ThankGod.

“Youaboutdone,Stiff?”asksFour.

I remember Al’s wide eyes and his quiet sobs at night and shakemyhead.“No.”

“Eyesopen,then.”Hetapsthespotbetweenhiseyebrows.

I stare at him,pressingmyhands tomy sides sonoone can see themshake.Hepassesaknifefromhislefthandtohisrighthand,andIseenothingbut his eyes as the secondknifehits the target abovemyhead.This one iscloserthanthelastone—Ifeelithoveringovermyskull.

“Comeon,Stiff,”hesays.“Letsomeoneelsestandthereandtakeit.”

Whyishetryingtogoadmeintogivingup?Doeshewantmetofail?

“Shutup,Four!”

Iholdmybreathasheturnsthelastknifeinhishand.Iseeaglintinhiseyesashepullshisarmbackandlets theknifefly.Itcomesstraightatme,spinning,bladeoverhandle.Mybodygoesrigid.Thistime,whenithitstheboard,myearstings,andbloodticklesmyskin.Itouchmyear.Henickedit.

Andjudgingbythelookhegivesme,hediditonpurpose.

“Iwouldlovetostayandseeiftherestofyouareasdaringassheis,”saysEric,hisvoicesmooth,“butIthinkthat’senoughfortoday.”

Hesqueezesmyshoulder.Hisfingersfeeldryandcold,andthelookhegivesmeclaimsme,likehe’stakingownershipofwhatIdid.Idon’treturnEric’ssmile.WhatIdidhadnothingtodowithhim.

“Ishouldkeepmyeyeonyou,”headds.

Fearpricklesinsideme,inmychestandinmyheadandinmyhands.Ifeelliketheword“DIVERGENT”isbrandedonmyforehead,andifhelooksatmelongenough,he’llbeabletoreadit.Buthejustliftshishandfrommyshoulderandkeepswalking.

Four and I staybehind. Iwait until the room is empty and thedoor isshutbeforelookingathimagain.Hewalkstowardme.

“Isyour—”hebegins.

“Youdidthatonpurpose!”Ishout.

“Yes, I did,” he says quietly. “And you should thank me for helpingyou.”

Igritmyteeth.“Thankyou?Youalmoststabbedmyear,andyouspenttheentiretimetauntingme.WhyshouldIthankyou?”

“Youknow,I’mgettingalittletiredofwaitingforyoutocatchon!”

He glares at me, and even when he glares, his eyes look thoughtful.Theirshadeofblueispeculiar,sodarkitisalmostblack,withasmallpatchoflighterblueontheleftiris,rightnexttothecornerofhiseye.

“Catch on?Catch on towhat? That youwanted to prove to Eric howtoughyouare?Thatyou’resadistic,justlikeheis?”

“Iamnotsadistic.”Hedoesn’tyell.Iwishhewouldyell.Itwouldscareme less.He leanshis faceclose tomine,whichremindsmeof lying inchesawayfromtheattackdog’sfangsintheaptitudetest,andsays,“IfIwantedtohurtyou,don’tyouthinkIwouldhavealready?”

Hecrossestheroomandslamsthepointofaknifesohardintothetablethatitsticksthere,handletowardtheceiling.

“I—” I start to shout, but he’s already gone. I scream, frustrated, andwipesomeofthebloodfrommyear.

CHAPTERFOURTEEN

TODAYISTHEdaybeforeVisitingDay.IthinkofVisitingDaylikeIthinkoftheworldending:Nothingafteritmatters.EverythingIdobuildsuptoit.Imightseemyparentsagain.Imightnot.Whichisworse?Idon’tknow.

I try topullapant legovermythighand itsticks justabovemyknee.Frowning,Istareatmyleg.Abulgeofmuscleisstoppingthefabric.Iletthepant leg fall and look overmy shoulder at the back of my thigh. Anothermusclestandsoutthere.

I step to the side so I stand in frontof themirror. I seemuscles that Icouldn’tseebeforeinmyarms,legs,andstomach.Ipinchmyside,wherealayeroffatusedtohintatcurvestocome.Nothing.Dauntlessinitiationhasstolenwhateversoftnessmybodyhad.Isthatgood,orbad?

AtleastIamstrongerthanIwas.Iwrapmytowelaroundmeagainandleavethegirls’bathroom.Ihopenooneisinthedormitorytoseemewalkinginmytowel,butIcan’twearthosepants.

WhenIopenthedormitorydoor,aweightdropsintomystomach.Peter,Molly, Drew, and some of the other initiates stand in the back corner,laughing.They lookupwhen Iwalk in and start snickering.Molly’s snort-laughislouderthaneveryoneelse’s.

Iwalktomybunk,tryingtopretendliketheyaren’tthere,andfumbleinthe drawer under my bed for the dress Christina made me get. One handclamped around the towel and one holding the dress, I stand up, and rightbehindmeisPeter.

Ijumpback,almosthittingmyheadonChristina’sbunk.Itrytoslippasthim,butheslamshishandagainstChristina’sbedframe,blockingmypath.Ishouldhaveknownhewouldn’tletmegetawaythateasily.

“Didn’trealizeyouweresoskinny,Stiff.”

“Getawayfromme.”Myvoiceissomehowsteady.

“This isn’t the Hub, you know. No one has to follow a Stiff’s ordershere.”Hiseyestraveldownmybody,notinthegreedywaythatamanlooksat awoman,but cruelly, scrutinizingevery flaw. I hearmyheartbeat inmyearsastheothersinchcloser,formingapackbehindPeter.

Thiswillbebad.

Ihavetogetoutofhere.

Outofthecornerofmyeye,Iseeaclearpathtothedoor.IfIcanduckunderPeter’sarmandsprinttowardit,Imightbeabletomakeit.

“Lookather,”saysMolly,crossingherarms.Shesmirksatme.“She’spracticallyachild.”

“Oh, Idon’tknow,”saysDrew.“Shecouldbehidingsomethingunderthattowel.Whydon’twelookandsee?”

Now. I duck under Peter’s arm and dart toward the door. SomethingpinchesandpullsatmytowelasIwalkawayandthenyankssharply—Peter’shand,gatheringthefabricintohisfist.Thetowelslipsfrommyhandandtheairiscoldonmynakedbody,makingthehaironthebackofmyneckstandonend.

Laughtererupts,andIrunasfastasIcantowardthedoor,holdingthedress against my body to hide it. I sprint down the hallway and into thebathroomandleanagainstthedoor,breathinghard.Iclosemyeyes.

Itdoesn’tmatter.Idon’tcare.

Asobburstsfrommymouth,andIslapmyhandovermylipstocontainit. It doesn’t matter what they saw. I shake my head like the motion issupposedtomakeittrue.

With shaking hands, I get dressed.The dress is plain black,with aV-neckthatshowsthetattoosonmycollarbone,andgoesdowntomyknees.

OnceI’mdressedandtheurgetocryisgone,Ifeelsomethinghotandviolentwrithinginmystomach.Iwanttohurtthem.

Istareatmyeyesinthemirror.Iwantto,soIwill.

I can’t fight in adress, so I getmyself somenewclothes from thePit

beforeIwalktothetrainingroomformylastfight.Ihopeit’swithPeter.

“Hey,wherewereyou thismorning?”ChristinaaskswhenIwalk in. Isquinttoseetheblackboardacrosstheroom.Thespacenexttomynameisblank—Ihaven’tgottenanopponentyet.

“Igotheldup,”Isay.

Fourstandsinfrontoftheboardandwritesanamenexttomine.PleaseletitbePeter,please,please….

“Youokay,Tris?Youlookalittle…,”saysAl.

“Alittlewhat?”

Four moves away from the board. The name written next to mine isMolly.NotPeter,butgoodenough.

“Onedge,”saysAl.

My fight is last on the list,whichmeans I have towait through threematches before I face her. Edward and Peter fight second to last—good.Edward is the only onewho can beat Peter. Christinawill fight Al, whichmeansthatAlwilllosequickly,likehe’sbeendoingallweek.

“Goeasyonme,okay?”AlasksChristina.

“Imakenopromises,”shereplies.

The first pair—Will and Myra—stand across from each other in thearena. For a second they both shuffle back and forth, one jerking an armforward and then retracting it, the other kicking and missing. Across theroom,Fourleansagainstthewallandyawns.

I stare at the board and try to predict the outcome of each match. Itdoesn’ttakelong.ThenIbitemyfingernailsandthinkaboutMolly.Christinalost to her, which means she’s good. She has a powerful punch, but shedoesn’tmoveherfeet.Ifshecan’thitme,shecan’thurtme.

As expected, the next fight between Christina and Al is quick andpainless.Al falls after a fewhard hits to the face and doesn’t get back up,whichmakesEricshakehishead.

EdwardandPetertakelonger.Thoughtheyarethetwobestfighters,thedisparitybetweenthemisnoticeable.Edward’sfistslamsintoPeter’sjaw,andI remember what Will said about him—that he has been studying combatsincehewasten.It’sobvious.HeisfasterandsmarterthanevenPeter.

Bythetimethethreematchesaredone,mynailsarebittentothebedsand I’mhungry for lunch. Iwalk to thearenawithout lookingatanyoneoranythingbutthecenteroftheroom.Someofmyangerhasfaded,butitisn’thardtocallback.AllIhavetodoisthinkabouthowcoldtheairwasandhowloudthelaughterwas.Lookather.She’sachild.

Mollystandsacrossfromme.

“WasthatabirthmarkIsawonyourleftbuttcheek?”shesays,smirking.“God,you’repale,Stiff.”

She’llmakethefirstmove.Shealwaysdoes.

Mollystartstowardmeandthrowsherweightintoapunch.Asherbodyshifts forward, I duck and drive my fist into her stomach, right over herbellybutton.Beforeshecangetherhandsonme,Islippasther,myhandsup,readyforhernextattempt.

She’s not smirking anymore. She runs atme like she’s about to tackle

me,andIdartoutoftheway.IhearFour’svoiceinmyhead,tellingmethatthemostpowerfulweaponatmydisposal ismyelbow.I justhavetofindawaytouseit.

Iblockhernextpunchwithmyforearm.Theblowstings,but Ibarelynotice it. She grits her teeth and lets out a frustrated groan, more animal-soundingthanhuman.Shetriesasloppykickatmyside,whichIdodge,andwhileherbalance isoff, I rush forwardand forcemyelbowupather face.Shepullsherheadbackjustintime,andmyelbowgrazesherchin.

She punches me in the ribs and I stumble to the side, recovering mybreath. There’s something she’s not protecting, I know it. Iwant to hit herface,butmaybethat’snotasmartmove.Iwatchherforafewseconds.Herhandsaretoohigh;theyguardhernoseandcheeks,leavingherstomachandribsexposed.MollyandIhavethesameflawincombat.

Oureyesmeetforjustasecond.

I aim an uppercut low, below her bellybutton. My fist sinks into herflesh,forcingaheavybreathfromhermouththatIfeelagainstmyear.Asshegasps, I sweep-kick her legs out from under her, and she falls hard on theground,sendingdustintotheair.IpullmyfootbackandkickashardasIcanatherribs.

Mymotherandfatherwouldnotapproveofmykickingsomeonewhenshe’sdown.

Idon’tcare.

Shecurlsintoaballtoprotectherside,andIkickagain,thistimehittingherinthestomach.Likeachild.Ikickagain,thistimehittingherintheface.Bloodspringsfromhernoseandspreadsoverherface.Lookather.Anotherkickhitsherinthechest.

Ipullmyfootbackagain,butFour’shandsclamparoundmyarms,andhe pullsme away fromherwith irresistible force. I breathe through grittedteeth, staring at Molly’s blood-covered face, the color deep and rich andbeautiful,inaway.

Shegroans,andIhearagurglinginherthroat,watchbloodtricklefromherlips.

“Youwon,”Fourmutters.“Stop.”

Iwipe the sweat frommy forehead.He stares atme.His eyes are toowide;theylookalarmed.

“Ithinkyoushouldleave,”hesays.“Takeawalk.”

“I’mfine,”Isay.“I’mfinenow,”Isayagain,thistimeformyself.

IwishIcouldsayIfeltguiltyforwhatIdid.

Idon’t.

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

VISITINGDAY.ThesecondIopenmyeyes,Iremember.MyheartleapsandthenplummetswhenIseeMollyhobbleacrossthedormitory,hernosepurplebetween strips ofmedical tape.Once I seeher leave, I check forPeter andDrew.Neither of them is in the dormitory, so I change quickly.As long astheyaren’there,Idon’tcarewhoseesmeinmyunderwear,notanymore.

Everyoneelsedressesinsilence.NotevenChristinasmiles.WeallknowthatwemightgotothePitfloorandsearcheveryfaceandneverfindonethatbelongstous.

I makemy bed with the tight corners likemy father taught me. As Ipinchastrayhairfrommypillow,Ericwalksin.

“Attention!”heannounces,flickingalockofdarkhairfromhiseyes.“Iwanttogiveyousomeadviceabouttoday.Ifbysomemiracleyourfamiliesdocometovisityou…”Hescansourfacesandsmirks.“…whichIdoubt,itisbestnottoseemtooattached.Thatwillmakeiteasierforyou,andeasierforthem.Wealsotakethephrase‘factionbeforeblood’veryseriouslyhere.Attachment to your family suggests you aren’t entirely pleased with yourfaction,whichwouldbeshameful.Understand?”

Iunderstand.IhearthethreatinEric’ssharpvoice.TheonlypartofthatspeechthatEricmeantwasthelastpart:WeareDauntless,andweneedtoactaccordingly.

Onmywayoutofthedormitory,Ericstopsme.

“I may have underestimated you, Stiff,” he says. “You did wellyesterday.”

Istareupathim.ForthefirsttimesinceIbeatMolly,guiltpinchesmygut.

IfEricthinksIdidsomethingright,Imusthavedoneitwrong.

“Thankyou,”Isay.Islipoutofthedormitory.

Oncemyeyesadjust to thedimhallwaylight, IseeChristinaandWillaheadofme,Willlaughing,probablyatajokeChristinamade.Idon’ttrytocatchup.Forsomereason,Ifeellikeitwouldbeamistaketointerruptthem.

Al ismissing. I didn’t see him in the dormitory, and he’s notwalkingtowardthePitnow.Maybehe’salreadythere.

Irunmyfingersthroughmyhairandsmoothit intoabun.Icheckmyclothes—amIcoveredup?Mypantsaretightandmycollarboneisshowing.Theywon’tapprove.

Whocaresiftheyapprove?Isetmyjaw.Thisismyfactionnow.Thesearetheclothesmyfactionwears.Istopjustbeforethehallwayends.

Clusters of families stand on the Pit floor, most of them Dauntlessfamilies with Dauntless initiates. They still look strange to me—a motherwithapiercedeyebrow,afatherwitha tattooedarm,aninitiatewithpurplehair,awholesomefamilyunit.IspotDrewandMollystandingaloneatoneendoftheroomandsuppressasmile.Atleasttheirfamiliesdidn’tcome.

ButPeter’sdid.Hestandsnexttoatallmanwithbushyeyebrowsandashort,meek-lookingwomanwith red hair.Neither of his parents looks likehim.Theybothwearblackpantsandwhiteshirts,typicalCandoroutfits,andhisfatherspeakssoloudlyIcanalmosthearhimfromwhereIstand.Dotheyknowwhatkindofpersontheirsonis?

Thenagain…whatkindofpersonamI?

Acrosstheroom,Willstandswithawomaninabluedress.Shedoesn’tlookoldenough tobehismother,but shehas the samecreasebetweenhereyebrows as he does, and the same golden hair. He talked about having asisteronce;maybethat’sher.

Nexttohim,Christinahugsadark-skinnedwomaninCandorblackandwhite.StandingbehindChristinaisayounggirl,alsoaCandor.Heryoungersister.

Should I evenbother scanning the crowd formyparents? I could turnaroundandgobacktothedormitory.

ThenIseeher.Mymotherstandsaloneneartherailingwithherhandsclaspedinfrontofher.Shehasneverlookedmoreoutofplace,withhergrayslacksandgrayjacketbuttonedatthethroat,herhairinitssimpletwistandherfaceplacid.Istarttowardher,tearsjumpingintomyeyes.Shecame.Shecameforme.

Iwalkfaster.Sheseesme,andforasecondherexpressionisblank,likeshedoesn’tknowwhoIam.Thenhereyeslightup,andsheopensherarms.Shesmellslikesoapandlaundrydetergent.

“Beatrice,”shewhispers.Sherunsherhandovermyhair.

Don’tcry,Itellmyself.IholdheruntilIcanblinkthemoisturefrommyeyes,andthenpullbacktolookatheragain.Ismilewithclosedlips,justlikeshedoes.Shetouchesmycheek.

“Well, look at you,” she says. “You’ve filled out.” She puts her armacrossmyshoulders.“Tellmehowyouare.”

“You first.” The old habits are back. I should let her speak first. I

shouldn’tlettheconversationstayfocusedonmefortoolong.Ishouldmakesureshedoesn’tneedanything.

“Todayisaspecialoccasion,”shesays.“Icametoseeyou,solet’stalkmostlyaboutyou.Itismygifttoyou.”

Myselflessmother.Sheshouldnotbegivingmegifts,notafterIleftherandmy father. Iwalkwithher toward the railing thatoverlooks thechasm,gladtobeclosetoher.Thelastweekandahalfhasbeenmoreaffectionlessthan I realized.Athomewedidnot toucheachotheroften, and themost Ieversawmyparentsdowasholdhandsat thedinner table,but itwasmorethanthis,morethanhere.

“Justonequestion.”Ifeelmypulseinmythroat.“Where’sDad?IshevisitingCaleb?”

“Ah.”Sheshakesherhead.“Yourfatherhadtobeatwork.”

Ilookdown.“Youcantellmeifhedidn’twanttocome.”

Hereyestravelovermyface.“Yourfatherhasbeenselfishlately.Thatdoesn’tmeanhedoesn’tloveyou,Ipromise.”

Istareather,stunned.Myfather—selfish?Morestartlingthanthelabelis the fact that she assigned it tohim. I can’t tell by lookingat her if she’sangry.Idon’texpecttobeableto.Butshemustbe;ifshecallshimselfish,shemustbeangry.

“WhataboutCaleb?”Isay.“Willyouvisithimlater?”

“IwishIcould,”shesays,“buttheEruditehaveprohibitedAbnegationvisitorsfromenteringtheircompound.IfItried,Iwouldberemovedfromthepremises.”

“What?”Idemand.“That’sterrible.Whywouldtheydothat?”

“Tensionsbetweenourfactionsarehigherthanever,”shesays.“Iwishitwasn’tthatway,butthereislittleIcandoaboutit.”

IthinkofCalebstandingamongtheEruditeinitiates,scanningthecrowdforourmother,andfeelapanginmystomach.Partofmeisstillangrywithhimforkeepingsomanysecretsfromme,butIdon’twanthimtohurt.

“That’sterrible,”Irepeat.Ilooktowardthechasm.

Standing alone at the railing is Four. Though he’s not an initiateanymore, most of the Dauntless use this day to come together with theirfamilies. Either his family doesn’t like to come together, or he wasn’toriginallyDauntless.Whichfactioncouldhehavecomefrom?

“There’soneofmyinstructors.”Ileanclosertoherandsay,“He’skindofintimidating.”

“He’shandsome,”shesays.

I find myself nodding without thinking. She laughs and lifts her armfrommyshoulders.Iwanttosteerherawayfromhim,butjustasI’mabouttosuggestthatwegosomewhereelse,helooksoverhisshoulder.

Hiseyeswidenatthesightofmymother.Sheoffershimherhand.

“Hello.MynameisNatalie,”shesays.“I’mBeatrice’smother.”

Ihaveneverseenmymothershakehandswithsomeone.Foureaseshishandintohers,lookingstiff,andshakesittwice.Thegesturelooksunnaturalforbothof them.No,FourwasnotoriginallyDauntless ifhedoesn’tshakehandseasily.

“Four,”hesays.“It’snicetomeetyou.”

“Four,”mymotherrepeats,smiling.“Isthatanickname?”

“Yes.”Hedoesn’t elaborate.What ishis realname?“Yourdaughter isdoingwellhere.I’vebeenoverseeinghertraining.”

Since when does “overseeing” include throwing knives at me andscoldingmeateveryopportunity?

“That’sgood tohear,” she says. “Iknowa few thingsaboutDauntlessinitiation,andIwasworriedabouther.”

Helooksatme,andhiseyesmovedownmyface,fromnosetomouthtochin.Thenhesays,“Youshouldn’tworry.”

I can’t keep the heat from rushing into my cheeks. I hope it isn’tnoticeable.

Is he just reassuring her because she’s my mother, or does he reallybelievethatIamcapable?Andwhatdidthatlookmean?

Shetiltsherhead.“Youlookfamiliarforsomereason,Four.”

“Ican’timaginewhy,”hereplies,hisvoicesuddenlycold.“Idon’tmakeahabitofassociatingwiththeAbnegation.”

Mymotherlaughs.Shehasalightlaugh,halfairandhalfsound.“Fewpeopledo,thesedays.Idon’ttakeitpersonally.”

Heseemstorelaxalittle.“Well,I’llleaveyoutoyourreunion.”

Mymother and Iwatchhim leave.The roar of the river fillsmy ears.MaybeFourwasoneoftheErudite,whichexplainswhyhehatesAbnegation.

Or maybe he believes the articles the Erudite release about us—them, Iremindmyself.ButitwaskindofhimtotellherthatI’mdoingwellwhenIknowhedoesn’tbelieveit.

“Ishealwayslikethat?”shesays.

“Worse.”

“Haveyoumadefriends?”sheasks.

“Afew,”Isay.I lookovermyshoulderatWillandChristinaandtheirfamilies.WhenChristinacatchesmyeye,shebeckonstome,smiling,somymotherandIcrossthePitfloor.

BeforewecangettoWillandChristina,though,ashort,roundwomanwith a black-and-white-striped shirt touchesmy arm. I twitch, resisting theurgetosmackherhandaway.

“Excuseme,”shesays.“Doyouknowmyson?Albert?”

“Albert?”Irepeat.“Oh—youmeanAl?Yes,Iknowhim.”

“Doyouknowwherewe can findhim?” she says, gesturing to amanbehindher.Heistallandasthickasaboulder.Al’sfather,obviously.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see him thismorning.Maybe you should look forhimupthere?”Ipointattheglassceilingaboveus.

“Ohmy,”Al’smother says, fanning her facewith her hand. “Iwouldrathernot attempt that climbagain. I almosthad apanic attackon thewaydown here. Why aren’t there any railings along those paths? Are you allinsane?”

I smile a little. A few weeks ago I might have found that questionoffensive, but now I spend too much time with Candor transfers to besurprisedbytactlessness.

“Insane, no,” I say. “Dauntless, yes. If I see him, I’ll tell him you’relookingforhim.”

Mymother,Isee,wearsthesamesmileIdo.Sheisn’treactingthewaysomeoftheothertransfers’parentsare—herneckbent,lookingaroundatthePitwalls,at thePitceiling,at thechasm.Ofcoursesheisn’tcurious—she’sAbnegation.Curiosityisforeigntoher.

IintroducemymothertoWillandChristina,andChristinaintroducesmetohermotherandhersister.ButwhenWillintroducesmetoCara,hisoldersister,shegivesmethekindof look thatwouldwitheraplantanddoesnotextendherhandformetoshake.Sheglaresatmymother.

“Ican’tbelievethatyouassociatewithoneofthem,Will,”shesays.

Mymotherpursesherlips,butofcourse,doesn’tsayanything.

“Cara,”saysWill,frowning,“there’snoneedtoberude.”

“Oh,certainlynot.Doyouknowwhatsheis?”Shepointsatmymother.“She’s a council member’s wife is what she is. She runs the ‘volunteeragency’ that supposedly helps the factionless. You think I don’t know thatyou’re justhoardinggoods todistribute toyourownfactionwhilewedon’tgetfreshfoodforamonth,huh?Foodforthefactionless,myeye.”

“I’msorry,”mymothersaysgently.“Ibelieveyouaremistaken.”

“Mistaken.Ha,”Carasnaps.“I’msureyou’reexactlywhatyouseem.Afactionofhappy-go-luckydo-gooderswithoutaselfishboneintheirbodies.Right.”

“Don’t speak tomymother thatway,” I say,my facehot. I clenchmyhandsintofists.“Don’tsayanotherwordtoherorIswearIwillbreakyournose.”

“Backoff,Tris,”Willsays.“You’renotgoingtopunchmysister.”

“Oh?”Isay,raisingbotheyebrows.“Youthinkso?”

“No,you’renot.”Mymothertouchesmyshoulder.“Comeon,Beatrice.Wewouldn’twanttobotheryourfriend’ssister.”

Shesoundsgentle,butherhandsqueezesmyarmsohardIalmostcryoutfromthepainasshedragsmeaway.Shewalkswithme,fast,towardthedininghall.Justbeforeshereachesit,though,shetakesasharpleftturnandwalksdownoneofthedarkhallwaysIhaven’texploredyet.

“Mom,”Isay.“Mom,howdoyouknowwhereyou’regoing?”

Shestopsnexttoalockeddoorandstandsonhertiptoes,peeringatthebaseofthebluelamphangingfromtheceiling.Afewsecondslatershenodsandturnstomeagain.

“Isaidnoquestionsaboutme.AndImeantit.Howareyoureallydoing,Beatrice?Howhavethefightsbeen?Howareyouranked?”

“Ranked?”Isay.“YouknowthatI’vebeenfighting?YouknowthatI’mranked?”

“It isn’t top-secret information, how the Dauntless initiation processworks.”

Idon’tknowhoweasyitistofindoutwhatanotherfactiondoesduringinitiation, but I suspect it’s not that easy. Slowly, I say, “I’m close to the

bottom,Mom.”

“Good.”Shenods.“Noonelookstoocloselyatthebottom.Now,thisisveryimportant,Beatrice:Whatwereyouraptitudetestresults?”

Tori’swarningpulsesinmyhead.Don’ttellanyone.IshouldtellherthatmyresultwasAbnegation,becausethat’swhatTorirecordedinthesystem.

Ilookintomymother’seyes,whicharepalegreenandframedbyadarksmudgeofeyelashes.Shehaslinesaroundhermouth,butotherthanthat,shedoesn’tlookherage.Thoselinesgetdeeperwhenshehums.Sheusedtohumasshewashedthedishes.

Thisismymother.

Icantrusther.

“Theywereinconclusive,”Isaysoftly.

“I thought as much.” She sighs. “Many children who are raisedAbnegationreceivethatkindofresult.Wedon’tknowwhy.Butyouhavetobeverycarefulduringthenextstageofinitiation,Beatrice.Stayinthemiddleofthepack,nomatterwhatyoudo.Don’tdrawattentiontoyourself.Doyouunderstand?”

“Mom,what’sgoingon?”

“Idon’t carewhat factionyouchose,” she says, touchingherhands tomycheeks.“IamyourmotherandIwanttokeepyousafe.”

“Is thisbecauseI’ma—”Istart tosay,butshepressesherhandtomymouth.

“Don’tsaythatword,”shehisses.“Ever.”

SoToriwasright.Divergentisadangerousthingtobe.Ijustdon’tknowwhy,orevenwhatitreallymeans,still.

“Why?”

Sheshakesherhead.“Ican’tsay.”

Shelooksoverhershoulder,wherethelightfromthePitfloorisbarelyvisible.Ihearshoutsandconversations,laughterandshufflingfootsteps.Thesmell from the dining hall floats over my nose, sweet and yeasty: bakingbread.Whensheturnstowardme,herjawisset.

“There’s something Iwant you todo,” she says. “I can’t govisit yourbrother,butyoucan,wheninitiationisover.SoIwantyoutogofindhimandtellhimtoresearchthesimulationserum.Okay?Canyoudothatforme?”

“Not unless you explain some of this tome,Mom!” I crossmy arms.“Youwantmetogohangoutat theEruditecompoundfortheday,youhadbettergivemeareason!”

“Ican’t.I’msorry.”Shekissesmycheekandbrushesalockofhairthatfellfrommybunbehindmyear.“Ishouldleave.ItwillmakeyoulookbetterifyouandIdon’tseemattachedtoeachother.”

“Idon’tcarehowIlooktothem,”Isay.

“Youshould,”shesays.“Isuspecttheyarealreadymonitoringyou.”

Shewalksaway,andIamtoostunned to followher.At theendof thehallway she turns and says, “Have a piece of cake for me, all right? Thechocolate. It’s delicious.” She smiles a strange, twisted smile, and adds, “Iloveyou,youknow.”

Andthenshe’sgone.

I stand alone in the blue light coming from the lamp aboveme, and Iunderstand:

Shehasbeentothecompoundbefore.Sherememberedthishallway.Sheknowsabouttheinitiationprocess.

MymotherwasDauntless.

CHAPTERSIXTEEN

THATAFTERNOON,IgobacktothedormitorywhileeveryoneelsespendstimewiththeirfamiliesandfindAlsittingonhisbed,staringatthespaceonthewallwherethechalkboardusuallyis.Fourtookitdownyesterdaysohecouldcalculateourstageonerankings.

“There you are!” I say. “Your parentswere looking for you.Did theyfindyou?”

Heshakeshishead.

Isitdownnexttohimonthebed.Mylegisbarelyhalfthewidthofhis,evennowthatit’smoremuscularthanitwas.Hewearsblackshorts.Hiskneeispurple-bluewithabruiseandcrossedwithascar.

“Youdidn’twanttoseethem?”Isay.

“Didn’twant them to askhow Iwasdoing,”he says. “I’dhave to tellthem,andtheywouldknowifIwaslying.”

“Well…” I struggle tocomeupwith something to say. “What’swrongwithhowyou’redoing?”

Allaughsharshly.“I’velosteveryfightsincetheonewithWill.I’mnotdoingwell.”

“Bychoice,though.Couldn’tyoutellthemthat,too?”

Heshakeshishead.“Dadalwayswantedmetocomehere.Imean,theysaid theywantedme to stay inCandor, but that’s only because that’swhatthey’resupposedtosay.They’vealwaysadmiredtheDauntless,bothofthem.Theywouldn’tunderstandifItriedtoexplainittothem.”

“Oh.”Itapmyfingersagainstmyknee.ThenIlookathim.“IsthatwhyyouchoseDauntless?Becauseofyourparents?”

Alshakeshishead.“No.Iguessitwasbecause…Ithinkit’simportanttoprotectpeople.Tostandupforpeople.Likeyoudidforme.”Hesmilesatme.“That’swhattheDauntlessaresupposedtodo,right?That’swhatcourageis.Not…hurtingpeoplefornoreason.”

I rememberwhat Four toldme, that teamwork used to be aDauntlesspriority. What were the Dauntless like when it was? What would I havelearnedifIhadbeenherewhenmymotherwasDauntless?MaybeIwouldn’thavebrokenMolly’snose.OrthreatenedWill’ssister.

Ifeelapangofguilt.“Maybeitwillbebetteronceinitiationisover.”

“ToobadImightcomeinlast,”Alsays.“Iguesswe’llseetonight.”

Wesitside-by-sideforawhile.It’sbettertobehere,insilence,thaninthePit,watchingeveryonelaughwiththeirfamilies.

Myfatherusedtosaythatsometimes, thebestwaytohelpsomeoneisjust tobenear them. I feelgoodwhen Idosomething Iknowhewouldbeproud of, like itmakes up for all the things I’ve done that hewouldn’t beproudof.

“IfeelbraverwhenI’maroundyou,youknow,”hesays.“LikeIcouldactuallyfitinhere,thesamewayyoudo.”

I am about to respond when he slides his arm across my shoulders.SuddenlyIfreeze,mycheekshot.

Ididn’twanttoberightaboutAl’sfeelingsforme.ButIwas.

Idonotleanintohim.InsteadIsitforwardsohisarmfallsaway.ThenIsqueezemyhandstogetherinmylap.

“Tris,I…,”hesays.Hisvoicesoundsstrained.Iglanceathim.Hisfaceisasredasminefeels,buthe’snotcrying—hejustlooksembarrassed.

“Um…sorry,”hesays.“Iwasn’ttryingto…um.Sorry.”

IwishIcouldtellhimnottotakeitpersonally.Icouldtellhimthatmyparentsrarelyheldhandseveninourownhome,soIhavetrainedmyselftopullawayfromallgesturesofaffection,becausetheyraisedmetotakethemseriously.MaybeifItoldhimthat,therewouldn’tbealayerofhurtbeneathhisflushofembarrassment.

Butof course, it ispersonal.He ismy friend—and that is all.What ismorepersonalthanthat?

Ibreathein,andwhenIbreatheout,Imakemyselfsmile.“Sorryaboutwhat?”Iask,tryingtosoundcasual.Ibrushoffmyjeans,thoughthereisn’tanythingonthem,andstandup.

“Ishouldgo,”Isay.

Henodsanddoesn’tlookatme.

“Yougoing tobeokay?”Isay.“Imean…becauseofyourparents.Notbecause…”Iletmyvoicetrailoff.Idon’tknowwhatIwouldsayifIdidn’t.

“Oh.Yeah.”He nods again, a little too vigorously. “I’ll see you later,Tris.”

I try not to walk out of the room too fast.When the dormitory doorcloses behind me, I touch a hand to my forehead and grin a little.Awkwardnessaside,itisnicetobeliked.

Discussingourfamilyvisitswouldbetoopainful,soourfinalrankings

for stage one are all anyone can talk about that night.Every time someonenearmebringsitup,Istareatsomepointacrosstheroomandignorethem.

Myrankcan’tbeasbadasitusedtobe,especiallyafterIbeatMolly,butitmightnotbegoodenoughtogetmeinthetoptenattheendofinitiation,especiallywhentheDauntless-borninitiatesarefactoredin.

AtdinnerIsitwithChristina,Will,andAlatatableinthecorner.WeareuncomfortablyclosetoPeter,Drew,andMolly,whoareatthenexttableover.When conversation at our table reaches a lull, I hear everyword they say.Theyarespeculatingabouttheranks.Whatasurprise.

“Youweren’t allowed to havepets?”Christina demands, smacking thetablewithherpalm.“Whynot?”

“Becausethey’reillogical,”Willsaysmatter-of-factly.“Whatisthepointin providing food and shelter for an animal that just soils your furniture,makesyourhomesmellbad,andultimatelydies?”

AlandImeeteyes,likeweusuallydowhenWillandChristinastarttofight.Butthistime,thesecondoureyesmeet,webothlookaway.Ihopethisawkwardnessbetweenusdoesn’tlastlong.Iwantmyfriendback.

“Thepointis…”Christina’svoicetrailsoff,andshetiltsherhead.“Well,they’refuntohave.IhadabulldognamedChunker.Onetimeweleftawholeroasted chicken on the counter to cool, and while my mother went to thebathroom,hepulleditdownoffthecounterandateit,bonesandskinandall.Welaughedsohard.”

“Yes, thatcertainlychangesmymind.OfcourseIwant to livewithananimalthateatsallmyfoodanddestroysmykitchen.”Willshakeshishead.“Whydon’tyoujustgetadogafterinitiationifyou’refeelingthatnostalgic?”

“Because.”Christina’ssmilefalls,andshepokesatherpotatowithherfork. “Dogs are sort of ruined forme.After…you know, after the aptitudetest.”

Weexchangelooks.Weallknowthatwearen’tsupposedto talkaboutthetest,notevennowthatwehavechosen,butforthemthatrulemustnotbeasseriousasitisforme.Myheartjumpsunsteadilyinmychest.Formethatrule is protection. It keeps me from having to lie to my friends about myresults.EverytimeIthinktheword“Divergent,”IhearTori’swarning—andnowmymother’swarningtoo.Don’ttellanyone.Dangerous.

“Youmean…killingthedog,right?”asksWill.

Ialmostforgot.ThosewithanaptitudeforDauntlesspickeduptheknifeinthesimulationandstabbedthedogwhenitattacked.NowonderChristinadoesn’twantapetdoganymore. I tugmysleevesovermywristsand twistmyfingerstogether.

“Yeah,”shesays.“Imean,youguysallhadtodothattoo,right?”

ShelooksfirstatAl,andthenatme.Herdarkeyesnarrow,andshesays,“Youdidn’t.”

“Hmm?”

“You’rehidingsomething,”shesays.“You’refidgeting.”

“What?”

“InCandor,” saysAl, nudgingmewithhis shoulder.There.That feelsnormal.“Welearntoreadbodylanguagesoweknowwhensomeoneislyingorkeepingsomethingfromus.”

“Oh.”Iscratchthebackofmyneck.“Well…”

“See,thereitisagain!”shesays,pointingatmyhand.

IfeellikeI’mswallowingmyheartbeat.HowcanIlieaboutmyresultsiftheycantellwhenI’mlying?I’llhavetocontrolmybodylanguage.Idropmyhandandclaspmyhandsinmylap.Isthatwhatanhonestpersondoes?

Idon’thavetolieaboutthedog,atleast.“No,Ididn’tkillthedog.”

“How did you get Dauntless without using the knife?” says Will,narrowinghiseyesatme.

Ilookhimintheeyeandsayevenly,“Ididn’t.IgotAbnegation.”

Itishalf-true.TorireportedmyresultasAbnegation,sothatiswhatisinthe system.Anyonewhohasaccess to the scoreswouldbeable to see it. Ikeep my eyes on his for a few seconds. Shifting them away might besuspicious.ThenIshrugandstabapieceofmeatwithmyfork.Ihopetheybelieveme.Theyhavetobelieveme.

“ButyouchoseDauntlessanyway?”Christinasays.“Why?”

“Itoldyou,”Isay,smirking.“Itwasthefood.”

Shelaughs.“DidyouguysknowthatTrishadneverseenahamburgerbeforeshecamehere?”

Shelaunchesintothestoryofourfirstday,andmybodyrelaxes,butIstillfeelheavy.Ishouldnotlietomyfriends.Itcreatesbarriersbetweenus,andwealreadyhavemorethanIwant.Christinatakingtheflag.Merejecting

Al.

After dinnerwe go back to the dormitory, and it’s hard forme not tosprint,knowingthattherankingswillbeupwhenIgetthere.Iwanttogetitoverwith.Atthedoortothedormitory,Drewshovesmeintothewalltogetpastme.Myshoulderscrapesonthestone,butIkeepwalking.

I’mtooshorttoseeoverthecrowdofinitiatesstandingnearthebackoftheroom,butwhenIfindaspacebetweenheadstolookthrough,Iseethatthe blackboard is on the ground, leaning against Four’s legs, facing awayfromus.Hestandswithapieceofchalkinonehand.

“For thoseofyouwho just came in, I’mexplaininghow the ranksaredetermined,” he says. “After the first round of fights, we ranked youaccordingtoyourskilllevel.Thenumberofpointsyouearndependsonyourskilllevelandtheskilllevelofthepersonyoubeat.Youearnmorepointsforimprovingandmorepointsforbeatingsomeoneofahighskilllevel.Idon’trewardpreyingontheweak.Thatiscowardice.”

IthinkhiseyeslingeronPeteratthatlastline,buttheymoveonquicklyenoughthatI’mnotsure.

“If you have a high rank, you lose points for losing to a low-rankedopponent.”

Mollyletsoutanunpleasantnoise,likeasnortoragrumble.

“Stagetwooftrainingisweightedmoreheavilythanstageone,becauseit ismore closely tied to overcoming cowardice,” he says. “That said, it isextremelydifficulttorankhighattheendofinitiationifyouranklowinstageone.”

Ishiftfromonefoottotheother,tryingtogetagoodlookathim.WhenIfinallydo,Ilookaway.Hiseyesarealreadyonme,probablydrawnbymynervousmovement.

“Wewillannouncethecutstomorrow,”Foursays.“Thefactthatyouaretransfers and the Dauntless-born initiates are not will not be taken intoconsideration.Fourofyoucouldbefactionlessandnoneofthem.Orfourofthemcouldbefactionlessandnoneofyou.Oranycombinationthereof.Thatsaid,hereareyourranks.”

He hangs the board on the hook and steps back so we can see therankings:

1.Edward

2.Peter

3.Will

4.Christina

5.Molly

6.Tris

Sixth?Ican’tbesixth.BeatingMollymusthaveboostedmyrankmore

thanIthoughtitwould.Andlosingtomeseemstohaveloweredhers.Iskiptothebottomofthelist.

7.Drew

8.Al

9.Myra

Al isn’t dead last, but unless the Dauntless-born initiates completely

failedtheirversionofstageoneofinitiation,heisfactionless.

IglanceatChristina.Shetiltsherheadandfrownsattheboard.Sheisn’ttheonlyone.Thequietintheroomisuneasy,likeitisrockingbackandforthonaledge.

Thenitfalls.

“What?”demandsMolly.ShepointsatChristina.“Ibeather!Ibeatherinminutes,andshe’srankedaboveme?”

“Yeah,” says Christina, crossing her arms. She wears a smug smile.“And?”

“Ifyouintendtosecureyourselfahighrank,Isuggestyoudon’tmakeahabitoflosingtolow-rankedopponents,”saysFour,hisvoicecuttingthroughthe mutters and grumbles of the other initiates. He pockets the chalk andwalks past me without glancing in my direction. The words sting a little,remindingmethatIamthelow-rankedopponenthe’sreferringto.

ApparentlytheyremindMolly,too.

“You,”shesays, focusinghernarrowedeyesonme.“Youaregoing topayforthis.”

Iexpecthertolungeatme,orhitme,butshejustturnsonherheelandstalksoutofthedormitory,andthatisworse.Ifshehadexploded,herangerwould have been spent quickly, after a punch or two. Leaving means shewantstoplansomething.LeavingmeansIhavetobeonmyguard.

Peterdidn’t sayanythingwhen the rankingswentup,which,givenhistendencytocomplainaboutanythingthatdoesn’tgohisway,issurprising.Hejustwalks tohisbunkandsitsdown,untyinghisshoelaces.Thatmakesmefeelevenmoreuneasy.Hecan’tpossiblybesatisfiedwithsecondplace.NotPeter.

WillandChristinaslaphands,andthenWillclapsmeonthebackwithahandbiggerthanmyshoulderblade.

“Lookatyou.Numbersix,”hesays,grinning.

“Stillmightnothavebeengoodenough,”Iremindhim.

“Itwillbe,don’tworry,”hesays.“Weshouldcelebrate.”

“Well, let’s go, then,” saysChristina, grabbingmy armwith one handand Al’s arm with the other. “Come on, Al. You don’t know how theDauntless-bornsdid.Youdon’tknowanythingforsure.”

“I’mjustgoingtogotobed,”hemumbles,pullinghisarmfree.

In the hallway, it is easy to forget about Al andMolly’s revenge andPeter’ssuspiciouscalm,andeasytopretendthatwhatseparatesusasfriendsdoesnotexist.ButlingeringatthebackofmymindisthefactthatChristinaandWillaremycompetitors.IfIwanttofightmywaytothetopten,Iwillhavetobeatthemfirst.

IjusthopeIdon’thavetobetraythemintheprocess.

ThatnightIhavetroublefallingasleep.Thedormitoryusedtoseemloud

tome,withallthebreathing,butnowitistooquiet.Whenit’squiet,Ithinkaboutmyfamily.ThankGodtheDauntlesscompoundisusuallyloud.

IfmymotherwasDauntless,whydidshechooseAbnegation?Didshelove its peace, its routine, its goodness—all the things I miss, when I letmyselfthinkaboutit?

Iwonderifsomeonehereknewherwhenshewasyoungandcouldtellmewhatshewaslikethen.Eveniftheydid,theyprobablywouldn’twanttodiscuss her. Faction transfers are not really supposed to discuss their oldfactionsoncetheybecomemembers.It’ssupposedtomakeiteasierforthemto change their allegiance from family to faction—to embrace the principle“factionbeforeblood.”

Iburymyfaceinthepillow.SheaskedmetotellCalebtoresearchthesimulation serum—why? Does it have something to do with me beingDivergent,withmebeingindanger,oris itsomethingelse?Isigh.Ihavea

thousand questions, and she left before I could ask any of them.Now theyswirlinmyhead,andIdoubtI’llbeabletosleepuntilIcananswerthem.

I hear a scuffle across the roomand liftmyhead from thepillow.Myeyesaren’tadjusted to thedark,soIstare intopureblack, like thebacksofmyeyelids.Ihearshufflingandthesqueakofashoe.Aheavythud.

Andthenawailthatcurdlesmybloodandmakesmyhairstandonend.Ithrow the blankets back and stand on the stone floorwith bare feet. I stillcan’tseewellenoughtofindthesourceofthescream,butIseeadarklumponthefloorafewbunksdown.Anotherscreampiercesmyears.

“Turnonthelights!”someoneshouts.

Iwalktowardthesound,slowlysoIdon’ttripoveranything.IfeellikeI’mina trance. Idon’twant toseewhere thescreamingiscomingfrom.Ascream like that can onlymean blood and bone and pain; that scream thatcomesfromthepitofthestomachandextendstoeveryinchofthebody.

Thelightscomeon.

Edward lies on the floor next to his bed, clutching at his face.Surrounding his head is a halo of blood, and jutting between his clawingfingersisasilverknifehandle.Myheartthumpinginmyears,Irecognizeitasabutterknifefromthedininghall.ThebladeisstuckinEdward’seye.

Myra,whostandsatEdward’sfeet,screams.Someoneelsescreamstoo,and someone yells for help, and Edward is still on the floor, writhing andwailing.Icrouchbyhishead,mykneespressingtothepoolofblood,andputmyhandsonhisshoulders.

“Liestill,”Isay.Ifeelcalm,thoughIcan’thearanything,likemyheadissubmergedinwater.EdwardthrashesagainandIsayit louder,sterner.“Isaid,liestill.Breathe.”

“Myeye!”hescreams.

Ismellsomethingfoul.Someonevomited.

“Takeitout!”heyells.“Getitout,getitoutofme,getitout!”

Ishakemyheadandthenrealizethathecan’tseeme.Alaughbubblesinmystomach.Hysterical.IhavetosuppresshysteriaifI’mgoingtohelphim.Ihavetoforgetmyself.

“No,” I say. “Youhave to let the doctor take it out.Hearme?Let thedoctortakeitout.Andbreathe.”

“Ithurts,”hesobs.

“Iknowitdoes.”InsteadofmyvoiceIhearmymother’svoice.Iseehercrouching beforeme on the sidewalk in front of our house, brushing tearsfrommyfaceafterIscrapedmyknee.Iwasfiveatthetime.

“Itwillbeallright.”Itrytosoundfirm,likeI’mnotidlyreassuringhim,butIam.Idon’tknowifitwillbeallright.Isuspectthatitwon’t.

When thenursearrives, she tellsme to stepback, and Ido.Myhandsand knees are soakedwith blood.When I look around, I see that only twofacesaremissing.

Drew.

AndPeter.

After they take Edward away, I carry a change of clothes into the

bathroom andwashmy hands. Christina comeswithme and stands by thedoor,butshedoesn’tsayanything,andI’mglad.Thereisn’tmuchtosay.

Iscrubat the lines inmypalmsandrunonefingernailundermyotherfingernails toget thebloodout.IchangeintothepantsIbroughtandthrowthe soiled ones in the trash. I get as many paper towels as I can hold.Someoneneedstocleanupthemessinthedormitory,andsinceIdoubtI’lleverbeabletosleepagain,itmightaswellbeme.

AsIreachforthedoorhandle,Christinasays,“Youknowwhodidthat,right?”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldwetellsomeone?”

“You really think the Dauntless will do anything?” I say. “After theyhungyouoverthechasm?Aftertheymadeusbeateachotherunconscious?”

Shedoesn’tsayanything.

Forahalfhourafterthat,Ikneelaloneonthefloorinthedormitoryandscrub at Edward’s blood.Christina throws away the dirty paper towels andgets me new ones. Myra is gone; she probably followed Edward to thehospital.

Noonesleepsmuchthatnight.

“Thisisgoingtosoundweird,”Willsays,“butIwishwedidn’thavea

dayofftoday.”

I nod. I knowwhat hemeans.Having something to dowould distract

me,andIcoulduseadistractionrightnow.

I have not spentmuch time alonewithWill, but Christina andAl aretaking naps in the dormitory, and neither of us wanted to be in that roomlongerthanwehadto.Willdidn’ttellmethat;Ijustknow.

Islideonefingernailunderanother.IwashedmyhandsthoroughlyaftercleaningupEdward’sblood,butIstillfeellikeit’sonmyhands.WillandIwalkwithnosenseofpurpose.Thereisnowheretogo.

“Wecouldvisithim,”suggestsWill.“Butwhatwouldwesay?‘Ididn’tknowyouthatwell,butI’msorryyougotstabbedintheeye’?”

Itisn’tfunny.Iknowthatassoonashesaysit,butalaughrisesinmythroatanyway,andIletitoutbecauseit’shardertokeepitin.Willstaresatme fora second,and thenhe laughs too.Sometimescryingor laughingaretheonlyoptionsleft,andlaughingfeelsbetterrightnow.

“Sorry,”Isay.“It’sjustsoridiculous.”

Idon’twant tocry forEdward—at leastnot in thedeep,personalwaythatyoucryforafriendorlovedone.Iwanttocrybecausesomethingterriblehappened, and I saw it, and I couldnot see away tomend it.Noonewhowould want to punish Peter has the authority to, and no one who has theauthority to punish him would want to. The Dauntless have rules againstattacking someone like that, but with people like Eric in charge, I suspectthoserulesgounenforced.

Isay,moreseriously,“Themostridiculouspartis,inanyotherfactionitwould be brave of us to tell someone what happened. But here…inDauntless…braverywon’tdousanygood.”

“Haveyoueverreadthefactionmanifestos?”saysWill.

The faction manifestos were written after the factions formed. Welearnedabouttheminschool,butIneverreadthem.

“Youhave?”Ifrownathim.ThenIrememberthatWilloncememorizedamapofthecityforfun,andIsay,“Oh.Ofcourseyouhave.Nevermind.”

“One of the lines I remember from the Dauntless manifesto is, ‘Webelieve inordinaryactsofbravery, in thecourage thatdrivesoneperson tostandupforanother.’”

Willsighs.

He doesn’t need to say anything else. I knowwhat hemeans.MaybeDauntlesswasformedwithgoodintentions,withtherightidealsandtherightgoals.But it has strayed far from them.And the same is true of Erudite, I

realize.A long time ago, Erudite pursued knowledge and ingenuity for thesakeofdoinggood.Nowtheypursueknowledgeandingenuitywithgreedyhearts.Iwonderiftheotherfactionssufferfromthesameproblem.Ihavenotthoughtaboutitbefore.

DespitethedepravityIseeinDauntless,though,Icouldnotleaveit.Itisn’t only because the thought of living factionless, in complete isolation,soundslikeafateworsethandeath.Itisbecause,inthebriefmomentsthatIhavelovedithere,Isawafactionworthsaving.Maybewecanbecomebraveandhonorableagain.

“Let’sgotothecafeteria,”Willsays,“andeatcake.”

“Okay.”Ismile.

AswewalktowardthePit,Irepeat thelineWillquotedtomyselfsoIdon’tforgetit.

I believe in ordinary acts of bravery, in the courage that drives onepersontostandupforanother.

Itisabeautifulthought.

Later,when I return to the dormitory,Edward’s bunk is stripped clean

and his drawers are open, empty. Across the room,Myra’s bunk looks thesameway.

WhenIaskChristinawheretheywent,shesays,“Theyquit.”

“EvenMyra?”

“Shesaidshedidn’twanttobeherewithouthim.Shewasgoingtogetcutanyway.”Sheshrugs,likeshecan’tthinkofanythingelsetodo.Ifthat’strue,Iknowhowshefeels.“Atleasttheydidn’tcutAl.”

Al was supposed to get cut, but Edward’s departure saved him. TheDauntlessdecidedtosparehimuntilthenextstage.

“Whoelsegotcut?”Isay.

Christina shrugs again. “Two of theDauntless-born. I don’t remembertheirnames.”

Inodandlookattheblackboard.SomeonedrewalinethroughEdwardandMyra’snames,andchangedthenumbersnexttoeveryoneelse’snames.NowPeterisfirst.Willissecond.Iamfifth.Westartedstageonewithnineinitiates.

Nowwehaveseven.

CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

IT’SNOON.LUNCHTIME.

IsitinahallwayIdon’trecognize.IwalkedherebecauseIneededtogetawayfromthedormitory.MaybeifIbringmybeddinghere,Iwillneverhavetogotothedormitoryagain.Itmaybemyimagination,butitstillsmellslikebloodinthere,eventhoughIscrubbedtheflooruntilmyhandsweresore,andsomeonepouredbleachonitthismorning.

I pinch the bridge ofmy nose. Scrubbing the floor when no one elsewantedtowassomethingthatmymotherwouldhavedone.IfIcan’tbewithher,theleastIcandoisactlikehersometimes.

Ihearpeopleapproaching,theirfootstepsechoingonthestonefloor,andIlookdownatmyshoes.Iswitchedfromgraysneakerstoblacksneakersaweekago,butthegrayshoesareburiedinoneofmydrawers.Ican’tbeartothrowthemaway,eventhoughIknowit’sfoolishtobeattachedtosneakers,liketheycanbringmehome.

“Tris?”

Ilookup.Uriahstopsinfrontofme.HewavesalongtheDauntless-borninitiateshewalkswith.Theyexchangelooksbutkeepmoving.

“Youokay?”hesays.

“Ihadadifficultnight.”

“Yeah,Iheardabout thatguyEdward.”Uriah looksdownthehallway.TheDauntless-borninitiatesdisappeararoundacorner.Thenhegrinsalittle.“Wanttogetoutofhere?”

“What?”Iask.“Whereareyougoing?”

“Toalittleinitiationritual,”hesays.“Comeon.Wehavetohurry.”

Ibrieflyconsidermyoptions.Icansithere.OrIcanleavetheDauntlesscompound.

I push myself to my feet and jog next to Uriah to catch up to theDauntless-borninitiates.

“TheonlyinitiatestheyusuallyletcomeareoneswitholdersiblingsinDauntless,” he says. “But they might not even notice. Just act like youbelong.”

“Whatexactlyarewedoing?”

“Somethingdangerous,”hesays.AlookIcanonlydescribeasDauntless

mania enters his eyes, but rather than recoil from it, as Imight have a fewweeks ago, I catch it, like it’s contagious. Excitement replaces the leadenfeelinginsideme.WeslowwhenwereachtheDauntless-borninitiates.

“What’stheStiffdoinghere?”asksaboywithametalringbetweenhisnostrils.

“Shejustsawthatguygetstabbedintheeye,Gabe,”saysUriah.“Giveherabreak,okay?”

Gabeshrugsandturnsaway.Nooneelsesaysanything,thoughafewofthemgivemesidelongglanceslikethey’resizingmeup.TheDauntless-borninitiatesarelikeapackofdogs.IfIactthewrongway,theywon’tletmerunwiththem.Butfornow,Iamsafe.

Weturnanothercorner,andagroupofmembersstandsattheendofthenexthallway.TherearetoomanyofthemtoallberelatedtoaDauntless-borninitiate,butIseesomesimilaritiesamongthefaces.

“Let’s go,” one of themembers says.He turns and plunges through adark doorway. The othermembers follow him, andwe follow them. I stayclose behind Uriah as I pass into darkness andmy toe hits a step. I catchmyselfbeforefallingforwardandstarttoclimb.

“Backstaircase,”Uriahsays,almostmumbling.“Usuallylocked.”

Inod,thoughhecan’tseeme,andclimbuntilallthestepsaregone.Bythen,adooratthetopofthestaircaseisopen,lettingindaylight.Weemergefromthegroundafewhundredyardsfromtheglassbuildingabove thePit,closetothetraintracks.

IfeellikeIhavedonethisathousandtimesbefore.Ihearthetrainhorn.I feel thevibrations in theground. Isee the lightattached to theheadcar. Icrackmyknucklesandbounceonceonmytoes.

We jog in a single pack next to the car, and in waves, members andinitiates alike pile into the car. Uriah gets in before me, and people pressbehindme.Ican’tmakeanymistakes;Ithrowmyselfsideways,grabbingthehandleon thesideof thecar,andhoistmyself into thecar.Uriahgrabsmyarmtosteadyme.

Thetrainpicksupitsspeed.UriahandIsitagainstoneofthewalls.

Ishoutoverthewind,“Wherearewegoing?”

Uriahshrugs.“Zekenevertoldme.”

“Zeke?”

“Myolderbrother,”hesays.Hepointsacrosstheroomataboysittingin

thedoorwaywithhislegsdanglingoutofthecar.HeisslightandshortandlooksnothinglikeUriah,apartfromhiscoloring.

“You don’t get to know. That ruins the surprise!” the girl on my leftshouts.Sheextendsherhand.“I’mShauna.”

Ishakeherhand,butIdon’tgriphardenoughandIletgotooquickly.Idoubt Iwill ever improvemy handshake. It feels unnatural to grasp handswithstrangers.

“I’m—”Istarttosay.

“Iknowwhoyouare,”shesays.“You’re theStiff.Four toldmeaboutyou.”

Ipraytheheatinmycheeksisnotvisible.“Oh?Whatdidhesay?”

Shesmirksatme.“HesaidyouwereaStiff.Whydoyouask?”

“Ifmyinstructoristalkingaboutme,”Isay,asfirmlyasIcan,“Iwanttoknowwhathe’ssaying.” Ihope I tellaconvincing lie.“He isn’tcoming, ishe?”

“No.Henevercomestothis,”shesays.“It’sprobablylostitsappeal.Notmuchscareshim,youknow.”

He isn’t coming. Something in me deflates like an untied balloon. Iignoreitandnod.IdoknowthatFourisnotacoward.ButIalsoknowthatatleast one thing does scare him: heights. Whatever we’re doing, it mustinvolve being high up for him to avoid it. She must not know that if shespeaksofhimwithsuchreverenceinhervoice.

“Doyouknowhimwell?”Iask.Iamtoocurious;Ialwayshavebeen.

“EveryoneknowsFour,”shesays.“Wewereinitiatestogether.Iwasbadat fighting, so he taught me every night after everyone was asleep.” Shescratches the back of her neck, her expression suddenly serious. “Nice ofhim.”

Shegetsupandstandsbehindthememberssittinginthedoorway.Inasecond,herseriousexpressionisgone,butIstillfeelrattledbywhatshesaid,halfconfusedbytheideaofFourbeing“nice”andhalfwantingtopunchherfornoapparentreason.

“Here we go!” shouts Shauna. The train doesn’t slow down, but shethrows herself out of the car. The other members follow her, a stream ofblack-clothed, pierced people not much older than I am. I stand in thedoorwaynexttoUriah.Thetrainisgoingmuchfasterthanithaseveryothertime I’ve jumped, but I can’t lose my nerve now, in front of all these

members. So I jump, hitting the ground hard and stumbling forward a fewstepsbeforeIregainmybalance.

UriahandIjogtocatchuptothemembers,alongwiththeotherinitiates,whobarelylookinmydirection.

IlookaroundasIwalk.TheHubisbehindus,blackagainsttheclouds,butthebuildingsaroundmearedarkandsilent.Thatmeanswemustbenorthofthebridge,wherethecityisabandoned.

We turn a corner and spread out aswewalk downMichiganAvenue.Southofthebridge,MichiganAvenueisabusystreet,crawlingwithpeople,buthereitisbare.

As soon as I lift my eyes to scan the buildings, I knowwhere we’regoing: theemptyHancockbuilding,ablackpillarwithcrisscrossedgirders,thetallestbuildingnorthofthebridge.

Butwhatarewegoingtodo?Climbit?

Aswe get closer, themembers start to run, andUriah and I sprint tocatchthem.Jostlingoneanotherwiththeirelbows,theypushthroughasetofdoorsatthebuilding’sbase.Theglassinoneofthemisbroken,soitisjustaframe.Istepthroughitinsteadofopeningitandfollowthemembersthroughaneerie,darkentryway,crunchingbrokenglassbeneathmyfeet.

Iexpectustogoupthestairs,butwestopattheelevatorbank.

“Dotheelevatorswork?”IaskUriah,asquietlyasIcan.

“Sure they do,” says Zeke, rolling his eyes. “You think I’m stupidenoughnottocomehereearlyandturnontheemergencygenerator?”

“Yeah,”saysUriah.“Ikindado.”

Zeke glares at his brother, then puts him in a headlock and rubs hisknucklesintoUriah’sskull.ZekemaybesmallerthanUriah,buthemustbestronger.Oratleastfaster.Uriahsmackshimintheside,andheletsgo.

IgrinatthesightofUriah’sdisheveledhair,andtheelevatordoorsopen.Wepile in,members in one and initiates in the other.Agirlwith a shavedheadstompsonmytoesonthewayinanddoesn’tapologize.Igrabmyfoot,wincing,andconsiderkickingherintheshins.Uriahstaresathisreflectionintheelevatordoorsandpatshishairdown.

“Whatfloor?”thegirlwiththeshavedheadsays.

“Onehundred,”Isay.

“Howwouldyouknowthat?”

“Lynn,comeon,”saysUriah.“Benice.”

“We’re in a one-hundred-story abandoned building with someDauntless,”Iretort.“Whydon’tyouknowthat?”

Shedoesn’trespond.Shejustjamsherthumbintotherightbutton.

Theelevatorzoomsupwardsofastmystomachsinksandmyearspop.Igrabarailingatthesideoftheelevator,watchingthenumbersclimb.Wepasstwenty,andthirty,andUriah’shairisfinallysmooth.Fifty,sixty,andmytoesare done throbbing. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, and the elevator comes to astopatonehundred.I’mgladwedidn’ttakethestairs.

“Iwonderhowwe’llgettotherooffrom…”Uriah’svoicetrailsoff.

A strong wind hits me, pushing my hair across my face. There is agaping hole in the ceiling of the hundredth floor. Zeke props an aluminumladder against its edge and starts to climb. The ladder creaks and swaysbeneath his feet, but he keeps climbing, whistling as he does. When hereachestheroof,heturnsaroundandholdsthetopoftheladderforthenextperson.

Partofmewondersifthisisasuicidemissiondisguisedasagame.

Itisn’tthefirsttimeI’vewonderedthatsincetheChoosingCeremony.

IclimbtheladderafterUriah.ItremindsmeofclimbingtherungsontheFerriswheelwithFourcloseatmyheels.Irememberhisfingersonmyhipagain,howtheykeptmefromfalling,andIalmostmissastepontheladder.Stupid.

Bitingmylip,ImakeittothetopandstandontheroofoftheHancockbuilding.

The wind is so powerful I hear and feel nothing else. I have to leanagainstUriahtokeepfromfallingover.Atfirst,allIseeis themarsh,wideandbrownandeverywhere,touchingthehorizon,devoidoflife.Intheotherdirectionisthecity,andinmanywaysitisthesame,lifelessandwithlimitsIdonotknow.

Uriah points to something.Attached to one of the poles on top of thetower isasteelcableas thickasmywrist.On theground isapileofblackslingsmadeoftoughfabric,largeenoughtoholdahumanbeing.Zekegrabsoneandattachesittoapulleythathangsfromthesteelcable.

I follow the cable down, over the cluster of buildings and alongLakeShoreDrive.Idon’tknowwhere itends.Onethingisclear, though:IfIgothroughwiththis,I’llfindout.

We’re going to slide down a steel cable in a black sling from onethousandfeetup.

“OhmyGod,”saysUriah.

AllIcandoisnod.

Shaunaisthefirstpersontogetinthesling.Shewrigglesforwardonherstomachuntilmostofherbodyissupportedbyblackfabric.ThenZekepullsastrapacrosshershoulders,thesmallofherback,andthetopofherthighs.Hepullsher, inthesling, totheedgeofthebuildingandcountsdownfromfive.Shaunagivesathumbs-upasheshovesherforward,intonothingness.

Lynn gasps as Shauna hurtles toward the ground at a steep incline,headfirst.Ipushpasthertoseebetter.ShaunastayssecureintheslingforaslongasIcanseeher,andthenshe’stoofaraway,justablackspeckoverLakeShoreDrive.

Thememberswhoop and pump their fists and form a line, sometimesshovingoneanotheroutofthewaytogetabetterplace.SomehowIamthefirstinitiateinline,rightinfrontofUriah.Onlysevenpeoplestandbetweenmeandthezipline.

Still,thereisapartofmethatgroans,Ihavetowaitforsevenpeople?Itisastrangeblendofterrorandeagerness,unfamiliaruntilnow.

Thenextmember,ayoung-lookingboywithhairdowntohisshoulders,jumpsintotheslingonhisbackinsteadofhisstomach.HestretcheshisarmswideasZekeshoveshimdownthesteelcable.

Noneof themembers seemat all afraid.Theyact like theyhavedonethisathousandtimesbefore,andmaybetheyhave.ButwhenIlookovermyshoulder,Iseethatmostoftheinitiateslookpaleorworried,eveniftheytalkexcitedly to one another.What happens between initiation andmembershipthattransformspanicintodelight?Ordopeoplejustgetbetterathidingtheirfear?

Threepeople in frontofme.Anothersling;amembergets in feet-firstandcrossesherarmsoverherchest.Twopeople.Atall,thickboyjumpsupand down like a child before climbing into the sling and lets out a highscreechashedisappears,makingthegirlinfrontofmelaugh.Oneperson.

Shehopsintotheslingface-firstandkeepsherhandsinfrontofherasZeketightensherstraps.Andthenit’smyturn.

IshudderasZekehangsmyslingfromthecable.Itrytoclimbin,butIhavetrouble;myhandsareshakingtoobadly.

“Don’tworry,” Zeke says right next tomy ear. He takesmy arm and

helpsmegetin,facedown.

Thestrapstightenaroundmymidsection,andZekeslidesmeforward,tothe edge of the roof. I stare down the building’s steel girders and blackwindows,allthewaytothecrackedsidewalk.Iamafoolfordoingthis.Andafoolforenjoyingthefeelingofmyheartslammingagainstmysternumandsweatgatheringinthelinesofmypalms.

“Ready,Stiff?”Zekesmirksdownatme.“Ihavetosay,I’mimpressedthatyouaren’tscreamingandcryingrightnow.”

“Itoldyou,”Uriahsays.“She’sDauntlessthroughandthrough.Nowgetonwithit.”

“Careful,brother,orImightnottightenyourstrapsenough,”Zekesays.Hesmackshisknee.“Andthen,splat!”

“Yeah,yeah,”Uriahsays.“Andthenourmotherwouldboilyoualive.”

Hearing him talk about hismother, about his intact family,makesmychesthurtforasecond,likesomeonepierceditwithaneedle.

“Only if she found out.” Zeke tugs on the pulley attached to the steelcable.Itholds,whichisfortunate,becauseifitbreaks,mydeathwillbeswiftandcertain.Helooksdownatmeandsays,“Ready,set,g—”

Before he can finish theword “go,” he releases the sling and I forgethim,IforgetUriah,andfamily,andallthethingsthatcouldmalfunctionandleadtomydeath.IhearmetalslidingagainstmetalandfeelwindsointenseitforcestearsintomyeyesasIhurtletowardtheground.

I feel like I am without substance, without weight. Ahead of me themarshlookshuge,itspatchesofbrownspreadingfartherthanIcansee,evenup this high.The air is so cold and so fast that it hurtsmy face. I pick upspeedandashoutofexhilarationriseswithinme,stoppedonlybythewindthatfillsmymouththesecondmylipspart.

Heldsecurebythestraps,IthrowmyarmsouttothesideandimaginethatIamflying.Iplungetowardthestreet,whichiscrackedandpatchyandfollows perfectly the curve of the marsh. I can imagine, up here, how themarsh lookedwhen itwas full ofwater, like liquid steel as it reflected thecolorofthesky.

Myheartbeatssohard ithurts,andIcan’tscreamandIcan’tbreathe,but Ialsofeeleverything,everyveinandeveryfiber,everyboneandeverynerve,allawakeandbuzzinginmybodyasifchargedwithelectricity.Iampureadrenaline.

Thegroundgrowsandbulgesbeneathme,andIcanseethetinypeople

standing on the pavement below. I should scream, like any rational humanbeingwould, butwhen Iopenmymouth again, I just crowwith joy. I yelllouder,andthefiguresonthegroundpumptheirfistsandyellback,buttheyaresofarawayIcanbarelyhearthem.

Ilookdownandthegroundsmearsbeneathme,allgrayandwhiteandblack, glass and pavement and steel. Tendrils of wind, soft as hair, wraparoundmyfingersandpushmyarmsback.Itrytopullmyarmstomychestagain,butIamnotstrongenough.Thegroundgrowsbiggerandbigger.

I don’t slow down for another minute at least but sail parallel to theground,likeabird.

When I slowdown, I runmy fingersovermyhair.Thewind teased itintoknots.Ihangabouttwentyfeetabovetheground,butthatheightseemslikenothingnow.Ireachbehindmeandworktoundothestrapsholdingmein.Myfingersshake,butIstillmanagetoloosenthem.Acrowdofmembersstandsbelow.Theygrasponeanother’sarms,forminganetoflimbsbeneathme.

Inordertogetdown,Ihavetotrustthemtocatchme.Ihavetoacceptthatthesepeoplearemine,andIamtheirs.Itisabraveractthanslidingdownthezipline.

I wriggle forward and fall. I hit their arms hard. Wrist bones andforearmspressintomyback,andthenpalmswraparoundmyarmsandpullmetomyfeet.Idon’tknowwhichhandsholdmeandwhichhandsdon’t;Iseegrinsandhearlaughter.

“What’dyouthink?”Shaunasays,clappingmeontheshoulder.

“Um…”Allthemembersstareatme.TheylookaswindblownasIfeel,the frenzyof adrenaline in their eyesand theirhair askew. Iknowwhymyfather said the Dauntless were a pack of madmen. He didn’t—couldn’t—understand the kind of camaraderie that forms only after you’ve all riskedyourlivestogether.

“WhencanIgoagain?”Isay.Mysmilestretcheswideenoughtoshowteeth, andwhen they laugh, I laugh. I think of climbing the stairswith theAbnegation,ourfeet finding thesamerhythm,allofus thesame.This isn’tlikethat.Wearenotthesame.Butweare,somehow,one.

IlooktowardtheHancockbuilding,whichissofarfromwhereIstandthatIcan’tseethepeopleonitsroof.

“Look!Thereheis!”someonesays,pointingovermyshoulder.Ifollowthepointedfinger towardasmalldarkshapeslidingdownthesteelwire.A

fewsecondslaterIhearabloodcurdlingscream.

“Ibethe’llcry.”

“Zeke’sbrother,cry?Noway.Hewouldgetpunchedsohard.”

“Hisarmsareflailing!”

“Hesounds likeastrangledcat,”Isay.Everyone laughsagain. I feelatwingeofguiltforteasingUriahwhenhecan’thearme,butIwouldhavesaidthesamethingifhewerestandinghere.Ihope.

WhenUriahfinallycomestoastop,Ifollowthememberstomeethim.We line up beneath him and thrust our arms into the space between us.Shaunaclamps ahandaroundmyelbow. I grab another arm—I’mnot surewhoitbelongsto,therearetoomanytangledhands—andlookupather.

“Prettysurewecan’tcallyou‘Stiff’anymore,”Shaunasays.Shenods.“Tris.”

IstillsmelllikewindwhenIwalkintothecafeteriathatevening.Forthe

secondafterIwalkin,IstandamongacrowdofDauntless,andIfeellikeoneof them.ThenShaunawaves tomeand thecrowdbreaksapart,and IwalktowardthetablewhereChristina,Al,andWillsit,gapingatme.

Ididn’tthinkaboutthemwhenIacceptedUriah’sinvitation.Inaway,itissatisfyingtoseestunnedlooksontheirfaces.ButIdon’twantthemtobeupsetwithmeeither.

“Wherewereyou?”asksChristina.“Whatwereyoudoingwiththem?”

“Uriah…youknow,theDauntless-bornwhowasonourcapturetheflagteam?”Isay.“Hewasleavingwithsomeofthemembersandhebeggedthemto letme come along. They didn’t reallywantme there. Some girl namedLynnsteppedonme.”

“Theymaynothavewantedyoutherethen,”saysWillquietly,“buttheyseemtolikeyounow.”

“Yeah,”Isay.Ican’tdenyit.“I’mgladtobeback,though.”

Hopefullytheycan’ttellI’mlying,butIsuspecttheycan.Icaughtsightofmyself in awindowon theway into the compound, andmy cheeks andeyes were both bright, my hair tangled. I look like I have experiencedsomethingpowerful.

“Well,youmissedChristinaalmostpunchinganErudite,”saysAl.Hisvoice sounds eager. I can count onAl to try to break the tension. “Hewas

hereaskingforopinionsabouttheAbnegationleadership,andChristinatoldhimthereweremoreimportantthingsforhimtobedoing.”

“Which shewascompletely right about,”addsWill. “Andhegot testywithher.Bigmistake.”

“Huge,”Isay,nodding.IfIsmileenough,maybeIcanmakethemforgettheirjealousy,orhurt,orwhateverisbrewingbehindChristina’seyes.

“Yeah,”shesays.“Whileyouwereoffhavingfun,Iwasdoingthedirtyworkofdefendingyouroldfaction,eliminatinginterfactionconflict…”

“Comeon,youknowyouenjoyed it,” saysWill, nudgingherwithhiselbow.“Ifyou’renotgoingtotellthewholestory,Iwill.Hewasstanding…”

Willlaunchesintohisstory,andInodalonglikeI’mlistening,butallIcan think about is staring down the side of the Hancock building, and theimageIgotofthemarshfullofwater,restoredtoitsformerglory.IlookoverWill’s shoulder at the members, who are now flicking bits of food at oneanotherwiththeirforks.

It’sthefirsttimeIhavebeenreallyeagertobeoneofthem.

WhichmeansIhavetosurvivethenextstageofinitiation.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

ASFARASIcantell,thesecondstageofinitiationinvolvessittinginadarkhallwaywiththeotherinitiates,wonderingwhat’sgoingtohappenbehindacloseddoor.

Uriah sits across fromme, withMarlene on his left and Lynn on hisright. The Dauntless-born initiates and the transfers were separated duringstage one, butwewill be training together fromnowon.That’swhat Fourtoldusbeforehedisappearedbehindthedoor.

“So,”saysLynn,scuffingthefloorwithhershoe.“Whichoneofyouisrankedfirst,huh?”

Herquestionismetwithsilenceatfirst,andthenPeterclearshisthroat.

“Me,”hesays.

“Bet I could take you.” She says it casually, turning the ring in hereyebrowwithherfingertips.“I’msecond,butIbetanyofuscouldtakeyou,transfer.”

Ialmostlaugh.IfIwasstillAbnegation,hercommentwouldberudeandoutofplace,butamongtheDauntless,challengeslike thatseemcommon.Iamalmoststartingtoexpectthem.

“Iwouldn’t be so sure about that, if Iwere you,” Peter says, his eyesglittering.“Who’sfirst?”

“Uriah,” she says. “And I am sure.You knowhowmany yearswe’vespentpreparingforthis?”

Ifsheintendstointimidateus,itworks.Ialreadyfeelcolder.

Before Peter can respond, Four opens the door and says, “Lynn.” Hebeckons to her, and shewalks down the hallway, the blue light at the endmakingherbareheadglow.

“Soyou’refirst,”WillsaystoUriah.

Uriahshrugs.“Yeah.And?”

“Andyoudon’tthinkit’salittleunfairthatyou’vespentyourentirelifegettingreadyforthis,andwe’reexpectedtolearnitallinafewweeks?”Willsays,hiseyesnarrowing.

“Notreally.Stageonewasaboutskill,sure,butnoonecanprepareforstagetwo,”hesays.“Atleast,soI’mtold.”

Noone responds to that.We sit in silence for twentyminutes. I count

eachminuteonmywatch.Thenthedooropensagain,andFourcallsanothername.

“Peter,”hesays.

Eachminutewears intome like a scrape of sandpaper.Gradually, ournumbersbegintodwindle,andit’s justmeandUriahandDrew.Drew’slegbounces, andUriah’s fingers tap against his knee, and I try to sit perfectlystill. I hear onlymuttering from the room at the end of the hallway, and Isuspectthisisanotherpartofthegametheyliketoplaywithus.Terrifyingusateveryopportunity.

Thedooropens,andFourbeckonstome.“Comeon,Tris.”

Istand,mybacksorefromleaningagainstthewallforsolong,andwalkpasttheotherinitiates.Drewsticksouthislegtotripme,butIhopoveritatthelastsecond.

Fourtouchesmyshouldertoguidemeintotheroomandclosesthedoorbehindme.

WhenIseewhat’sinside,Irecoilimmediately,myshouldershittinghischest.

Intheroomisarecliningmetalchair,similartotheoneIsatinduringthe aptitude test.Beside it is a familiarmachine.This roomhas nomirrorsandbarelyanylight.Thereisacomputerscreenonadeskinthecorner.

“Sit,”Foursays.Hesqueezesmyarmsandpushesmeforward.

“What’sthesimulation?”Isay,tryingtokeepmyvoicefromshaking.Idon’tsucceed.

“Ever hear the phrase ‘face your fears’?” he says. “We’re taking thatliterally.Thesimulationwillteachyoutocontrolyouremotionsinthemidstofafrighteningsituation.”

I touch awavering hand tomy forehead. Simulations aren’t real; theyposenorealthreattome,sologically,Ishouldn’tbeafraidofthem,butmyreaction isvisceral. It takes all thewillpower Ihave forme to steermyselftowardthechairandsitdowninitagain,pressingmyskullintotheheadrest.Thecoldfromthemetalseepsthroughmyclothes.

“Doyoueveradministertheaptitudetests?”Isay.Heseemsqualified.

“No,”hereplies.“IavoidStiffsasmuchaspossible.”

Idon’tknowwhysomeonewouldavoidtheAbnegation.TheDauntlessortheCandor,maybe,becausebraveryandhonestymakepeopledostrangethings,buttheAbnegation?

“Why?”

“DoyouaskmethatbecauseyouthinkI’llactuallyanswer?”

“Why do you say vague things if you don’t want to be asked aboutthem?”

Hisfingersbrushmyneck.Mybodytenses.Atendergesture?No—hehastomovemyhairtotheside.Hetapssomething,andItiltmyheadbacktoseewhatitis.Fourholdsasyringewithalongneedleinonehand,histhumbagainsttheplunger.Theliquidinthesyringeistintedorange.

“An injection?”Mymouthgoesdry. I don’t usuallymindneedles, butthisoneishuge.

“Weuse amore advancedversion of the simulation here,” he says, “adifferentserum,nowiresorelectrodesforyou.”

“Howdoesitworkwithoutwires?”

“Well,Ihavewires,soIcanseewhat’sgoingon,”hesays.“Butforyou,there’satinytransmitterintheserumthatsendsdatatothecomputer.”

Heturnsmyarmoverandeasesthetipoftheneedleintothetenderskinonthesideofmyneck.Adeepachespreadsthroughmythroat.Iwinceandtrytofocusonhiscalmface.

“The serum will go into effect in sixty seconds. This simulation isdifferent from the aptitude test,” he says. “In addition to containing thetransmitter,theserumstimulatestheamygdala,whichisthepartofthebraininvolved in processing negative emotions—like fear—and then induces ahallucination. The brain’s electrical activity is then transmitted to ourcomputer,whichthentranslatesyourhallucinationintoasimulatedimagethatI can see and monitor. I will then forward the recording to Dauntlessadministrators.You stay in the hallucination until you calm down—that is,loweryourheartrateandcontrolyourbreathing.”

Itrytofollowhiswords,butmythoughtsaregoinghaywire.Ifeelthetrademark symptoms of fear: sweaty palms, racing heart, tightness in mychest, dry mouth, a lump in my throat, difficulty breathing. He plants hishandsoneithersideofmyheadandleansoverme.

“Bebrave,Tris,”hewhispers.“Thefirsttimeisalwaysthehardest.”

HiseyesarethelastthingIsee.

Istandinafieldofdrygrassthatcomesuptomywaist.Theairsmells

likesmokeandburnsmynostrils.Abovemetheskyisbile-colored,andthe

sightofitfillsmewithanxiety,mybodycringingawayfromit.

Ihearfluttering,likethepagesofabookblownbythewind,butthereisnowind.Theairisstillandsoundlessapartfromtheflapping,neitherhotnorcold—notlikeairatall,butIcanstillbreathe.Ashadowswoopsoverhead.

Somethinglandsonmyshoulder.Ifeelitsweightandtheprickoftalonsand fling my arm forward to shake it off, my hand batting at it. I feelsomethingsmoothandfragile.Afeather.Ibitemylipandlooktotheside.Ablackbirdthesizeofmyforearmturnsitsheadandfocusesonebeadyeyeonme.

Igritmyteethandhitthecrowagainwithmyhand.Itdigsinitstalonsand doesn’tmove. I cry out,more frustrated than pained, and hit the crowwith both hands, but it stays in place, resolute, one eye on me, feathersgleamingintheyellowlight.ThunderrumblesandIhearthepatterofrainontheground,butnorainfalls.

Theskydarkens,likeacloudispassingoverthesun.Stillcringingawayfromthecrow,Ilookup.Aflockofcrowsstormstowardme,anadvancingarmyofoutstretchedtalonsandopenbeaks,eachonesquawking,fillingtheairwithnoise.Thecrowsdescendinasinglemass,divingtowardtheearth,hundredsofbeadyblackeyesshining.

Itrytorun,butmyfeetarefirmlyplantedandrefusetomove,likethecrowonmyshoulder.Iscreamastheysurroundme,feathersflappinginmyears,beakspeckingatmyshoulders,talonsclingingtomyclothes.Iscreamuntil tearscomefrommyeyes,myarmsflailing.Myhandshitsolidbodiesbutdonothing;therearetoomany.Iamalone.Theynipatmyfingertipsandpressagainstmybody,wingsslidingacrossthebackofmyneck,feettearingatmyhair.

I twist andwrench and fall to the ground, coveringmy headwithmyarms.Theyscreamagainstme.Ifeelawigglinginthegrass,acrowforcingitswayundermyarm.Iopenmyeyesanditpecksatmyface,itsbeakhittingmeinthenose.BlooddripsontothegrassandIsob,hittingitwithmypalm,butanothercrowwedgesundermyotherarmanditsclawssticktothefrontofmyshirt.

Iamscreaming;Iamsobbing.

“Help!”Iwail.“Help!”

Andthecrowsflapharder,aroarinmyears.Mybodyburns,andtheyareeverywhere,andIcan’tthink,Ican’tbreathe.Igaspforairandmymouthfillswithfeathers,feathersdownmythroat,inmylungs,replacingmybloodwithdeadweight.

“Help,”Isobandscream,insensible,illogical.Iamdying;Iamdying;Iamdying.

MyskinsearsandIambleeding,andthesquawkingissoloudmyearsareringing,butIamnotdying,andIrememberthatitisn’treal,butitfeelsreal,itfeelssoreal.Bebrave.Four’svoicescreamsinmymemory.Icryouttohim,inhalingfeathersandexhaling“Help!”Buttherewillbenohelp;Iamalone.

You stay in the hallucination until you can calm down, his voicecontinues,andIcough,andmyfaceiswetwithtears,andanothercrowhaswriggled undermy arms, and I feel the edge of its sharp beak againstmymouth.Itsbeakwedgespastmylipsandscrapesmyteeth.Thecrowpushesits head into mymouth and I bite hard, tasting something foul. I spit andclenchmyteethtoformabarrier,butnowafourthcrowispushingatmyfeet,andafifthcrowispeckingatmyribs.

Calmdown.Ican’t,Ican’t.Myheadthrobs.

Breathe.Ikeepmymouthclosedandsuckairintomynose.Ithasbeenhours since Iwas alone in the field; it hasbeendays. I push air out ofmynose.Myheart poundshard inmy chest. I have to slow it down. I breatheagain,myfacewetwithtears.

Isobagain,andforcemyselfforward,stretchingoutonthegrass,whichpricklesagainstmyskin.Iextendmyarmsandbreathe.Crowspushandprodatmysides,wormingtheirwaybeneathme,andIletthem.Ilettheflappingof wings and the squawking and the pecking and the prodding continue,relaxingonemuscleatatime,resigningmyselftobecomingapeckedcarcass.

Thepainoverwhelmsme.

Iopenmyeyes,andIamsittinginthemetalchair.

Iscreamandhitmyarmsandheadandlegstogetthebirdsoffme,butthey are gone, though I can still feel the feathers brushing the back ofmyneckandthetalonsinmyshoulderandmyburningskin.Imoanandpullmykneestomychest,buryingmyfaceinthem.

A hand touches my shoulder, and I fling a fist out, hitting somethingsolidbutsoft.“Don’ttouchme!”Isob.

“It’s over,” Four says.The hand shifts awkwardly overmyhair, and Iremember my father stroking my hair when he kissed me goodnight, mymother touchingmy hair when she trimmed it with the scissors. I runmypalmsalongmyarms,stillbrushingofffeathers, thoughIknowtherearen’tany.

“Tris.”

Irockbackandforthinthemetalchair.

“Tris,I’mgoingtotakeyoubacktothedorms,okay?”

“No!” I snap. I liftmy head and glare at him, though I can’t see himthroughthebluroftears.“Theycan’tseeme…notlikethis…”

“Oh,calmdown,”hesays.Herollshiseyes.“I’lltakeyououtthebackdoor.”

“Idon’tneedyou to…” I shakemyhead.Mybody is tremblingand IfeelsoweakI’mnotsureIcanstand,butIhavetotry.Ican’tbetheonlyonewhoneedstobewalkedbacktothedorms.Eveniftheydon’tseeme,they’llfindout,they’lltalkaboutme—

“Nonsense.”

Hegrabsmyarmandhaulsmeoutofthechair.Iblinkthetearsfrommyeyes,wipemycheekswiththeheelofmyhand,andlethimsteermetowardthedoorbehindthecomputerscreen.

Wewalkdownthehallwayinsilence.Whenwe’reafewhundredyardsawayfromtheroom,Iyankmyarmawayandstop.

“Whydidyoudothattome?”Isay.“Whatwasthepointofthat,huh?Iwasn’t aware that when I chose Dauntless, I was signing up for weeks oftorture!”

“Didyouthinkovercomingcowardicewouldbeeasy?”hesayscalmly.

“Thatisn’tovercomingcowardice!Cowardiceishowyoudecidetobeinreallife,andinreallife,Iamnotgettingpeckedtodeathbycrows,Four!”Ipressmypalmstomyfaceandsobintothem.

Hedoesn’tsayanything,juststandsthereasIcry.Itonlytakesmeafewsecondstostopandwipemyfaceagain.“Iwanttogohome,”Isayweakly.

But home is not an option anymore. My choices are here or thefactionlessslums.

Hedoesn’tlookatmewithsympathy.Hejustlooksatme.Hiseyeslookblackinthedimcorridor,andhismouthissetinahardline.

“Learninghow to think in themidstof fear,”hesays,“isa lesson thateveryone,evenyourStifffamily,needstolearn.That’swhatwe’retryingtoteachyou.Ifyoucan’tlearnit,you’llneedtogetthehelloutofhere,becausewewon’twantyou.”

“I’mtrying.”Mylowerliptrembles.“ButIfailed.I’mfailing.”

Hesighs.“Howlongdoyouthinkyouspentinthathallucination,Tris?”

“Idon’tknow.”Ishakemyhead.“Ahalfhour?”

“Three minutes,” he replies. “You got out three times faster than theotherinitiates.Whateveryouare,you’renotafailure.”

Threeminutes?

Hesmilesalittle.“Tomorrowyou’llbebetteratthis.You’llsee.”

“Tomorrow?”

He touches my back and guides me toward the dormitory. I feel hisfingertips throughmyshirt.Theirgentlepressuremakesmeforget thebirdsforamoment.

“Whatwasyourfirsthallucination?”Isay,glancingathim.

“Itwasn’ta‘what’somuchasa‘who.’”Heshrugs.“It’snotimportant.”

“Andareyouoverthatfearnow?”

“Notyet.”Wereachthedoortothedormitory,andheleansagainstthewall,slidinghishandsintohispockets.“Imayneverbe.”

“Sotheydon’tgoaway?”

“Sometimes they do. And sometimes new fears replace them.” Histhumbs hook around his belt loops. “But becoming fearless isn’t the point.That’simpossible.It’slearninghowtocontrolyourfear,andhowtobefreefromit,that’sthepoint.”

I nod. I used to think the Dauntless were fearless. That is how theyseemed, anyway.Butmaybewhat I sawas fearlesswasactually fearundercontrol.

“Anyway,yourfearsarerarelywhattheyappeartobeinthesimulation,”headds.

“Whatdoyoumean?”

“Well,areyoureallyafraidofcrows?”hesays,halfsmilingatme.TheexpressionwarmshiseyesenoughthatIforgethe’smyinstructor.He’sjustaboy,talkingcasually,walkingmetomydoor.“Whenyouseeone,doyourunawayscreaming?”

“No. I guess not.” I think about stepping closer to him, not for anypracticalreason,butjustbecauseIwanttoseewhatitwouldbeliketostandthatclosetohim;justbecauseIwantto.

Foolish,avoiceinmyheadsays.

I stepcloserand leanagainst thewall too, tiltingmyheadsideways tolookathim.As Ididon theFerriswheel, Iknowexactlyhowmuch spacethere is betweenus.Six inches. I lean.Less than six inches. I feelwarmer,likehe’sgivingoffsomekindofenergythatIamonlynowcloseenoughtofeel.

“SowhatamIreallyafraidof?”Isay.

“Idon’tknow,”hesays.“Onlyyoucanknow.”

Inodslowly.Thereareadozenthingsitcouldbe,butI’mnotsurewhichoneisright,orifthere’sevenonerightone.

“Ididn’tknowbecomingDauntlesswouldbethisdifficult,”Isay,andasecondlater,IamsurprisedthatIsaidit;surprisedthatIadmittedtoit.IbitetheinsideofmycheekandwatchFourcarefully.Wasitamistaketotellhimthat?

“It wasn’t always like this, I’m told,” he says, lifting a shoulder. Myadmissiondoesn’tappeartobotherhim.“BeingDauntless,Imean.”

“Whatchanged?”

“The leadership,” he says. “The person who controls training sets thestandard of Dauntless behavior. Six years ago Max and the other leaderschanged the training methods to make them more competitive and morebrutal, said itwas supposed to test people’s strength.And that changed theprioritiesofDauntlessasawhole.Betyoucan’tguesswhotheleaders’newprotégéis.”

Theanswerisobvious:Eric.Theytrainedhimtobevicious,andnowhewilltraintherestofustobevicioustoo.

IlookatFour.Theirtrainingdidn’tworkonhim.

“So if you were ranked first in your initiate class,” I say, “what wasEric’srank?”

“Second.”

“Sohewastheirsecondchoiceforleadership.”Inodslowly.“Andyouweretheirfirst.”

“Whatmakesyousaythat?”

“ThewayEricwasactingatdinnerthefirstnight.Jealous,eventhoughhehaswhathewants.”

Fourdoesn’tcontradictme.Imustberight.Iwanttoaskwhyhedidn’ttakethepositiontheleadersofferedhim;whyheissoresistanttoleadership

when he seems to be a natural leader. But I know how Four feels aboutpersonalquestions.

Isniff,wipemyfaceonemoretime,andsmoothdownmyhair.

“DoIlooklikeI’vebeencrying?”Isay.

“Hmm.”He leans in close,narrowinghis eyes likehe’s inspectingmyface.Asmile tugsat thecornerofhismouth.Evencloser, sowewouldbebreathingthesameair—ifIcouldremembertobreathe.

“No,Tris,”hesays.Amoreserious lookreplaceshissmileasheadds,“Youlooktoughasnails.”

CHAPTERNINETEEN

WHENIWALKIN,mostoftheotherinitiates—Dauntless-bornandtransferalike—arecrowdedbetweentherowsofbunkbedswithPeterattheircenter.Heholdsapieceofpaperinbothhands.

“ThemassexodusofthechildrenofAbnegationleaderscannotbeignoredorattributed to coincidence,” he reads. “The recent transfer of Beatrice andCalebPrior,thechildrenofAndrewPrior,callsintoquestionthesoundnessofAbnegation’svaluesandteachings.”

Coldcreepsupmyspine.Christina,standingontheedgeofthecrowd,looksoverhershoulderandspotsme.Shegivesmeaworried look. Ican’tmove.Myfather.NowtheEruditeareattackingmyfather.

“Whyelsewouldthechildrenofsuchanimportantmandecidethatthelifestyle he has set out for them is not an admirable one?”Peter continues.“MollyAtwood,afellowDauntlesstransfer,suggestsadisturbedandabusiveupbringingmightbetoblame.‘Iheardhertalkinginhersleeponce,’Mollysays.‘Shewastellingherfathertostopdoingsomething.Idon’tknowwhatitwas,butitgavehernightmares.’”

SothisisMolly’srevenge.ShemusthavetalkedtotheEruditereporterthatChristinayelledat.

She smiles. Her teeth are crooked. If I knocked them out, I might bedoingherafavor.

“What?” I demand. Or I try to demand, but my voice comes outstrangled and scratchy, and I have to clear my throat and say it again.“What?”

Peterstopsreading,andafewpeopleturnaround.Some,likeChristina,look atme in a pityingway, their eyebrows drawn in, theirmouths turneddown at the corners. But most give me little smirks and eye one anothersuggestively.Peterturnslast,withawidesmile.

“Givemethat,”Isay,holdingoutmyhand.Myfaceburns.

“But I’mnotdone reading,”he replies, laughter inhisvoice.His eyesscan the paper again. “However, perhaps the answer lies not in a morallybereftman,butinthecorruptedidealsofanentirefaction.Perhapstheansweristhatwehaveentrustedourcitytoagroupofproselytizingtyrantswhodonotknowhowtoleadusoutofpovertyandintoprosperity.”

Istormuptohimandtrytosnatchthepaperfromhishands,butheholdsitup,highabovemyheadsoIcan’treachitunlessIjump,andIwon’tjump.Instead,IliftmyheelandstompashardasIcanwherethebonesinhisfoot

connecttohistoes.Hegritshisteethtostifleagroan.

Then I throw myself at Molly, hoping the force of the impact willsurpriseherandknockherdown,butbeforeIcandoanydamage,coldhandsclosearoundmywaist.

“That’smyfather!”Iscream.“Myfather,youcoward!”

Willpullsmeawayfromher,liftingmeofftheground.Mybreathscomefast,andIstruggletograbthepaperbeforeanyonecanreadanotherwordofit.Ihavetoburnit;Ihavetodestroyit;Ihaveto.

Will drags me out of the room and into the hallway, his fingernailsdiggingintomyskin.Oncethedoorshutsbehindhim,heletsgo,andIshovehimashardasIcan.

“What? Did you think I couldn’t defend myself against that piece ofCandortrash?”

“No,”saysWill.Hestands infrontof thedoor.“IfiguredI’dstopyoufromstartingabrawlinthedormitory.Calmdown.”

I laugh a little. “Calm down? Calm down? That’s my family they’retalkingabout,that’smyfaction!”

“No,it’snot.”Therearedarkcirclesunderhiseyes;helooksexhausted.“It’syouroldfaction,andthere’snothingyoucandoaboutwhattheysay,soyoumightaswelljustignoreit.”

“Were you even listening?” The heat in my cheeks is gone, and mybreaths are more even now. “Your stupid ex-faction isn’t just insultingAbnegation anymore. They’re calling for an overthrow of the entiregovernment.”

Willlaughs.“No,they’renot.They’rearrogantanddull,andthat’swhyIleftthem,buttheyaren’trevolutionaries.Theyjustwantmoresay,that’sall,andtheyresentAbnegationforrefusingtolistentothem.”

“Theydon’twantpeople to listen, theywantpeople to agree,” I reply.“Andyoushouldn’tbullypeopleintoagreeingwithyou.”Itouchmypalmstomycheeks.“Ican’tbelievemybrotherjoinedthem.”

“Hey.They’renotallbad,”hesayssharply.

Inod,butIdon’tbelievehim.Ican’timagineanyoneemergingfromtheEruditeunscathed,thoughWillseemsallright.

Thedooropensagain,andChristinaandAlwalkout.

“It’smyturntogettattooed,”shesays.“Wanttocomewithus?”

Ismoothmyhair.Ican’tgobackintothedormitory.EvenifWillletme,Iamoutnumberedthere.Myonlychoiceistogowiththemandtrytoforgetwhat’shappeningoutside theDauntless compound. I have enough toworryaboutwithoutanxietyaboutmyfamily.

Ahead of me, Al gives Christina a piggyback ride. She shrieks as he

chargesthroughthecrowd.Peoplegivehimawideberth,whentheycan.

Myshoulderstillburns.Christinapersuadedmetojoinheringettingatattooof theDauntless seal. It isacirclewitha flame inside it.Mymotherdidn’t even react to the one on my collarbone, so I don’t have as manyreservationsaboutgettingtattoos.Theyareapartoflifehere,justasintegraltomyinitiationaslearningtofight.

Christina also persuaded me to purchase a shirt that exposes myshouldersandcollarbone,andtolinemyeyeswithblackpencilagain.Idon’tbother objecting to hermakeover attempts anymore.Especially since I findmyselfenjoyingthem.

WillandIwalkbehindChristinaandAl.

“Ican’tbelieveyougotanothertattoo,”hesays,shakinghishead.

“Why?”Isay.“BecauseI’maStiff?”

“No. Because you’re…sensible.” He smiles. His teeth are white andstraight.“So,whatwasyourfeartoday,Tris?”

“Toomanycrows,”Ireply.“You?”

Helaughs.“Toomuchacid.”

Idon’taskwhatthatmeans.

“It’s really fascinating how it all works,” he says. “It’s basically astrugglebetweenyourthalamus,whichisproducingthefear,andyourfrontallobe,whichmakesdecisions.Butthesimulationisallinyourhead,soeventhough you feel like someone is doing it to you, it’s just you, doing it toyourselfand…”Hetrailsoff.“Sorry.IsoundlikeanErudite.Justahabit.”

Ishrug.“It’sinteresting.”

AlalmostdropsChristina,andsheslapsherhandsaroundthefirstthingshecangrab,which justhappens tobehis face.Hecringes andadjustshisgriponherlegs.Ataglance,Alseemshappy,butthereissomethingheavyaboutevenhissmiles.Iamworriedabouthim.

I see Four standing by the chasm, a group of people around him. He

laughssohardhehastograbtherailingforbalance.Judgingbythebottleinhishandandthebrightnessofhisface,he’sintoxicated,oronhiswaythere.Ihadbegun to thinkofFouras rigid, likea soldier, and forgot thathe’salsoeighteen.

“Uh-oh,”saysWill.“Instructoralert.”

“At least it’snotEric,” I say.“He’dprobablymakeusplaychickenorsomething.”

“Sure,butFour is scary.Rememberwhenheput thegunup toPeter’shead?IthinkPeterwethimself.”

“Peterdeservedit,”Isayfirmly.

Willdoesn’targuewithme.Hemighthave,afewweeksago,butnowwe’veallseenwhatPeteriscapableof.

“Tris!”Fourcallsout.WillandIexchangealook,halfsurpriseandhalfapprehension.Fourpullsawayfromtherailingandwalksuptome.Aheadofus,AlandChristinastoprunning,andChristinaslidestotheground.Idon’tblamethemforstaring.Therearefourofus,andFourisonlytalkingtome.

“Youlookdifferent.”Hiswords,normallycrisp,arenowsluggish.

“So do you,” I say. And he does—he looks more relaxed, younger.“Whatareyoudoing?”

“Flirtingwithdeath,”hereplieswithalaugh.“Drinkingnearthechasm.Probablynotagoodidea.”

“No, it isn’t.” I’m not sure I like Four this way. There’s somethingunsettlingaboutit.

“Didn’tknowyouhadatattoo,”hesays,lookingatmycollarbone.

Hesipsthebottle.Hisbreathsmellsthickandsharp.Likethefactionlessman’sbreath.

“Right.Thecrows,”hesays.Heglancesoverhisshoulderathisfriends,whoarecarryingonwithouthim,unlikemine.Headds,“I’daskyoutohangoutwithus,butyou’renotsupposedtoseemethisway.”

Iamtemptedtoaskhimwhyhewantsmetohangoutwithhim,butIsuspecttheanswerhassomethingtodowiththebottleinhishand.

“Whatway?”Iask.“Drunk?”

“Yeah…well,no.”Hisvoicesoftens.“Real,Iguess.”

“I’llpretendIdidn’t.”

“Niceofyou.”Heputshislipsnexttomyearandsays,“Youlookgood,Tris.”

His words surprise me, and my heart leaps. I wish it didn’t, becausejudgingbythewayhiseyesslideovermine,hehasnoideawhathe’ssaying.Ilaugh.“Domeafavorandstayawayfromthechasm,okay?”

“Ofcourse.”Hewinksatme.

I can’t help it. I smile.Will clears his throat, but I don’twant to turnawayfromFour,evenwhenhewalksbacktohisfriends.

Then Al rushes at me like a rolling boulder and throws me over hisshoulder.Ishriek,myfacehot.

“Comeon,littlegirl,”hesays,“I’mtakingyoutodinner.”

IrestmyelbowsonAl’sbackandwaveatFourashecarriesmeaway.

“I thought Iwould rescueyou,”Al saysaswewalkaway.Hesetsmedown.“Whatwasthatallabout?”

Heistryingtosoundlighthearted,butheasksthequestionalmostsadly.Hestillcarestoomuchaboutme.

“Yeah, I thinkwe’dall like toknowtheanswer to thatquestion,”saysChristinainasingsongvoice.“Whatdidhesaytoyou?”

“Nothing.”Ishakemyhead.“Hewasdrunk.Hedidn’tevenknowwhathewassaying.”Iclearmythroat.“That’swhyIwasgrinning.It’s…funnytoseehimthatway.”

“Right,”saysWill.“Couldn’tpossiblybebecause—”

IelbowWillhardin theribsbeforehecanfinishhissentence.HewascloseenoughtohearwhatFoursaidtomeaboutlookinggood.Idon’tneedhimtellingeveryoneaboutit,especiallynotAl.Idon’twanttomakehimfeelworse.

At home I used to spend calm, pleasant nights with my family. Mymotherknitscarvesfortheneighborhoodkids.MyfatherhelpedCalebwithhishomework.Therewasa fire in thefireplaceandpeace inmyheart,as IwasdoingexactlywhatIwassupposedtobedoing,andeverythingwasquiet.

I have never been carried around by a large boy, or laughed untilmystomachhurtatthedinnertable,orlistenedtotheclamorofahundredpeoplealltalkingatonce.Peaceisrestrained;thisisfree.

CHAPTERTWENTY

IBREATHETHROUGHmynose.In,out.In.

“It’sjustasimulation,Tris,”Foursaysquietly.

He’swrong.Thelastsimulationbledintomylife,wakingandsleeping.Nightmares, not just featuring the crows but the feelings I had in thesimulation—terrorandhelplessness,whichIsuspectiswhatIamreallyafraidof.Sudden fits of terror in the shower, at breakfast, on thewayhere.Nailsbittendownsofarmynailbedsache.AndIamnot theonlyonewhofeelsthisway;Icantell.

StillInodandclosemyeyes.

I am indarkness.The last thing I remember is themetal chair and the

needle inmyarm.This time there isno field; therearenocrows.Myheartpoundsinanticipation.Whatmonsterswillcreepfromthedarknessandstealmyrationality?HowlongwillIhavetowaitforthem?

Ablueorblightsupafewfeetaheadofme,andthenanotherone,fillingtheroomwithlight.IamonthePitfloor,nexttothechasm,andtheinitiatesstand around me, their arms folded and their faces blank. I search forChristina and find her standing among them. None of them move. Theirstillnessmakesmythroatfeeltight.

Iseesomethinginfrontofme—myownfaintreflection.Itouchit,andmyfingersfindglass,coolandsmooth.Ilookup.Thereisapaneaboveme;Iaminaglassbox.IpressabovemyheadtoseeifIcanforcetheboxopen.Itdoesn’tbudge.Iamsealedin.

Myheartbeats faster. Idon’twant tobe trapped.Someone tapson thewallinfrontofme.Four.Hepointsatmyfeet,smirking.

Afewsecondsago,myfeetweredry,butnowIstandinhalfaninchofwater, andmy socks are soggy. I crouch to seewhere thewater is comingfrom,butitseemstobecomingfromnowhere,risingupfromthebox’sglassbottom.IlookupatFour,andheshrugs.Hejoinsthecrowdofinitiates.

Thewaterrisesfast.Itnowcoversmyankles.Ipoundagainsttheglasswithmyfist.

“Hey!”Isay.“Letmeoutofhere!”

Thewater slides upmy bare calves as it rises, cool and soft. I hit theglassharder.

“Getmeoutofhere!”

IstareatChristina.SheleansovertoPeter,whostandsbesideher,andwhisperssomethinginhisear.Theybothlaugh.

Thewatercoversmythighs.Ipoundbothfistsagainsttheglass.I’mnottryingtogettheirattentionanymore;I’mtryingtobreakout.Frantic,IbangagainsttheglassashardasIcan.Istepbackandthrowmyshoulderintothewall, once, twice, three times, four times. I hit the wall until my shoulderaches,screamingforhelp,watchingthewaterrisetomywaist,myribcage,mychest.

“Help!”Iscream.“Please!Pleasehelp!”

Islaptheglass.Iwilldieinthistank.Idragmyshakinghandsthroughmyhair.

IseeWillstandingamongtheinitiates,andsomethingticklesatthebackofmymind.Somethinghe said.Comeon, think. I stop trying to break theglass.It’shardtobreathe,butIhavetotry.I’llneedasmuchairasIcangetinafewseconds.

Mybodyrises,weightless in thewater. I floatcloser to theceilingandtiltmyheadbackasthewatercoversmychin.Gasping,Ipressmyfacetotheglassaboveme,suckinginasmuchairasIcan.Thenthewatercoversme,sealingmeintothebox.

Don’t panic. It’s no use—my heart pounds andmy thoughts scatter. Ithrashinthewater,smackingthewalls.IkicktheglassashardasIcan,butthewaterslowsdownmyfoot.Thesimulationisallinyourhead.

Iscream,andwaterfillsmymouth.Ifit’sinmyhead,Icontrolit.Thewaterburnsmyeyes.Theinitiates’passivefacesstarebackatme.Theydon’tcare.

I screamagain and shove thewallwithmypalm. I hear something.Acrackingsound.WhenIpullmyhandaway,thereisalineintheglass.Islammyotherhandnexttothefirstanddriveanothercrackthroughtheglass,thisone spreading outward from my palm in long, crooked fingers. My chestburns like I just swallowed fire. I kick the wall. My toes ache from theimpact,andIhearalong,lowgroan.

Thepaneshatters,andtheforceofthewateragainstmybackthrowsmeforward.Thereisairagain.

Igaspandsitup.I’minthechair.Igulpandshakeoutmyhands.Fourstandstomyright,butinsteadofhelpingmeup,hejustlooksatme.

“What?”Iask.

“Howdidyoudothat?”

“Dowhat?”

“Cracktheglass.”

“Idon’tknow.”Fourfinallyoffersmehishand.Iswingmylegsoverthesideofthechair,andwhenIstand,Ifeelsteady.Calm.

Hesighsandgrabsmebytheelbow,halfleadingandhalfdraggingmeoutoftheroom.Wewalkquicklydownthehallway,andthenIstop,pullingmy arm back. He stares at me in silence. He won’t give me informationwithoutprompting.

“What?”Idemand.

“You’reDivergent,”hereplies.

Istareathim,fearpulsingthroughmelikeelectricity.Heknows.Howdoesheknow?Imusthaveslippedup.Saidsomethingwrong.

Ishouldactcasual.I leanback,pressingmyshoulderstothewall,andsay,“What’sDivergent?”

“Don’tplaystupid,”hesays.“Isuspectedit last time,but this timeit’sobvious. You manipulated the simulation; you’re Divergent. I’ll delete thefootage, but unless youwant towind up dead at the bottom of the chasm,you’llfigureouthowtohideitduringthesimulations!Now,ifyou’llexcuseme.”

Hewalksbacktothesimulationroomandslamsthedoorbehindhim.Ifeel my heartbeat in my throat. I manipulated the simulation; I broke theglass.Ididn’tknowthatwasanactofDivergence.

Howdidhe?

I pushmyself away from thewall and start down the hallway. I needanswers,andIknowwhohasthem.

IwalkstraighttothetattooplacewhereIlastsawTori.

There aren’tmany people out, because it’smidafter-noon andmost ofthemareatworkoratschool.Therearethreepeopleinthetattooplace:theothertattooartist,whoisdrawingaliononanotherman’sarm,andTori,whoissortingthroughastackofpaperonthecounter.ShelooksupwhenIwalkin.

“Hello,Tris,”shesays.Sheglancesattheothertattooartist,whoistoo

focusedonwhathe’sdoingtonoticeus.“Let’sgointheback.”

I followher behind the curtain that separates the two rooms.Thenextroom contains a few chairs, spare tattoo needles, ink, pads of paper, andframedartwork.Toridrawsthecurtainshutandsitsinoneofthechairs.Isitnexttoher,tappingmyfeettogivemyselfsomethingtodo.

“What’sgoingon?”shesays.“Howarethesimulationsgoing?”

“Reallywell.”Inodafewtimes.“Alittletoowell,Ihear.”

“Ah.”

“Pleasehelpmeunderstand,”Isayquietly.“Whatdoesitmeantobe…”Ihesitate.Ishouldnotsaytheword“Divergent”here.“WhatthehellamI?Whatdoesithavetodowiththesimulations?”

Tori’s demeanor changes. She leans back and crosses her arms. Herexpressionbecomesguarded.

“Amongother things,you…youaresomeonewhoisaware,whentheyare in a simulation, that what they are experiencing is not real,” she says.“Someonewhocanthenmanipulatethesimulationorevenshutitdown.Andalso…”Sheleansforwardandlooks intomyeyes.“Someonewho,becauseyouarealsoDauntless…tendstodie.”

A weight settles on my chest, like each sentence she speaks is pilingthere.Tensionbuilds insidemeuntil I can’t stand to hold it in anymore—Ihavetocry,orscream,or…

Iletoutaharshlittlelaughthatdiesalmostassoonasit’sbornandsay,“SoI’mgoingtodie,then?”

“Not necessarily,” she says. “TheDauntless leaders don’t know aboutyou yet. I deleted your aptitude results from the system immediately andmanually logged your result as Abnegation. Butmake nomistake—if theydiscoverwhatyouare,theywillkillyou.”

Istareatherinsilence.Shedoesn’tlookcrazy.Shesoundssteady,ifalittleurgent,andI’veneversuspectedherofbeingunbalanced,butshemustbe.Therehasn’tbeenamurderinourcityaslongasI’vebeenalive.Evenifindividualsarecapableofit,theleadersofafactioncan’tpossiblybe.

“You’reparanoid,”Isay.“TheleadersoftheDauntlesswouldn’tkillme.People don’t do that. Not anymore. That’s the point of all this…all thefactions.”

“Oh,youthinkso?”Sheplantsherhandsonherkneesandstaresrightatme, her features taut with sudden ferocity. “They gotmy brother, why not

you,huh?Whatmakesyouspecial?”

“Yourbrother?”Isay,narrowingmyeyes.

“Yeah. My brother. He and I both transferred from Erudite, only hisaptitudetestwasinconclusive.Onthelastdayofsimulations,theyfoundhisbodyinthechasm.Saiditwasasuicide.Onlymybrotherwasdoingwellintraining,hewasdatinganotherinitiate,hewashappy.”Sheshakesherhead.“You have a brother, right? Don’t you think you would know if he wassuicidal?”

I try to imagine Caleb killing himself. Even the thought soundsridiculoustome.EvenifCalebwasmiserable,itwouldnotbeanoption.

Hersleevesarerolledup,soIcanseeatattooofariveronherrightarm.Didshegetitafterherbrotherdied?Wastheriveranotherfearsheovercame?

Shelowershervoice.“Inthesecondstageoftraining,Georgiegotreallygood, really fast. He said the simulationsweren’t even scary to him…theywerelikeagame.Sotheinstructorstookaspecialinterestinhim.Piledintotheroomwhenhewentunder,insteadofjustlettingtheinstructorreporthisresults.Whisperedabouthimallthetime.Thelastdayofsimulations,oneoftheDauntlessleaderscameintoseeithimself.Andthenextday,Georgiewasgone.”

Icouldbegoodat thesimulations, ifImasteredwhateverforcehelpedmebreak theglass. Icouldbesogood thatall the instructors tooknotice. Icould,butwillI?

“Isthatallitis?”Isay.“Justchangingthesimulations?”

“Idoubtit,”shesays,“butthat’sallIknow.”

“Howmany people know about this?” I say, thinking of Four. “Aboutmanipulatingthesimulations?”

“Twokindsofpeople,”shesays.“Peoplewhowantyoudead.Orpeoplewhohaveexperienceditthemselves.Firsthand.Orsecondhand,likeme.”

Fourtoldmehewoulddeletetherecordingofmebreakingtheglass.Hedoesn’twantmedead.IsheDivergent?Wasafamilymember?Afriend?Agirlfriend?

Ipushthethoughtaside.Ican’tlethimdistractme.

“Idon’tunderstand,”Isayslowly,“whytheDauntlessleaderscarethatIcanmanipulatethesimulation.”

“IfIhaditfiguredout,Iwouldhavetoldyoubynow.”Shepressesherlips together. “The only thing I’ve come up with is that changing the

simulationisn’twhattheycareabout;it’sjustasymptomofsomethingelse.Somethingtheydocareabout.”

Toritakesmyhandandpressesitbetweenherpalms.

“Thinkaboutthis,”shesays.“Thesepeopletaughtyouhowtouseagun.They taughtyouhowto fight.You think they’reabovehurtingyou?Abovekillingyou?”

Shereleasesmyhandandstands.

“IhavetogoorBudwillaskquestions.Becareful,Tris.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

THEDOORTOthePitclosesbehindme,andIamalone.Ihavenotwalkedthis tunnel since the day of the Choosing Ceremony. I remember how Iwalkeditthen,myfootstepsunsteady,searchingforlight.Iwalkitsurefootednow.Idon’tneedlightanymore.

It has been four days since I spoke to Tori. Since then, Erudite hasreleased twoarticlesaboutAbnegation.ThefirstarticleaccusesAbnegationof withholding luxuries like cars and fresh fruit from the other factions inorder to force their belief in self-denial on everyone else.When I read it, IthoughtofWill’ssister,Cara,accusingmymotherofhoardinggoods.

The second article discusses the failings of choosing governmentofficials based on their faction, asking why only people who definethemselves as selfless should be in government. It promotes a return to thedemocraticallyelectedpolitical systemsof thepast. Itmakesa lotof sense,whichmakesmesuspectitisacallforrevolutionwrappedintheclothingofrationality.

I reach theendof the tunnel.Thenet stretchesacross thegapinghole,just as it didwhen I last saw it. I climb the stairs to thewooden platformwhereFourpulledmetosolidgroundandgrabthebarthatthenetisattachedto.IwouldnothavebeenabletoliftmybodyupwithjustmyarmswhenIfirstgothere,butnowIdoitalmostwithoutthinkingandrollintothecenterofthenet.

Abovemearetheemptybuildingsthatstandattheedgeofthehole,andthesky.Itisdarkblueandstarless.Thereisnomoon.

The articles troubledme, but I had friends to cheermeup, and that issomething.When the first one was released, Christina charmed one of thecooksintheDauntlesskitchens,andheletustrysomecakebatter.Afterthesecondarticle,UriahandMarlenetaughtmeacardgame,andweplayedfortwohoursinthedininghall.

Tonight,though,Iwanttobealone.Morethanthat,IwanttorememberwhyIcamehere,andwhyIwassodeterminedtostayherethatIwouldjumpoffabuildingforit,evenbeforeIknewwhatbeingDauntlesswas.Iworkmyfingersthroughtheholesinthenetbeneathme.

IwantedtobeliketheDauntlessIsawatschool.Iwantedtobeloudanddaring and free like them. But they were notmembers yet; they were justplaying at being Dauntless. And so was I, when I jumped off that roof. Ididn’tknowwhatfearwas.

Inthepastfourdays,Ifacedfourfears.InoneIwastiedtoastakeandPetersetafirebeneathmyfeet.InanotherIwasdrowningagain,thistimeinthemiddleofanoceanasthewaterragedaroundme.Inthethird,Iwatchedasmyfamilyslowlybledtodeath.Andinthefourth,Iwasheldatgunpointandforcedtoshootthem.Iknowwhatfearisnow.

Windrushesoverthelipoftheholeandwashesoverme,andIclosemyeyes.InmymindIstandattheedgeoftheroofagain.Iundothebuttonsofmy gray Abnegation shirt, exposingmy arms, revealingmore of my bodythananyoneelsehaseverseen.IballtheshirtupandhurlitatPeter’schest.

Iopenmyeyes.No, Iwaswrong; Ididn’t jumpoff theroofbecauseIwantedtobeliketheDauntless.IjumpedoffbecauseIalreadywaslikethem,and I wanted to showmyself to them. I wanted to acknowledge a part ofmyselfthatAbnegationdemandedthatIhide.

Istretchmyhandsovermyheadandhooktheminthenetagain.Ireachwithmy toesas far as I can, takingupasmuchof thenet aspossible.Thenight sky is empty and silent, and for the first time in four days, so ismymind.

I holdmyhead inmyhands andbreathedeeply.Today the simulation

wasthesameasyesterday:Someoneheldmeatgunpointandorderedmetoshootmyfamily.WhenIliftmyhead,IseethatFouriswatchingme.

“Iknowthesimulationisn’treal,”Isay.

“Youdon’thavetoexplainittome,”hereplies.“Youloveyourfamily.Youdon’twanttoshootthem.Notthemostunreasonablethingintheworld.”

“InthesimulationistheonlytimeIgettoseethem,”Isay.EventhoughhesaysIdon’t,IfeellikeIhavetoexplainwhythisfearissodifficultformeto face. I twist my fingers together and pull them apart.My nail beds arebitten raw—I have been chewing them as I sleep. I wake to bloody handseverymorning.“Imissthem.Youeverjust…missyourfamily?”

Fourlooksdown.“No,”hesayseventually.“Idon’t.Butthat’sunusual.”

It isunusual, sounusual it distractsme from thememoryofholdingaguntoCaleb’schest.Whatwashisfamilylikethathenolongercaresaboutthem?

Ipausewithmyhandonthedoorknobandlookbackathim.

Areyoulikeme?Iaskhimsilently.AreyouDivergent?

Eventhinkingthewordfeelsdangerous.Hiseyesholdmine,andasthe

silentsecondspass,he looks lessandlessstern.Ihearmyheartbeat. Ihavebeenlookingathimtoolong,butthen,hehasbeenlookingback,andIfeellikewearebothtryingtosaysomethingtheothercan’thear,thoughIcouldbeimaginingit.Toolong—andnow,evenlonger,myheartevenlouder,histranquileyesswallowingmewhole.

Ipushthedooropenandhurrydownthehallway.

Ishouldn’tbesoeasilydistractedbyhim.Ishouldn’tbeabletothinkofanythingbutinitiation.Thesimulationsshoulddisturbmemore;theyshouldbreakmymind,astheyhavebeendoingtomostoftheotherinitiates.Drewdoesn’t sleep—he just stares at thewall, curled in a ball.Al screams everynight from his nightmares and cries into his pillow. My nightmares andchewedfingernailspalebycomparison.

Al’s screamswakemeevery time, and I stare at the springsabovemeand wonder what on earth is wrong with me, that I still feel strong wheneveryoneelseisbreakingdown.IsitbeingDivergentthatmakesmesteady,orisitsomethingelse?

WhenIgetbacktothedormitory,IexpecttofindthesamethingIfoundthedaybefore:afewinitiateslyingonbedsorstaringatnothing.Insteadtheystandinagroupontheotherendoftheroom.Ericisinfrontofthemwithachalkboardinhishands,whichisfacingtheotherway,soIcan’tseewhat’swrittenonit.IstandnexttoWill.

“What’sgoingon?”Iwhisper.Ihopeitisn’tanotherarticle,becauseI’mnotsureIcanhandleanymorehostilitydirectedatme.

“Rankingsforstagetwo,”hesays.

“Ithoughtthereweren’tanycutsafterstagetwo,”Ihiss.

“Therearen’t.It’sjustaprogressreport,sortof.”

Inod.

The sight of the board makes me feel uneasy, like something isswimminginmystomach.Ericliftstheboardabovehisheadandhangsitonthenail.Whenhestepsaside,theroomfallssilent,andIcranemynecktoseewhatitsays.

Mynameisinthefirstslot.

Headsturninmydirection.Ifollowthelistdown.ChristinaandWillareseventhandninth, respectively.Peter issecond,butwhenI lookat the timelistedbyhisname,Irealizethatthemarginbetweenusisconspicuouslywide.

Peter’s average simulation time is eightminutes.Mine is twominutes,

forty-fiveseconds.

“Nicejob,Tris,”Willsaysquietly.

Inod,stillstaringattheboard.IshouldbepleasedthatIamrankedfirst,but I knowwhat thatmeans. IfPeter andhis friendshatedmebefore, theywilldespisemenow.NowIamEdward.Itcouldbemyeyenext.Orworse.

IsearchforAl’snameandfinditinthelastslot.Thecrowdofinitiatesbreaksupslowly,leavingjustme,Peter,Will,andAlstandingthere.IwanttoconsoleAl.TotellhimthattheonlyreasonthatI’mdoingwellisthatthere’ssomethingdifferentaboutmybrain.

Peterturnsslowly,everylimbinfusedwithtension.Aglarewouldhavebeen less threatening than the lookhegivesme—a lookofpurehatred.Hewalkstowardhisbunk,butatthelastsecond,hewhipsaroundandshovesmeagainstawall,ahandoneachofmyshoulders.

“IwillnotbeoutrankedbyaStiff,”hehisses,hisfacesoclosetomineIcansmellhisstalebreath.“Howdidyoudoit,huh?Howthehelldidyoudoit?”

Hepullsme forward a few inches and then slamsme against thewallagain.Iclenchmyteethtokeepfromcryingout,thoughpainfromtheimpactwentallthewaydownmyspine.WillgrabsPeterbyhisshirtcollaranddragshimawayfromme.

“Leaveheralone,”hesays.“Onlyacowardbulliesalittlegirl.”

“Alittlegirl?”scoffsPeter,throwingoffWill’shand.“Areyoublind,orjuststupid?She’sgoingtoedgeyououtoftherankingsandoutofDauntless,and you’re going to get nothing, all because she knows how tomanipulatepeopleandyoudon’t.Sowhenyourealizethatshe’souttoruinusall,youletmeknow.”

Peterstormsoutofthedormitory.MollyandDrewfollowhim,looksofdisgustontheirfaces.

“Thanks,”Isay,noddingtoWill.

“Isheright?”Willasksquietly.“Areyoutryingtomanipulateus?”

“HowonearthwouldIdothat?”Iscowlathim.“I’mjustdoingthebestIcan,likeanyoneelse.”

“Idon’tknow.”Heshrugsalittle.“Byactingweaksowepityyou?Andthenactingtoughtopsycheusout?”

“Psycheyouout?”Irepeat.“I’myourfriend.Iwouldn’tdothat.”

Hedoesn’tsayanything.Icantellhedoesn’tbelieveme—notquite.

“Don’tbeanidiot,Will,”saysChristina,hoppingdownfromherbunk.Shelooksatmewithoutsympathyandadds,“She’snotacting.”

Christinaturnsandleaves,withoutbangingthedoorshut.Willfollows.IamaloneintheroomwithAl.Thefirstandthelast.

Alhasnever lookedsmallbefore,buthedoesnow,withhis shouldersslumpedandhisbodycollapsingonitselflikecrumpledpaper.Hesitsdownontheedgeofhisbed.

“Areyouallright?”Iask.

“Sure,”hesays.

His face is bright red. I look away. Asking him was just a formality.AnyonewitheyescouldseethatAlisnotallright.

“It’snotover,”Isay.“Youcanimproveyourrankifyou…”

Myvoice trailsoffwhenhe looksupatme. Idon’tevenknowwhat IwouldsaytohimifIfinishedmysentence.Thereisnostrategyforstagetwo.It reaches deep into the heart ofwhowe are and testswhatever courage isthere.

“See?”hesays.“It’snotthatsimple.”

“Iknowit’snot.”

“Idon’tthinkyoudo,”hesays,shakinghishead.Hischinwobbles.“Foryouit’seasy.Allofthisiseasy.”

“That’snottrue.”

“Yeah,itis.”Hecloseshiseyes.“Youaren’thelpingmebypretendingitisn’t.Idon’t—I’mnotsureyoucanhelpmeatall.”

I feel likeI justwalked intoadownpour,andallmyclothesareheavywith water; like I am heavy and awkward and useless. I don’t know if hemeans that no one can help him, or if I, specifically, can’t help him, but Iwould not be okay with either interpretation. I want to help him. I ampowerlesstodoso.

“I…,”Istarttosay,meaningtoapologize,butforwhat?ForbeingmoreDauntlessthanheis?Fornotknowingwhattosay?

“I just…” The tears that have been gathering in his eyes spill over,wettinghischeeks.“…wanttobealone.”

I nod and turn away from him.Leaving him is not a good idea, but I

can’tstopmyself.Thedoorclicksintoplacebehindme,andIkeepwalking.

Iwalk past the drinking fountain and through the tunnels that seemedendlessthedayIgotherebutnowbarelyregisterinmymind.ThisisnotthefirsttimeIhavefailedmyfamilysinceIgothere,butforsomereason,itfeelsthatway.EveryothertimeIfailed,Iknewwhattodobutchosenottodoit.This time, I did not know what to do. Have I lost the ability to see whatpeopleneed?HaveIlostpartofmyself?

Ikeepwalking.

IsomehowfindthehallwayIsatinthedayEdwardleft.Idon’twantto

bealone,butIdon’tfeel likeIhavemuchofachoice.Iclosemyeyesandpayattentiontothecoldstonebeneathmeandbreathethemustyundergroundair.

“Tris!” someone calls from the end of the hallway.Uriah jogs towardme.BehindhimareLynnandMarlene.Lynnisholdingamuffin.

“Thought Iwould find you here.”He crouches nearmy feet. “I heardyougotrankedfirst.”

“Soyoujustwantedtocongratulateme?”Ismirk.“Well,thanks.”

“Someoneshould,”hesays.“AndIfiguredyourfriendsmightnotbesocongratulatory,sincetheirranksaren’tashigh.Soquitmopingandcomewithus.I’mgoingtoshootamuffinoffMarlene’shead.”

TheideaissoridiculousIcan’tstopmyselffromlaughing.IgetupandfollowUriahtotheendofthehallway,whereMarleneandLynnarewaiting.Lynnnarrowshereyesatme,butMarlenegrins.

“Why aren’t you out celebrating?” she asks. “You’re practicallyguaranteedatoptenspotifyoukeepitup.”

“She’stooDauntlessfortheothertransfers,”Uriahsays.

“AndtooAbnegationto‘celebrate,’”remarksLynn.

Iignoreher.“WhyareyoushootingamuffinoffMarlene’shead?”

“ShebetmeIcouldn’taimwellenoughtohitasmallobject fromonehundred feet,” Uriah explains. “I bet her she didn’t have the guts to standthereasItried.Itworksoutwell,really.”

The training roomwhere I first fired a gun is not far frommyhiddenhallway.Wegetthereinunderaminute,andUriahflipsonalightswitch.ItlooksthesameasthelasttimeIwasthere:targetsononeendoftheroom,a

tablewithgunsontheother.

“Theyjustkeeptheselyingaround?”Iask.

“Yeah,but theyaren’t loaded.”Uriahpullsuphisshirt.There isagunstuck under the waistband of his pants, right under a tattoo. I stare at thetattoo,tryingtofigureoutwhatitis,butthenheletshisshirtfall.“Okay,”hesays.“Gostandinfrontofatarget.”

Marlenewalksaway,askipinherstep.

“Youaren’tseriouslygoingtoshootather,areyou?”IaskUriah.

“It’snotarealgun,”saysLynnquietly.“It’sgotplasticpelletsinit.Theworstit’lldoisstingherface,maybegiveherawelt.Whatdoyouthinkweare,stupid?”

Marlenestandsinfrontofoneofthetargetsandsetsthemuffinonherhead.Uriahsquintsoneeyeasheaimsthegun.

“Wait!”callsoutMarlene.Shebreaksoffapieceofthemuffinandpopsitintohermouth.“Mmkay!”sheshouts,thewordgarbledbyfood.ShegivesUriahathumbs-up.

“Itakeityourranksweregood,”IsaytoLynn.

Shenods.“Uriah’ssecond.I’mfirst.Marlene’sfourth.”

“You’re only first by a hair,” saysUriah as he aims.He squeezes thetrigger.ThemuffinfallsoffMarlene’shead.Shedidn’tevenblink.

“Webothwin!”sheshouts.

“Youmissyouroldfaction?”Lynnasksme.

“Sometimes,”Isay.“Itwascalmer.Notasexhausting.”

Marlene picks up themuffin from the ground and bites into it. Uriahshouts,“Gross!”

“Initiation’ssupposedtowearusdowntowhowereallyare.That’swhatEricsays,anyway,”Lynnsays.Shearchesaneyebrow.

“Foursaysit’stoprepareus.”

“Well,theydon’tagreeonmuch.”

I nod. Four told me that Eric’s vision for Dauntless is not what it’ssupposedtobe,butIwishhewouldtellmeexactlywhathethinkstherightvisionis.Igetglimpsesofiteverysooften—theDauntlesscheeringwhenIjumpedoffthebuilding,thenetofarmsthatcaughtmeafterziplining—butthey are not enough.Has he read theDauntlessmanifesto? Is thatwhat he

believesin—inordinaryactsofbravery?

The door to the training roomopens. Shauna, Zeke, and Fourwalk injustasUriahfiresatanothertarget.Theplasticpelletbouncesoffthecenterofthetargetandrollsalongtheground.

“IthoughtIheardsomethinginhere,”saysFour.

“Turnsoutit’smyidiotbrother,”saysZeke.“You’renotsupposedtobeinhereafterhours.Careful,orFourwilltellEric,andthenyou’llbeasgoodasscalped.”

Uriah wrinkles his nose at his brother and puts the pellet gun away.Marlene crosses the room, taking bites of hermuffin, and Four steps awayfromthedoortoletusfileout.

“Youwouldn’ttellEric,”saysLynn,eyeingFoursuspiciously.

“No,Iwouldn’t,”hesays.AsIpasshim,herestshishandonthetopofmyback toushermeout, hispalmpressingbetweenmy shoulderblades. Ishiver.Ihopehecan’ttell.

Theotherswalkdownthehallway,ZekeandUriahshovingeachother,MarlenesplittinghermuffinwithShauna,Lynnmarching infront. Istart tofollowthem.

“Waitasecond,”Foursays.Iturntowardhim,wonderingwhichversionofFourI’llseenow—theonewhoscoldsme,or theonewhoclimbsFerriswheelswithme.Hesmilesa little,but thesmiledoesn’tspread tohiseyes,whichlooktenseandworried.

“Youbelonghere,youknowthat?”hesays.“Youbelongwithus.It’llbeoversoon,sojustholdon,okay?”

He scratches behind his ear and looks away, like he’s embarrassed bywhathesaid.

Istareathim.Ifeelmyheartbeateverywhere,eveninmytoes.Ifeellikedoing something bold, but I could just as easilywalk away. I am not surewhichoptionissmarter,orbetter.IamnotsurethatIcare.

I reach out and take his hand.His fingers slide betweenmine. I can’tbreathe.

Istareupathim,andhestaresdownatme.Foralongmoment,westaythat way. Then I pull my hand away and run after Uriah and Lynn andMarlene.MaybenowhethinksI’mstupid,orstrange.Maybeitwasworthit.

Igetbacktothedormitorybeforeanyoneelsedoes,andwhentheystarttotricklein,Igetintobedandpretendtobeasleep.Idon’tneedanyofthem,notifthey’regoingtoreactthiswaywhenIdowell.IfIcanmakeitthroughinitiation,IwillbeDauntless,andIwon’thavetoseethemanymore.

Idon’tneedthem—butdoIwantthem?EverytattooIgotwiththemisamarkof their friendship, andalmost every time Ihave laughed in thisdarkplacewasbecauseofthem.Idon’twanttolosethem.ButIfeel likeIhavealready.

Afteratleastahalfhourofracingthoughts,Irollontomybackandopenmy eyes. The dormitory is dark now—everyone has gone to bed. Probablyexhaustedfromresentingmesomuch,Ithinkwithawrysmile.Asifcomingfromthemosthatedfactionwasn’tenough,nowI’mshowingthemup,too.

Igetoutofbedtogetadrinkofwater.I’mnotthirsty,butIneedtodosomething.MybarefeetmakestickysoundsonthefloorasIwalk,myhandskimming thewall to keepmy path straight. A bulb glows blue above thedrinkingfountain.

I tugmy hair over one shoulder and bend over.As soon as thewatertouchesmylips,Ihearvoicesattheendofthehallway.Icreepclosertothem,trustingthedarktokeepmehidden.

“Sofartherehaven’tbeenanysignsofit.”Eric’svoice.Signsofwhat?

“Well, you wouldn’t have seen much of it yet,” someone replies. Afemalevoice;coldandfamiliar,butfamiliarlikeadream,notarealperson.“Combat trainingshowsyounothing.Thesimulations,however, revealwhothe Divergent rebels are, if there are any, so we will have to examine thefootageseveraltimestobesure.”

The word “Divergent” makes me go cold. I lean forward, my backpressedtothestone,toseewhothefamiliarvoicebelongsto.

“Don’tforgetthereasonIhadMaxappointyou,”thevoicesays.“Yourfirstpriorityisalwaysfindingthem.Always.”

“Iwon’tforget.”

I shift a few inches forward, hoping I am still hidden. Whoever thatvoice belongs to, she is pulling the strings; she is responsible for Eric’sleadershipposition;sheistheonewhowantsmedead.Itiltmyheadforward,strainingtoseethembeforetheyturnthecorner.

Thensomeonegrabsmefrombehind.

Istarttoscream,butahandclapsovermymouth.Itsmellslikesoapandit’s big enough to cover the lower half of my face. I thrash, but the arms

holdingmearetoostrong,andIbitedownononeofthefingers.

“Ow!”aroughvoicecries.

“Shut up and keep hermouth covered.” That voice is higher than theaveragemale’sandclearer.Peter.

Astripofdarkclothcoversmyeyes,andanewpairofhandsties itatthebackofmyhead.Istruggletobreathe.Thereareatleasttwohandsonmyarms, draggingme forward, and one onmy back, shovingme in the samedirection,andoneonmymouth,keepingmyscreams in.Threepeople.Mychesthurts.Ican’tresistthreepeopleonmyown.

“Wonderwhat it sounds likewhen a Stiff begs formercy,” Peter sayswithachuckle.“Hurryup.”

I try to focus on the hand on my mouth. There must be somethingdistinctaboutitthatwillmakehimeasiertoidentify.HisidentityisaproblemIcansolve.Ineedtosolveaproblemrightnow,orIwillpanic.

Thepalmissweatyandsoft.Iclenchmyteethandbreathethroughmynose. The soap smell is familiar. Lemongrass and sage. The same smellsurroundsAl’sbunk.Aweightdropsintomystomach.

Ihearthecrashofwateragainstrocks.Wearenearthechasm—wemustbeaboveit,giventhevolumeofthesound.Ipressmylipstogethertokeepfromscreaming.Ifweareabovethechasm,Iknowwhattheyintendtodotome.

“Liftherup,c’mon.”

Ithrash,andtheirroughskingratesagainstmine,butIknowit’suseless.Iscreamtoo,knowingthatnoonecanhearmehere.

Iwillsurviveuntiltomorrow.Iwill.

The hands pushme around and up and slammy spine into somethinghardandcold.Judgingbyitswidthandcurvature,itisametalrailing.Itisthemetalrailing,theonethatoverlooksthechasm.Mybreathswheezeandmisttouches the back of my neck. The hands force my back to arch over therailing.Myfeetleavetheground,andmyattackersaretheonlythingkeepingmefromfallingintothewater.

A heavy hand gropes alongmy chest. “You sure you’re sixteen, Stiff?Doesn’tfeellikeyou’remorethantwelve.”Theotherboyslaugh.

BilerisesinmythroatandIswallowthebittertaste.

“Wait, I think I found something!” His hand squeezes me. I bite mytonguetokeepfromscreaming.Morelaughter.

Al’s hand slips frommymouth. “Stop that,” he snaps. I recognize hislow,distinctvoice.

WhenAlletsgoofme,Ithrashagainandslipdowntotheground.Thistime,IbitedownashardasIcanonthefirstarmIfind.Ihearascreamandclenchmyjawharder, tastingblood.Somethinghardstrikesmyface.Whiteheat races throughmy head. It would have been pain if adrenaline wasn’tcoursingthroughmelikeacid.

Theboywrencheshistrappedarmawayfrommeandthrowsmetotheground.Ibangmyelbowagainststoneandbringmyhandsuptomyheadtoremove the blindfold. A foot drives intomy side, forcing the air frommylungs.Igaspandcoughandclawat thebackofmyhead.Someonegrabsahandfulofmyhairandslamsmyheadagainstsomethinghard.Ascreamofpainburstsfrommymouth,andIfeeldizzy.

Clumsily, I fumble along the side ofmy head to find the edge of theblindfold. Idragmyheavyhandup, taking theblindfoldwith it, andblink.The scene before me is sideways and bobs up and down. I see someonerunningtowardusandsomeonerunningaway—someonelarge,Al.Igrabtherailingnexttomeandhaulmyselftomyfeet.

Peterwrapsahandaroundmythroatandliftsmeup,histhumbwedgedundermychin.His hair,which is usually shiny and smooth, is tousled andstickstohisforehead.Hispalefaceiscontortedandhisteetharegritted,andhe holds me over the chasm as spots appear on the edges of my vision,crowdingaroundhisface,greenandpinkandblue.Hesaysnothing.Itrytokickhim,butmylegsaretooshort.Mylungsscreamforair.

Ihearashout,andhereleasesme.

I stretch outmy arms as I fall, gasping, andmy armpits slam into therailing. I hookmy elbows over it and groan.Mist touchesmy ankles. Theworlddipsandswaysaroundme,andsomeoneisonthePitfloor—Drew—screaming.Ihearthumps.Kicks.Groans.

IblinkafewtimesandfocusashardasIcanontheonlyfaceIcansee.Itiscontortedwithanger.Hiseyesaredarkblue.

“Four,”Icroak.

Iclosemyeyes,andhandswraparoundmyarms,rightwheretheyjoinwiththeshoulder.Hepullsmeovertherailingandagainsthischest,gatheringme into his arms, easing an arm undermy knees. I pressmy face into hisshoulder,andthereisasudden,hollowsilence.

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

IOPENMYeyes to thewords “FearGodAlone”paintedonaplainwhitewall.Ihearthesoundofrunningwateragain,butthistimeit’sfromafaucetand not from the chasm. Seconds go by before I see definite edges inmysurroundings,thelinesofdoorframeandcountertopandceiling.

Thepainisaconstantthrobinmyheadandcheekandribs.Ishouldn’tmove;itwillmake everythingworse. I see a bluepatchworkquilt undermyheadandwinceasItiltmyheadtoseewherethewatersoundiscomingfrom.

Fourstandsinthebathroomwithhishandsinthesink.Bloodfromhisknuckles turns thesinkwaterpink.Hehasacutat thecornerofhismouth,butheseemsotherwiseunharmed.Hisexpressionisplacidasheexamineshiscuts,turnsoffthewater,anddrieshishandswithatowel.

I haveonlyonememoryofgettinghere, and even that is just a singleimage:blackinkcurlingaroundthesideofaneck,thecornerofatattoo,andthegentleswaythatcouldonlymeanhewascarryingme.

Heturnsoffthebathroomlightandgetsanicepackfromtherefrigeratorinthecorneroftheroom.Ashewalkstowardme,Iconsiderclosingmyeyesandpretendingtobeasleep,butthenoureyesmeetandit’stoolate.

“Yourhands,”Icroak.

“Myhandsarenoneofyourconcern,”hereplies.Herestshiskneeonthemattressandleansoverme,slippingtheicepackundermyhead.Beforehepullsaway,IreachouttotouchthecutonthesideofhislipbutstopwhenIrealizewhatIamabouttodo,myhandhovering.

Whatdoyouhavetolose?Iaskmyself.Itouchmyfingertipslightlytohismouth.

“Tris,”hesays,speakingagainstmyfingers,“I’mallright.”

“Whywereyouthere?”Iask,lettingmyhanddrop.

“Iwascomingbackfromthecontrolroom.Iheardascream.”

“Whatdidyoudotothem?”Isay.

“IdepositedDrewattheinfirmaryahalfhourago,”hesays.“PeterandAl ran. Drew claimed they were just trying to scare you. At least, I thinkthat’swhathewastryingtosay.”

“He’sinbadshape?”

“He’lllive,”hereplies.Headdsbitterly,“Inwhatcondition,Ican’tsay.”

Itisn’trighttowishpainonotherpeoplejustbecausetheyhurtmefirst.But white-hot triumph races through me at the thought of Drew in theinfirmary,andIsqueezeFour’sarm.

“Good,”Isay.Myvoicesoundstightandfierce.Angerbuildsinsideme,replacingmybloodwithbitterwaterandfillingme,consumingme.Iwanttobreaksomething,orhitsomething,butIamafraidtomove,soIstartcryinginstead.

Fourcrouchesbythesideofthebed,andwatchesme.Iseenosympathyinhiseyes. Iwouldhavebeendisappointed if Ihad.Hepullshiswrist freeand, to my surprise, rests his hand on the side of my face, his thumbskimmingmycheekbone.Hisfingersarecareful.

“Icouldreportthis,”hesays.

“No,”Ireply.“Idon’twantthemtothinkI’mscared.”

He nods.Hemoves his thumb absently overmy cheekbone, back andforth.“Ifiguredyouwouldsaythat.”

“YouthinkitwouldbeabadideaifIsatup?”

“I’llhelpyou.”

FourgripsmyshoulderwithonehandandholdsmyheadsteadywiththeotherasIpushmyselfup.Painrushesthroughmybodyinsharpbursts,butItrytoignoreit,stiflingagroan.

Hehandsme the ice pack. “You can let yourself be in pain,” he says.“It’sjustmehere.”

I bite down onmy lip. There are tears on my face, but neither of usmentionsorevenacknowledgesthem.

“Isuggestyourelyonyourtransferfriendstoprotectyoufromnowon,”hesays.

“IthoughtIwas,”Isay.IfeelAl’shandagainstmymouthagain,andasobjoltsmybodyforward.Ipressmyhandtomyforeheadandrockslowlybackandforth.“ButAl…”

“Hewantedyoutobethesmall,quietgirlfromAbnegation,”Foursayssoftly. “He hurt you because your strength made him feel weak. No otherreason.”

Inodandtrytobelievehim.

“Theotherswon’tbeasjealousifyoushowsomevulnerability.Evenifitisn’treal.”

“You think I have to pretend to be vulnerable?” I ask, raising aneyebrow.

“Yes, Ido.”He takes the icepackfromme,his fingersbrushingmine,andholdsitagainstmyheadhimself.Iputmyhanddown,tooeagertorelaxmyarmtoobject.Fourstandsup.IstareatthehemofhisT-shirt.

Sometimes I see him as just another person, and sometimes I feel thesightofhiminmygut,likeadeepache.

“You’regoingtowanttomarchintobreakfasttomorrowandshowyourattackerstheyhadnoeffectonyou,”headds,“butyoushouldletthatbruiseonyourcheekshow,andkeepyourheaddown.”

Theideanauseatesme.

“Idon’tthinkIcandothat,”Isayhollowly.Iliftmyeyestohis.

“Youhaveto.”

“Idon’tthinkyougetit.”Heatrisesintomyface.“Theytouchedme.”

Hisentirebodytightensatmywords,hishandclenchingaroundtheicepack.“Touchedyou,”herepeats,hisdarkeyescold.

“Not…in the way you’re thinking.” I clear my throat. I didn’t realizewhenIsaidithowawkwarditwouldbetotalkabout.“But…almost.”

Ilookaway.

Heissilentandstillforsolongthateventually,Ihavetosaysomething.

“Whatisit?”

“Idon’twanttosaythis,”hesays,“butIfeellikeIhaveto.It ismoreimportantforyoutobesafethanright,forthetimebeing.Understand?”

Hisstraighteyebrowsaredrawnlowoverhiseyes.Mystomachwrithes,partlybecauseIknowhemakesagoodpointbutIdon’twanttoadmitit,andpartlybecauseIwantsomethingIdon’tknowhowtoexpress;Iwanttopressagainstthespacebetweenusuntilitdisappears.

Inod.

“Butplease,whenyouseeanopportunity…”Hepresseshishandtomycheek,coldandstrong,andtiltsmyheadupsoIhavetolookathim.Hiseyesglint.Theylookalmostpredatory.“Ruinthem.”

Ilaughshakily.“You’realittlescary,Four.”

“Domeafavor,”hesays,“anddon’tcallmethat.”

“WhatshouldIcallyou,then?”

“Nothing.”Hetakeshishandfrommyface.“Yet.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE

IDON’TGObacktothedormsthatnight.Sleepinginthesameroomasthepeoplewhoattackedmejusttolookbravewouldbestupid.FoursleepsonthefloorandIsleeponhisbed,ontopofthequilt,breathinginthescentofhispillowcase.Itsmellslikedetergentandsomethingheavy,sweet,anddistinctlymale.

The rhythm of his breaths slows, and I propmyself up to see if he isasleep.He lies on his stomachwith one arm aroundhis head.His eyes areclosed, his lips parted.For the first time, he looks as young as he is, and Iwonder who he really is. Who is he when he isn’t Dauntless, isn’t aninstructor,isn’tFour,isn’tanythinginparticular?

Whoeverheis,Ilikehim.It’seasierformetoadmitthattomyselfnow,in the dark, after all that just happened. He is not sweet or gentle orparticularlykind.Butheissmartandbrave,andeventhoughhesavedme,hetreatedmelikeIwasstrong.ThatisallIneedtoknow.

IwatchthemusclesinhisbackexpandandcontractuntilIfallasleep.

Iwaketoachesandpains.IcringeasIsitup,holdingmyribs,andwalkup to the small mirror on the opposite wall. I am almost too short to seemyselfinit,butwhenIstandonmytiptoes,Icanseemyface.Asexpected,thereisadarkbluebruiseonmycheek.Ihatetheideaofslumpingintothedininghall like this, butFour’s instructionshave stayedwithme. I have tomendmyfriendships.Ineedtheprotectionofseemingweak.

Itiemyhairinaknotatthebackofmyhead.ThedooropensandFourwalksin,a towel inhandandhishairglisteningwithshowerwater.IfeelathrillinmystomachwhenIseethelineofskinthatshowsabovehisbeltasheliftshishandtodryhishairandforcemyeyesuptohisface.

“Hi,”Isay.Myvoicesoundstight.Iwishitdidn’t.

Hetouchesmybruisedcheekwithjusthisfingertips.“Notbad,”hesays.“How’syourhead?”

“Fine,”Isay.I’mlying—myheadisthrobbing.Ibrushmyfingersoverthe bump, and pain prickles over my scalp. It could be worse. I could befloatingintheriver.

Everymuscleinmybodytightensashishanddropstomyside,whereIgotkicked.Hedoesitcasually,butIcan’tmove.

“Andyourside?”heasks,hisvoicelow.

“OnlyhurtswhenIbreathe.”

Hesmiles.“Notmuchyoucandoaboutthat.”

“PeterwouldprobablythrowapartyifIstoppedbreathing.”

“Well,”hesays,“Iwouldonlygoiftherewascake.”

I laugh, and thenwince, covering his hand to steadymy rib cage.Heslideshishandbackslowly,hisfingertipsgrazingmyside.Whenhisfingerslift,Ifeelanacheinmychest.Oncethismomentends,Ihavetorememberwhathappenedlastnight.AndIwanttostayherewithhim.

Henodsalittleandleadsthewayout.

“I’llgoinfirst,”hesayswhenwestandoutsidethedininghall.“Seeyousoon,Tris.”

Hewalks through the doors and I am alone. Yesterday he toldme hethought Iwouldhave topretend tobeweak,buthewaswrong. I amweakalready.Ibracemyselfagainstthewallandpressmyforeheadtomyhands.It’sdifficulttotakedeepbreaths,soItakeshort,shallowones.Ican’tletthishappen. They attacked me to make me feel weak. I can pretend theysucceededtoprotectmyself,butIcan’tletitbecometrue.

Ipullawayfromthewallandwalkintothedininghallwithoutanotherthought.Afewstepsin,IrememberI’msupposedtolooklikeI’mcowering,so I slowmypace and hug thewall, keepingmyhead down.Uriah, at thetablenexttoWillandChristina’s,liftshishandtowaveatme.Andthenputsitdown.

IsitnexttoWill.

Alisn’tthere—heisn’tanywhere.

Uriahslides into theseatnext tome, leavinghishalf-eatenmuffinandhalf-finishedglassofwaterontheothertable.Forasecond,allthreeofthemjuststareatme.

“Whathappened?”Willasks,loweringhisvoice.

Ilookoverhisshoulderatthetablebehindours.Petersitsthere,eatingapieceoftoastandwhisperingsomethingtoMolly.Myhandclenchesaroundtheedgeofthetable.Iwanthimtohurt.Butnowisn’tthetime.

Drew is missing, which means he’s still in the infirmary. Viciouspleasurecoursesthroughmeatthethought.

“Peter,Drew…,”Isayquietly.IholdmysideasIreachacrossthetableforapieceoftoast.Ithurtstostretchoutmyhand,soIletmyselfwinceandhunchover.“And…”Iswallow.“AndAl.”

“OhGod,”saysChristina,hereyeswide.

“Areyouallright?”Uriahasks.

Peter’seyesfindmineacrossthedininghall,andIhavetoforcemyselftolookaway.Itbringsabittertastetomymouthtoshowhimthathescaresme,butIhaveto.Fourwasright.IhavetodoeverythingIcantomakesureIdon’tgetattackedagain.

“Notreally,”Isay.

Myeyesburn,andit’snotartifice,unlikethewincing.Ishrug.IbelieveTori’s warning now. Peter, Drew, and Al were ready to throwme into thechasmoutof jealousy—what issounbelievableabout theDauntless leaderscommittingmurder?

I feel uncomfortable, like I’mwearing someone else’s skin. If I’mnotcareful, I could die. I can’t even trust the leaders of my faction. My newfamily.

“But you’re just…” Uriah purses his lips. “It isn’t fair. Three againstone?”

“Yeah,andPeterisallaboutwhat’sfair.That’swhyhegrabbedEdwardinhissleepandstabbedhimintheeye.”Christinasnortsandshakesherhead.“Al,though?Areyousure,Tris?”

Istareatmyplate.I’mthenextEdward.Butunlikehim,I’mnotgoingtoleave.

“Yeah,”Isay.“I’msure.”

“Ithastobedesperation,”saysWill.“He’sbeenacting…Idon’tknow.Likeadifferentperson.Eversincestagetwostarted.”

ThenDrewshufflesintothedininghall.Idropmytoast,andmymouthdriftsopen.

Callinghim“bruised”wouldbeanunderstatement.Hisface isswollenandpurple.Hehasasplitlipandacutrunningthroughhiseyebrow.Hekeepshiseyesdownonthewaytohistable,notevenliftingthemtolookatme.IglanceacrosstheroomatFour.HewearsthesatisfiedsmileIwishIhadon.

“Didyoudothat?”hissesWill.

I shake my head. “No. Someone—I never saw who—found me rightbefore…”Igulp.Saying itout loudmakes itworse,makes it real.“…Igottossedintothechasm.”

“Theyweregoingtokillyou?”saysChristinainalowvoice.

“Maybe.Theymighthavebeenplanningondanglingmeoveritjusttoscareme.”Iliftashoulder.“Itworked.”

Christinagivesmeasadlook.Willjustglaresatthetable.

“Wehavetodosomethingaboutthis,”Uriahsaysinalowvoice.

“What,likebeatthemup?”Christinagrins.“Lookslikethat’sbeentakencareofalready.”

“No. That’s pain they can get over,” replies Uriah. “We have to edgethemoutoftherankings.Thatwilldamagetheirfutures.Permanently.”

Four gets up and stands between the tables. Conversation abruptlyceases.

“Transfers. We’re doing something different today,” he says. “Followme.”

Westand,andUriah’sforeheadwrinkles.“Becareful,”hetellsme.

“Don’tworry,”saysWill.“We’llprotecther.”

Fourleadsusoutofthedininghallandalongthepathsthatsurroundthe

Pit.Willisonmyleft,Christinaisonmyright.

“IneverreallysaidIwassorry,”Christinasaysquietly.“Fortakingtheflagwhenyouearnedit.Idon’tknowwhatwaswrongwithme.”

I’mnotsureifit’ssmarttoforgiveherornot—toforgiveeitherofthem,after what they said to me when the rankings went up yesterday. But mymother would tell me that people are flawed and I should be lenient withthem.AndFourtoldmetorelyonmyfriends.

Idon’tknowwhoIshouldrelyonmore,becauseI’mnotsurewhomytrue friends are. Uriah and Marlene, who were on my side even when Iseemedstrong,orChristinaandWill,whohavealwaysprotectedmewhenIseemedweak?

Whenherwidebrowneyesmeetmine,Inod.“Let’sjustforgetaboutit.”

Istillwanttobeangry,butIhavetoletmyangergo.

We climb higher than I’ve gone before, until Will’s face goes whitewheneverhelooksdown.MostofthetimeIlikeheights,soIgrabWill’sarmlike I need his support—but really, I’m lending him mine. He smilesgratefullyatme.

Four turns around and walks backward a few steps—backward, on a

narrowpathwithnorailing.Howwelldoesheknowthisplace?

HeeyesDrew,whotrudgesatthebackofthegroup,andsays,“Pickupthepace,Drew!”

It’sacruel joke,but it’shard forme to fightoffa smile.That is,untilFour’s eyes shift to my arm aroundWill’s, and all the humor drains fromthem.Hisexpressionsendsachillthroughme.Ishe…jealous?

We get closer and closer to the glass ceiling, and for the first time indays, I see thesun.Fourwalksupa flightofmetal stairs leading throughaholeintheceiling.Theycreakundermyfeet,andIlookdowntoseethePitandthechasmbelowus.

Wewalk across the glass, which is now a floor rather than a ceiling,through a cylindrical roomwith glasswalls. The surrounding buildings arehalf-collapsed and appear to be abandoned,which is probablywhy I nevernoticed the Dauntless compound before. The Abnegation sector is also faraway.

The Dauntless mill around the glass room, talking in clusters. At theedgeoftheroom,twoDauntlessfightwithsticks,laughingwhenoneofthemmissesandhitsonlyair.Aboveme,tworopesstretchacrosstheroom,oneafewfeethigherthantheother.TheyprobablyhavesomethingtodowiththedaredevilstuntstheDauntlessarefamousfor.

Fourleadsusthroughanotherdoor.Beyonditisahuge,dankspacewithgraffitied walls and exposed pipes. The room is lit by a series of old-fashionedfluorescenttubeswithplasticcovers—theymustbeancient.

“This,” says Four, his eyes bright in pale light, “is a different kind ofsimulationknownasthefearlandscape.Ithasbeendisabledforourpurposes,sothisisn’twhatitwillbelikethenexttimeyouseeit.”

Behind him, the word “Dauntless” is spray-painted in red artisticletteringonaconcretewall.

“Throughyoursimulations,wehavestoreddataaboutyourworstfears.Thefearlandscapeaccessesthatdataandpresentsyouwithaseriesofvirtualobstacles.Someof theobstacleswill be fears youpreviously faced in yoursimulations.Somemaybenewfears.Thedifferenceisthatyouareaware,inthefearlandscape,thatitisasimulation,soyouwillhaveallyourwitsaboutyouasyougothroughit.”

ThatmeansthateveryonewillbelikeDivergentinthefearlandscape.Idon’t know if that’s a relief, because I can’t be detected, or a problem,becauseIwon’thavetheadvantage.

Fourcontinues,“Thenumberoffearsyouhaveinyourlandscapevariesaccordingtohowmanyyouhave.”

How many fears will I have? I think of facing the crows again andshiver,thoughtheairiswarm.

“I told you before that the third stage of initiation focuses on mentalpreparation,”hesays.Irememberwhenhesaidthat.Onthefirstday.RightbeforeheputaguntoPeter’shead.Iwishhehadpulledthetrigger.

“Thatisbecauseitrequiresyoutocontrolbothyouremotionsandyourbody—to combine the physical abilities you learned in stage one with theemotionalmasteryyoulearnedinstagetwo.Tokeepalevelhead.”Oneofthefluorescent tubes above Four’s head twitches and flickers. Four stopsscanningthecrowdofinitiatesandfocuseshisstareonme.

“Next week you will go through your fear landscape as quickly aspossibleinfrontofapanelofDauntlessleaders.Thatwillbeyourfinaltest,whichdeterminesyourrankingforstagethree.Justasstagetwoofinitiationisweightedmoreheavilythanstageone,stagethreeisweightedheaviestofall.Understood?”

Weallnod.EvenDrew,whomakesitlookpainful.

IfIdowellinmyfinaltest,Ihaveagoodchanceofmakingitintothetoptenandagoodchanceofbecomingamember.BecomingDauntless.Thethoughtmakesmealmostgiddywithrelief.

“Youcangetpast eachobstacle inoneof twoways.Eitheryou findaway to calm down enough that the simulation registers a normal, steadyheartbeat,oryoufindawaytofaceyourfear,whichcanforcethesimulationto move on. One way to face a fear of drowning is to swim deeper, forexample.”Fourshrugs.“SoIsuggestthatyoutakethenextweektoconsideryourfearsanddevelopstrategiestofacethem.”

“Thatdoesn’tsoundfair,”saysPeter.“Whatifonepersononlyhassevenfearsandsomeoneelsehastwenty?That’snottheirfault.”

Four stares at him for a few seconds and then laughs. “Do you reallywanttotalktomeaboutwhat’sfair?”

The crowd of initiates parts tomakeway for him as hewalks towardPeter, foldshisarms,andsays, inadeadlyvoice,“Iunderstandwhyyou’reworried, Peter. The events of last night certainly proved that you are amiserablecoward.”

Peterstaresback,expressionless.

“Sonowweallknow,”saysFour,quietly,“thatyouareafraidofashort,

skinnygirlfromAbnegation.”Hismouthcurlsinasmile.

Will puts his arm around me. Christina’s shoulders shake withsuppressedlaughter.Andsomewherewithinme,Ifindasmiletoo.

Whenwegetbacktothedormthatafternoon,Alisthere.

Willstandsbehindmeandholdsmyshoulders—lightly,asiftoremindmethathe’sthere.Christinaedgesclosertome.

Al’s eyes have shadows beneath them, and his face is swollen fromcrying. Pain stabsmy stomachwhen I see him. I can’tmove.The scent oflemongrassandsage,oncepleasant,turnssourinmynose.

“Tris,”saysAl,hisvoicebreaking.“CanItalktoyou?”

“Areyoukidding?”Willsqueezesmyshoulders.“Youdon’tgettocomenearhereveragain.”

“Iwon’t hurt you. I neverwanted to…”Al covers his facewith bothhands.“IjustwanttosaythatI’msorry,I’msosorry,Idon’t…Idon’tknowwhat’swrongwithme,I…pleaseforgiveme,please….”

Hereachesformelikehe’sgoingtotouchmyshoulder,ormyhand,hisfacewetwithtears.

Somewhereinsidemeisamerciful,forgivingperson.Somewherethereisagirlwhotriestounderstandwhatpeoplearegoingthrough,whoacceptsthat people do evil things and that desperation leads them to darker placesthan theyever imagined. I swear she exists, and shehurts for the repentantboyIseeinfrontofme.

ButifIsawher,Iwouldn’trecognizeher.

“Stayawayfromme,”Isayquietly.Mybodyfeelsrigidandcold,andIamnotangry,Iamnothurt,Iamnothing.Isay,myvoicelow,“Nevercomenearmeagain.”

Oureyesmeet.Hisaredarkandglassy.Iamnothing.

“Ifyoudo,IsweartoGodIwillkillyou,”Isay.“Youcoward.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

“TRIS.”

Inmydream,mymothersaysmyname.Shebeckonstome,andIcrossthekitchentostandbesideher.Shepointstothepotonthestove,andIliftthelid to peek inside. The beady eye of a crow stares back at me, its wingfeatherspressedtothesideofthepot,itsfatbodycoveredwithboilingwater.

“Dinner,”shesays.

“Tris!”Ihearagain.Iopenmyeyes.Christinastandsnexttomybed,hercheeksstreakedwithmascara-tintedtears.

“It’sAl,”shesays.“Comeon.”

Someof theother initiatesareawake,andsomearen’t.Christinagrabsmy hand and pulls me out of the dormitory. I run barefoot over the stonefloor, blinking clouds from my eyes, my limbs still heavy with sleep.Somethingterriblehashappened.Ifeelitwitheverythumpofmyheart.It’sAl.

We run across the Pit floor, and then Christina stops. A crowd hasgatheredaroundtheledge,buteveryonestandsafewfeetfromoneanother,sothereisenoughspaceformetomaneuverpastChristinaandaroundatall,middle-agedmantothefront.

Two men stand next to the ledge, hoisting something up with ropes.Theybothgruntfromtheeffort,heavingtheirweightbacksotheropesslideovertherailing,andthenreachingforwardtograbagain.Ahuge,darkshapeappears above the ledge, anda fewDauntless rush forward tohelp the twomenhaulitover.

The shape fallswith a thudon thePit floor.Apale arm, swollenwithwater, flopsonto thestone.Abody.Christinapullsherself tight tomyside,clingingtomyarm.Sheturnsherheadintomyshoulderandsobs,butIcan’tlook away.A fewof themen turn thebodyover, and thehead flops to theside.

Theeyesareopenandempty.Dark.Doll’seyes.Andthenosehasahigharch, a narrow bridge, a round tip. The lips are blue. The face itself issomethingother thanhuman, half corpse andhalf creature.My lungsburn;mynextbreathrattlesonthewayin.Al.

“Oneoftheinitiates,”sayssomeonebehindme.“Whathappened?”

“Samethingthathappenseveryyear,”someoneelsereplies.“Hepitchedhimselfovertheledge.”

“Don’tbesomorbid.Couldhavebeenanaccident.”

“Theyfoundhiminthemiddleofthechasm.Youthinkhetrippedoverhisshoelaceand…whoopsies,juststumbledfifteenfeetforward?”

Christina’shandsgettighterandtighteraroundmyarm.Ishouldtellherto let go ofme; it’s starting to hurt. Someone kneels next toAl’s face andpushes his eyelids shut. Trying to make it look like he’s sleeping, maybe.Stupid.Whydopeoplewanttopretendthatdeathissleep?Itisn’t.Itisn’t.

Something insidemecollapses.Mychest is so tight, suffocating, can’tbreathe.Isinktotheground,draggingChristinadownwithme.Thestoneisroughundermyknees.Ihearsomething,amemoryofsound.Al’ssobs;hisscreamsatnight.Shouldhaveknown.Stillcan’tbreathe.Ipressbothpalmstomychestandrockbackandforthtofreethetensioninmychest.

WhenIblink,IseethetopofAl’sheadashecarriesmeonhisbacktothe dining hall. I feel the bounce of his footsteps.He is big andwarm andclumsy.No,was.Thatisdeath—shiftingfrom“is”to“was.”

Iwheeze.Someonehasbroughta largeblackbag toput thebody in. Icantellthatitwillbetoosmall.Alaughrisesinmythroatandflopsfrommymouth,strainedandgurgling.Al’s toobigforthebodybag;whatatragedy.Halfwaythroughthelaugh,Iclampmymouthshut,anditsoundsmorelikeagroan.Ipullmyarmfreeandstand,leavingChristinaontheground.Irun.

“Hereyougo,”Torisays.Shehandsmeasteamingmugthatsmellslike

peppermint.Iholditwithbothhands,myfingerspricklingwithwarmth.

Shesitsdownacrossfromme.Whenitcomestofunerals,theDauntlessdon’twasteanytime.Torisaidtheywanttoacknowledgedeathassoonasithappens.Therearenopeopleinthefrontroomofthetattooparlor,butthePitiscrawlingwithpeople,mostofthemdrunk.Idon’tknowwhythatsurprisesme.

Athome,afuneralisasomberoccasion.Everyonegatherstosupportthedeceased’s family, and no one has idle hands, but there is no laughter, orshouting,or joking.AndtheAbnegationdon’tdrinkalcohol,soeveryoneissober.Itmakessensethatfuneralswouldbetheoppositehere.

“Drinkit,”shesays.“Itwillmakeyoufeelbetter,Ipromise.”

“Idon’t think tea is the solution,” I say slowly.But I sip it anyway. Itwarmsmymouthandmythroatandtricklesintomystomach.Ididn’trealizehowdeeplycoldIwasuntilIwasn’tanymore.

“‘Better’ is the word I used. Not ‘good.’” She smiles at me, but the

cornersofhereyesdon’tcrinkle like theyusuallydo.“Idon’t think ‘good’willhappenforawhile.”

Ibitemy lip.“Howlong…”Istruggle for the rightwords.“Howlongdidittakeforyoutobeokayagain,afteryourbrother…”

“Don’tknow.”Sheshakesherhead.“SomedaysIfeellikeI’mstillnotokay. Some days I feel fine. Happy, even. It took me a few years to stopplottingrevenge,though.”

“Whydidyoustop?”Iask.

Her eyes go vacant as she stares at the wall behindme. She taps herfingersagainstherlegforafewsecondsandthensays,“Idon’tthinkofitasstopping.MorelikeI’m…waitingformyopportunity.”

Shecomesoutofherdazeandchecksherwatch.

“Timetogo,”shesays.

Ipour therestofmy teadownthesink.WhenI liftmyhandfromthemug,I realize that I’mshaking.Notgood.MyhandsusuallyshakebeforeIstarttocry,andIcan’tcryinfrontofeveryone.

IfollowTorioutof the tattooplaceanddownthepath to thePit floor.Allthepeoplethatweremillingaroundearlieraregatheredbytheledgenow,andtheairsmellspotentlyofalcohol.Thewomaninfrontofmelurches totheright,losingherbalance,andtheneruptsintogigglesasshefallsagainstthemannexttoher.Torigrabsmyarmandsteersmeaway.

I find Uriah, Will, and Christina standing among the other initiates.Christina’seyesareswollen.Uriahisholdingasilverflask.Heoffersittome.Ishakemyhead.

“Surprise,surprise,”saysMollyfrombehindme.ShenudgesPeterwithherelbow.“OnceaStiff,alwaysaStiff.”

Ishouldignoreher.Heropinionsshouldn’tmattertome.

“I readan interestingarticle today,”shesays, leaningcloser tomyear.“Somethingaboutyourdad,andtherealreasonyouleftyouroldfaction.”

Defendingmyself isn’t themost important thingonmymind.But it istheeasiestonetoaddress.

I twist,andmyfistconnectswithher jaw.Myknucklesstingfromtheimpact.Idon’trememberdecidingtopunchher.Idon’trememberformingafist.

She lunges atme, her handsoutstretched, but shedoesn’t get far.Will

grabshercollarandpullsherback.Helooksfromhertomeandsays,“Quitit.Bothofyou.”

Part of me wishes that he hadn’t stopped her. A fight would be awelcomedistraction,especiallynowthatEricisclimbingontoaboxnexttotherailing.Ifacehim,crossingmyarmstokeepmyselfsteady.Iwonderwhathe’llsay.

InAbnegationnoonehascommittedsuicideinrecentmemory,butthefaction’s stance on it is clear: Suicide, to them, is an act of selfishness.Someonewhoistrulyselflessdoesnotthinkofhimselfoftenenoughtodesiredeath.Noonewouldsaythataloud,ifithappened,buteveryonewouldthinkit.

“Quietdown,everyone!”shoutsEric.Someonehitswhatsounds likeagong, and the shouts gradually stop, though the mutters don’t. Eric says,“Thankyou.Asyouknow,we’reherebecauseAlbert,aninitiate,jumpedintothechasmlastnight.”

Themuttersstoptoo,leavingjusttherushofwaterinthechasm.

“Wedonotknowwhy,”saysEric,“anditwouldbeeasytomourntheloss of him tonight.Butwedid not choose a life of easewhenwebecameDauntless.Andthetruthofitis…”Ericsmiles.IfIdidn’tknowhim,Iwouldthinkthatsmileisgenuine.ButIdoknowhim.“Thetruthis,Albertisnowexploringanunknown,uncertainplace.Heleapedintoviciouswaterstogetthere.Whoamongus isbraveenough toventure into thatdarknesswithoutknowingwhatliesbeyondit?Albertwasnotyetoneofourmembers,butwecanbeassuredthathewasoneofourbravest!”

Acry rises from the centerof the crowd, andawhoop.TheDauntlesscheeratvaryingpitches,highandlow,brightanddeep.Theirroarmimicstheroarofthewater.ChristinatakestheflaskfromUriahanddrinks.Willslideshisarmaroundhershouldersandpullshertohisside.Voicesfillmyears.

“We will celebrate him now, and remember him always!” yells Eric.Someonehandshimadarkbottle,andheliftsit.“ToAlberttheCourageous!”

“To Albert!” shouts the crowd. Arms lift all around me, and theDauntless chant his name. “Albert! Al-bert! Al-bert!” They chant until hisnamenolongersoundslikehisname.Itsoundsliketheprimalscreamofanancientrace.

Iturnawayfromtherailing.Icannotstandthisanylonger.

Idon’tknowwhereI’mgoing.IsuspectthatIamnotgoinganywhereatall,justaway.Iwalkdownadarkhallway.Attheendisthedrinkingfountain,

bathedintheblueglowofthelightaboveit.

I shakemyhead.Courageous?CourageouswouldhavebeenadmittingweaknessandleavingDauntless,nomatterwhatshameaccompaniedit.PrideiswhatkilledAl,anditistheflawineveryDauntlessheart.Itisinmine.

“Tris.”

Ajoltgoes throughme,andI turnaround.Fourstandsbehindme, justinside the blue circle of light. It gives him an eerie look, shading his eyesocketsandcastingshadowsunderhischeekbones.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be paying yourrespects?”

IsayitlikeittastesbadandIhavetospititout.

“Shouldn’tyou?”hesays.Hestepstowardme,andIseehiseyesagain.Theylookblackinthislight.

“Can’tpayrespectwhenyoudon’thaveany,”Ireply.Ifeelatwingeofguiltandshakemyhead.“Ididn’tmeanthat.”

“Ah.”Judgingby the lookhegivesme,hedoesn’tbelieveme. Idon’tblamehim.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, heat rushing into my cheeks. “He throwshimself off a ledge andEric’s calling it brave?Eric,who tried to haveyouthrow knives at Al’s head?” I taste bile. Eric’s false smiles, his artificialwords,histwistedideals—theymakemewanttobesick.“Hewasn’tbrave!Hewasdepressedandacowardandhealmostkilledme!Isthatthekindofthingwerespecthere?”

“Whatdoyouwantthemtodo?”hesays.“Condemnhim?Al’salreadydead.Hecan’thearitandit’stoolate.”

“It’snotaboutAl,”Isnap.“It’sabouteveryonewatching!Everyonewhonowseeshurlingthemselvesintothechasmasaviableoption.Imean,whynotdo it ifeveryonecallsyouaheroafterward?Whynotdo it ifeveryonewillrememberyourname?It’s…Ican’t…”

Ishakemyhead.Myfaceburnsandmyheartpounds,andItrytokeepmyselfundercontrol,butIcan’t.

“This would never have happened in Abnegation!” I almost shout.“Noneofit!Never.Thisplacewarpedhimandruinedhim,andIdon’tcareifsayingthatmakesmeaStiff,Idon’tcare,Idon’tcare!”

Four’seyesshifttothewallabovethedrinkingfountain.

“Careful,Tris,”hesays,hiseyesstillonthewall.

“Isthatallyoucansay?”Idemand,scowlingathim.“ThatIshouldbecareful?That’sit?”

“You’re as bad as theCandor, you know that?”He grabsmy arm anddragsmeawayfromthedrinkingfountain.Hishandhurtsmyarm,but I’mnotstrongenoughtopullaway.

His face is so close tomine that I can see a few freckles spotting hisnose.“I’mnotgoingtosaythisagain,solistencarefully.”Hesetshishandson my shoulders, his fingers pressing, squeezing. I feel small. “They arewatchingyou.You,inparticular.”

“Letgoofme,”Isayweakly.

Hisfingersspringapart,andhestraightens.Someof theweightonmychestliftsnowthatheisn’ttouchingme.Ifearhisshiftingmoods.Theyshowmesomethingunstableinsideofhim,andinstabilityisdangerous.

“Are theywatchingyou, too?” I say, soquietlyhewouldn’tbeable tohearmeifhewasn’tstandingsoclose.

He doesn’t answermy question. “I keep trying to help you,” he says,“butyourefusetobehelped.”

“Oh,right.Yourhelp,”Isay.“Stabbingmyearwithaknifeandtauntingmeandyellingatmemorethanyouyellatanyoneelse,itsureishelpful.”

“Taunting you?Youmeanwhen I threw the knives? Iwasn’t tauntingyou,”hesnaps.“Iwasremindingyouthatifyoufailed,someoneelsewouldhavetotakeyourplace.”

I cup the back ofmy neckwithmy hand and think back to the knifeincident.Everytimehespoke,itwastoremindmethatifIgaveup,Alwouldhavetotakemyplaceinfrontofthetarget.

“Why?”Isay.

“Because you’re from Abnegation,” he says, “and it’s when you’reactingselflesslythatyouareatyourbravest.”

I understand now. He wasn’t persuading me to give up. He wasremindingmewhyIcouldn’t—because Ineeded toprotectAl.The thoughtmakesmeachenow.ProtectAl.Myfriend.Myattacker.

Ican’thateAlasmuchasIwantto.

Ican’tforgivehimeither.

“IfIwereyou,Iwoulddoabetterjobofpretendingthatselflessimpulse

is going away,” he says, “because if thewrong people discover it…well, itwon’tbegoodforyou.”

“Why?Whydotheycareaboutmyintentions?”

“Intentions are the only thing they care about. They try to make youthinktheycareaboutwhatyoudo,buttheydon’t.Theydon’twantyoutoacta certain way. They want you to think a certain way. So you’re easy tounderstand. So youwon’t pose a threat to them.”He presses a hand to thewallnexttomyheadandleansintoit.HisshirtisjusttightenoughthatIcanseehiscollarboneandthefaintdepressionbetweenhisshouldermuscleandhisbicep.

IwishIwastaller.IfIwastall,mynarrowbuildwouldbedescribedas“willowy”insteadof“childish,”andhemightnotseemeasalittlesisterheneedstoprotect.

Idon’twanthimtoseemeashissister.

“Idon’tunderstand,”Isay,“whytheycarewhatIthink,aslongasI’mactinghowtheywantmeto.”

“You’reactinghowtheywantyoutonow,”hesays,“butwhathappenswhenyourAbnegation-wiredbraintellsyoutodosomethingelse,somethingtheydon’twant?”

Idon’thaveananswertothat,andIdon’tevenknowifhe’srightaboutme.AmIwiredliketheAbnegation,ortheDauntless?

Maybetheanswerisneither.MaybeIamwiredliketheDivergent.

“Imightnotneedyoutohelpme.Everthinkaboutthat?”Isay.“I’mnotweak,youknow.Icandothisonmyown.”

He shakes his head. “You think my first instinct is to protect you.Becauseyou’resmall,oragirl,oraStiff.Butyou’rewrong.”

He leanshis faceclose tomineandwrapshis fingersaroundmychin.Hishandsmellslikemetal.Whenwasthelasttimeheheldagun,oraknife?My skin tingles at the point of contact, like he’s transmitting electricitythroughhisskin.

“Myfirstinstinctistopushyouuntilyoubreak,justtoseehowhardIhavetopress,”hesays,hisfingerssqueezingattheword“break.”Mybodytensesattheedgeinhisvoice,soIamcoiledastightasaspring,andIforgettobreathe.

Hisdarkeyesliftingtomine,headds,“ButIresistit.”

“Why…”Iswallowhard.“Whyisthatyourfirstinstinct?”

“Fear doesn’t shut you down; it wakes you up. I’ve seen it. It’sfascinating.”Hereleasesmebutdoesn’tpullaway,hishandgrazingmyjaw,myneck.“SometimesIjust…wanttoseeitagain.Wanttoseeyouawake.”

Isetmyhandsonhiswaist.Ican’trememberdecidingtodothat.ButIalso can’t move away. I pull myself against his chest, wrapping my armsaroundhim.Myfingersskimthemusclesofhisback.

Afteramomenthetouchesthesmallofmyback,pressingmecloser,andsmoothes his other hand over my hair. I feel small again, but this time, itdoesn’tscareme.Isqueezemyeyesshut.Hedoesn’tscaremeanymore.

“Should I be crying?” I ask, my voice muffled by his shirt. “Is theresomethingwrongwithme?”

ThesimulationsdroveacrackthroughAlsowidehecouldnotmendit.Whynotme?WhyamInotlikehim—andwhydoesthatthoughtmakemefeelsouneasy,likeI’mteeteringonaledgemyself?

“YouthinkIknowanythingabouttears?”hesaysquietly.

I closemy eyes. I don’t expectFour to reassureme, andhemakesnoeffortto,butIfeelbetterstandingherethanIdidoutthereamongthepeoplewhoaremyfriends,myfaction.Ipressmyforeheadtohisshoulder.

“IfIhadforgivenhim,”Isay,“doyouthinkhewouldbealivenow?”

“Idon’tknow,”hereplies.Hepresseshishandtomycheek,andIturnmyfaceintoit,keepingmyeyesclosed.

“Ifeellikeit’smyfault.”

“Itisn’tyourfault,”hesays,touchinghisforeheadtomine.

“ButIshouldhave.Ishouldhaveforgivenhim.”

“Maybe.Maybethere’smoreweallcouldhavedone,”hesays,“butwejusthavetolettheguiltremindustodobetternexttime.”

Ifrownandpullback.ThatisalessonthatmembersofAbnegationlearn—guilt as a tool, rather than aweapon against the self. It is a line straightfromoneofmyfather’slecturesatourweeklymeetings.

“Whatfactiondidyoucomefrom,Four?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replies, his eyes lowered. “This is where I amnow.Somethingyouwoulddowelltorememberforyourself.”

Hegivesmeaconflictedlookandtoucheshislipstomyforehead,rightbetweenmyeyebrows.Iclosemyeyes.Idon’tunderstandthis,whateveritis.ButIdon’twant toruin it,soIsaynothing.Hedoesn’tmove;he juststays

therewithhismouthpressedtomyskin,andIstaytherewithmyhandsonhiswaist,foralongtime.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE

ISTANDWITHWillandChristinaattherailingoverlookingthechasm,lateatnight aftermostof theDauntlesshavegone to sleep.Bothmy shouldersstingfromthetattooneedle.Weallgotnewtattoosahalfhourago.

Toriwastheonlyoneinthetattooplace,soIfeltsafegettingthesymbolof Abnegation—a pair of hands, palms up as if to help someone stand,boundedbyacircle—onmyrightshoulder. Iknowitwasa risk,especiallyafterall that’shappened.Butthatsymbolisapartofmyidentity,anditfeltimportanttomethatIwearitonmyskin.

Istepupononeofthebarrier’scrossbars,pressingmyhipstotherailingtokeepmybalance.This iswhereAlstood.I lookdowninto thechasm,attheblackwater,atthejaggedrocks.Waterhitsthewallandspraysup,mistingmyface.Washeafraidwhenhestoodhere?Orwashesodeterminedtojumpthatitwaseasy?

Christina handsme a stack of paper. I got a copy of every report theEruditehavereleased in the lastsixmonths.Throwing theminto thechasmwon’tgetridofthemforever,butitmightmakemefeelbetter.

I stare at the first one. On it is a picture of Jeanine, the Eruditerepresentative.Hersharp-but-attractiveeyesstarebackatme.

“Haveyouevermether?”IaskWill.Christinacrumplesthefirstreportintoaballandhurlsitintothewater.

“Jeanine? Once,” he replies. He takes the next report and tears it toshreds.Thepiecesfloatintotheriver.HedoesitwithoutChristina’smalice.Igetthefeelingthattheonlyreasonhe’sparticipatingistoprovetomethathedoesn’t agree with his former faction’s tactics. Whether he believes whatthey’resayingornotisunclear,andIamafraidtoask.

“Beforeshewasaleader,sheworkedwithmysister.Theyweretryingtodevelop a longer-lasting serum for the simulations,” he says. “Jeanine’s sosmartyoucanseeitevenbeforeshesaysanything.Like…awalking,talkingcomputer.”

“What…” I fling one of the pages over the railing, pressing my lipstogether.Ishouldjustask.“Whatdoyouthinkofwhatshehastosay?”

Heshrugs.“Idon’tknow.Maybeit’sagoodideatohavemorethanonefactionincontrolofthegovernment.Andmaybeitwouldbeniceifwehadmorecarsand…freshfruitand…”

“Youdorealizethere’snosecretwarehousewhereallthatstuffiskept,right?”Iask,myfacegettinghot.

“Yes, Ido,”hesays.“I just think thatcomfortandprosperityarenotapriorityforAbnegation,andmaybetheywouldbeiftheotherfactionswereinvolvedinourdecisionmaking.”

“BecausegivinganEruditeboyacarismoreimportantthangivingfoodtothefactionless,”Isnap.

“Hey now,” says Christina, brushingWill’s shoulder with her fingers.“This is supposed to be a lighthearted session of symbolic documentdestruction,notapoliticaldebate.”

IbitebackwhatIwasabouttosayandstareatthestackofpaperinmyhands.Will andChristina share a lot of idle touches lately. I’ve noticed it.Havethey?

“All that stuff she said about your dad, though,” he says, “makesmekindofhateher.Ican’timaginewhatgoodcancomeofsayingsuchterriblethings.”

Ican.IfJeaninecanmakepeoplebelievethatmyfatherandalltheotherAbnegation leaders are corrupt and awful, she has support for whateverrevolution she wants to start, if that’s really her plan. But I don’t want toargue again, so I just nod and throw the remaining sheets into the chasm.Theydriftbackandforth,backandforthuntiltheyfindthewater.Theywillbefilteredoutatthechasmwallanddiscarded.

“It’sbedtime,”Christinasays,smiling.“Readytogoback?IthinkIwanttoputPeter’shandinabowlofwarmwatertomakehimpeetonight.”

I turnawayfromthechasmandseemovementon therightsideof thePit.Afigureclimbstowardtheglassceiling,andjudgingbythesmoothwayhewalks,likehisfeetbarelyleavetheground,IknowitisFour.

“That soundsgreat,but Ihave to talk toFourabout something,” I say,pointingtowardtheshadowascendingthepath.Hereyesfollowmyhand.

“Areyousureyoushouldbe runningaroundherealoneatnight?” sheasks.

“Iwon’tbealone.I’llbewithFour.”Ibitemylip.

Christina is looking atWill, and he is looking back at her.Neither ofthemisreallylisteningtome.

“Allright,”Christinasaysdistantly.“Well,I’llseeyoulater,then.”

ChristinaandWillwalktowardthedormitories,ChristinatouslingWill’shairandWilljabbingherintheribs.Forasecond,Iwatchthem.IfeellikeIamwitnessingthebeginningofsomething,butI’mnotsurewhatitwillbe.

I jog to thepathon the right sideof thePitandstart toclimb. I try tomake my footsteps as quiet as possible. Unlike Christina, I don’t find itdifficult to lie. I don’t intend to talk to Four—at least, not until I find outwherehe’sgoing,lateatnight,intheglassbuildingaboveus.

Irunquietly,breathlesswhenIreachthestairs,andstandatoneendoftheglassroomwhileFourstandsattheother.ThroughthewindowsIseethecity lights, glowing now but petering out even as I look at them.They aresupposedtoturnoffatmidnight.

Acrosstheroom,Fourstandsatthedoortothefearlandscape.Heholdsablackboxinonehandandasyringeintheother.

“Since you’re here,” he says, without looking over his shoulder, “youmightaswellgoinwithme.”

Ibitemylip.“Intoyourfearlandscape?”

“Yes.”

AsIwalktowardhim,Iask,“Icandothat?”

“The serum connects you to the program,” he says, “but the programdetermineswhoselandscapeyougothrough.Andrightnow,it’ssettoputusthroughmine.”

“Youwouldletmeseethat?”

“Whyelsedoyou thinkI’mgoing in?”heasksquietly.Hedoesn’t lifthiseyes.“TherearesomethingsIwanttoshowyou.”

Heholdsupthesyringe,andItiltmyheadtobetterexposemyneck.Ifeelsharppainwhentheneedlegoesin,butIamusedtoitnow.Whenhe’sdone,heoffersmetheblackbox.Initisanothersyringe.

“I’veneverdone thisbefore,” I sayas I take itoutof thebox. Idon’twanttohurthim.

“Righthere,”hesays,touchingaspotonhisneckwithhisfingernail.Istand on my tiptoes and push the needle in, my hand shaking a little. Hedoesn’tevenflinch.

Hekeepshiseyesonmethewholetime,andwhenI’mdone,putsbothsyringesintheboxandsetsitbythedoor.HeknewthatIwouldfollowhimuphere.Knew,orhoped.Eitherwayisfinewithme.

Heoffersmehishand,andIslidemineintoit.Hisfingersarecoldandbrittle. I feel like there is something I shouldsay,but Iam toostunnedandcan’tcomeupwithanywords.Heopens thedoorwithhis freehand,andIfollowhimintothedark.Iamnowusedtoenteringunknownplaceswithout

hesitation.IkeepmybreathsevenandholdfirmlytoFour’shand.

“SeeifyoucanfigureoutwhytheycallmeFour,”hesays.

Thedoorclicksshutbehindus,takingallthelightwithit.Theairiscoldinthehallway;Ifeeleachparticleentermylungs.Iinchclosertohimsomyarmisagainsthisandmychinisnearhisshoulder.

“What’syourrealname?”Iask.

“Seeifyoucanfigurethatouttoo.”

The simulation takes us. The ground I stand on is no longermade ofcement. It creaks like metal. Light pours in from all angles, and the cityunfoldsaroundus,glassbuildingsandthearcoftraintracks,andwearehighabove it. I haven’t seen a blue sky in a long time, so when it spreads outaboveme,Ifeelthebreathcatchinmylungsandtheeffectisdizzying.

Thenthewindstarts.ItblowssohardIhavetoleanagainstFourtostayonmy feet.He removeshishand frommineandwrapshis armaroundmyshoulders instead. At first I think it’s to protect me—but no, he’s havingtroublebreathingandheneedsmetosteadyhim.Heforcesbreathinandoutthroughanopenmouthandhisteethareclenched.

The height is beautiful to me, but if it’s here, it is one of his worstnightmares.

“Wehavetojumpoff,right?”Ishoutoverthewind.

Henods.

“Onthree,okay?”

Anothernod.

“One…two…three!”IpullhimwithmeasIburst intoarun.Afterwetakethefirststep,therestiseasy.Webothsprintofftheedgeofthebuilding.Wefallliketwostones,fast,theairpushingbackatus,thegroundgrowingbeneathus.Thenthescenedisappears,andIamonmyhandsandkneesonthefloor,grinning.IlovedthatrushthedayIchoseDauntless,andIloveitnow.

Nexttome,Fourgaspsandpressesahandtohischest.

Igetupandhelphimtohisfeet.“What’snext?”

“It’s—”

Something solid hits my spine. I slam into Four, my head hitting hiscollarbone.Wallsappearonmyleftandmyright.ThespaceissonarrowthatFourhastopullhisarmsintohischesttofit.Aceilingslamsontothewalls

arounduswithacrack,andFourhunchesover,groaning.Theroomisjustbigenoughtoaccommodatehissize,andnobigger.

“Confinement,”Isay.

Hemakesagutturalnoise.Itiltmyheadandpullbackenoughtolookathim. I can barely see his face, it’s so dark, and the air is close; we sharebreaths.Hegrimaceslikehe’sinpain.

“Hey,”Isay.“It’sokay.Here—”

Iguidehisarmsaroundmybodysohehasmorespace.Heclutchesatmybackandputshisfacenexttomine,stillhunchedover.Hisbodyiswarm,but I feel only his bones and the muscle that wraps around them; nothingyieldsbeneathme.Mycheeksgethot.Canhe tell that I’mstillbuilt likeachild?

“ThisisthefirsttimeI’mhappyI’msosmall.”Ilaugh.IfIjoke,maybeIcancalmhimdown.Anddistractmyself.

“Mmhmm,”hesays.Hisvoicesoundsstrained.

“Wecan’tbreakoutofhere,”Isay.“It’seasiertofacethefearheadon,right?”Idon’twaitforaresponse.“Sowhatyouneedtodoismakethespacesmaller.Makeitworsesoitgetsbetter.Right?”

“Yes.”Itisatight,tenselittleword.

“Okay.We’llhavetocrouch,then.Ready?”

Isqueezehiswaisttopullhimdownwithme.Ifeelthehardlineofhisribagainstmyhandandhearthescreechofonewoodplankagainstanotheras the ceiling inches downwith us. I realize thatwewon’t fitwith all thisspacebetweenus, so I turnandcurl intoaball,myspineagainsthischest.OneofhiskneesisbentnexttomyheadandtheotheriscurledbeneathmesoI’msittingonhisankle.Weareajumbleoflimbs.Ifeelaharshbreathagainstmyear.

“Ah,”hesays,hisvoiceraspy.“Thisisworse.Thisisdefinitely…”

“Shh,”Isay.“Armsaroundme.”

Obediently,heslipsbotharmsaroundmywaist.Ismileatthewall.Iamnotenjoyingthis.Iamnot,notevenalittlebit,no.

“The simulation measures your fear response,” I say softly. I’m justrepeatingwhathetoldus,butremindinghimmighthelphim.“Soifyoucancalmyourheartbeatdown,itwillmoveontothenextone.Remember?Sotrytoforgetthatwe’rehere.”

“Yeah?” I feel his lips move against my ear as he speaks, and heatcoursesthroughme.“Thateasy,huh?”

“Youknow,mostboyswouldenjoybeingtrappedinclosequarterswithagirl.”Irollmyeyes.

“Notclaustrophobicpeople,Tris!”Hesoundsdesperatenow.

“Okay,okay.”Isetmyhandontopofhisandguideittomychest,soit’srightovermyheart.“Feelmyheartbeat.Canyoufeelit?”

“Yes.”

“Feelhowsteadyitis?”

“It’sfast.”

“Yes,well,thathasnothingtodowiththebox.”IwinceassoonasI’mdonespeaking.Ijustadmittedtosomething.Hopefullyhedoesn’trealizethat.“Everytimeyoufeelmebreathe,youbreathe.Focusonthat.”

“Okay.”

I breathe deeply, and his chest rises and falls with mine. After a fewsecondsofthis,Isaycalmly,“Whydon’tyoutellmewherethisfearcomesfrom.Maybetalkingaboutitwillhelpus…somehow.”

Idon’tknowhow,butitsoundsright.

“Um…okay.”Hebreatheswithmeagain.“Thisoneisfrommyfantasticchildhood.Childhoodpunishments.Thetinyclosetupstairs.”

Ipressmylips together.Irememberbeingpunished—sent tomyroomwithoutdinner,deprivedofthisorthat,firmscoldings.Iwasnevershutinacloset.Thecrueltysmarts;mychestachesforhim.Idon’tknowwhattosay,soItrytokeepitcasual.

“Mymotherkeptourwintercoatsinourcloset.”

“Idon’t…”Hegasps.“Idon’treallywanttotalkaboutitanymore.”

“Okay.Then…Icantalk.Askmesomething.”

“Okay.”Helaughsshakilyinmyear.“Whyisyourheartracing,Tris?”

Icringeandsay,“Well,I…”Isearchforanexcusethatdoesn’tinvolvehisarmsbeingaroundme.“Ibarelyknowyou.”Notgoodenough.“Ibarelyknow you and I’m crammed up against you in a box, Four, what do youthink?”

“Ifwewereinyourfearlandscape,”hesays,“wouldIbeinit?”

“I’mnotafraidofyou.”

“Ofcourseyou’renot.Butthat’snotwhatImeant.”

He laughsagain,andwhenhedoes, thewallsbreakapartwithacrackandfallaway,leavingusinacircleoflight.Foursighsandliftshisarmsfrommy body. I scramble to my feet and brush myself off, though I haven’taccumulatedanydirt that I’mawareof. Iwipemypalmsonmy jeans.Mybackfeelscoldfromthesuddenabsenceofhim.

Hestandsinfrontofme.He’sgrinning,andI’mnotsureIlikethelookinhiseyes.

“Maybe you were cut out for Candor,” he says, “because you’re aterribleliar.”

“Ithinkmyaptitudetestruledthatoneoutprettywell.”

Heshakeshishead.“Theaptitudetesttellsyounothing.”

Inarrowmyeyes. “Whatareyou trying to tellme?Your test isn’t thereasonyouendedupDauntless?”

Excitementrunsthroughmelikethebloodinmyveins,propelledbythehopethathemightconfirmthatheisDivergent,thatheislikeme,thatwecanfigureoutwhatitmeanstogether.

“Notexactly,no,”hesays.“I…”

He looks over his shoulder andhis voice trails off.Awoman stands afew yards away, pointing a gun at us. She is completely still, her featuresplain—ifwewalkedawayrightnow,Iwouldnotrememberher.Tomyright,atableappears.Onitisagunandasinglebullet.Whyisn’tsheshootingus?

Oh,Ithink.Thefearisunrelatedtothethreattohislife.Ithastodowiththegunonthetable.

“Youhavetokillher,”Isaysoftly.

“Everysingletime.”

“Sheisn’treal.”

“Shelooksreal.”Hebiteshislip.“Itfeelsreal.”

“Ifshewasreal,shewouldhavekilledyoualready.”

“It’sokay.”Henods.“I’lljust…doit.Thisone’snot…notsobad.Notasmuchpanicinvolved.”

Notasmuchpanic,butfarmoredread.Icanseeitinhiseyesashepicksup the gun andopens the chamber like he’s done it a thousand times—and

maybehehas.Heclicksthebulletintothechamberandholdsthegunoutinfront of him, both hands around it.He squeezes one eye shut and breathesslowlyin.

Asheexhales,hefires,andthewoman’sheadwhipsback.Iseeaflashofredandlookaway.Ihearhercrumpletothefloor.

Four’sgundropswithathump.Westareatherfallenbody.Whathesaidistrue—itdoesfeelreal.Don’tberidiculous.Igrabhisarm.

“C’mon,”Isay.“Let’sgo.Keepmoving.”

Afteranothertug,hecomesoutofhisdazeandfollowsme.Aswepassthetable,thewoman’sbodydisappears,exceptinmymemoryandhis.Whatwould it be like to kill someone every time Iwent throughmy landscape?MaybeI’llfindout.

Butsomethingpuzzlesme:ThesearesupposedtobeFour’sworstfears.And though he panicked in the box and on the roof, he killed the womanwithoutmuchdifficulty.Itseemslikethesimulationisgraspingatanyfearsitcanfindwithinhim,andithasn’tfoundmuch.

“Herewego,”hewhispers.

Adarkfiguremovesaheadofus,creepingalongtheedgeofthecircleoflight,waiting for us to take another step.Who is it?Who frequents Four’snightmares?

Themanwhoemerges is tallandslim,withhaircutclose tohisscalp.He holds his hands behind his back.And hewears the gray clothes of theAbnegation.

“Marcus,”Iwhisper.

“Here’s the part,” Four says, his voice shaking, “where you figure outmyname.”

“Ishe…”IlookfromMarcus,whowalksslowlytowardus,toFour,whoinches slowly back, and everything comes together.Marcus had a sonwhojoinedDauntless.Hisnamewas…“Tobias.”

Marcus shows us his hands. A belt is curled around one of his fists.Slowlyheunwindsitfromhisfingers.

“This is for your own good,” he says, and his voice echoes a dozentimes.

AdozenMarcusespressintothecircleoflight,allholdingthesamebelt,with the sameblankexpression.When theMarcusesblinkagain, their eyesturn into empty, black pits. The belts slither along the floor, which is now

white tile. A shiver crawls up my spine. The Erudite accused Marcus ofcruelty.ForoncetheEruditewereright.

I look at Four—Tobias—and he seems frozen. His posture sags. Helooks years older; he looks years younger. The firstMarcus yanks his armback,thebeltsailingoverhisshoulderashepreparestostrike.Tobiasshrinksback,throwinghisarmsuptoprotecthisface.

I dart in front of him and the belt cracks against my wrist, wrappingaroundit.Ahotpainracesupmyarmtomyelbow.IgritmyteethandpullashardasIcan.Marcusloseshisgrip,soIunwrapthebeltandgrabitbythebuckle.

I swingmyarmas fast as I can,my shoulder socketburning from thesuddenmotion,andthebeltstrikesMarcus’sshoulder.Heyellsandlungesatme with outstretched hands, with fingernails that look like claws. TobiaspushesmebehindhimsohestandsbetweenmeandMarcus.Helooksangry,notafraid.

All theMarcusesvanish.The lightscomeon, revealinga long,narrowroomwithbustedbrickwallsandacementfloor.

“That’sit?”Isay.“Thosewereyourworstfears?Whydoyouonlyhavefour…”Myvoicetrailsoff.Onlyfourfears.

“Oh.”Ilookovermyshoulderathim.“That’swhytheycallyou—”

Thewords leavemewhen I seehis expression.His eyesarewideandseem almost vulnerable under the room’s lights. His lips are parted. If wewerenothere,Iwoulddescribethelookasawe.ButIdon’tunderstandwhyhewouldbelookingatmeinawe.

Hewrapshishandaroundmyelbow,histhumbpressingtothesoftskinabovemyforearm,and tugsme towardhim.Theskinaroundmywriststillstings,likethebeltwasreal,butitisaspaleastherestofme.Hislipsslowlymoveagainstmycheek, thenhisarms tightenaroundmyshoulders,andheburieshisfaceinmyneck,breathingagainstmycollarbone.

Istandstifflyforasecondandthenloopmyarmsaroundhimandsigh.

“Hey,”Isaysoftly.“Wegotthroughit.”

Heliftshisheadandslipshisfingersthroughmyhair,tuckingitbehindmyear.Westareat eachother in silence.His fingersmoveabsentlyover alockofmyhair.

“Yougotmethroughit,”hesaysfinally.

“Well.”Mythroatisdry.Itrytoignorethenervouselectricitythatpulses

throughmeeverysecondhetouchesme.“It’seasytobebravewhenthey’renotmyfears.”

I let my hands drop and casually wipe them on my jeans, hoping hedoesn’tnotice.

Ifhedoes,hedoesn’tsayso.Helaceshisfingerswithmine.

“Comeon,”hesays.“Ihavesomethingelsetoshowyou.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

HANDINHAND,wewalktowardthePit.Imonitorthepressureofmyhandcarefully.Oneminute,IfeellikeI’mnotgrippinghardenough,andthenext,I’msqueezing toohard. Ineverused tounderstandwhypeoplebothered toholdhandsas theywalked,but thenhe runsoneofhis fingertipsdownmypalm,andIshiverandunderstanditcompletely.

“So…”IlatchontothelastlogicalthoughtIremember.“Fourfears.”

“Four fears then; four fears now,” he says, nodding. “They haven’tchanged,soIkeepgoinginthere,but…Istillhaven’tmadeanyprogress.”

“Youcan’tbefearless,remember?”Isay.“Becauseyoustillcareaboutthings.Aboutyourlife.”

“Iknow.”

Wewalk along the edge of the Pit on a narrow path that leads to therocksatthebottomofthechasm.I’venevernoticeditbefore—itblendedinwiththerockwall.ButTobiasseemstoknowitwell.

Idon’twanttoruinthemoment,butIhavetoknowabouthisaptitudetest.Ihavetoknowifhe’sDivergent.

“Youweregoingtotellmeaboutyouraptitudetestresults,”Isay.

“Ah.” He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. “Does itmatter?”

“Yes.Iwanttoknow.”

“Howdemandingyouare.”Hesmiles.

Wereachtheendofthepathandstandatthebottomofthechasm,wherethe rocks formunsteadyground, risingup at harsh angles from the rushingwater.Heleadsmeupanddown,acrosssmallgapsandoverangularridges.Myshoesclingtotheroughrock.Thesolesofmyshoesmarkeachrockwithawetfootprint.

He finds a relatively flat rock near the side, where the current isn’tstrong, and sits down, his feet danglingover the edge. I sit besidehim.Heseemscomfortablehere,inchesabovethehazardouswater.

Hereleasesmyhand.Ilookatthejaggededgeoftherock.

“ThesearethingsIdon’ttellpeople,youknow.Notevenmyfriends,”hesays.

Ilacemyfingerstogetherandclench.Thisistheperfectplaceforhimto

tellmethatheisDivergent,ifindeedthat’swhatheis.Theroarofthechasmensuresthatwewon’tbeoverheard.Idon’tknowwhythethoughtmakesmesonervous.

“Myresultwasasexpected,”hesays.“Abnegation.”

“Oh.”Somethinginsidemedeflates.Iamwrongabouthim.

But—IhadassumedthatifhewasnotDivergent,hemusthavegottenaDauntlessresult.Andtechnically,IalsogotanAbnegationresult—accordingtothesystem.Didthesamethinghappentohim?Andifthat’strue,whyisn’thetellingmethetruth?

“ButyouchoseDauntlessanyway?”Isay.

“Outofnecessity.”

“Whydidyouhavetoleave?”

His eyes dart away frommine, across the space in front of him, as ifsearching theair forananswer.Hedoesn’tneed togiveone. I still feel theghostofastingingbeltonmywrist.

“Youhadtogetawayfromyourdad,”Isay.“Isthatwhyyoudon’twantto be aDauntless leader?Because if youwere, youmight have to see himagain?”

Heliftsashoulder.“That,andI’vealwaysfeltthatIdon’tquitebelongamongtheDauntless.Notthewaytheyarenow,anyway.”

“Butyou’re…incredible,”Isay.Ipauseandclearmythroat.“Imean,byDauntless standards. Four fears is unheard of. How could you not belonghere?”

Heshrugs.Hedoesn’tseemtocareabouthistalent,orhisstatusamongtheDauntless,andthatiswhatIwouldexpectfromtheAbnegation.Iamnotsurewhattomakeofthat.

He says, “I have a theory that selflessness and bravery aren’t all thatdifferent.Allyourlifeyou’vebeentrainingtoforgetyourself,sowhenyou’reindanger,itbecomesyourfirstinstinct.IcouldbelonginAbnegationjustaseasily.”

SuddenlyIfeelheavy.Alifetimeoftrainingwasn’tenoughforme.Myfirstinstinctisstillself-preservation.

“Yeah,well,”Isay,“IleftAbnegationbecauseIwasn’tselflessenough,nomatterhowhardItriedtobe.”

“That’snotentirelytrue.”Hesmilesatme.“Thatgirlwholetsomeone

throwknivesathertospareafriend,whohitmydadwithabelttoprotectme—thatselflessgirl,that’snotyou?”

He’sfiguredoutmoreaboutmethanIhave.Andeventhoughitseemsimpossible that he could feel something for me, given all that I’m not…maybeit isn’t. I frownathim.“You’vebeenpayingcloseattention,haven’tyou?”

“Iliketoobservepeople.”

“Maybe you were cut out for Candor, Four, because you’re a terribleliar.”

Heputshishandontherocknexttohim,hisfingersliningupwithmine.Ilookdownatourhands.Hehaslong,narrowfingers.Handsmadeforfine,deftmovements.NotDauntlesshands,whichshouldbethickandtoughandreadytobreakthings.

“Fine.”Heleanshisfaceclosertomine,hiseyesfocusingonmychin,andmy lips, andmy nose. “Iwatched you because I like you.”He says itplainly, boldly, and his eyes flick up to mine. “And don’t call me ‘Four,’okay?It’snicetohearmynameagain.”

Just likethat,hehasfinallydeclaredhimself,andIdon’tknowhowtorespond.Mycheekswarm,andallIcanthinktosayis,“Butyou’reolderthanIam…Tobias.”

He smiles at me. “Yes, that whopping two-year gap really isinsurmountable,isn’tit?”

“I’m not trying to be self-deprecating,” I say, “I just don’t get it. I’myounger.I’mnotpretty.I—”

Helaughs,adeeplaughthatsoundslikeitcamefromdeepinsidehim,andtoucheshislipstomytemple.

“Don’tpretend,”Isaybreathily.“YouknowI’mnot.I’mnotugly,butIamcertainlynotpretty.”

“Fine.You’renotpretty.So?”Hekissesmycheek.“Ilikehowyoulook.You’re deadly smart. You’re brave. And even though you found out aboutMarcus…”His voice softens. “You aren’t givingme that look. Like I’m akickedpuppyorsomething.”

“Well,”Isay.“You’renot.”

Forasecondhisdarkeyesareonmine,andhe’squiet.Thenhetouchesmyfaceand leans inclose,brushingmylipswithhis.TheriverroarsandIfeelitssprayonmyankles.Hegrinsandpresseshismouthtomine.

I tenseupat first,unsureofmyself,sowhenhepullsaway, I’msureIdidsomethingwrong,orbadly.Buthetakesmyfaceinhishands,hisfingersstrongagainstmyskin,andkissesmeagain,firmerthistime,morecertain.Iwrapanarmaroundhim,slidingmyhanduphisneckandintohisshorthair.

Forafewminuteswekiss,deepinthechasm,withtheroarofwaterallaround us. And when we rise, hand in hand, I realize that if we had bothchosendifferently,wemighthaveendedupdoingthesamething,inasaferplace,ingrayclothesinsteadofblackones.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

THENEXTMORNING I am silly and light. Every time I push the smilefrommyface,itfightsitswayback.EventuallyIstopsuppressingit.Iletmyhairhanglooseandabandonmyuniformoflooseshirtsinfavorofonethatcutsacrossmyshoulders,revealingmytattoos.

“Whatisitwithyoutoday?”saysChristinaonthewaytobreakfast.Hereyes are still swollen from sleep and her tangled hair forms a fuzzy haloaroundherface.

“Oh,youknow,”Isay.“Sunshining.Birdschirping.”

She raises an eyebrow at me, as if reminding me that we are in anundergroundtunnel.

“Let the girl be in a good mood,” Will says. “You may never see itagain.”

I smack his arm and hurry toward the dining hall. My heart poundsbecauseIknowthatatsomepointinthenexthalfhour,IwillseeTobias.Isitdowninmyusualplace,next toUriah,withWillandChristinaacrossfromus.Theseatonmyleftstaysempty.IwonderifTobiaswillsitinit; ifhe’llgrinatmeoverbreakfast;ifhe’lllookatmeinthatsecret,stolenwaythatIimaginemyselflookingathim.

Igrabapieceoftoastfromtheplateinthemiddleofthetableandstartto butter it with a little too much enthusiasm. I feel myself acting like alunatic,butIcan’tstop.Itwouldbelikerefusingtobreathe.

Thenhewalksin.Hishairisshorter,anditlooksdarkerthisway,almostblack.It’sAbnegationshort,Irealize.Ismileathimandliftmyhandtowavehim over, but he sits down next to Zeke without even glancing in mydirection,soIletmyhanddrop.

Istareatmytoast.Itiseasynottosmilenow.

“Somethingwrong?”asksUriahthroughamouthfuloftoast.

I shakemy head and take a bite.What did I expect? Just becausewekissed doesn’t mean anything changes.Maybe he changed his mind aboutlikingme.Maybehethinkskissingmewasamistake.

“Today’sfearlandscapeday,”saysWill.“Youthinkwe’llgettoseeourownfearlandscapes?”

“No.” Uriah shakes his head. “You go through one of the instructors’landscapes.Mybrothertoldme.”

“Ooh,whichinstructor?”saysChristina,suddenlyperkingup.

“Youknow,itreallyisn’tfairthatyouallgetinsiderinformationandwedon’t,”Willsays,glaringatUriah.

“Likeyouwouldn’tuseanadvantageifyouhadone,”retortsUriah.

Christinaignoresthem.“Ihopeit’sFour’slandscape.”

“Why?”Iask.Thequestioncomesouttooincredulous.IbitemylipandwishIcouldtakeitback.

“Lookslikesomeonehadamoodswing.”Sherollshereyes.“Likeyoudon’twant toknowwhathis fears are.He acts so tough that he’sprobablyafraid of marshmallows and really bright sunrises or something.Overcompensating.”

Ishakemyhead.“Itwon’tbehim.”

“Howwouldyouknow?”

“It’sjustaprediction.”

I remember Tobias’s father in his fear landscape. He wouldn’t leteveryonesee that. Iglanceathim.Forasecond,hiseyesshift tomine.Hisstareisunfeeling.Thenhelooksaway.

Lauren, the instructor of the Dauntless-born initiates, stands with her

handsonherhipsoutsidethefearlandscaperoom.

“Twoyears ago,” she says, “Iwas afraid of spiders, suffocation,wallsthat inch slowly inward and trap you between them, getting thrown out ofDauntless, uncontrollable bleeding, getting run over by a train,my father’sdeath,publichumiliation,andkidnappingbymenwithoutfaces.”

Everyonestaresblanklyather.

“Mostofyouwillhaveanywherefromten tofifteenfears inyourfearlandscapes.Thatistheaveragenumber,”shesays.

“What’sthelowestnumbersomeonehasgotten?”asksLynn.

“Inrecentyears,”saysLauren,“four.”

I have not looked atTobias sincewewere in the cafeteria, but I can’thelpbutlookathimnow.Hekeepshiseyestrainedonthefloor.Iknewthatfourwasalownumber,lowenoughtomeritanickname,butIdidn’tknowitwaslessthanhalftheaverage.

Iglareatmyfeet.He’sexceptional.Andnowhewon’tevenlookatme.

“Youwillnotfindoutyournumbertoday,”saysLauren.“Thesimulationissettomyfearlandscapeprogram,soyouwillexperiencemyfearsinsteadofyourown.”

IgiveChristinaapointedlook.Iwasright;wewon’tgothroughFour’slandscape.

“Forthepurposesofthisexercise,though,eachofyouwillonlyfaceoneofmyfears,togetasenseforhowthesimulationworks.”

Laurenpointstousatrandomandassignsuseachafear.Iwasstandingin theback,so Iwillgoclose to last.The fear thatsheassigned tomewaskidnapping.

BecauseI’mnothookeduptothecomputerasIwait,Ican’twatchthesimulation, only the person’s reaction to it. It is the perfectway to distractmyselffrommypreoccupationwithTobias—clenchingmyhandsintofistsasWillbrushesoffspidersIcan’tseeandUriahpresseshishandsagainstwallsthat are invisible to me, and smirking as Peter turns bright red duringwhateverheexperiencesin“publichumiliation.”Thenit’smyturn.

Theobstaclewon’tbecomfortableforme,butbecauseIhavebeenabletomanipulateeverysimulation,notjustthisone,andbecauseIhavealreadygonethroughTobias’slandscape,IamnotapprehensiveasLaureninsertstheneedleintomyneck.

Thenthescenerychangesandthekidnappingbegins.Thegroundturnsintograssbeneathmyfeet,andhandsclamparoundmyarms,overmymouth.Itistoodarktosee.

Istandnexttothechasm.Iheartheroarofthewater.Iscreamintothehand that coversmymouth and thrash to freemyself, but the arms are toostrong; my kidnappers are too strong. The image of myself falling intodarknessflashes intomymind, thesameimagethatInowcarrywithmeinmynightmares.Iscreamagain;IscreamuntilmythroathurtsandIsqueezehottearsfrommyeyes.

Iknewtheywouldcomebackforme;Iknewtheywouldtryagain.Thefirsttimewasnotenough.Iscreamagain—notforhelp,becausenoonewillhelpme,butbecause that’swhatyoudowhenyou’re about todie andyoucan’tstopit.

“Stop,”asternvoicesays.

Thehandsdisappear, and the lights comeon. I standoncement in thefearlandscaperoom.Mybodyshakes,andIdroptomyknees,pressingmyhandstomyface.I justfailed.I lostall logic,I lostallsense.Lauren’sfear

transformedintooneofmyown.

Andeveryonesawme.Tobiassawme.

Ihearfootsteps.Tobiasmarchestowardmeandwrenchesmetomyfeet.

“Whatthehellwasthat,Stiff?”

“I…”Mybreathcomesinahiccup.“Ididn’t—”

“Getyourselftogether!Thisispathetic.”

Somethingwithinmesnaps.Mytearsstop.Heatracesthroughmybody,drivingtheweaknessoutofme,andIsmackhimsohardmyknucklesburnwiththeimpact.Hestaresatme,onesideofhisfacebrightwithblush-blood,andIstareback.

“Shutup,”Isay.Iyankmyarmfromhisgraspandwalkoutoftheroom.

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

IPULLMYjackettightaroundmyshoulders.Ihaven’tbeenoutsideinalongtime.Thesunshinespaleagainstmyface,andIwatchmybreathsformintheair.

AtleastIaccomplishedonething:IconvincedPeterandhisfriendsthatI’m no longer a threat. I just have tomake sure that tomorrow,when I gothrough my own fear landscape, I prove them wrong. Yesterday failureseemedimpossible.TodayI’mnotsure.

Islidemyhandsthroughmyhair.Theimpulsetocryisgone.Ibraidmyhairandtieitwiththerubberbandaroundmywrist.Ifeelmorelikemyself.ThatisallIneed:torememberwhoIam.AndIamsomeonewhodoesnotletinconsequentialthingslikeboysandnear-deathexperiencesstopher.

Ilaugh,shakingmyhead.AmI?

I hear the train horn. The train tracks loop around the Dauntlesscompound and then continue farther than I can see.Where do they begin?Wheredotheyend?Whatistheworldlikebeyondthem?Iwalktowardthem.

Iwanttogohome,butIcan’t.Ericwarnedusnottoappeartooattachedto our parents on Visiting Day, so visiting home would be betraying theDauntless,andIcan’taffordtodothat.Ericdidnottelluswecouldn’tvisitpeopleinfactionsotherthantheoneswecamefrom,though,andmymotherdidtellmetovisitCaleb.

I know I’m not allowed to leavewithout supervision, but I can’t stopmyself.Iwalkfasterandfaster,untilI’msprinting.Pumpingmyarms,IrunalongsidethelastcaruntilIcangrabthehandleandswingmyselfin,wincingaspaindartsthroughmysorebody.

Once in the car, I lie on my back next to the door and watch theDauntless compound disappear behind me. I don’t want to go back, butchoosing to quit, to be factionless, would be the bravest thing I have everdone,andtodayIfeellikeacoward.

Theairrushesovermybodyandtwistsaroundmyfingers.Iletmyhandtrailovertheedgeofthecarsoitpressesagainstthewind.Ican’tgohome,butIcanfindpartofit.Calebhasaplaceineverymemoryofmychildhood;heispartofmyfoundation.

Thetrainslowsas it reachestheheartof thecity,andIsituptowatchthe smaller buildings grow into larger buildings. The Erudite live in largestonebuildings thatoverlook themarsh. Ihold thehandleand leanout justenoughtoseewherethetracksgo.Theydipdowntostreetleveljustbefore

theybendtotraveleast.Ibreatheinthesmellofwetpavementandmarshair.

Thetraindipsandslows,andIjump.Mylegsshudderwiththeforceofmy landing, and I run a few steps to regainmy balance. I walk down themiddle of the street, heading south, toward the marsh. The empty landstretchesasfarasIcansee,abrownplanecollidingwiththehorizon.

I turn left.TheEruditebuildings loomaboveme, dark andunfamiliar.HowwillIfindCalebhere?

TheEruditekeeprecords;it’sintheirnature.Theymustkeeprecordsoftheirinitiates.Someonehasaccesstothoserecords;Ijusthavetofindthem.Iscan the buildings. Logically speaking, the central building should be themostimportantone.Imayaswellstartthere.

The faction members are milling around everywhere. Erudite factionnorms dictate that a factionmembermustwear at least one blue article ofclothingatatime,becausebluecausesthebodytoreleasecalmingchemicals,and“acalmmindisaclearmind.”Thecolorhasalsocometosignifytheirfaction. It seems impossibly bright to me now. I have grown used to dimlightinganddarkclothing.

I expect to weave through the crowd, dodging elbows and muttering“excuseme”thewayIalwaysdo,butthereisnoneed.BecomingDauntlesshasmademenoticeable.Thecrowdpartsforme,andtheireyesclingtomeasIpass.IpulltherubberbandfrommyhairandshakeitfromitsknotbeforeIwalkthroughthefrontdoors.

Istandjustinsidetheentranceandtiltmyheadback.Theroomishuge,silent, and smells like dust-covered pages. The wood-paneled floor creaksbeneathmyfeet.Bookcaseslinethewallsoneithersideofme,buttheyseemtobedecorativemorethananything,becausecomputersoccupythetablesinthecenteroftheroom,andnooneisreading.Theystareatscreenswithtenseeyes,focused.

IshouldhaveknownthatthemainEruditebuildingwouldbealibrary.Aportraitontheoppositewallcatchesmyattention.It is twicemyheightandfourtimesmywidthanddepictsanattractivewomanwithwaterygrayeyesandspectacles—Jeanine.Heatlicksmythroatatthesightofher.BecausesheisErudite’srepresentative,she is theonewhoreleased that reportaboutmyfather.Ihavedislikedhersincemyfather’sdinner-tablerantsbegan,butnowIhateher.

BeneathherisalargeplaquethatreadsKNOWLEDGELEADS

TOPROSPERITY.

Prosperity.Tomethewordhasanegativeconnotation.Abnegationusesittodescribeself-indulgence.

HowcouldCalebhavechosentobeoneofthesepeople?Thethingstheydo,thethingstheywant,it’sallwrong.ButheprobablythinksthesameoftheDauntless.

I walk up to the desk just beneath Jeanine’s portrait. The youngmansittingbehinditdoesn’tlookupashesays,“HowcanIhelpyou?”

“I am looking for someone,” I say. “Hisname isCaleb.DoyouknowwhereIcanfindhim?”

“Iamnotpermittedtogiveoutpersonalinformation,”herepliesblandly,ashejabsatthescreeninfrontofhim.

“He’smybrother.”

“Iamnotpermi—”

Islammypalmonthedeskinfrontofhim,andhejerksoutofhisdaze,staringatmeoverhisspectacles.Headsturninmydirection.

“Isaid.”Myvoiceisterse.“Iamlookingforsomeone.He’saninitiate.CanyouatleasttellmewhereIcanfindthem?”

“Beatrice?”avoicebehindmesays.

Iturn,andCalebstandsbehindme,abookinhand.Hishairhasgrownoutsoitflipsathisears,andhewearsablueT-shirtandapairofrectangularglasses. Even though he looks different and I’m not allowed to love himanymore, I run at him as fast as I can and throw my arms around hisshoulders.

“Youhaveatattoo,”hesays,hisvoicemuffled.

“Youhaveglasses,”Isay.Ipullbackandnarrowmyeyes.“Yourvisionisperfect,Caleb,whatareyoudoing?”

“Um…”Heglancesatthetablesaroundus.“Comeon.Let’sgetoutofhere.”

Weexit thebuildingandcrossthestreet.Ihavetojogtokeepupwithhim.AcrossfromEruditeheadquartersiswhatusedtobeapark.Nowwejustcall it “Millenium,”and it isa stretchofbare landandseveral rustedmetalsculptures—one an abstract, plated mammoth, another shaped like a limabeanthatdwarfsmeinsize.

Westopontheconcretearoundthemetalbean,wheretheEruditesitinsmallgroupswithnewspapersorbooks.Hetakesoffhisglassesandshoves

theminhispocket,thenrunsahandthroughhishair,hiseyesskippingovermine nervously. Like he’s ashamed. Maybe I should be too. I’m tattooed,loose-haired,andwearingtightclothes.ButI’mjustnot.

“Whatareyoudoinghere?”hesays.

“Iwanted to gohome,” I say, “andyouwere the closest thing I couldthinkof.”

Hepresseshislipstogether.

“Don’tlooksopleasedtoseeme,”Iadd.

“Hey,”hesays, settinghishandsonmyshoulders.“I’m thrilled to seeyou,okay?It’sjustthatthisisn’tallowed.Therearerules.”

“Idon’tcare,”Isay.“Idon’tcare,okay?”

“Maybe you should.” His voice is gentle; he wears his look ofdisapproval. “If it were me, I wouldn’t want to get in trouble with yourfaction.”

“What’sthatsupposedtomean?”

Iknowexactlywhatitmeans.Heseesmyfactionasthecruelestofthefive,andnothingmore.

“I justdon’twantyou togethurt.Youdon’thave tobe soangrywithme,”hesays,tiltinghishead.“Whathappenedtoyouinthere?”

“Nothing.Nothinghappenedtome.”Iclosemyeyesandrubthebackofmyneckwithonehand.EvenifIcouldexplaineverythingtohim,Iwouldn’twantto.Ican’tevensummonthewilltothinkaboutit.

“You think…” He looks at his shoes. “You think you made the rightchoice?”

“Idon’tthinktherewasone,”Isay.“Howaboutyou?”

Helooksaround.Peoplestareatusastheywalkpast.Hiseyesskipovertheirfaces.He’sstillnervous,butmaybeit’snotbecauseofhowhelooks,orbecauseofme.Maybeit’sthem.Igrabhisarmandpullhimunderthearchofthemetal bean.Wewalkbeneath its hollowunderbelly. I seemy reflectioneverywhere,warpedbythecurveofthewalls,brokenbypatchesofrustandgrime.

“What’s going on?” I say, folding my arms. I didn’t notice the darkcirclesunderhiseyesbefore.“What’swrong?”

Calebpressesapalmtothemetalwall.Inhisreflection,hisheadissmallandpressedinononeside,andhisarmlookslikeitisbendingbackward.My

reflection,however,lookssmallandsquat.

“Somethingbig ishappening,Beatrice.Something iswrong.”Hiseyesarewideandglassy.“Idon’tknowwhatitis,butpeoplekeeprushingaround,talkingquietly,andJeaninegivesspeechesabouthowcorruptAbnegationisallthetime,almosteveryday.”

“Doyoubelieveher?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what tobelieve.”

“Yes,youdo,”Isaysternly.“Youknowwhoourparentsare.Youknowwhoourfriendsare.Susan’sdad,youthinkhe’scorrupt?”

“Howmuch do I know?Howmuch did they allowme to know?Weweren’t allowed to ask questions, Beatrice; we weren’t allowed to knowthings!Andhere…”Helooksup,andintheflatcircleofmirrorrightaboveus, I see our tiny figures, the size of fingernails. That, I think, is our truereflection;itisassmallasweactuallyare.Hecontinues,“Here,informationisfree,it’salwaysavailable.”

“Thisisn’tCandor.Thereareliarshere,Caleb.Therearepeoplewhoaresosmarttheyknowhowtomanipulateyou.”

“Don’tyouthinkIwouldknowifIwasbeingmanipulated?”

“If they’re as smart as you think, then no. I don’t think you wouldknow.”

“Youhavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout,”hesays,shakinghishead.

“Yeah.How could I possibly knowwhat a corrupt faction looks like?I’mjusttrainingtobeDauntless,forGod’ssake,”Isay.“AtleastIknowwhatI’mapartof,Caleb.Youarechoosing to ignorewhatwe’veknownallourlives—thesepeoplearearrogantandgreedyandtheywillleadyounowhere.”

Hisvoicehardens.“Ithinkyoushouldgo,Beatrice.”

“Withpleasure,”Isay.“Oh,andnotthatitwillmattertoyou,butMomtoldmetotellyoutoresearchthesimulationserum.”

“Yousawher?”Helookshurt.“Whydidn’tshe—”

“Because,” I say. “The Erudite don’t let the Abnegation into theircompoundanymore.Wasn’tthatinformationavailabletoyou?”

Ipushpasthim,walkingawayfromthemirrorcaveand thesculpture,and start down the sidewalk. I should never have left. The Dauntlesscompound sounds like home now—at least there, I know exactly where I

stand,whichisonunstableground.

Thecrowdonthesidewalkthins,andI lookuptoseewhy.StandingafewyardsinfrontofmearetwoEruditemenwiththeirarmsfolded.

“Excuseme,”oneofthemsays.“You’llhavetocomewithus.”

OnemanwalkssoclosebehindmethatIfeelhisbreathagainsttheback

ofmyhead.Theothermanleadsmeintothelibraryanddownthreehallwaystoanelevator.Beyondthelibrarythefloorschangefromwoodtowhitetile,and the walls glow like the ceiling of the aptitude test room. The glowbouncesoffthesilverelevatordoors,andIsquintsoIcansee.

Itrytostaycalm.IaskmyselfquestionsfromDauntlesstraining.Whatdoyoudoifsomeoneattacksyoufrombehind?Ienvisionthrustingmyelbowbackintoastomachoragroin.Iimaginerunning.IwishIhadagun.TheseareDauntlessthoughts,andtheyhavebecomemine.

Whatdoyoudoifyou’reattackedbytwopeopleatonce?Ifollowthemandownanempty,glowingcorridorandintoanoffice.Thewallsaremadeofglass—IguessIknowwhichfactiondesignedmyschool.

Awoman sits behind ametal desk. I stare at her face. The same facedominates the Erudite library; it is plastered across every article Eruditereleases.HowlonghaveIhatedthatface?Idon’tremember.

“Sit,” Jeanine says. Her voice sounds familiar, especially when she isirritated.Herliquidgrayeyesfocusonmine.

“I’drathernot.”

“Sit,”shesaysagain.Ihavedefinitelyheardhervoicebefore.

Ihearditinthehallway,talkingtoEric,beforeIgotattacked.IheardhermentionDivergents.Andoncebefore—Iheardit…

“Itwasyourvoiceinthesimulation,”Isay.“Theaptitudetest,Imean.”

She is thedangerToriandmymotherwarnedmeabout, thedangerofbeingDivergent.Sittingrightinfrontofme.

“Correct. The aptitude test is by far my greatest achievement as ascientist,” she replies. “I looked up your test results, Beatrice. Apparentlytherewasaproblemwithyour test. Itwasnever recorded, andyour resultshadtobereportedmanually.Didyouknowthat?”

“No.”

“Didyouknowthatyou’reoneoftwopeopleevertogetanAbnegation

resultandswitchtoDauntless?”

“No,”Isay,bitingbackmyshock.TobiasandIaretheonlyones?Buthisresultwasgenuineandminewasalie.Soitisreallyjusthim.

Mystomachtwingesatthethoughtofhim.RightnowIdon’tcarehowuniqueheis.Hecalledmepathetic.

“WhatmadeyouchooseDauntless?”sheasks.

“Whatdoesthishavetodowithanything?”Itrytosoftenmyvoice,butit doesn’t work. “Aren’t you going to reprimand me for abandoning myfactionandseekingoutmybrother? ‘Factionbeforeblood,’ right?”Ipause.“Cometo thinkof it,whyamI inyouroffice in thefirstplace?Aren’tyousupposedtobeimportantorsomething?”

Maybethatwilltakeherdownafewpegs.

Her mouth pinches for a second. “I will leave the reprimands to theDauntless,”shesays,leaningbackinherchair.

IsetmyhandsonthebackofthechairIrefusedtositinandclenchmyfingers.Behindherisawindowthatoverlooksthecity.Thetraintakesalazyturninthedistance.

“As to the reason for your presence here…a quality of my faction iscuriosity,” she says, “andwhileperusingyour records, I saw that therewasanother error with another one of your simulations. Again, it failed to berecorded.Didyouknowthat?”

“How did you accessmy records? Only the Dauntless have access tothose.”

“BecauseEruditedevelopedthesimulations,wehavean…understandingwith the Dauntless, Beatrice.” She tilts her head and smiles at me. “I ammerelyconcernedforthecompetenceofourtechnology.Ifitfailswhileyouare around, I have to ensure that it does not continue to do so, youunderstand?”

Iunderstandonlyonething:Sheislyingtome.Shedoesn’tcareaboutthetechnology—shesuspectsthatsomethingisawrywithmytestresults.JustliketheDauntlessleaders,sheissniffingaroundfortheDivergent.AndifmymotherwantsCalebtoresearchthesimulationserum,itisprobablybecauseJeaninedevelopedit.

But what is so threatening about my ability to manipulate thesimulations?Whywoulditmatter totherepresentativeoftheErudite,ofallpeople?

Ican’tanswereitherquestion.Butthelookshegivesmeremindsmeofthe look in the attack dog’s eyes in the aptitude test—a vicious, predatorystare.Shewants to ripme to pieces. I can’t lie down in submissionnow. Ihavebecomeanattackdogtoo.

Ifeelmypulseinmythroat.

“Idon’tknowhowtheywork,”Isay,“buttheliquidIwasinjectedwithmade me sick to my stomach. Maybe my simulation administrator wasdistractedbecausehewasworriedIwouldthrowup,andheforgottorecordit.Igotsickaftertheaptitudetesttoo.”

“Do you habitually have a sensitive stomach, Beatrice?” Her voice islikearazor’sedge.Shetapshertrimmedfingernailsagainsttheglassdesk.

“EversinceIwasyoung,”IreplyassmoothlyasIcan.Ireleasethechairbackandsidestepittositdown.Ican’tseemtense,eventhoughIfeellikemyinsidesarewrithingwithinme.

“You have been extremely successful with the simulations,” she says.“Towhatdoyouattributetheeasewithwhichyoucompletethem?”

“I’m brave,” I say, staring into her eyes. The other factions see theDauntless a certain way. Brash, aggressive, impulsive. Cocky. I should bewhatsheexpects.Ismirkather.“I’mthebestinitiatethey’vegot.”

I lean forward, balancing my elbows on my knees. I will have to gofurtherwiththistomakeitconvincing.

“Youwant toknowwhyIchoseDauntless?”Iask.“It’sbecauseIwasbored.” Further, further. Lies require commitment. “I was tired of being awussylittledo-gooderandIwantedout.”

“Soyoudon’tmissyourparents?”sheasksdelicately.

“Do Imissgetting scolded for looking in themirror?Do Imiss beingtoldtoshutupatthedinnertable?”Ishakemyhead.“No.Idon’tmissthem.They’renotmyfamilyanymore.”

The lie burnsmy throat on thewayout, ormaybe that’s the tears I’mfighting.Ipicturemymotherstandingbehindmewithacombandapairofscissors,faintlysmilingasshetrimsmyhair,andIwanttoscreamratherthaninsultherlikethis.

“CanItakethattomean…”Jeaninepursesherlipsandpausesforafewsecondsbefore finishing. “…that you agreewith the reports that havebeenreleasedaboutthepoliticalleadersofthiscity?”

The reports that labelmy family as corrupt, power-hungry,moralizing

dictators?The reports that carry subtle threats and hint at revolution?Theymakemesicktomystomach.Knowingthatsheistheonewhoreleasedthemmakesmewanttostrangleher.

Ismile.

“Wholeheartedly,”Isay.

OneofJeanine’slackeys,amaninabluecollaredshirtandsunglasses,

drivesmebacktotheDauntlesscompoundinasleeksilvercar, thelikesofwhichIhaveneverseenbefore.Theengineisalmostsilent.WhenIasktheman about it, he tells me it’s solar-powered and launches into a lengthyexplanationofhowthepanelsontheroofconvertsunlightintoenergy.Istoplisteningaftersixtysecondsandstareoutthewindow.

Idon’tknowwhatthey’lldotomewhenIgetback.Isuspectitwillbebad.Iimaginemyfeetdanglingoverthechasmandbitemylip.

When the driver pulls up to the glass building above the Dauntlesscompound,Ericiswaitingformebythedoor.Hetakesmyarmandleadsmeintothebuildingwithoutthankingthedriver.Eric’sfingerssqueezesohardIknowI’llhavebruises.

Hestandsbetweenmeandthedoorthatleadsinside.Hestartstocrackhisknuckles.Otherthanthat,heiscompletelystill.

Ishudderinvoluntarily.

The faint popof his knuckle-cracking is all I hear apart frommyownbreaths,whichgrowfasterbythesecond.Whenheisfinished,Ericlaceshisfingerstogetherinfrontofhim.

“Welcomeback,Tris.”

“Eric.”

Hewalkstowardme,carefullyplacingonefootinfrontoftheother.

“What…”His firstword is quiet. “Exactly,” he adds, louder this time,“wereyouthinking?”

“I…”He is soclose I can see theholeshismetalpiercings fit into. “Idon’tknow.”

“Iamtemptedtocallyouatraitor,Tris,”hesays.“Haveyouneverheardthephrase‘factionbeforeblood’?”

IhaveseenEricdoterriblethings.Ihaveheardhimsayterriblethings.But I have never seen him like this. He is not a maniac anymore; he is

perfectlycontrolled,perfectlypoised.Carefulandquiet.

Forthefirsttime,IrecognizeEricforwhatheis:anEruditedisguisedasaDauntless,ageniusaswellasasadist,ahunteroftheDivergent.

Iwanttorun.

“Were you unsatisfied with the life you have found here? Do youperhaps regret your choice?” Both of Eric’s metal-ridden eyebrows lift,forcingcreasesintohisforehead.“Iwouldliketohearanexplanationforwhyyou betrayed Dauntless, yourself, and me…” He taps his chest. “…byventuringintoanotherfaction’sheadquarters.”

“I…”Itakeadeepbreath.HewouldkillmeifheknewwhatIwas,Icanfeelit.Hishandscurlintofists.Iamalonehere;ifsomethinghappenstome,noonewillknowandnoonewillseeit.

“Ifyoucannotexplain,”he says softly, “Imaybe forced to reconsideryourrank.Or,becauseyouseemtobesoattachedtoyourpreviousfaction…perhaps Iwill be forced to reconsideryour friends’ ranks.Perhaps the littleAbnegationgirlinsideofyouwouldtakethatmoreseriously.”

My first thought is that he couldn’t do that, it wouldn’t be fair. Mysecondthoughtisthatofcoursehewould,hewouldnothesitatetodoitforasecond.Andhe is right—the thought thatmy recklessbehavior could forcesomeoneelseoutofafactionmakesmychestachefromfear.

Itryagain.“I…”

Butitishardtobreathe.

Andthenthedooropens.Tobiaswalksin.

“Whatareyoudoing?”heasksEric.

“Leavetheroom,”Ericsays,hisvoicelouderandnotasmonotone.Hesoundsmore like theEric I am familiarwith.His expression, too, changes,becomesmoremobileandanimated.Istare,amazedthathecanturnitonandoffsoeasily,andwonderwhatthestrategybehinditis.

“No,”Tobiassays.“She’sjustafoolishgirl.There’snoneedtodragherhereandinterrogateher.”

“Just a foolish girl.” Eric snorts. “If she were just a foolish girl, shewouldn’tberankedfirst,nowwouldshe?”

Tobiaspinchesthebridgeofhisnoseandlooksatmethroughthespacesbetweenhisfingers.Heistryingtotellmesomething.Ithinkquickly.WhatadvicehasFourgivenmerecently?

TheonlythingIcanthinkofis:pretendsomevulnerability.

It’sworkedformebefore.

“I…Iwasjustembarrassedanddidn’tknowwhattodo.”Iputmyhandsinmypocketsandlookattheground.ThenIpinchmylegsohardthattearswellupinmyeyes,andIlookupatEric,sniffing.“Itriedto…and…”Ishakemyhead.

“Youtriedtowhat?”asksEric.

“Kissme,” saysTobias. “And I rejectedher, and shewent runningofflikeafive-year-old.There’sreallynothingtoblameherforbutstupidity.”

Webothwait.

EriclooksfrommetoTobiasandlaughs,tooloudlyandfortoolong—thesoundismenacingandgratesagainstmelikesandpaper.“Isn’thealittletoooldforyou,Tris?”hesays,smilingagain.

IwipemycheeklikeI’mwipingatear.“CanIgonow?”

“Fine,” Eric says, “but you are not allowed to leave the compoundwithout supervision again, you hear me?” He turns toward Tobias. “Andyou…hadbettermakesurenoneofthetransfersleavethiscompoundagain.Andthatnoneoftheotherstrytokissyou.”

Tobiasrollshiseyes.“Fine.”

Ileavetheroomandwalkoutsideagain,shakingmyhandstogetridofthejitters.Isitdownonthepavementandwrapmyarmsaroundmyknees.

Idon’tknowhowlongI sit there,myheaddownandmyeyesclosed,beforethedooropensagain.Itmighthavebeentwentyminutesanditmighthavebeenanhour.Tobiaswalkstowardme.

I stand and crossmy arms,waiting for the scolding to start. I slappedhim and then got myself into trouble with the Dauntless—there has to bescolding.

“What?”Isay.

“Are you all right?” A crease appears between his eyebrows, and hetouchesmycheekgently.Ibathishandaway.

“Well,”Isay,“firstIgotreamedoutinfrontofeveryone,andthenIhadtochatwiththewomanwho’stryingtodestroymyoldfaction,andthenEricalmost tossedmy friends out ofDauntless, so yeah, it’s shaping up to be aprettygreatday,Four.”

He shakes his head and looks at the dilapidated building to his right,

whichismadeofbrickandbarelyresemblesthesleekglassspirebehindme.Itmustbeancient.Noonebuildswithbrickanymore.

“Whydoyoucare,anyway?”Isay.“Youcanbeeithercruelinstructororconcernedboyfriend.”Itenseupattheword“boyfriend.”Ididn’tmeantouseitsoflippantly,but it’s too latenow.“Youcan’tplaybothpartsat thesametime.”

“Iamnotcruel.”Hescowlsatme.“Iwasprotectingyouthismorning.How do you think Peter and his idiot friends would have reacted if theydiscovered that you and Iwere…”He sighs. “Youwould neverwin. Theywould always call your ranking a result ofmy favoritism rather than yourskill.”

I openmymouth to object, but I can’t.A few smart remarks come tomind,butIdismissthem.He’sright.Mycheekswarm,andIcoolthemwithmyhands.

“Youdidn’thavetoinsultmetoprovesomethingtothem,”Isayfinally.

“Andyoudidn’thavetorunofftoyourbrotherjustbecauseIhurtyou,”hesays.Herubsatthebackofhisneck.“Besides—itworked,didn’tit?”

“Atmyexpense.”

“Ididn’t think itwouldaffectyou thisway.”Thenhe looksdownandshrugs.“SometimesIforgetthatIcanhurtyou.Thatyouarecapableofbeinghurt.”

Islidemyhandsintomypocketsandrockbackonmyheels.Astrangefeeling goes through me—a sweet, aching weakness. He did what he didbecausehebelievedinmystrength.

AthomeitwasCalebwhowasstrong,becausehecouldforgethimself,becauseall thecharacteristicsmyparentsvaluedcamenaturally tohim.Noonehaseverbeensoconvincedofmystrength.

Istandonmytiptoes,liftmyhead,andkisshim.Onlyourlipstouch.

“You’rebrilliant,youknowthat?”Ishakemyhead.“Youalwaysknowexactlywhattodo.”

“Onlybecause I’vebeen thinking about this for a long time,”he says,kissingmebriefly.“HowIwouldhandleit,ifyouandI…”Hepullsbackandsmiles.“DidIhearyoucallmeyourboyfriend,Tris?”

“Notexactly.”Ishrug.“Why?Doyouwantmeto?”

Heslipshishandsovermyneckandpresseshisthumbsundermychin,tiltingmy head back so his foreheadmeetsmine. For amoment he stands

there,hiseyesclosed,breathingmyair.Ifeelthepulseinhisfingertips.Ifeelthequicknessofhisbreath.Heseemsnervous.

“Yes,”he finally says.Thenhis smile fades. “You thinkweconvincedhimyou’rejustasillygirl?”

“I hope so,” I say. “Sometimes it helps to be small. I’m not sure IconvincedtheErudite,though.”

The corners of his mouth tug down, and he gives me a grave look.“There’ssomethingIneedtotellyou.”

“Whatisit?”

“Not now.” He glances around. “Meet me back here at eleven thirty.Don’ttellanyonewhereyou’regoing.”

Inod,andheturnsaway,leavingjustasquicklyashecame.

“Wherehaveyoubeenallday?”Christinaaskswhen Iwalkback into

thedormitory.Theroomisempty;everyoneelsemustbeatdinner.“Ilookedforyououtside,but Icouldn’t findyou.Iseverythingokay?Didyouget introubleforhittingFour?”

Ishakemyhead.ThethoughtoftellingherthetruthaboutwhereIwasmakesmefeelexhausted.HowcanIexplaintheimpulsetohoponatrainandvisitmybrother?OrtheeeriecalminEric’svoiceashequestionedme?OrthereasonthatIexplodedandhitTobiastobeginwith?

“Ijusthadtogetaway.Iwalkedaroundforalongtime,”Isay.“Andno,I’mnotintrouble.Heyelledatme,Iapologized…that’sit.”

As I speak, I’mcareful tokeepmyeyes steadyonhers andmyhandsstillatmysides.

“Good,”shesays.“BecauseIhavesomethingtotellyou.”

Shelooksovermyheadatthedoorandthenstandsonhertiptoestoseeall thebunks—checkingif they’reempty,probably.Thenshesetsherhandsonmyshoulders.

“Canyoubeagirlforafewseconds?”

“I’malwaysagirl.”Ifrown.

“YouknowwhatImean.Likeasilly,annoyinggirl.”

Itwirlmyhairaroundmyfinger.“’Kay.”

ShegrinssowideIcanseeherbackrowofteeth.“Willkissedme.”

“What?”Idemand.“When?How?Whathappened?”

“You can be a girl!” She straightens, taking her hands from myshoulders. “Well, right after your little episode, we ate lunch and then wewalkedaroundnearthetraintracks.Wewerejusttalkingabout…Idon’tevenrememberwhatweweretalkingabout.Andthenhejuststopped,andleanedin,and…kissedme.”

“Didyouknowthathelikedyou?”Isay.“Imean,youknow.Likethat.”

“No!”Shelaughs.“Thebestpartwas,thatwasit.Wejustkeptwalkingandtalkinglikenothinghappened.Well,untilIkissedhim.”

“Howlonghaveyouknownyoulikedhim?”

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t.But then little things…howhe put hisarm around me at the funeral, how he opens doors for me like I’m a girlinsteadofsomeonewhocouldbeatthecrapoutofhim.”

Ilaugh.SuddenlyIwanttotellheraboutTobiasandeverythingthathashappenedbetweenus.But the same reasonsTobias gave for pretendingwearen’t together hold me back. I don’t want her to think that my rank hasanythingtodowithmyrelationshipwithhim.

SoIjustsay,“I’mhappyforyou.”

“Thanks,”shesays.“I’mhappytoo.AndIthoughtitwouldbeawhilebeforeIcouldfeelthatway…youknow.”

She sitsdownon the edgeofmybedand looks around thedormitory.Someoftheinitiateshavealreadypackedtheirthings.Soonwe’llmoveintoapartmentson theothersideof thecompound.Thosewithgovernment jobswillmove to the glass building above thePit. Iwon’t have toworry aboutPeterattackingmeinmysleep.Iwon’thavetolookatAl’semptybed.

“Ican’tbelieveit’salmostover,”shesays.“It’slikewejustgothere.Butit’salsolike…likeIhaven’tseenhomeinforever.”

“Youmissit?”Ileanintothebedframe.

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Some things are the same, though. I mean,everyone at home is just as loud as everyone here, so that’s good.But it’seasierthere.Youalwaysknowwhereyoustandwitheveryone,becausetheytellyou.There’sno…manipulation.”

I nod. Abnegation prepared me for that aspect of Dauntless life. TheAbnegationaren’tmanipulative,buttheyaren’tforthright,either.

“Idon’t thinkIcouldhavemade it throughCandor initiation, though.”Sheshakesherhead.“There,insteadofsimulations,yougetliedetectortests.

Allday,everyday.Andthefinal test…”Shewrinkleshernose.“Theygiveyouthisstuff theycall truthserumandsityou infrontofeveryoneandaskyoualoadofreallypersonalquestions.Thetheoryisthatifyouspillallyoursecrets,you’llhavenodesiretolieaboutanything,everagain.Liketheworstaboutyouisalreadyintheopen,sowhynotjustbehonest?”

I don’t know when I accumulated so many secrets. Being Divergent.Fears. How I really feel about my friends, my family, Al, Tobias. Candorinitiationwouldreach things thateven thesimulationscan’t touch; itwouldwreckme.

“Soundsawful,”Isay.

“I always knew I couldn’t be Candor. I mean, I try to be honest, butsomethingsyoujustdon’twantpeopletoknow.Plus,Iliketobeincontrolofmyownmind.”

Don’tweall.

“Anyway,”shesays.Sheopensthecabinettotheleftofourbunkbeds.Whenshepullsthedooropen,amothfluttersout,itswhitewingscarryingittowardherface.ChristinashriekssoloudIalmostjumpoutofmyskinandslapsathercheeks.

“Getitoff!Getitoffgetitoffgetitoff!”shescreams.

Themothfluttersaway.

“It’sgone!”Isay.ThenIlaugh.“You’reafraidof…moths?”

“They’redisgusting.Thosepaperywingsandtheirstupidbugbodies…”Sheshudders.

Ikeeplaughing.IlaughsohardIhavetositdownandholdmystomach.

“It’snotfunny!”shesnaps.“Well…okay,maybeitis.Alittle.”

WhenIfindTobiaslatethatnight,hedoesn’tsayanything;hejustgrabs

myhandandpullsmetowardthetraintracks.

Hedrawshimselfintoatraincarasitpasseswithbewilderingeaseandpulls me in after him. I fall against him, my cheek against his chest. Hisfingersslidedownmyarms,andheholdsmebytheelbowsasthecarbumpsalongthesteelrails.IwatchtheglassbuildingabovetheDauntlesscompoundshrinkbehindus.

“Whatisityouneedtotellme?”Ishoutoverthecryofthewind.

“Notyet,”hesays.

Hesinkstothefloorandpullsmedownwithhim,sohe’ssittingwithhisbackagainstthewallandI’mfacinghim,mylegstrailingtothesideonthedustyfloor.Thewindpushesstrandsofmyhair looseand tosses themovermyface.Hepresseshispalmstomyface,hisindexfingersslidingbehindmyears,andpullsmymouthtohis.

Ihearthescreechoftherailsasthetrainslows,whichmeanswemustbenearingthemiddleofthecity.Theairiscold,buthislipsarewarmandsoarehishands.Hetiltshisheadandkissestheskinjustbeneathmyjaw.I’mgladtheairissoloudhecan’thearmesigh.

Thetraincarwobbles,throwingoffmybalance,andIputmyhanddowntosteadymyself.AsplitsecondlaterIrealizethatmyhandisonhiship.Thebonepressesintomypalm.Ishouldmoveit,butIdon’twantto.Hetoldmeoncetobebrave,andthoughIhavestoodstillwhileknivesspuntowardmyfaceandjumpedoffaroof,IneverthoughtIwouldneedbraveryinthesmallmomentsofmylife.Ido.

I shift, swinging a leg over him so I sit on top of him, and with myheartbeatinmythroat,Ikisshim.HesitsupstraighterandIfeelhishandsonmy shoulders. His fingers slip down my spine and a shiver follows themdowntothesmallofmyback.Heunzipsmyjacketafewinches,andIpressmyhandstomylegstostopthemfromshaking.Ishouldnotbenervous.ThisisTobias.

Coldairslipsacrossmybareskin.Hepullsawayandlookscarefullyatthe tattoos just above my collarbone. His fingers brush over them, and hesmiles.

“Birds,”hesays.“Aretheycrows?Ikeepforgettingtoask.”

Itrytoreturnhissmile.“Ravens.Oneforeachmemberofmyfamily,”Isay.“Youlikethem?”

Hedoesn’tanswer.He tugsmecloser,pressinghis lips toeachbird inturn.Iclosemyeyes.Histouchislight,sensitive.Aheavy,warmfeeling,likespillinghoney,fillsmybody,slowingmythoughts.Hetouchesmycheek.

“Ihatetosaythis,”hesays,“butwehavetogetupnow.”

Inodandopenmyeyes.Webothstand,andhetugsmewithhimtotheopendoorof the traincar.Thewind isnotas strongnow that the trainhasslowed.It’spastmidnight,soall thestreetlightsaredark,andthebuildingslooklikemammothsastheyrisefromthedarknessandthensinkintoitagain.Tobias liftsahandandpointsataclusterofbuildings,sofarawaytheyarethesizeofafingernail.Theyaretheonlybrightspotinthedarkseaaroundus.Eruditeheadquartersagain.

“Apparentlythecityordinancesdon’tmeananythingtothem,”hesays,“becausetheirlightswillbeonallnight.”

“Nooneelsehasnoticed?”Isay,frowning.

“I’msuretheyhave,buttheyhaven’tdoneanythingtostopit.Itmaybebecausetheydon’twanttocauseaproblemoversomethingsosmall.”Tobiasshrugs,but the tension inhis featuresworriesme.“But itmademewonderwhattheEruditearedoingthatrequiresnightlight.”

Heturnstowardme,leaningagainstthewall.

“Two things you should know aboutme.The first is that I am deeplysuspiciousofpeopleingeneral,”hesays.“Itismynaturetoexpecttheworstofthem.AndthesecondisthatIamunexpectedlygoodwithcomputers.”

Inod.Hesaidhisotherjobwasworkingwithcomputers,butIstillhavetroublepicturinghimsittinginfrontofascreenallday.

“Afewweeksago,beforetrainingstarted,IwasatworkandIfoundaway into theDauntless secure files.Apparentlywearenotas skilledas theEruditeareatsecurity,”hesays,“andwhatIdiscoveredwaswhatlookedlikewarplans.Thinlyveiledcommands,supplylists,maps.Thingslikethat.AndthosefilesweresentbyErudite.”

“War?”Ibrushmyhairawayfrommyface.ListeningtomyfatherinsultErudite allmy life hasmademewary of them, andmy experiences in theDauntless compound make me wary of authority and human beings ingeneral,soI’mnotshockedtohearthatafactioncouldbeplanningawar.

And what Caleb said earlier. Something big is happening, Beatrice. IlookupatTobias.

“WaronAbnegation?”

Hetakesmyhands,lacinghisfingerswithmine,andsays,“Thefactionthatcontrolsthegovernment.Yes.”

Mystomachsinks.

“All those reports are supposed to stir up dissension againstAbnegation,” he says, his eyes focused on the city beyond the train car.“EvidentlytheEruditenowwanttospeeduptheprocess.Ihavenoideawhattodoaboutit…orwhatcouldevenbedone.”

“But,”Isay,“whywouldEruditeteamupwithDauntless?”

Andthensomethingoccurstome,somethingthathitsmeinthegutandgnawsatmyinsides.Eruditedoesn’thaveweapons,andtheydon’tknowhowtofight—buttheDauntlessdo.

Istarewide-eyedatTobias.

“They’regoingtouseus,”Isay.

“Iwonder,”hesays,“howtheyplantogetustofight.”

ItoldCalebthattheEruditeknowhowtomanipulatepeople.Theycouldcoercesomeofusintofightingwithmisinformation,orbyappealingtogreed—any number of ways. But the Erudite are as meticulous as they aremanipulative, so they wouldn’t leave it up to chance. Theywould need tomakesurethatalltheirweaknessesareshoredup.Buthow?

Thewindblowsmyhair acrossmy face, cuttingmyvision into strips,andIleaveitthere.

“Idon’tknow,”Isay.

CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE

IHAVEATTENDEDAbnegation’sinitiationceremonyeveryyearexceptthisone. It is a quiet affair. The initiates, who spend thirty days performingcommunityservicebeforetheycanbecomefullmembers,sitsidebysideonabench.OneoftheoldermembersreadstheAbnegationmanifesto,whichisashortparagraphaboutforgettingtheselfandthedangersofself-involvement.Then all the older members wash the initiates’ feet. Then they all share ameal,eachpersonservingfoodtothepersononhisleft.

TheDauntlessdon’tdothat.

InitiationdayplungestheDauntlesscompoundintoinsanityandchaos.Therearepeopleeverywhere,andmostofthemareinebriatedbynoon.Ifightmywaythroughthemtogetaplateoffoodatlunchandcarryitbacktothedormitorywithme.OnthewayIseesomeonefalloffthepathonthePitwalland, judging by his screams and the way he grabs at his leg, he brokesomething.

Thedormitory,atleast,isquiet.Istareatmyplateoffood.Ijustgrabbedwhat looked good to me at the time, and now that I take a closer look, Irealize that I chose a plain chicken breast, a scoop of peas, and a piece ofbrownbread.Abnegationfood.

Isigh.AbnegationiswhatIam.It iswhatIamwhenI’mnotthinkingaboutwhatI’mdoing.ItiswhatIamwhenIamputtothetest.ItiswhatIamevenwhenIappeartobebrave.AmIinthewrongfaction?

The thought ofmy former faction sends a tremor throughmyhands. Ihave towarnmyfamilyabout thewar theEruditeareplanning,but Idon’tknowhow. Iwill findaway,butnot today.Today Ihave to focusonwhatawaitsme.Onethingatatime.

Ieatlikearobot,rotatingfromchickentopeastobreadandbackagain.Itdoesn’tmatterwhatfactionIreallybelongin.IntwohoursIwillwalktothe fear landscape room with the other initiates, go through my fearlandscape,andbecomeDauntless.It’stoolatetoturnback.

WhenIfinish,Iburymyfaceinmypillow.Idon’tmeantofallasleep,butafterawhile,Ido,andIwakeuptoChristinashakingmyshoulder.

“Timetogo,”shesays.Shelooksashen.

Irubmyeyestopressthesleepfromthem.Ihavemyshoesonalready.Theotherinitiatesareinthedormitory,tyingshoelacesandbuttoningjacketsandthrowingsmilesaroundliketheydon’tmeanit.Ipullmyhairintoabunandput onmyblack jacket, zipping it up tomy throat.The torturewill be

over soon, but can we forget the simulations?Will we ever sleep soundlyagain,withthememoriesofourfearsinourheads?Orwillwefinallyforgetourfearstoday,likewe’resupposedto?

WewalktothePitandupthepaththatleadstotheglassbuilding.Ilookupat theglassceiling. Ican’tseedaylightbecause thesolesofshoescovereveryinchofglassaboveus.ForasecondIthinkIheartheglasscreak,butitismyimagination.IwalkupthestairswithChristina,andthecrowdchokesme.

Iamtooshorttoseeaboveanyone’shead,soIstareatWill’sbackandwalkinhiswake.Theheatofsomanybodiesaroundmemakesitdifficulttobreathe.Beadsofsweatgatheronmyforehead.Abreakinthecrowdrevealswhattheyareallclusteredaround:aseriesofscreensonthewalltomyleft.

I hear a cheer and stop to look at the screens. The screen on the leftshowsablack-clothedgirlinthefearlandscaperoom—Marlene.Iwatchhermove,hereyeswide,butIcan’ttellwhatobstacleshe’sfacing.ThankGodnooneoutherewillseemyfearseither—justmyreactionstothem.

Themiddlescreenshowsherheartrate.Itpicksupforasecondandthendecreases.When it reaches a normal rate, the screen flashes green and theDauntlesscheer.Thescreenontherightshowshertime.

ItearmyeyesfromthescreenandjogtocatchuptoChristinaandWill.Tobias stands just inside a door on the left side of the room that I barelynoticedthelasttimeIwashere.Itisnexttothefearlandscaperoom.Iwalkpasthimwithoutlookingathim.

Theroomislargeandcontainsanotherscreen,similartotheoneoutside.Alineofpeoplesitinchairsinfrontofit.Ericisoneofthem,andsoisMax.Theothersarealsoolder.Judgingbythewiresconnectedtotheirheads,andtheirblankeyes,theyareobservingthesimulation.

Behindthemisanotherlineofchairs,alloccupiednow.Iamthelasttoenter,soIdon’tgetone.

“Hey,Tris!”Uriahcallsoutfromacrosstheroom.HesitswiththeotherDauntless-born initiates. Only four of them are left; the rest have gonethroughtheirfearlandscapesalready.Hepatshisleg.“Youcansitonmylap,ifyouwant.”

“Tempting,”Icallback,grinning.“It’sfine.Iliketostand.”

Ialsodon’twantTobiastoseemesittingonsomeoneelse’slap.

Thelightsliftinthefearlandscaperoom,revealingMarleneinacrouch,her face streaked with tears. Max, Eric, and a few others shake off the

simulationdazeandwalkout.AfewsecondslaterIseethemonthescreen,congratulatingherforfinishing.

“Transfers, the order inwhich yougo through the final testwas takenfromyourrankingsastheynowstand,”Tobiassays.“SoDrewwillgofirst,andTriswillgolast.”

ThatmeansfivepeoplewillgobeforeIdo.

Istandinthebackoftheroom,afewfeetawayfromTobias.HeandIexchangeglanceswhenEricsticksDrewwiththeneedleandsendshimintothefearlandscaperoom.Bythetimeit’smyturn,Iwillknowhowwelltheothersdid,andhowwellIwillhavetodotobeatthem.

Thefearlandscapesarenotinterestingtowatchfromtheoutside.IcanseethatDrewismoving,butIdon’tknowwhatheisreactingto.Afterafewminutes, I close my eyes instead of watching and try to think of nothing.Speculatingaboutwhich fears Iwillhave to face,andhowmany therewillbe, isuselessat thispoint.I justhavetorememberthatIhavethepowertomanipulatethesimulations,andthatIhavepracticeditbefore.

Molly goes next. It takes her half as long as it takes Drew, but evenMolly has trouble. She spends too much time breathing heavily, trying tocontrolherpanic.Atonepointsheevenscreamsatthetopofherlungs.

Itamazesmehoweasyitistotuneouteverythingelse—thoughtsofwaronAbnegation,Tobias,Caleb,myparents,myfriends,mynewfactionfadeaway.AllIcandonowisgetpastthisobstacle.

Christinaisnext.ThenWill.ThenPeter.Idon’twatchthem.Iknowonlyhowmuch time it takes them: twelveminutes, tenminutes, fifteenminutes.Andthenmyname.

“Tris.”

Iopenmyeyesandwalktothefrontoftheobservationroom,whereEricstands with a syringe full of orange liquid. I barely feel the needle as itplungesintomyneck,barelyseeEric’spiercedfaceashepressestheplungerdown.Iimaginethattheserumisliquidadrenalinerushingthroughmyveins,makingmestrong.

“Ready?”heasks.

CHAPTERTHIRTY

IAMREADY.Istepintotheroom,armednotwithagunoraknife,butwiththeplanImadethenightbefore.Tobiassaidthatstagethreeisaboutmentalpreparation—comingupwithstrategiestoovercomemyfears.

IwishIknewwhatorderthefearswillcomein.IbounceontheballsofmyfeetasIwaitforthefirstfeartoappear.Iamalreadyshortofbreath.

The ground beneath me changes. Grass rises from the concrete andswaysinawindIcannotfeel.Agreenskyreplacestheexposedpipesaboveme. I listen for the birds and feelmy fear as a distant thing, a hammeringheartandasqueezedchest,butnotsomethingthatexistsinmymind.Tobiastoldmetofigureoutwhatthissimulationmeans.Hewasright;itisn’taboutthebirds.It’saboutcontrol.

Wingsflapnexttomyear,andthecrow’stalonsdigintomyshoulder.

Thistime,IdonothitthebirdashardasIcan.Icrouch,listeningtothethunderofwingsbehindme,andrunmyhandthroughthegrass, justabovethe ground.What combats powerlessness? Power. And the first time I feltpowerfulintheDauntlesscompoundwaswhenIwasholdingagun.

AlumpformsinmythroatandIwantthetalonsoff.Thebirdsquawksandmy stomach clenches, but then I feel something hard andmetal in thegrass.Mygun.

Ipointthegunatthebirdonmyshoulder,anditdetachesfrommyshirtinanexplosionofbloodandfeathers.Ispinonmyheel,aimingthegunatthesky,andseethecloudofdarkfeathersdescending.Isqueezethetrigger,firingagain and again into the sea of birds aboveme,watching their dark bodiesdroptothegrass.

AsIaimandshoot,Ifeel thesamerushofpowerIfelt thefirst timeIheldagun.Myheartstopsracingand thefield,gun,andbirdsfadeaway. Istandinthedarkagain.

I shift my weight, and something squeaks beneath my foot. I crouchdownandslidemyhandalongacold,smoothpanel—glass.Ipressmyhandsto glass on either side of my body. The tank again. I am not afraid ofdrowning.This isnotabout thewater; it isaboutmyinability toescape thetank. It is aboutweakness. I just have to convincemyself that I am strongenoughtobreaktheglass.

Thebluelightscomeon,andwaterslipsoverthefloor,butIdon’tletthesimulation get that far. I slam my palm against the wall in front of me,expectingthepanetobreak.

Myhandbouncesoff,causingnodamage.

My heartbeat speeds up.What if what worked in the first simulationdoesn’tworkhere?What ifIcan’tbreaktheglassunlessI’munderduress?Thewaterlapsovermyankles,flowingfasterbythesecond.Ihavetocalmdown.Calmdownandfocus. I leanagainst thewallbehindmeandkickashardasIcan.Andagain.Mytoesthrob,butnothinghappens.

I have another option. I can wait for water to fill the tank—and it’salreadyatmyknees—andtrytocalmdownasIdrown.Ibracemyselfagainstthewall,shakingmyhead.No.Ican’tletmyselfdrown.Ican’t.

Iballmyhandsupintofistsandpoundonthewall.Iamstrongerthantheglass.Theglassisasthinasnewlyfrozenice.Mymindwillmakeitso.Iclosemyeyes.Theglassisice.Theglassisice.Theglassis—

Theglass shattersundermyhand,andwater spillsonto the floor.Andthenthedarkreturns.

I shake out my hands. That should have been an easy obstacle toovercome.I’vefaceditbeforeinsimulations.Ican’taffordtolosetimelikethatagain.

Whatfeels likeasolidwallhitsmefromtheside, forcing theair frommy lungs, and I fall hard, gasping. I can’t swim; I’ve only seen bodies ofwaterthislarge,thispowerful,inpictures.Beneathmeisarockwithajaggededge, slickwithwater.Thewater pulls atmy legs, and I cling to the rock,tastingsaltonmy lips.Outof thecornerofmyeye, I seeadarkskyandablood-redmoon.

Anotherwavehits,slammingagainstmyback.Ihitmychinagainstthestoneandwince.Theseaiscold,butmybloodishot,runningdownmyneck.I stretchmyarmand find the edgeof the rock.Thewater pulls atmy legswithirresistibleforce.IclingashardasIcan,butIamnotstrongenough—thewaterpullsmeandthewavethrowsmybodyback.Itflingsmylegsovermy head andmy arms to each side, and I collidewith the stone,my backpressed against it, water gushing overmy face.My lungs scream for air. Itwistandgrab theedgeof the rock,pullingmyselfabove thewater. Igasp,andanotherwavehitsme, thisoneharder than the first,but Ihaveabetterhold.

Imustnotreallybeafraidofthewater.Imustbeafraidofbeingoutofcontrol.Tofaceit,Ihavetoregaincontrol.

Withascreamoffrustration,Ithrowmyhandforwardandfindaholeintherock.MyarmsshakeviolentlyasIdragmyselfforward,andIpullmyfeetupundermebeforethewavecantakemewithit.Oncemyfeetarefree,Iget

upandthrowmybodyintoarun,intoasprint,myfeetquickonthestone,theredmooninfrontofme,theoceangone.

Theneverythingisgone,andmybodyisstill.Toostill.

I try tomovemy arms, but they are bound tightly tomy sides. I lookdownandseeropewrappedaroundmychest,myarms,mylegs.Astackoflogs risesaroundmyfeet,and I seeapolebehindme. Iamhighabove theground.

Peoplecreepoutof theshadows,and their facesare familiar.Theyaretheinitiates,carryingtorches,andPeter isat thefrontof thepack.Hiseyeslook like black pits, and hewears a smirk that spreads toowide across hisface,forcingwrinklesintohischeeks.Alaughstartssomewhereinthecenterofthecrowdandrisesasvoiceaftervoicejoinsit.CacklingisallIhear.

As the cackling grows louder, Peter lowers his torch to thewood, andflamesleapupneartheground.Theyflickerattheedgesofeachlogandthencreepoverthebark.Idon’tstruggleagainsttheropes,asIdidthefirsttimeIfacedthisfear.InsteadIclosemyeyesandgulpasmuchairasIcan.Thisisasimulation. It can’t hurt me. The heat from the flames rises around me. Ishakemyhead.

“Smellthat,Stiff?”Petersays,hisvoicelouderthaneventhecackling.

“No,”Isay.Theflamesaregettinghigher.

Hesniffs.“That’sthesmellofyourburningflesh.”

WhenIopenmyeyes,myvisionisblurrywithtears.

“KnowwhatIsmell?”Myvoicestrainstobelouderthanthelaughterallaround me, the laughter that oppresses me as much as the heat. My armstwitch, and I want to fight against the ropes, but I won’t, I won’t strugglepointlessly,Iwon’tpanic.

IstarethroughtheflamesatPeter,theheatbringingbloodtothesurfaceofmyskin,flowingthroughme,meltingthetoesofmyshoes.

“Ismellrain,”Isay.

Thunder roars above my head, and I scream as a flame touches myfingertipsandpainshrieksovermyskin.Itiltmyheadbackandfocusonthecloudsgatheringabovemyhead,heavywith rain, darkwith rain.A lineoflightningsprawlsovertheskyandIfeelthefirstdroponmyforehead.Faster,faster!Thedroprollsdownthesideofmynose,andtheseconddrophitsmyshoulder,sobigitfeelslikeit’smadeoficeorrockinsteadofwater.

Sheets of rain fall aroundme, and I hear sizzling over the laughter. I

smile, relieved, as the rain puts out the fire and soothes the burns on myhands.Theropesfallaway,andIpushmyhandsthroughmyhair.

IwishIwaslikeTobiasandhadonlyfourfearstoface,butIamnotthatfearless.

Ismoothmyshirtdown,andwhenIlookup,Istandinmybedroominthe Abnegation sector of the city. I have never faced this fear before. Thelights are off, but the room is lit by the moonlight coming through thewindows.Oneofmywallsiscoveredwithmirrors.Iturntowardit,confused.Thatisn’tright.Iamnotallowedtohavemirrors.

Ilookatthereflectioninthemirror:mywideeyes,thebedwiththegraysheetspulled taut, thedresser that holdsmyclothes, thebookcase, thebarewalls.Myeyesskiptothewindowbehindme.

Andtothemanstandingjustoutside.

Colddropsdownmyspinelikeabeadofsweat,andmybodygoesrigid.Irecognizehim.Heisthemanwiththescarredfacefromtheaptitudetest.Hewearsblackandhestandsstillasastatue.Iblink,andtwomenappearathisleft and right, just as still as he is, but their faces are featureless—skin-coveredskulls.

Iwhipmybodyaround,andtheystandinmyroom.Ipressmyshoulderstothemirror.

For a moment, the room is silent, and then fists pound against mywindow,notjusttwoorfourorsix,butdozensoffistswithdozensoffingers,slammingintotheglass.Thenoisevibratesinmyribcage,itissoloud,andthenthescarredmanandhistwocompanionsbegintowalkwithslow,carefulmovementstowardme.

Theyareheretotakeme,likePeterandDrewandAl;tokillme.Iknowit.

Simulation. This is a simulation.My heart hammering in my chest, Ipressmypalmtotheglassbehindmeandslideittotheleft.Itisnotamirrorbutaclosetdoor.I tellmyselfwheretheweaponwillbe.Itwillbehangingagainsttherightwall,justinchesawayfrommyhand.Idon’tshiftmyeyesfromthescarredman,butIfindthegunwithmyfingertipsandwrapmyhandaroundthehandle.

Ibitemylipandfireatthescarredman.Idon’twaittoseeifthebullethitshim—Iaimateachfeaturelessmaninturn,asfastasIcan.Mylipachesfrombiting itsohard.Thepoundingon thewindowstops,butascreechingsoundreplacesit,andthefiststurnintohandswithbentfingers,scratchingat

theglass,fightingtogetin.Theglasscreaksunderthepressureoftheirhands,andthencracks,andthenshatters.

Iscream.

Idon’thaveenoughbulletsinmygun.

Palebodies—humanbodies,butmangled,armsbentatoddangles,too-widemouthswithneedleteeth,emptyeyesockets—toppleintomybedroom,oneaftertheother,andscrambletotheirfeet,scrambletowardme.Ipullbackintotheclosetandshutthedoorinfrontofme.Asolution.Ineedasolution.Isinkintoacrouchandpressthesideoftheguntomyhead.Ican’tfightthemoff. I can’t fight themoff, so Ihave tocalmdown.The fear landscapewillregistermyslowingheartbeatandmyevenbreathanditwillmoveontothenextobstacle.

Isitdownonthefloorofthecloset.Thewallbehindmecreaks.Ihearpounding—thefistsareatitagain,hittingtheclosetdoor—butIturnandpeerthroughthedarkat thepanelbehindme.It isnotawallbutanotherdoor. Ifumble to push it aside and reveal the upstairs hallway. Smiling, I crawlthroughtheholeandstand.Ismellsomethingbaking.Iamathome.

Takingadeepbreath,Iwatchmyhousefade.Iforgot,forasecond,thatIwasinDauntlessheadquarters.

AndthenTobiasisstandinginfrontofme.

But I’m not afraid of Tobias. I look overmy shoulder.Maybe there’ssomethingbehindme that I’msupposed to focuson.Butno—behindme isjustafour-posterbed.

Abed?

Tobiaswalkstowardme,slowly.

What’sgoingon?

I stare up at him, paralyzed.He smiles down atme. That smile lookskind.Familiar.

Hepresseshismouth tomine, andmy lipspart. I thought itwouldbeimpossibletoforgetIwasinasimulation.Iwaswrong;hemakeseverythingelsedisintegrate.

His fingers findmy jacket zipper and pull it down in one slow swipeuntilthezipperdetaches.Hetugsthejacketfrommyshoulders.

Oh,isallIcanthink,ashekissesmeagain.Oh.

Myfearisbeingwithhim.Ihavebeenwaryofaffectionallmylife,but

Ididn’tknowhowdeepthatwarinesswent.

Butthisobstacledoesn’tfeelthesameastheothers.Itisadifferentkindoffear—nervouspanicratherthanblindterror.

He slides his hands down my arms and then squeezes my hips, hisfingersslidingovertheskinjustabovemybelt,andIshiver.

Igentlypushhimbackandpressmyhandstomyforehead.Ihavebeenattackedbycrowsandmenwithgrotesquefaces; Ihavebeensetonfirebytheboywhoalmost threwmeoffa ledge;Ihavealmostdrowned—twice—andthisiswhatIcan’tcopewith?ThisisthefearIhavenosolutionsfor—aboyIlike,whowantsto…havesexwithme?

SimulationTobiaskissesmyneck.

I try to think. I have to face the fear. I have to take control of thesituationandfindawaytomakeitlessfrightening.

I lookSimulationTobias in theeyeandsaysternly,“Iamnotgoingtosleepwithyouinahallucination.Okay?”

Then I grab him by his shoulders and turn us around, pushing himagainst the bedpost. I feel something other than fear—a prickle in mystomach, a bubble of laughter. I press against him and kiss him,my handswrappingaroundhisarms.Hefeelsstrong.Hefeels…good.

Andhe’sgone.

I laughintomyhanduntilmyfacegetshot.Imustbetheonlyinitiatewiththisfear.

Atriggerclicksinmyear.

Ialmost forgotabout thisone. I feel theheftofagun inmyhandandcurl my fingers around it, slipping my index finger over the trigger. Aspotlight shines from the ceiling, its source unknown, and standing in thecenterofitscircleoflightaremymother,myfather,andmybrother.

“Do it,” hisses a voice next to me. It is female, but harsh, like it’sclutteredwithrocksandbrokenglass.ItsoundslikeJeanine.

Thebarrelofagunpressestomytemple,acoldcircleagainstmyskin.The cold travels acrossmy body,making the hair on the back ofmy neckstand on end. Iwipemy sweaty palmonmypants and look at thewomanthrough the cornerofmyeye. It is Jeanine.Herglasses are askew, andhereyesareemptyoffeeling.

Myworstfear:thatmyfamilywilldie,andthatIwillberesponsible.

“Doit,”shesaysagain,moreinsistentthistime.“DoitorI’llkillyou.”

I stare at Caleb. He nods, his eyebrows tugged in, sympathetic. “Goahead,Tris,”hesayssoftly.“Iunderstand.It’sokay.”

Myeyesburn.“No,”Isay,mythroatsotightitaches.Ishakemyhead.

“I’llgiveyoutenseconds!”thewomanshouts.“Ten!Nine!”

Myeyesskipfrommybrothertomyfather.ThelasttimeIsawhim,hegavemealookofcontempt,butnowhiseyesarewideandsoft.Ihaveneverseenhimwearthatexpressioninreallife.

“Tris,”hesays.“Youhavenootheroption.”

“Eight!”

“Tris,”mymother says. She smiles. She has a sweet smile. “We loveyou.”

“Seven!”

“Shut up!” I shout, holding up the gun. I can do it. I can shoot them.Theyunderstand.They’reaskingmeto.Theywouldn’twantmetosacrificemyselfforthem.Theyaren’tevenreal.Thisisallasimulation.

“Six!”

It isn’t real. Itdoesn’tmeananything.Mybrother’skindeyes feel liketwodrillsboringaholeinmyhead.Mysweatmakesthegunslippery.

“Five!”

I have no other option. I close my eyes. Think. I have to think. Theurgencymakingmyheartracedependsononething,andonethingonly:thethreattomylife.

“Four!Three!”

WhatdidTobiastellme?Selflessnessandbraveryaren’tthatdifferent.

“Two!”

Ireleasethetriggerofmygunanddropit.BeforeIcanlosemynerve,Iturnandpressmyforeheadtothebarrelofthegunbehindme.

Shootmeinstead.

“One!”

Ihearaclick,andabang.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

THELIGHTSCOMEon.Istandaloneintheemptyroomwiththeconcretewalls, shaking. I sink tomy knees,wrappingmy arms aroundmy chest. Itwasn’tcoldwhenIwalkedin,butitfeelscoldnow.Irubmyarmstogetridofthegoosebumps.

Ihaveneverfeltrelieflikethisbefore.Everymuscleinmybodyrelaxesat once and I breathe freely again. I can’t imagine going through my fearlandscape inmy spare time, likeTobiasdoes. It seemed likebravery tomebefore,butnowitseemsmorelikemasochism.

Thedooropens,andIstand.Max,Eric,Tobias,andafewpeopleIdon’tknowwalkintotheroominaline,standinginasmallcrowdinfrontofme.Tobiassmilesatme.

“Congratulations, Tris,” says Eric. “You have successfully completedyourfinalevaluation.”

I try to smile. It doesn’t work. I can’t shake the memory of the gunagainstmyhead.Icanstillfeelthebarrelbetweenmyeyebrows.

“Thanks,”Isay.

“There is one more thing before you can go and get ready for thewelcoming banquet,” he says. He beckons to one of the unfamiliar peoplebehindhim.Awomanwithbluehairhandshimasmallblackcase.Heopensitandtakesoutasyringeandalongneedle.

I tense up at the sight of it. The orange-brown liquid in the syringereminds me of what they inject us with before simulations. And I amsupposedtobefinishedwiththose.

“At least you aren’t afraid of needles,” he says. “This will inject youwithatrackingdevicethatwillbeactivatedonlyifyouarereportedmissing.Justaprecaution.”

“Howoftendopeoplegomissing?”Iask,frowning.

“Not often.”Eric smirks. “This is a newdevelopment, courtesy of theErudite.We have been injecting everyDauntless throughout the day, and Iassumeallotherfactionswillcomplyassoonaspossible.”

My stomach twists. I can’t let him injectmewith anything, especiallynotanythingdevelopedbyErudite—maybeevenbyJeanine.ButIalsocan’trefuse.Ican’trefuseorhewilldoubtmyloyaltyagain.

“Allright,”Isay,mythroattight.

Ericapproachesmewiththeneedleandsyringeinhand.Ipullmyhairawayfrommyneckandtiltmyheadto theside.I lookawayasEricwipesmyneckwithanantisepticwipeandeasestheneedleintomyskin.Thedeepachespreadsthroughmyneck,painfulbutbrief.Heputstheneedlebackinitscaseandsticksanadhesivebandageontheinjectionsite.

“Thebanquetisintwohours,”hesays.“Yourrankingamongtheotherinitiates,Dauntless-bornincluded,willbeannouncedthen.Goodluck.”

Thesmallcrowdfilesoutoftheroom,butTobiaslingers.Hepausesbythedoorandbeckonsformetofollowhim,soIdo.TheglassroomabovethePit is full of Dauntless, some of themwalking the ropes above our heads,sometalkingandlaughingingroups.Hesmilesatme.Hemustnothavebeenwatching.

“I heard a rumor that you only had seven obstacles to face,” he says.“Practicallyunheardof.”

“You…youweren’twatchingthesimulation?”

“Onlyonthescreens.TheDauntless leadersare theonlyoneswhoseethewholething,”hesays.“Theyseemedimpressed.”

“Well, seven fears isn’t as impressive as four,” I reply, “but it willsuffice.”

“Iwouldbesurprisedifyouweren’trankedfirst,”hesays.

Wewalk into theglass room.Thecrowd is still there,but it is thinnernowthatthelastperson—me—hasgone.

Peoplenoticemeafterafewseconds.IstayclosetoTobias’ssideastheypoint,butIcan’twalkfastenoughtoavoidsomecheers,someclapsontheshoulder,somecongratulations.AsI lookat thepeoplearoundme,Irealizehowstrangetheywouldlooktomyfatherandbrother,andhownormaltheyseemtome,despiteallthemetalringsintheirfacesandthetattoosontheirarmsandthroatsandchests.Ismilebackatthem.

WedescendthestepsintothePitandIsay,“Ihaveaquestion.”Ibitemylip.“Howmuchdidtheytellyouaboutmyfearlandscape?”

“Nothing,really.Why?”hesays.

“Noreason.”Ikickapebbletothesideofthepath.

“Doyouhave to goback to the dormitory?” he asks. “Because if youwantpeaceandquiet,youcanstaywithmeuntilthebanquet.”

Mystomachtwists.

“Whatisit?”heasks.

Idon’twanttogobacktothedormitory,andIdon’twanttobeafraidofhim.

“Let’sgo,”Isay.

Heclosesthedoorbehindusandslipsoffhisshoes.

“Wantsomewater?”hesays.

“Nothanks.”Iholdmyhandsinfrontofme.

“Youokay?”he says, touchingmycheek.Hishandcradles the sideofmyhead,hislongfingersslippingthroughmyhair.Hesmilesandholdsmyhead in place as he kissesme. Heat spreads throughme slowly. And fear,buzzinglikeanalarminmychest.

His lipsstillonmine,hepushes the jacket frommyshoulders. I flinchwhenIhearitdrop,andpushhimback,myeyesburning.Idon’tknowwhyIfeelthisway.Ididn’tfeellikethiswhenhekissedmeonthetrain.Ipressmypalmstomyface,coveringmyeyes.

“What?What’swrong?”

Ishakemyhead.

“Don’ttellmeit’snothing.”Hisvoiceiscold.Hegrabsmyarm.“Hey.Lookatme.”

I takemyhands frommy faceand liftmyeyes tohis.Thehurt inhiseyesandtheangerinhisclenchedjawsurpriseme.

“Sometimes Iwonder,” I say,ascalmlyas Ican,“what’s in it foryou.This…whateveritis.”

“What’s in it for me,” he repeats. He steps back, shaking his head.“You’reanidiot,Tris.”

“Iamnotanidiot,”Isay.“WhichiswhyIknowthat it’salittleweirdthat,ofall thegirlsyoucouldhavechosen,youchoseme.Soifyou’re justlookingfor…um,youknow…that…”

“What?Sex?”Hescowlsatme.“Youknow,ifthatwasallIwanted,youprobablywouldn’tbethefirstpersonIwouldgoto.”

Ifeellikehejustpunchedmeinthestomach.OfcourseI’mnotthefirstpersonhewouldgo to—not the first,not theprettiest,notdesirable. Ipressmy hands to my abdomen and look away, fighting off tears. I am not the

cryingtype.NoramItheyellingtype.Iblinkafewtimes,lowermyhands,andstareupathim.

“I’mgoingtoleavenow,”Isayquietly.AndIturntowardthedoor.

“No,Tris.”Hegrabsmywristandwrenchesmeback.Ipushhimaway,hard,buthegrabsmyotherwrist,holdingourcrossedarmsbetweenus.

“I’msorryIsaidthat,”hesays.“WhatImeantwasthatyouaren’tlikethat.WhichIknewwhenImetyou.”

“Youwere an obstacle inmy fear landscape.”My lower lip wobbles.“Didyouknowthat?”

“What?”Hereleasesmywrists,andthehurtlookisback.“You’reafraidofme?”

“Not you,” I say. I bitemy lip to keep it still. “Beingwith you…withanyone. I’ve never been involvedwith someone before, and…you’re older,andIdon’tknowwhatyourexpectationsare,and…”

“Tris,” he says sternly, “I don’t know what delusion you’re operatingunder,butthisisallnewtome,too.”

“Delusion?” I repeat. “Youmeanyouhaven’t…” I raisemyeyebrows.“Oh.Oh.Ijustassumed…”ThatbecauseIamsoabsorbedbyhim,everyoneelsemustbetoo.“Um.Youknow.”

“Well,youassumedwrong.”Helooksaway.Hischeeksarebright,likehe’sembarrassed.“Youcan tellmeanything,youknow,”hesays.He takesmy face inhishands,his fingertipscoldandhispalmswarm.“IamkinderthanIseemedintraining.Ipromise.”

Ibelievehim.Butthishasnothingtodowithhiskindness.

Hekissesmebetweentheeyebrows,andonthetipofmynose,andthencarefully fits his mouth tomine. I am on edge. I have electricity coursingthroughmyveinsinsteadofblood.Iwanthimtokissme,Iwanthimto;Iamafraidofwhereitmightgo.

Hishandsshift tomyshoulders,andhisfingersbrushovertheedgeofmybandage.Hepullsbackwithapuckeredbrow.

“Areyouhurt?”heasks.

“No. It’s another tattoo. It’s healed, I just…wanted to keep it coveredup.”

“CanIsee?”

Inod,mythroattight.Ipullmysleevedownandslipmyshoulderoutof

it.Hestaresdownatmyshoulderforasecond,andthenrunshisfingersoverit. They rise and fall withmy bones, which stick out farther than I’d like.Whenhetouchesme,Ifeellikeeverywherehisskinmeetsmineischangedby the connection. It sends a thrill through my stomach. Not just fear.Somethingelse,too.Awanting.

Hepeelsthecornerofthebandageaway.HiseyesroamoverthesymbolofAbnegation,andhesmiles.

“Ihavethesameone,”hesays,laughing.“Onmyback.”

“Really?CanIseeit?”

Hepressesthebandageoverthetattooandpullsmyshirtbackovermyshoulder.

“Areyouaskingmetoundress,Tris?”

Anervouslaughgurglesfrommythroat.“Only…partially.”

Henods,hissmilesuddenlyfading.Heliftshiseyestomineandunzipshis sweatshirt. It slides from his shoulders, and he tosses it onto the deskchair.Idon’tfeellikelaughingnow.AllIcandoisstareathim.

Hiseyebrowspulltothecenterofhisforehead,andhegrabsthehemofhisT-shirt.Inoneswiftmotion,hepullsitoverhishead.

ApatchofDauntlessflamescovershisrightside,butotherthanthat,hischestisunmarked.Heavertshiseyes.

“Whatisit?”Iask,frowning.Helooks…uncomfortable.

“I don’t invite many people to look at me,” he says. “Any people,actually.”

“Ican’timaginewhy,”Isaysoftly.“Imean,lookatyou.”

I walk slowly around him. On his back is more ink than skin. Thesymbolsofeach factionaredrawn there—Dauntlessat the topofhis spine,Abnegation just below it, and the other three, smaller, beneath them. For afewsecondsIlookatthescalesthatrepresentCandor,theeyethatstandsforErudite, and the tree that symbolizes Amity. It makes sense that he wouldtattoohimselfwiththesymbolofDauntless,hisrefuge,andeventhesymbolofAbnegation,hisplaceoforigin,likeIdid.Buttheotherthree?

“Ithinkwe’vemadeamistake,”hesayssoftly.“We’veallstartedtoputdownthevirtuesoftheotherfactionsintheprocessofbolsteringourown.Idon’twant todo that. Iwant tobebrave,andselfless,andsmart,andkind,andhonest.”Heclearshisthroat.“Icontinuallystrugglewithkindness.”

“Noone’sperfect,”Iwhisper.“Itdoesn’tworkthatway.Onebadthinggoesaway,andanotherbadthingreplacesit.”

Itradedcowardiceforcruelty;Itradedweaknessforferocity.

IbrushoverAbnegation’ssymbolwithmyfingertips.“Wehavetowarnthem,youknow.Soon.”

“Iknow,”hesays.“Wewill.”

Heturnstowardme.Iwanttotouchhim,butI’mafraidofhisbareness;afraidthathewillmakemebaretoo.

“Isthisscaringyou,Tris?”

“No,”Icroak.Iclearmythroat.“Notreally.I’monly…afraidofwhatIwant.”

“Whatdoyouwant?”Thenhisfacetightens.“Me?”

SlowlyInod.

Henodstoo,andtakesmyhandsinhisgently.Heguidesmypalmstohisstomach.Hiseyeslowered,hepushesmyhandsup,overhisabdomenandoverhischest,andholdsthemagainsthisneck.Mypalmstinglewiththefeelofhisskin,smooth,warm.Myfaceishot,butIshiveranyway.Helooksatme.

“Someday,”hesays,“ifyoustillwantme,wecan…”Hepauses,clearshisthroat.“Wecan…”

Ismilealittleandwrapmyarmsaroundhimbeforehefinishes,pressingthesideofmyfacetohischest.Ifeelhisheartbeatagainstmycheek,asfastasmyown.

“Areyouafraidofme,too,Tobias?”

“Terrified,”hereplieswithasmile.

Iturnmyheadandkissthehollowbeneathhisthroat.

“Maybeyouwon’tbeinmyfearlandscapeanymore,”Imurmur.

Hebendshisheadandkissesmeslowly.

“TheneveryonecancallyouSix.”

“FourandSix,”Isay.

Wekissagain,andthistime,itfeelsfamiliar.Iknowexactlyhowwefittogether,hisarmaroundmywaist,myhandsonhischest,thepressureofhislipsonmine.Wehaveeachothermemorized.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO

IWATCHTOBIAS’Sfacecarefullyaswewalktothedininghall,searchingfor any sign of disappointment.We spent the two hours lying on his bed,talkingandkissingandeventuallydozinguntilweheardshoutsinthehallway—peopleontheirwaytothebanquet.

Ifanything,heseemslighternowthanhewasbefore.Hesmilesmore,anyway.

Whenwe reach the entrance,we separate. I go in first, and run to thetableIsharewithWillandChristina.Heenterssecond,aminutelater,andsitsdownnexttoZeke,whohandshimadarkbottle.Hewavesitaway.

“Where did you go?” asksChristina. “Everyone elsewent back to thedormitory.”

“Ijustwanderedaround,”Isay.“Iwastoonervoustotalktoeveryoneelseaboutit.”

“Youhavenoreasontobenervous,”Christinasays,shakingherhead.“IturnedaroundtotalktoWillforonesecond,andyouwerealreadydone.”

Idetectanoteofjealousyinhervoice,andagain,IwishIcouldexplainthat Iwaswellpreparedfor thesimulation,becauseofwhat Iam. InsteadIjustshrug.

“Whatjobareyougoingtopick?”Iaskher.

“I’m thinking I might want a job like Four’s. Training initiates,” shesays. “Scaring the living daylights out of them.You know, fun stuff.Whataboutyou?”

IwassofocusedongettingthroughinitiationthatIbarelythoughtaboutit. I could work for the Dauntless leaders—but theywould kill me if theydiscoverwhatIam.Whatelseisthere?

“Iguess…Icouldbeanambassadortotheotherfactions,”Isay.“Ithinkbeingatransferwouldhelpme.”

“I was so hoping you would say Dauntless-leader-in-training,” sighsChristina.“Because that’swhatPeterwants.Hecouldn’tshutupabout it inthedormearlier.”

“And it’s what I want,” adds Will. “Hopefully I ranked higher thanhim…oh,andalltheDauntless-borninitiates.Forgotaboutthem.”Hegroans.“OhGod.Thisisgoingtobeimpossible.”

“No, it isn’t,” she says. Christina reaches for his hand and laces her

fingerswithhis,likeit’sthemostnaturalthingintheworld.Willsqueezesherhand.

“Question,” says Christina, leaning forward. “The leaders who werewatchingyourfearlandscape…theywerelaughingaboutsomething.”

“Oh?”Ibitemyliphard.“I’mgladmyterroramusesthem.”

“Anyideawhichobstacleitwas?”sheasks.

“No.”

“You’relying,”shesays.“Youalwaysbitetheinsideofyourcheekwhenyoulie.It’syourtell.”

Istopbitingtheinsideofmycheek.

“Will’s is pinching his lips together, if it makes you feel better,” sheadds.

Willcovershismouthimmediately.

“Okay,fine.Iwasafraidof…intimacy,”Isay.

“Intimacy,”repeatsChristina.“Like…sex?”

Itenseup.Andforcemyselftonod.EvenifitwasjustChristina,andnooneelsewasaround,Iwouldstillwanttostrangleherrightnow.Igooverafewwaystoinflictmaximuminjurywithminimumforceinmyhead.Itrytothrowflamesfrommyeyes.

Willlaughs.

“Whatwasthatlike?”shesays.“Imean,didsomeonejust…trytodoitwithyou?Whowasit?”

“Oh,youknow.Faceless…unidentifiablemale,”Isay.“Howwereyourmoths?”

“Youpromisedyouwouldnevertell!”criesChristina,smackingmyarm.

“Moths,”repeatsWill.“You’reafraidofmoths?”

“Not just a cloud of moths,” she says, “like…a swarm of them.Everywhere.All thosewings and legs and…”She shudders and shakesherhead.

“Terrifying,”Willsayswithmockseriousness.“That’smygirl.Toughascottonballs.”

“Oh,shutup.”

A microphone squeals somewhere, so loud I clap my hands over my

ears.IlookacrosstheroomatEric,whostandsononeofthetableswiththemicrophoneinhand,tappingitwithhisfingertips.AfterthetappingisdoneandthecrowdofDauntlessisquiet,Ericclearshisthroatandbegins.

“Wearen’tbigonspeecheshere.EloquenceisforErudite,”hesays.Thecrowdlaughs.IwonderiftheyknowthathewasanEruditeonce;thatunderallthepretenseofDauntlessrecklessnessandevenbrutality,heismorelikeanErudite thananythingelse. If theydid, Idoubt theywould laughathim.“SoI’mgoingtokeepthisshort.It’sanewyear,andwehaveanewpackofinitiates. And a slightly smaller pack of newmembers.We offer them ourcongratulations.”

At the word “congratulations” the room erupts, not into applause, butintothepoundingoffistsontabletops.Thenoisevibratesinmychest,andIgrin.

“We believe in bravery. We believe in taking action. We believe infreedomfromfearandinacquiringtheskillstoforcethebadoutofourworldsothatthegoodcanprosperandthrive.Ifyoualsobelieveinthosethings,wewelcomeyou.”

EventhoughIknowEricprobablydoesn’tbelieveinanyofthosethings,I findmyself smiling, because I believe in them.Nomatter how badly theleadershavewarpedtheDauntlessideals,thoseidealscanstillbelongtome.

Morepoundingfists,thistimeaccompaniedbywhoops.

“Tomorrow,intheirfirstactasmembers,ourtopteninitiateswillchoosetheir professions, in the order of how they are ranked,” Eric says. “Therankings,Iknow,arewhateveryoneisreallywaitingfor.Theyaredeterminedbyacombinationofthreescores—thefirst,fromthecombatstageoftraining;the second, from the simulation stage; and the third, from the finalexamination, the fear landscape. The rankings will appear on the screenbehindme.”

As soon as theword “me” leaves hismouth, the names appear on thescreen,whichisalmostaslargeasthewallitself.Nexttothenumberoneismypicture,andthename“Tris.”

Aweightinmychestlifts.Ididn’trealizeitwasthereuntilitwasgone,andIdidn’thave tofeel itanymore. Ismile,anda tinglingspreads throughme.First.Divergentornot,thisfactioniswhereIbelong.

Iforgetaboutwar;Iforgetaboutdeath.Will’sarmswraparoundmeandhegivesmeabearhug.Ihearcheeringandlaughingandshouting.Christinapointsatthescreen,hereyeswideandfilledwithtears.

1.Tris

2.Uriah

3.Lynn

4.Marlene

5.Peter

Peterstays.Isuppressasigh.ButthenIreadtherestofthenames.

6.Will

7.Christina

I smile, and Christina reaches across the table to hug me. I am too

distractedtoprotestagainsttheaffection.Shelaughsinmyear.

Someonegrabsmefrombehindandshoutsinmyear.It’sUriah.Ican’tturnaround,soIreachbackandsqueezehisshoulder.

“Congratulations!”Ishout.

“You beat them!” he shouts back.He releasesme, laughing, and runsintoacrowdofDauntless-borninitiates.

Icranemynecktolookatthescreenagain.Ifollowthelistdown.

Eight,nine,andtenareDauntless-bornswhosenamesIbarelyrecognize.

ElevenandtwelveareMollyandDrew.

MollyandDrewarecut.Drew,whotriedtorunawaywhilePeterheldmeby the throatover thechasm,andMolly,whofed theErudite liesaboutmyfather,arefactionless.

Itisn’tquitethevictoryIwanted,butit’savictorynonetheless.

WillandChristinakiss,alittletoosloppilyformytaste.AllaroundmeisthepoundingofDauntlessfists.ThenIfeelataponmyshoulderandturntoseeTobiasstandingbehindme.Igetup,beaming.

“Youthinkgivingyouahugwouldgiveawaytoomuch?”hesays.

“Youknow,”Isay,“Ireallydon’tcare.”

Istandonmytiptoesandpressmylipstohis.

Itisthebestmomentofmylife.

Amoment later, Tobias’s thumb brushes over the injection site inmy

neck, and a few things come together at once. I don’t know how I didn’tfigurethisoutbefore.

One:Coloredserumcontainstransmitters.

Two:Transmittersconnectthemindtoasimulationprogram.

Three:Eruditedevelopedtheserum.

Four:EricandMaxareworkingwiththeErudite.

Ibreakawayfromthekissandstarewide-eyedatTobias.

“Tris?”hesays,confused.

Ishakemyhead.“Notnow.”Imeanttosaynothere.NotwithWillandChristinastandingafootawayfromme—staringwithopenmouths,probablybecauseIjustkissedTobias—andtheclamoroftheDauntlesssurroundingus.Buthehastoknowhowimportantitis.

“Later,”Isay.“Okay?”

Henods.Idon’tevenknowhowI’llexplainitlater.Idon’tevenknowhowtothinkstraight.

ButIdoknowhowEruditewillgetustofight.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE

ITRYTOgetTobiasaloneaftertherankingsareannounced,butthecrowdofinitiatesandmembersistoothick,andtheforceoftheircongratulationspullshimawayfromme.Idecidetosneakoutof thedormitoryaftereveryoneisasleepandfindhim,butthefearlandscapeexhaustedmemorethanIrealized,sosoonenough,Idriftofftoo.

Iwaketosqueakingmattressesandshufflingfeet.It’stoodarkformetoseeclearly,butasmyeyesadjust,IseethatChristinaistyinghershoelaces.Iopenmymouthtoaskherwhatshe’sdoing,butthenInoticethatacrossfromme,Willisputtingonashirt.Everyoneisawake,buteveryoneissilent.

“Christina,” I hiss.Shedoesn’t look atme, so I grabher shoulder andshakeit.“Christina!”

Shejustkeepstyinghershoelaces.

MystomachsqueezeswhenIseeherface.Hereyesareopen,butblank,and her facialmuscles are slack. Shemoveswithout looking atwhat she’sdoing, her mouth half-open, not awake but seeming awake. And everyoneelselooksjustlikeher.

“Will?” I ask, crossing the room.All the initiates fall intoa linewhenthey finish dressing. They start to file silently out of the dormitory. I grabWill’sarmtokeephimfromleaving,buthemovesforwardwithirrepressibleforce.IgritmyteethandholdonashardasIcan,diggingmyheelsintotheground.Hejustdragsmealongwithhim.

Theyaresleepwalkers.

Ifumbleformyshoes.Ican’tstayherealone.Itiemyshoesinahurry,pullonajacket,andsprintoutoftheroom,catchinguptothelineofinitiatesquickly,conformingmypace to theirs. It takesmea fewseconds to realizethattheymoveinunison,thesamefootforwardasthesamearmswingsback.ImimicthemasbestIcan,buttherhythmfeelsstrangetome.

Wemarch toward thePit,butwhenwereach theentrance, thefrontofthelineturnsleft.Maxstandsinthehallway,watchingus.MyhearthammersinmychestandIstareasvacantlyaspossibleaheadofme,focusingontherhythmofmy feet. I tense as I passhim.He’ll notice.He’ll notice I’mnotbrain-deadliketherestofthemandsomethingbadwillhappentome,Ijustknowit.

Max’sdarkeyespassrightoverme.

We climb a flight of stairs and travel at the same rhythm down fourcorridors.Thenthehallwayopensuptoahugecavern.Insideitisacrowdof

Dauntless.

Therearerowsoftableswithmoundsofblackonthem.Ican’tseewhatthepilesareuntilIamafootawayfromthem.Guns.

Ofcourse.EricsaideveryDauntlesswasinjectedyesterday.Sonowtheentirefactionisbrain-dead,obedient,andtrainedtokill.Perfectsoldiers.

Ipickupagunandaholsterandabelt,copyingWill,whoisdirectlyinfrontofme.Itrytomatchhismovements,butIcan’tpredictwhathe’sgoingtodo,soIendupfumblingmorethanI’dliketo.Igritmyteeth.Ijusthavetotrustthatnooneiswatchingme.

OnceI’marmed,IfollowWillandtheotherinitiatestowardtheexit.

Ican’twagewaragainstAbnegation,againstmyfamily.Iwouldratherdie.Myfearlandscapeprovedthat.Mylistofoptionsnarrows,andIseethepathImusttake.IwillpretendlongenoughtogettotheAbnegationsectorofthe city. I will save my family. And whatever happens after that doesn’tmatter.Ablanketofcalmsettlesoverme.

Thelineofinitiatespassesintoadarkhallway.Ican’tseeWillaheadofme,or anythingaheadofhim.My foothits somethinghard, and I stumble,myhandsoutstretched.Mykneehitssomethingelse—astep.Istraighten,sotensemyteetharealmostchattering.Theydidn’tseethat.It’stoodark.Pleaseletitbetoodark.

Asthestaircaseturns,lightflowsintothecavern,untilIcanfinallyseeWill’sshouldersinfrontofmeagain.IfocusonmatchingmyrhythmtohisasI reach the topof the stairs, passing anotherDauntless leader.Now I knowwho the Dauntless leaders are, because they are the only people who areawake.

Well,nottheonlypeople.ImustbeawakebecauseIamDivergent.AndifIamawake,thatmeansTobiasistoo,unlessIamwrongabouthim.

Ihavetofindhim.

IstandnexttothetraintracksinagroupthatstretchesasfarasIcanseewithmyperipheralvision.Thetrainisstoppedinfrontofus,everycaropen.Onebyone,myfellowinitiatesclimbintothetraincarinfrontofus.

Ican’tturnmyheadtoscanthecrowdforTobias,butIletmyeyesskirttotheside.Thefacesonmyleftareunfamiliar,butIseeatallboywithshorthairafewyardstomyright.Itmightnotbehim,andIcan’tmakesure,butit’sthebestchanceIhave.Idon’tknowhowtogettohimwithoutattractingattention.Ihavetogettohim.

Thecarinfrontofmefillsup,andWillturnstowardthenextone.Itake

mycuesfromhim,butinsteadofstoppingwherehestops,Islipafewfeettotheright.ThepeoplearoundmearealltallerthanIam;theywillshieldme.Istep to therightagain,clenchingmyteeth.Toomuchmovement.Theywillcatchme.Pleasedon’tcatchme.

Ablank-facedDauntlessinthenextcaroffersahandtotheboyinfrontofme,andhe takes it,hismovements robotic. I take thenexthandwithoutlookingatit,andclimbasgracefullyasIcanintothecar.

Istandfacingthepersonwhohelpedme.Myeyestwitchup,justforasecond, to see his face. Tobias, as blank-faced as the rest of them.Was Iwrong? IshenotDivergent?Tears sparkbehindmyeyes, and Iblink thembackasIturnawayfromhim.

Peoplecrowdintothecararoundme,sowestandinfourrows,shoulder-to-shoulder. And then something peculiar happens: fingers lace with mine,andapalmpressestomypalm.Tobias,holdingmyhand.

Myentirebodyisalivewithenergy.Isqueezehishand,andhesqueezesback.Heisawake.Iwasright.

Iwanttolookathim,butIforcemyselftostandstillandkeepmyeyesforwardasthetrainstartstomove.Hemoveshisthumbinaslowcircleoverthebackofmyhand.Itismeanttocomfortme,butitfrustratesmeinstead.Ineedtotalktohim.Ineedtolookathim.

Ican’tseewherethetrainisgoingbecausethegirlinfrontofmeissotall,soIstareatthebackofherheadandfocusonTobias’shandinmineuntiltherailssqueal.Idon’tknowhowlongI’vebeenstandingthere,butmybackaches,soitmusthavebeenalongtime.Thetrainscreechestoastop,andmyheartpoundssohardit’sdifficulttobreathe.

Rightbeforewejumpdownfromthecar, IseeTobias turnhisheadinmyperiphery,andIglancebackathim.Hisdarkeyesareinsistentashesays,“Run.”

“Myfamily,”Isay.

Ilookstraightaheadagain,andjumpdownfromthetraincarwhenit’smyturn.Tobiaswalksinfrontofme.Ishouldfocusonthebackofhishead,but the streets I walk now are familiar, and the line of Dauntless I followfades frommyattention. I pass theplace Iwent every sixmonthswithmymother to pick up new clothes for our family; the bus stop where I oncewaitedinthemorningtogettoschool;thestripofsidewalksocrackedCalebandIplayedahopping,jumpinggametogetacrossit.

Theyarealldifferentnow.Thebuildingsaredarkandempty.Theroads

arepackedwithDauntless soldiers, allmarchingat the same rhythmexceptthe officers, who stand every few hundred yards, watching us walk by, orgathering in clusters to discuss something. No one seems to be doinganything.Arewereallyhereforwar?

IwalkahalfmilebeforeIgetananswertothatquestion.

Istarttohearpoppingsounds.Ican’tlookaroundtoseewherethey’recomingfrom,but the farther Iwalk, the louderandsharper theyget,until Irecognizethemasgunshots.Iclenchmyjaw.Imustkeepwalking;Ihavetostarestraightahead.

Faraheadofus,IseeaDauntlesssoldierpushagray-clothedmantohisknees. I recognize theman—he is a councilmember.The soldier takes hergunoutofherholsterand,withsightlesseyes,firesabulletintothebackofthecouncilmember’sskull.

Thesoldierhasagraystreakinherhair.It’sTori.Mystepsalmostfalter.

Keepwalking.Myeyesburn.Keepwalking.

WemarchpastToriandthefallencouncilmember.WhenIstepoverhishand,Ialmostburstintotears.

Thenthesoldiersinfrontofmestopwalking,andsodoI.IstandasstillasIcan,butallIwanttodoisfindJeanineandEricandMaxandshootthemall.MyhandsareshakingandIcan’tdoanythingtostopit.Ibreathequicklythroughmynose.

Another gunshot. From the corner of my left eye, I see a gray blurcollapsetothepavement.AlltheAbnegationwilldieifthiscontinues.

TheDauntlesssoldierscarryoutunspokenorderswithouthesitationandwithoutquestion.SomeadultmembersofAbnegationareherdedtowardoneofthenearbybuildings,alongwiththeAbnegationchildren.Aseaofblack-clothed soldiers guard the doors. The only people I do not see are theAbnegationleaders.Maybetheyarealreadydead.

Onebyone,theDauntlesssoldiersinfrontofmestepawaytoperformone task or another. Soon the leaders will notice that whatever signalseveryone else is getting, I’m not getting them. What will I do when thathappens?

“This is insane,” coos amale voice onmy right. I see a lock of long,greasy hair, and a silver earring. Eric. He pokes my cheek with his indexfinger,andIstruggleagainsttheimpulsetoslaphishandaway.

“Theyreallycan’tseeus?Orhearus?”afemalevoiceasks.

“Oh, they can see and hear. They just aren’t processingwhat they seeand hear the same way,” says Eric. “They receive commands from ourcomputersinthetransmittersweinjectedthemwith…”Atthis,hepresseshisfingers to the injection site to show thewomanwhere it is.Stay still, I tellmyself.Still,still,still.“…andcarrythemoutseamlessly.”

EricshiftsasteptothesideandleansclosetoTobias’sface,grinning.

“Now, this is a happy sight,” he says. “The legendary Four. No one’sgoing to remember that I came in secondnow,are they?Noone’sgoing toaskme,‘Whatwasitliketotrainwiththeguywhohasonlyfourfears?’”HedrawshisgunandpointsitatTobias’srighttemple.MyheartpoundssohardIfeelit inmyskull.Hecan’tshoot;hewouldn’t.Erictiltshishead.“Thinkanyonewouldnoticeifheaccidentallygotshot?”

“Goahead,”thewomansays,soundingbored.ShemustbeaDauntlessleaderifshecangiveEricpermission.“He’snothingnow.”

“Toobadyoudidn’t just takeMaxuponhisoffer,Four.Well, toobadforyou,anyway,”saysEricquietly,asheclicksthebulletintoitschamber.

My lungs burn; I haven’t breathed in almost a minute. I see Tobias’shand twitch in the corner ofmy eye, butmyhand is already onmygun. Ipress thebarrel toEric’s forehead.Hiseyeswiden,andhis facegoesslack,andforasecondhelookslikeanothersleepingDauntlesssoldier.

Myindexfingerhoversoverthetrigger.

“Getyourgunawayfromhishead,”Isay.

“Youwon’tshootme,”Ericreplies.

“Interestingtheory,”Isay.ButIcan’tmurderhim;Ican’t.Igritmyteethandshiftmyarmdown, firingatEric’s foot.Hescreamsandgrabshis footwithbothhands.ThemomenthisgunisnolongerpointedatTobias’shead,TobiasdrawshisgunandfiresatEric’sfriend’sleg.Idon’twaittoseeifthebullethitsher.IgrabTobias’sarmandsprint.

Ifwecanmake it to thealley,wecandisappear into thebuildingsandtheywon’tfindus.Therearetwohundredyardstogo.Ihearfootstepsbehindus, but I don’t look back. Tobias grabsmy hand and squeezes, pullingmeforward, faster than Ihaveever run, faster than Ican run. I stumblebehindhim.Ihearagunshot.

Thepain issharpandsudden,beginning inmyshoulderandspreadingoutward with electric fingers. A scream stops in my throat, and I fall, mycheekscrapingthepavement.IliftmyheadtoseeTobias’skneesbymyface,andyell,“Run!”

Hisvoiceiscalmandquietashereplies,“No.”

In seconds we are surrounded. Tobias helps me up, supporting myweight.Ihavetroublefocusingthroughthepain.Dauntlesssoldierssurroundusandpointtheirguns.

“Divergentrebels,”Ericsays,standingononefoot.Hisfaceisasicklywhite.“Surrenderyourweapons.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR

I LEANHEAVILY on Tobias.A gun barrel pressed tomy spine urgesmeforward, through the front doors of Abnegation headquarters, a plain graybuilding, two stories high. Blood trickles downmy side. I’m not afraid ofwhat’scoming;I’mintoomuchpaintothinkaboutit.

The gun barrel pushes me toward a door guarded by two Dauntlesssoldiers.Tobias and Iwalk through it and enter a plain office that containsjustadesk,acomputer,andtwoemptychairs.Jeaninesitsbehindthedesk,aphoneagainstherear.

“Well,sendsomeofthembackonthetrain,then,”shesays.“Itneedstobewell guarded, it’s themost importantpart—I’mnot talk—Ihave togo.”Shesnapsthephoneshutandfocuseshergrayeyesonme.Theyremindmeofmeltedsteel.

“Divergent rebels,”oneof theDauntless says.HemustbeaDauntlessleader—ormaybearecruitwhowasremovedfromthesimulation.

“Yes,Icanseethat.”Shetakesherglassesoff,foldsthem,andsetsthemon the desk. She probably wears the glasses out of vanity rather thannecessity,becauseshethinkstheymakeherlooksmarter—myfathersaidso.

“You,”shesays,pointingatme,“Iexpected.All the troublewithyouraptitudetestresultsmademesuspiciousfromthebeginning.Butyou…”

SheshakesherheadassheshiftshereyestoTobias.

“You,Tobias—orshouldIcallyouFour?—managedtoeludeme,”shesays quietly. “Everything about you checked out: test results, initiationsimulations,everything.Buthereyouarenonetheless.”She foldsherhandsandsetsherchinontopofthem.“Perhapsyoucouldexplaintomehowthatis?”

“You’rethegenius,”hesayscoolly.“Whydon’tyoutellme?”

Hermouthcurlsintoasmile.“MytheoryisthatyoureallydobelonginAbnegation.ThatyourDivergenceisweaker.”

She smiles wider. Like she’s amused. I grit my teeth and considerlunging across the table and strangling her. If I didn’t have a bullet inmyshoulder,Imight.

“Your powers of deductive reasoning are stunning,” spits Tobias.“Considermeawed.”

Ilooksidewaysathim.Ihadalmostforgottenaboutthissideofhim—thepartthatismorelikelytoexplodethantoliedownanddie.

“Nowthatyourintelligencehasbeenverified,youmightwanttogetonwithkillingus.”Tobiascloseshiseyes.“YouhavealotofAbnegationleaderstomurder,afterall.”

If Tobias’s comments bother Jeanine, she doesn’t let on. She keepssmilingandstandssmoothly.Shewearsabluedressthathugsherbodyfromshoulder to knee, revealing a layer of pudge around hermiddle. The roomspinsasItrytofocusonherface,andIslumpagainstTobiasforsupport.Heslideshisarmaroundme,supportingmefromthewaist.

“Don’tbesilly.Thereisnorush,”shesayslightly.“Youarebothhereforanextremelyimportantpurpose.Yousee,itperplexedmethattheDivergentwere immune to the serum that I developed, so I have been working toremedy that. I thought Imighthave,with the lastbatch,butasyouknow,Iwaswrong.LuckilyIhaveanotherbatchtotest.”

“Whybother?”SheandtheDauntlessleadershadnoproblemkillingtheDivergentinthepast.Whywoulditbeanydifferentnow?

Shesmirksatme.

“IhavehadaquestionsinceIbegantheDauntlessproject,anditisthis.”Shesidestepsherdesk,skimmingthesurfacewithherfinger.“WhyaremostoftheDivergentweak-willed,God-fearingnobodiesfromAbnegation,ofallfactions?”

Ididn’tknowthatmostof theDivergentcamefromAbnegation,andIdon’t knowwhy thatwould be.And I probablywon’t live long enough tofigureitout.

“Weak-willed,”Tobiasscoffs.“Itrequiresastrongwill tomanipulateasimulation, last time I checked. Weak-willed is mind-controlling an armybecauseit’stoohardforyoutotrainoneyourself.”

“Iamnotafool,”saysJeanine.“Afactionofintellectualsisnoarmy.Weare tired of being dominated by a bunch of self-righteous idiotswho rejectwealth and advancement, but we couldn’t do this on our own. And yourDauntlessleaderswerealltoohappytoobligemeifIguaranteedthemaplaceinournew,improvedgovernment.”

“Improved,”Tobiassays,snorting.

“Yes,improved,”Jeaninesays.“Improved,andworkingtowardaworldinwhichpeoplewillliveinwealth,comfort,andprosperity.”

“At whose expense?” I ask, my voice thick and sluggish. “All thatwealth…doesn’tcomefromnowhere.”

“Currently,thefactionlessareadrainonourresources,”Jeaninereplies.

“As isAbnegation. I am sure that once the remainsof your old faction areabsorbedintotheDauntlessarmy,Candorwillcooperateandwewillfinallybeabletogetonwiththings.”

AbsorbedintotheDauntlessarmy.Iknowwhatthatmeans—shewantstocontrolthem,too.Shewantseveryonetobepliableandeasytocontrol.

“Getonwiththings,”Tobiasrepeatsbitterly.Heraiseshisvoice.“Makenomistake.Youwillbedeadbeforethedayisout,you—”

“Perhaps if you could control your temper,” Jeanine says, her wordscuttingcleanlyacrossTobias’s,“youwouldnotbe in thissituation tobeginwith,Tobias.”

“I’minthissituationbecauseyouputmehere,”hesnaps.“Thesecondyouorchestratedanattackagainstinnocentpeople.”

“Innocent people.” Jeanine laughs. “I find that a little funny, comingfromyou.IwouldexpectMarcus’ssontounderstandthatnotallthosepeopleare innocent.” She perches on the edge of the desk, her skirt pulling awayfrom her knees, which are crossed with stretch marks. “Can you tell mehonestlythatyouwouldn’tbehappytodiscoverthatyourfatherwaskilledintheattack?”

“No,” says Tobias through gritted teeth. “But at least his evil didn’tinvolve thewidespreadmanipulationofanentire factionand thesystematicmurderofeverypoliticalleaderwehave.”

Theystareateachotherforafewseconds,longenoughtomakemefeeltensetomycore,andthenJeanineclearsherthroat.

“What I was going to say,” she says, “is that soon, dozens of theAbnegation and their young children will be my responsibility to keep inorder,anditdoesnotbodewellformethatalargenumberofthemmaybeDivergentlikeyourselves,incapableofbeingcontrolledbythesimulations.”

Shestandsandwalksafewstepstotheleft,herhandsclaspedinfrontofher.Hernailbeds,likemine,arebittenraw.

“Therefore,itwasnecessarythatIdevelopanewformofsimulationtowhich they are not immune. I have been forced to reassess my ownassumptions.Thatiswhereyoucomein.”Shepacesafewstepstotheright.“Youarecorrecttosaythatyouarestrong-willed.Icannotcontrolyourwill.ButthereareafewthingsIcancontrol.”

Shestopsandturnstofaceus.IleanmytempleintoTobias’sshoulder.Blood trailsdownmyback.Thepainhasbeensoconstant for thepast fewminutesthatIhavegottenusedtoit,likeapersongetsusedtoasiren’swailif

itremainsconsistent.

Shepressesherpalmstogether.Iseenoviciousgleeinhereyes,andnota hint of the sadism I expect. She ismoremachine thanmaniac. She seesproblems and forms solutions based on the data she collects. Abnegationstoodinthewayofherdesireforpower,soshefoundawaytoeliminateit.Shedidn’thaveanarmy,soshefoundone inDauntless.Sheknewthatshewouldneed tocontrol largegroupsofpeople inorder tostaysecure,soshedeveloped a way to do it with serums and transmitters. Divergence is justanotherproblemforhertosolve,andthatiswhatmakeshersoterrifying—because she is smart enough to solve anything, even the problem of ourexistence.

“I can controlwhat you see and hear,” she says. “So I created a newserumthatwilladjustyoursurroundingstomanipulateyourwill.Thosewhorefusetoacceptourleadershipmustbecloselymonitored.”

Monitored—orrobbedoffreewill.Shehasagiftwithwords.

“You will be the first test subject, Tobias. Beatrice, however…” Shesmiles.“Youaretooinjuredtobeofmuchusetome,soyourexecutionwilloccurattheconclusionofthismeeting.”

Itrytohidetheshudderthatgoesthroughmeattheword“execution,”myshoulderscreamingwithpain,andlookupatTobias.It’shardtoblinkthetearsbackwhenIseetheterrorinTobias’swide,darkeyes.

“No,”saysTobias.Hisvoicetrembles,buthislookissternasheshakeshishead.“Iwouldratherdie.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice in the matter,” repliesJeaninelightly.

Tobiastakesmyfaceinhishandsroughlyandkissesme,thepressureofhis lips pushingmine apart. I forgetmypain and the terror of approachingdeathand for amoment, I amgrateful that thememoryof thatkisswillbefreshinmymindasImeetmyend.

ThenhereleasesmeandIhavetoleanagainstthewallforsupport.Withnomorewarningthanthetighteningofhismuscles,Tobiaslungesacrossthedesk andwraps his hands around Jeanine’s throat.Dauntless guards by thedoorleapathim,theirgunsheldready,andIscream.

It takes two Dauntless soldiers to pull Tobias away from Jeanine andshovehimtotheground.Oneofthesoldierspinshim,hiskneesonTobias’sshoulders andhis hands onTobias’s head, pressinghis face to the carpet. Ilungetowardthem,butanotherguardslamshishandsagainstmyshoulders,

forcingmeagainstthewall.Iamweakfrombloodlossandtoosmall.

Jeaninebracesherselfagainstthedesk,splutteringandgasping.Sherubsher throat, which is bright red with Tobias’s fingerprints. No matter howmechanical she seems, she’s still human; there are tears in her eyes as shetakesaboxfromherdeskdrawerandopensit,revealinganeedleandsyringe.

Stillbreathingheavily,shecarriesittowardTobias.Tobiasgritshisteethandelbowsoneoftheguardsintheface.Theguardslamstheheelofhisguninto the side of Tobias’s head, and Jeanine sticks the needle into Tobias’sneck.Hegoeslimp.

A sound escapes my mouth, not a sob or a scream, but a croaking,scrapingmoanthatsoundsdetached,likeitiscomingfromsomeoneelse.

“Lethimup,”saysJeanine,hervoicescratchy.

The guard gets up, and so does Tobias. He does not look like thesleepwalkingDauntlesssoldiers;hiseyesarealert.Helooksaroundforafewsecondsasifconfusedbywhathesees.

“Tobias,”Isay.“Tobias!”

“Hedoesn’tknowyou,”saysJeanine.

Tobiaslooksoverhisshoulder.Hiseyesnarrowandhestartstowardme,fast. Before the guards can stop him, he closes a hand around my throat,squeezingmytracheawithhisfingertips.Ichoke,myfacehotwithblood.

“The simulationmanipulates him,” says Jeanine. I can barely hear herover the pounding in my ears. “By altering what he sees—making himconfuseenemywithfriend.”

OneoftheguardspullsTobiasoffme.Igasp,drawingarattlingbreathintomylungs.

Heisgone.Controlledbythesimulation,hewillnowmurderthepeoplehecalledinnocentnotthreeminutesago.Jeaninekillinghimwouldhavehurtlessthanthis.

“The advantage to this version of the simulation,” she says, her eyesalight, “is that he can act independently, and is therefore farmore effectivethanamindlesssoldier.”She looksat theguardswhoholdTobiasback.Hestruggles against them, his muscles taut, his eyes focused on me, but notseeing me, not seeing me the way they used to. “Send him to the controlroom.We’llwantasentientbeingtheretomonitorthingsand,asIunderstandit,heusedtoworkthere.”

Jeaninepressesherpalmstogetherinfrontofher.“Andtakehertoroom

B13,” she says. She flaps her hand to dismiss me. That flapping handcommandsmyexecution,buttoheritisjustcrossingoffanitemfromalistoftasks,theonlylogicalprogressionoftheparticularpaththatsheison.ShesurveysmewithoutfeelingastwoDauntlesssoldierspullmeoutoftheroom.

Theydragmedownthehallway.Ifeelnumbinside,butoutsideIamascreaming,thrashingforceofwill.IbiteahandthatbelongstotheDauntlessman onmy right and smile as I taste blood. Then he hitsme, and there isnothing.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE

I WAKE IN the dark, wedged in a hard corner. The floor beneath me issmooth and cold. I touch my throbbing head and liquid slips across myfingertips.Red—blood.WhenIbringmyhandbackdown,myelbowhitsawall.WhereamI?

Alight flickersaboveme.Thebulb isblueanddimwhenit’s lit. Iseethewallsofatankaroundme,andmyshadowedreflectionacrossfromme.Theroomissmall,withconcretewallsandnowindows,andIamaloneinit.Well,almost—asmallvideocameraisattachedtooneoftheconcretewalls.

I see a small opening near my feet. Connected to it is a tube, andconnectedtothetube,inthecorneroftheroom,isahugetank.

Thetremblingstartsinmyfingertipsandspreadsupmyarms,andsoonmybodyisshuddering.

I’mnotinasimulationthistime.

Myrightarmisnumb.WhenIpushmyselfoutofthecorner,IseeapoolofbloodwhereIwassitting.Ican’tpanicnow.Istand,leaningagainstawall,andbreathe.TheworstthingthatcanhappentomenowisthatIdrowninthistank.Ipressmyforeheadtotheglassandlaugh.ThatistheworstthingIcanimagine.Mylaughturnsintoasob.

IfIrefusetogiveupnow,itwilllookbravetowhoeverwatchesmewiththatcamera,butsometimesitisn’tfightingthat’sbrave,it’sfacingthedeathyouknowiscoming.Isobintotheglass.I’mnotafraidofdying,butIwanttodieadifferentway,anyotherway.

Itisbettertoscreamthancry,soIscreamandslammyheelintothewallbehindme.Myfootbouncesoff,andIkickagain,sohardmyheelthrobs.Ikick again and again and again, then pull back and throwmy left shoulderintothewall.Theimpactmakesthewoundinmyrightshoulderburnlikeitgotstuckwithahotpoker.

Watertricklesintothebottomofthetank.

Thevideocamerameansthey’rewatchingme—no,studyingme,asonlytheEruditewould.Toseeifmyreactioninrealitymatchesmyreactioninthesimulation.ToprovethatI’macoward.

Iuncurlmyfistsanddropmyhands.Iamnotacoward.Iliftmyheadandstareatthecameraacrossfromme.IfIfocusonbreathing,IcanforgetthatI’mabouttodie.IstareatthecamerauntilmyvisionnarrowsanditisallIsee.Water ticklesmyankles, thenmycalves, thenmythighs.Itrisesovermyfingertips.Ibreathein;Ibreatheout.Thewaterissoftandfeelslikesilk.

Ibreathe in.Thewaterwillwashmywoundsclean. Ibreatheout.MymothersubmergedmeinwaterwhenIwasababy,togivemetoGod.IthasbeenalongtimesinceIthoughtaboutGod,butIthinkabouthimnow.Itisonlynatural. I amglad, suddenly, that I shotEric in the foot insteadof thehead.

Mybodyriseswiththewater.Insteadofkickingmyfeettostayabreastof it, I push all the air frommy lungs and sink to the bottom. The watermufflesmyears.Ifeelitsmovementovermyface.Ithinkaboutsnortingthewater intomylungsso itkillsmefaster,but Ican’tbringmyself todo it. Iblowbubblesfrommymouth.

Relax.Iclosemyeyes.Mylungsburn.

Iletmyhandsfloatuptothetopofthetank.Iletthewaterfoldmeinitssilkenarms.

When Iwas young,my father used to holdme over his head and runwithmesoIfeltlikeIwasflying.Irememberhowtheairfelt,glidingovermybody,andIamnotafraid.Iopenmyeyes.

Adarkfigurestandsinfrontofme.ImustbeclosetodeathifI’mseeingthings. Pain stabs my lungs. Suffocating is painful. A palm presses to theglass in front ofmy face, and for amoment as I stare through thewater, IthinkIseemymother’sblurryface.

Ihearabang,andtheglasscracks.Waterspraysoutaholenearthetopofthetank,andthepanecracksinhalf.Iturnawayastheglassshatters,andtheforceofthewaterthrowsmybodyattheground.Igasp,swallowingwateraswellasair,andcough,andgaspagain,andhandsclosearoundmyarms,andIhearhervoice.

“Beatrice,”shesays.“Beatrice,wehavetorun.”

Shepullsmyarmacrosshershouldersandhaulsmetomyfeet.Sheisdressed likemymother and she looks likemymother, but she is holding agun,andthedeterminedlookinhereyesisunfamiliartome.Istumblebesideheroverbrokenglassandthroughwaterandoutanopendoorway.Dauntlessguardsliedeadnexttothedoor.

Myfeetslipandslideonthetileaswewalkdownthehallway,asfastasmy weak legs can muster. When we turn the corner, she fires at the twoguardsstandingbythedoorattheend.Thebulletshitthembothinthehead,andtheyslumptothefloor.Shepushesmeagainstthewallandtakesoffhergrayjacket.

Shewearsasleevelessshirt.Whensheliftsherarm,Iseethecornerofa

tattoounderherarmpit.Nowondersheneverchangedclothesinfrontofme.

“Mom,”Isay,myvoicestrained.“YouwereDauntless.”

“Yes,”shesays,smiling.Shemakesherjacketintoaslingformyarm,tying the sleeves aroundmy neck. “And it has servedmewell today.YourfatherandCalebandsomeothersarehidinginabasementattheintersectionofNorthandFairfield.Wehavetogogetthem.”

Istareather.Isatnexttoheratthekitchentable,twiceaday,forsixteenyears,andneveroncedidIconsiderthepossibilitythatshecouldhavebeenanythingbutAbnegation-born.HowwelldidIactuallyknowmymother?

“Therewillbetimeforquestions,”shesays.Sheliftshershirtandslipsagun from under the waistband of her pants, offering it to me. Then shetouchesmycheek.“Nowwemustgo.”

Sherunstotheendofthehallway,andIrunafterher.

We are in the basement of Abnegation headquarters. My mother hasworked there foras longas Ican remember, so I’mnotsurprisedwhensheleadsmedown a fewdark hallways, up a dank staircase, and into daylightagainwithoutinterference.HowmanyDauntlessguardsdidsheshootbeforeshefoundme?

“Howdidyouknowtofindme?”Isay.

“I’ve been watching the trains since the attacks started,” she replies,glancing over her shoulder atme. “I didn’t knowwhat Iwould dowhen Ifoundyou.Butitwasalwaysmyintentiontosaveyou.”

Mythroatfeelstight.“ButIbetrayedyou.Ileftyou.”

“You’remy daughter. I don’t care about the factions.” She shakes herhead.“Lookwheretheygotus.Humanbeingsasawholecannotbegoodforlongbeforethebadcreepsbackinandpoisonsusagain.”

Shestopswherethealleyintersectswiththeroad.

Iknownowisn’tthetimeforconversation.ButthereissomethingIneedtoknow.

“Mom, how do you know about Divergence?” I ask. “What is it?Why…”

Shepushesthebulletchamberopenandpeersinside.Seeinghowmanybullets she has left. Then takes a few out of her pocket and reloads. Irecognizeherexpressionastheoneshewearswhenshethreadsaneedle.

“IknowaboutthembecauseIamone,”shesaysassheshovesabulletin

place. “I was only safe because my mother was a Dauntless leader. OnChoosingDay,shetoldmetoleavemyfactionandfindasaferone.IchoseAbnegation.”Sheputsanextrabulletinherpocketandstandsupstraighter.“ButIwantedyoutomakethechoiceonyourown.”

“Idon’tunderstandwhywe’resuchathreattotheleaders.”

“Every faction conditions itsmembers to think and act a certain way.Andmostpeopledoit.Formostpeople,it’snothardtolearn,tofindapatternofthoughtthatworksandstaythatway.”Shetouchesmyuninjuredshoulderandsmiles.“Butourmindsmoveinadozendifferentdirections.Wecan’tbeconfined toonewayof thinking, and that terrifiesour leaders. Itmeanswecan’tbecontrolled.Anditmeansthatnomatterwhattheydo,wewillalwayscausetroubleforthem.”

Ifeellikesomeonebreathednewairintomylungs.IamnotAbnegation.IamnotDauntless.

IamDivergent.

AndIcan’tbecontrolled.

“Heretheycome,”shesays,lookingaroundthecorner.Ipeekoverhershoulder and see a few Dauntless with guns, moving to the same beat,heading towardus.Mymother looksback.Farbehindus, anothergroupofDauntlessrundownthealley,towardus,movingintimewithoneanother.

Shegrabsmyhandsandlooksmeintheeyes.Iwatchherlongeyelashesmoveassheblinks. IwishIhadsomethingofhers inmysmall,plainface.ButatleastIhavesomethingofhersinmybrain.

“Go to your father and brother. The alley on the right, down to thebasement. Knock twice, then three times, then six times.” She cups mycheeks.Herhandsarecold;herpalmsarerough.“I’mgoingtodistractthem.Youhavetorunasfastasyoucan.”

“No.”Ishakemyhead.“I’mnotgoinganywherewithoutyou.”

Shesmiles.“Bebrave,Beatrice.Iloveyou.”

Ifeelher lipsonmyforeheadandthensheruns into themiddleof thestreet.Sheholdshergunaboveherheadandfiresthreetimesintotheair.TheDauntlessstartrunning.

I sprint across the street and into the alley. As I run, I look over myshoulder to see if any Dauntless follow me. But my mother fires into thecrowdofguards,andtheyaretoofocusedonhertonoticeme.

IwhipmyheadovermyshoulderwhenIhearthemfireback.Myfeet

falterandstop.

Mymotherstiffens,herbackarching.Bloodsurgesfromawoundinherabdomen, dyeing her shirt crimson. A patch of blood spreads over hershoulder. Iblink,and theviolent redstains the insideofmyeyelids. Iblinkagain,andIseehersmileasshesweepsmyhairtrimmingsintoapile.

Shefalls,firsttoherknees,herhandslimpathersides,andthentothepavement,slumpedtothesidelikearagdoll.Sheismotionlessandwithoutbreath.

Iclampmyhandovermymouthandscreamintomypalm.MycheeksarehotandwetwithtearsIdidn’tfeelbeginning.Mybloodcriesoutthatitbelongstoher,andstrugglestoreturntoher,andIhearherwordsinmymindasIrun,tellingmetobebrave.

PainstabsthroughmeaseverythingIammadeofcollapses,myentireworlddismantledinamoment.Thepavementscrapesmyknees.IfIliedownnow, thiscanallbedone.MaybeEricwas right,andchoosingdeath is likeexploringanunknown,uncertainplace.

I feel Tobias brushingmy hair back before the first simulation. I hearhimtellingmetobebrave.Ihearmymothertellingmetobebrave.

TheDauntlesssoldiersturnasifmovedbythesamemind.SomehowIgetupandstartrunning.

Iambrave.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX

THREE DAUNTLESS SOLDIERS pursue me. They run in unison, theirfootsteps echoing in the alley. One of them fires, and I dive, scraping mypalmsontheground.Thebullethitsthebrickwalltomyright,andpiecesofbricksprayeverywhere. I throwmyselfaroundthecornerandclickabulletintothechamberofmygun.

Theykilledmymother.Ipointthegunintothealleyandfireblindly.Itwasn’t really them, but it doesn’t matter—can’t matter, and just like deathitself,can’tberealrightnow.

Just one set of footsteps now. I hold the gun outwith both hands andstand at the end of the alley, pointing at the Dauntless soldier. My fingersqueezesthetrigger,butnothardenoughtofire.Themanrunningtowardmeis not aman, he is a boy. A shaggy-haired boy with a crease between hiseyebrows.

Will. Dull-eyed and mindless, but still Will. He stops running andmirrorsme, his feet planted and his gun up. In an instant, I see his fingerpoisedoverthetriggerandhearthebulletslideintothechamber,andIfire.Myeyessqueezedshut.Can’tbreathe.

Thebullethithiminthehead.Iknowbecausethat’swhereIaimedit.

Iturnaroundwithoutopeningmyeyesandstumbleawayfromthealley.NorthandFairfield.IhavetolookatthestreetsigntoseewhereIam,butIcan’treadit;myvisionisblurred.Iblinkafewtimes.Istandjustyardsawayfromthebuildingthatcontainswhat’sleftofmyfamily.

Ikneelnexttothedoor.Tobiaswouldcallmeunwisetomakeanynoise.NoisemightattractDauntlesssoldiers.

Ipressmyforeheadtothewallandscream.AfterafewsecondsIclampmyhandovermymouthtomufflethesoundandscreamagain,ascreamthatturnsintoasob.Thegunclatterstotheground.IstillseeWill.

Hesmilesinmymemory.Acurledlip.Straightteeth.Lightinhiseyes.Laughing,teasing,morealiveinmemorythanIaminreality.Itwashimorme.Ichoseme.ButIfeeldeadtoo.

I pound on the door—twice, then three times, then six times, as my

mothertoldmeto.

Iwipethetearsfrommyface.ThisisthefirsttimeIwillseemyfathersinceIlefthim,andIdon’twanthimtoseemehalf-collapsedandsobbing.

Thedooropens,andCalebstandsinthedoorway.Thesightofhimstunsme.Hestaresatmeforafewsecondsandthenthrowshisarmsaroundme,his handpressing to thewound inmy shoulder. I bitemy lip to keep fromcryingout,butagroanescapesmeanyway,andCalebyanksback.

“Beatrice.OhGod,areyoushot?”

“Let’sgoinside,”Isayweakly.

Hedragshisthumbunderhiseyes,catchingthemoisture.Thedoorfallsshutbehindus.

The room is dimly lit, but I see familiar faces, former neighbors andclassmatesandmyfather’scoworkers.Myfather,whostaresatmelikeI’vegrownasecondhead.Marcus.Thesightofhimmakesmeache—Tobias…

No.Iwillnotdothat;Iwillnotthinkofhim.

“How did you know about this place?” Caleb says. “Did Mom findyou?”

Inod.Idon’twanttothinkaboutMom,either.

“Myshoulder,”Isay.

NowthatIamsafe,theadrenalinethatpropelledmehereisfading,andthe pain is gettingworse. I sink tomyknees.Water drips frommy clothesonto the cement floor. A sob rises within me, desperate for release, and Ichokeitback.

Awoman named Tessawho lived down the street from us rolls out apallet.Shewasmarriedtoacouncilmember,butIdon’tseehimhere.Heisprobablydead.

Someone else carries a lamp fromone corner to the other sowe havelight.Calebproduces a first-aidkit, andSusanbringsme abottle ofwater.There is no better place to need help than a room full of members ofAbnegation. I glance atCaleb.He’swearing gray again. Seeing him in theEruditecompoundfeelslikeadreamnow.

Myfathercomestome,liftsmyarmacrosshisshoulders,andhelpsmeacrosstheroom.

“Whyareyouwet?”Calebsays.

“Theytriedtodrownme,”Isay.“Whyareyouhere?”

“Ididwhatyousaid—whatMomsaid.IresearchedthesimulationserumandfoundoutthatJeaninewasworkingtodeveloplong-rangetransmittersforthe serum so its signal could stretch farther, which led me to information

about Erudite and Dauntless…anyway, I dropped out of initiation when Ifigured outwhatwas happening. Iwould havewarned you, but itwas toolate,”hesays.“I’mfactionlessnow.”

“No,youaren’t,”myfathersayssternly.“You’rewithus.”

Ikneelon thepalletandCalebcutsapieceofmyshirtawayfrommyshoulder with a pair of medical scissors. Caleb peels the square of fabricaway,revealingfirsttheAbnegationtattooonmyrightshoulderandsecond,the three birds onmy collarbone.Caleb andmy father stare at both tattooswiththesamelookoffascinationandshockbutsaynothingaboutthem.

I lie on my stomach. Caleb squeezes my palm as my father gets theantisepticfromthefirstaidkit.

“Haveyou ever taken abullet out of someonebefore?” I ask, a shakylaughinmyvoice.

“ThethingsIknowhowtodomightsurpriseyou,”hereplies.

A lot of things aboutmyparentsmight surpriseme. I thinkofMom’stattooandbitemylip.

“Thiswillhurt,”hesays.

Idon’tsee theknifego in,but I feel it.Painspreads throughmybodyand I scream through gritted teeth, crushing Caleb’s hand. Over thescreaming, I hear my father ask me to relax my back. Tears run from thecornersofmyeyesandIdoashetellsme.Thepainstartsagain,andIfeeltheknifemovingundermyskin,andIamstillscreaming.

“Gotit,”hesays.Hedropssomethingonthefloorwithading.

Caleb looksatmyfatherand thenatme,and thenhe laughs. Ihaven’theardhimlaughinsolongthatthesoundmakesmecry.

“What’ssofunny?”Isay,sniffling.

“IneverthoughtIwouldseeustogetheragain,”hesays.

My father cleans the skin around my wound with something cold.“Stitchingtime,”hesays.

Inod.Hethreadstheneedlelikehe’sdoneitathousandtimes.

“One,”hesays,“two…three.”

Iclenchmyjawandstayquietthistime.OfallthepainIhavesufferedtoday—thepainofgettingshotandalmostdrowningandtakingthebulletoutagain,thepainoffindingandlosingmymotherandTobias,thisistheeasiesttobear.

Myfatherfinishesstitchingmywound,tiesoffthethread,andcoversthestitcheswithabandage.Calebhelpsmesitupandseparatesthehemsofhistwoshirts,pullingthelong-sleevedoneoverhisheadandofferingittome.

Myfatherhelpsmeguidemy rightarm through the shirt sleeve, and Ipulltherestovermyhead.Itisbaggyandsmellsfresh,smellslikeCaleb.

“So,”myfathersaysquietly.“Whereisyourmother?”

Ilookdown.Idon’twanttodeliverthisnews.Idon’twanttohavethisnewstobeginwith.

“She’sgone,”Isay.“Shesavedme.”

Calebcloseshiseyesandtakesadeepbreath.

My father looks momentarily stricken and then recovers himself,avertinghisglisteningeyesandnodding.

“Thatisgood,”hesays,soundingstrained.“Agooddeath.”

IfIspeakrightnow,Iwillbreakdown,andIcan’taffordtodothat.SoIjustnod.

Eric calledAl’s suicide brave, and hewaswrong.Mymother’s deathwasbrave.Irememberhowcalmshewas,howdetermined.Itisn’tjustbravethatshediedforme;itisbravethatshediditwithoutannouncingit,withouthesitation,andwithoutappearingtoconsideranotheroption.

Hehelpsmetomyfeet.Timetoface therestof theroom.Mymothertoldme tosave them.Becauseof that,andbecause IamDauntless, it’smydutytoleadnow.Ihavenoideahowtobearthatburden.

Marcusgetsup.AvisionofhimwhippingmyarmwithabeltrushesintomymindwhenIseehim,andmychestsqueezes.

“Weareonlysafehereforsolong,”Marcussayseventually.“Weneedtoget out of the city.Our best option is to go to theAmity compound in thehope that they’ll take us in. Do you know anything about the Dauntlessstrategy,Beatrice?Willtheystopfightingatnight?”

“It’snotDauntless strategy,” I say. “Thiswhole thing ismastermindedbytheErudite.Andit’snotlikethey’regivingorders.”

“Notgivingorders,”myfathersays.“Whatdoyoumean?”

“Imean,”Isay,“ninetypercentoftheDauntlessaresleepwalkingrightnow.They’re in a simulation and theydon’t knowwhat they’re doing.TheonlyreasonI’mnotjustlikethemisthatI’m…”Ihesitateontheword.“Themindcontroldoesn’taffectme.”

“Mind control? So they don’t know that they’re killing people rightnow?”myfatherasksme,hiseyeswide.

“No.”

“That’s…awful.”Marcusshakeshishead.Hissympathetic tonesoundsmanufacturedtome.“Wakingupandrealizingwhatyou’vedone…”

Theroomgoesquiet,probablyasalltheAbnegationimaginethemselvesintheplaceoftheDauntlesssoldiers,andthat’swhenitoccurstome.

“Wehavetowakethemup,”Isay.

“What?”Marcussays.

“If we wake the Dauntless up, they will probably revolt when theyrealizewhat’s going on,” I explain. “TheEruditewon’t have an army. TheAbnegationwillstopdying.Thiswillbeover.”

“Itwon’tbe thatsimple,”myfathersays.“Evenwithout theDauntlesshelpingthem,theEruditewillfindanotherwayto—”

“Andhowarewesupposedtowakethemup?”Marcussays.

“Wefindthecomputersthatcontrolthesimulationanddestroythedata,”Isay.“Theprogram.Everything.”

“Easiersaidthandone,”Calebsays.“Itcouldbeanywhere.Wecan’tjustappearattheEruditecompoundandstartpokingaround.”

“It’s…”Ifrown.Jeanine.Jeaninewastalkingaboutsomethingimportantwhen Tobias and I came into her office, important enough to hang up onsomeone.Youcan’tjustleaveitundefended.Andthen,whenshewassendingTobiasaway:Sendhimtothecontrolroom.ThecontrolroomwhereTobiasused to work. With the Dauntless security monitors. And the Dauntlesscomputers.

“It’satDauntlessheadquarters,”Isay.“Itmakessense.That’swhereallthedataabouttheDauntlessisstored,sowhynotcontrolthemfromthere?”

IfaintlyregisterthatIsaidthem.Asofyesterday,ItechnicallybecameDauntless,butIdon’tfeellikeone.AndIamnotAbnegation,either.

IguessIamwhatI’vealwaysbeen.NotDauntless,notAbnegation,notfactionless.Divergent.

“Areyousure?”myfatherasks.

“It’saninformedguess,”Isay,“andit’sthebesttheoryIhave.”

“Thenwe’llhavetodecidewhogoesandwhocontinuesontoAmity,”

hesays.“Whatkindofhelpdoyouneed,Beatrice?”

Thequestionstunsme,asdoestheexpressionhewears.HelooksatmelikeI’mapeer.HespeakstomelikeI’mapeer.EitherhehasacceptedthatIaman adult now, or he has accepted that I amno longer his daughter.Thelatterismorelikely,andmorepainful.

“Anyone who can and will fire a gun,” I say, “and isn’t afraid ofheights.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN

ERUDITE AND DAUNTLESS forces are concentrated in the Abnegationsectorofthecity,soaslongaswerunawayfromtheAbnegationsector,wearelesslikelytoencounterdifficulty.

I didn’t get to decidewho is comingwithme.Calebwas the obviouschoice,sinceheknowsthemostabouttheEruditeplan.Marcusinsistedthathego,despitemyprotests,becauseheisgoodwithcomputers.Andmyfatheractedlikehisplacewasassumedfromthebeginning.

Iwatch theothers run in theoppositedirection—towardsafety, towardAmity—forafewseconds,andthenIturnaway,towardthecity,towardthewar.Westandnexttotherailroadtracks,whichwillcarryusintodanger.

“Whattimeisit?”IaskCaleb.

Hecheckshiswatch.“Threetwelve.”

“Shouldbehereanysecond,”Isay.

“Willitstop?”heasks.

Ishakemyhead.“Itgoesslowlythroughthecity.We’llrunnexttothecarforafewfeetandthenclimbinside.”

Jumpingontrainsseemseasytomenow,natural.Itwon’tbeaseasyfortherestofthem,butwecan’tstopnow.Ilookovermyleftshoulderandseetheheadlightsburninggoldagainstthegraybuildingsandroads.Ibounceontheballsofmyfeetasthelightsgrowlargerandlarger,andthenthefrontofthetrainglidespastme,andIstartjogging.WhenIseeanopencar,Ipickupmy pace to keep stride with it and grab the handle on the left, swingingmyselfinside.

Calebjumps,landinghardandrollingonhissidetogetin,andhehelpsMarcus.Myfatherlandsonhisstomach,pullinghislegsinbehindhim.Theymove away from the doorway, but I stand on the edgewith one handon ahandle,watchingthecitypass.

IfIwereJeanine,IwouldsendthemajorityofDauntlesssoldierstotheDauntless entrance above the Pit, outside the glass building. It would besmarter to go in the back entrance, the one that requires jumping off abuilding.

“IassumeyounowregretchoosingDauntless,”Marcussays.

I am surprised my father didn’t ask that question, but he, like me, iswatchingthecity.ThetrainpassestheEruditecompound,whichisdarknow.It looks peaceful from a distance, and inside those walls, it probably is

peaceful. Far removed from the conflict and the reality of what they havedone.

Ishakemyhead.

“Not even after your faction’s leaders decided to join in a plot tooverthrowthegovernment?”Marcusspits.

“ThereweresomethingsIneededtolearn.”

“Howtobebrave?”myfathersaysquietly.

“Howtobeselfless,”Isay.“Oftenthey’rethesamething.”

“Is thatwhyyougotAbnegation’ssymbol tattooedonyourshoulder?”Calebasks.IamalmostsurethatIseeasmileinmyfather’seyes.

Ismilefaintlybackandnod.“AndDauntlessontheother.”

TheglassbuildingabovethePitreflectssunlightintomyeyes.Istand,

holdingthehandlenexttothedoorforbalance.Almostthere.

“WhenItellyoutojump,”Isay,“youjump,asfarasyoucan.”

“Jump?”Calebasks.“We’resevenstoriesup,Tris.”

“Ontoaroof,”Iadd.Seeingthestunnedlookonhisface,Isay,“That’swhytheycallitatestofbravery.”

Halfofbraveryisperspective.ThefirsttimeIdidthis,itwasoneofthehardestthingsIhadeverdone.Now,preparingtojumpoffamovingtrainisnothing,becauseIhavedonemoredifficultthingsinthepastfewweeksthanmostpeoplewillinalifetime.AndyetnoneofitcomparestowhatIamabouttodointheDauntlesscompound.IfIsurvive,Iwillundoubtedlygoontodofarmoredifficultthingsthaneventhat,likelivewithoutafaction,somethingIneverimaginedpossible.

“Dad,yougo,” I say, steppingbacksohecanstandby theedge. IfheandMarcusgofirst,Icantimeitsotheyhavetojumptheshortestdistance.Hopefully Caleb and I can jump far enough to make it, because we’reyounger.It’sachanceIhavetotake.

Thetraintrackscurve,andwhentheylineupwiththeedgeoftheroof,Ishout,“Jump!”

Myfatherbendshiskneesandlauncheshimselfforward.Idon’twaittoseeifhemakesit.IshoveMarcusforwardandshout,“Jump!”

My father lands on the roof, so close to the edge that I gasp. He sits

downonthegravel,andIpushCalebinfrontofme.Hestandsattheedgeofthe traincarand jumpswithoutmehaving to tellhimto. I takea fewstepsback togivemyself a running start and leapout of the car just as the trainreachestheendoftheroof.

ForaninstantIamsuspendedinnothingness,andthenmyfeetslamintocementandIstumbletotheside,awayfromtheroof’sedge.Mykneesache,and the impact shudders throughmybody,makingmy shoulder throb. I sitdown,breathinghard,andlookacrosstherooftop.Calebandmyfatherstandattheedgeoftheroof,theirhandsaroundMarcus’sarms.Hedidn’tmakeit,buthehasn’tfallenyet.

Somewhereinsideme,aviciousvoicechants:fall,fall,fall.

Buthedoesn’t.MyfatherandCalebhaulhimontotheroof.Istandup,brushing gravel off my pants. The thought of what comes next has mepreoccupied.Itisonethingtoaskpeopletojumpoffatrain,butaroof?

“Thisnextpart iswhyIaskedaboutfearofheights,”Isay,walkingtotheedgeoftheroof.Iheartheirshufflingfootstepsbehindmeandstepontotheledge.Windrushesupthesideofthebuildingandliftsmyshirtfrommyskin.Istaredownattheholeintheground,sevenstoriesbelowme,andthenclosemyeyesastheairblowsovermyface.

“There’sanetatthebottom,”Isay,lookingovermyshoulder.Theylookconfused.Theyhaven’tfiguredoutwhatIamaskingthemtodoyet.

“Don’tthink,”Isay.“Justjump.”

Iturn,andasIturn,Ileanback,compromisingmybalance.Idroplikeastone, my eyes closed, one arm outstretched to feel the wind. I relax mymusclesasmuchasIcanbeforeIhitthenet,whichfeelslikeaslabofcementhittingmyshoulder.Igritmyteethandrolltotheedge,grabbingthepolethatsupportsthenet,andswingmylegovertheside.Ilandonmykneesontheplatform,myeyesblurrywithtears.

Calebyelpsasthenetcurlsaroundhisbodyandthenstraightens.Istandwithsomedifficulty.

“Caleb!”Ihiss.“Overhere!”

Breathingheavily,Calebcrawlstothesideofthenetanddropsovertheedge, hitting the platform hard.Wincing, he pushes himself to his feet andstaresatme,hismouthopen.

“Howmanytimes…haveyou…donethat?”heasksbetweenbreaths.

“Twicenow,”Isay.

Heshakeshishead.

Whenmyfatherhitsthenet,Calebhelpshimacross.Whenhestandsontheplatform,heleansandvomitsovertheside.Idescendthestairs,andwhenIgettothebottom,IhearMarcushitthenetwithagroan.

Thecavernisemptyandthehallwaysstretchintodarkness.

Jeanine made it sound like there was no one left in the Dauntlesscompoundexceptthesoldiersshesentbacktoguardthecomputers.IfwecanfindDauntlesssoldiers,wecanfindthecomputers.Ilookovermyshoulder.Marcusstandsontheplatform,whiteasasheetbutunharmed.

“SothisistheDauntlesscompound,”saysMarcus.

“Yes,”Isay.“And?”

“And I never thought I would get to see it,” he replies, his handskimmingawall.“Noneedtobesodefensive,Beatrice.”

Inevernoticedhowcoldhiseyeswerebefore.

“Doyouhaveaplan,Beatrice?”myfathersays.

“Yes.”Andit’strue.Ido,thoughI’mnotsurewhenIdevelopedit.

I’malsonotsureitwillwork.Icancountonafewthings:Therearen’tmany Dauntless in the compound, the Dauntless aren’t known for theirsubtlety,andI’lldoanythingtostopthem.

Wewalk down the hallway that leads to thePit,which is stripedwithlight every ten feet. When we walk into the first patch of light, I hear agunshotanddroptotheground.Someonemusthaveseenus.Icrawlintothenextdarkpatch.ThesparkfromthegunflashedacrosstheroombythedoorthatleadstothePit.

“Everyoneokay?”Iask.

“Yes,”myfathersays.

“Stayhere,then.”

I run to the side of the room. The lights protrude from the wall, sodirectlybeneatheachoneisaslitofshadow.Iamsmallenoughtohideinit,if I turn to the side. I can creep along the edge of the room and surprisewhateverguardisshootingatusbeforehegetsthechancetofireabulletintomybrain.Maybe.

One of the things I thank Dauntless for is the preparedness thateliminatesmyfear.

“Whoever’s there,” a voice shouts, “surrender your weapons and putyourhandsup!”

Iturntothesideandpressmybacktothestonewall.Ishufflequicklysideways, one foot crossing over the other, squinting to see through thesemidarkness. Another gunshot fires into silence. I reach the last light andstandforamomentinshadow,lettingmyeyesadjust.

Ican’twinafight,butifIcanmovefastenough,Iwon’thavetofight.My footsteps light, Iwalk toward theguardwhostandsby thedoor.A fewyardsaway, I realize that Iknowthatdarkhair thatalwaysgleams,even inrelativedarkness,andthatlongnosewithanarrowbridge.

It’sPeter.

Cold slips over my skin and around my heart and into the pit of mystomach.

Hisfaceistense—heisn’tasleepwalker.Helooksaround,buthiseyessearchtheairabovemeandbeyondme.Judgingbyhissilence,hedoesnotintendtonegotiatewithus;hewillkilluswithoutquestion.

Ilickmylips,sprintthelastfewsteps,andthrusttheheelofmyhandup.Theblowconnectswithhisnose, andhe shouts, bringingbothhandsup tocoverhis face.Mybody joltswithnervousenergyandashiseyessquint, Ikickhiminthegroin.Hedropstohisknees,hisgunclatteringtotheground.Igrabitandpressthebarreltothetopofhishead.

“Howareyouawake?”Idemand.

He lifts his head, and I click the bullet into its chamber, raising aneyebrowathim.

“The Dauntless leaders…they evaluated my records and removed mefromthesimulation,”hesays.

“Because they figuredout that you alreadyhavemurderous tendenciesand wouldn’t mind killing a few hundred people while conscious,” I say.“Makessense.”

“I’mnot…murderous!”

“IneverknewaCandorwhowassuchaliar.”Itapthegunagainsthisskull.“Wherearethecomputersthatcontrolthesimulation,Peter?”

“Youwon’tshootme.”

“People tend to overestimatemy character,” I say quietly. “They thinkthat because I’m small, or a girl, or a Stiff, I can’t possibly be cruel. Butthey’rewrong.”

Ishiftthegunthreeinchestotheleftandfireathisarm.

His screams fill the hallway. Blood spurts from the wound, and hescreamsagain,pressinghisforeheadtotheground.Ishiftthegunbacktohishead,ignoringthepangofguiltinmychest.

“Now that you realize your mistake,” I say, “I will give you anotherchancetotellmewhatIneedtoknowbeforeIshootyousomewhereworse.”

AnotherthingIcancounton:Peterisnotselfless.

Heturnshisheadandfocusesabrighteyeonme.His teethcloseoverhislowerlip,andhisbreathsshakeonthewayout.Andonthewayin.Andonthewayoutagain.

“They’re listening,”hespits.“Ifyoudon’tkillme, theywill.TheonlywayI’lltellyouisifyougetmeoutofhere.”

“What?”

“Takeme…ahh…withyou,”hesays,wincing.

“Youwantmetotakeyou,”Isay,“thepersonwhotriedtokillme…withme?”

“Ido,”hegroans.“Ifyouexpecttofindoutwhatyouneedtoknow.”

It feels like a choice, but it isn’t. Everyminute that Iwaste staring atPeter,thinkingabouthowhehauntsmynightmaresandthedamagehedidtome, another dozenAbnegationmembers die at the hands of the brain-deadDauntlessarmy.

“Fine,”Isay,almostchokingontheword.“Fine.”

I hear footsteps behind me. Holding the gun steady, I look over myshoulder.Myfatherandtheotherswalktowardus.

My father takes off his long-sleeved shirt. He wears a gray T-shirtbeneath it. He crouches next to Peter and loops the fabric around his arm,tying it tightly.As he presses the fabric to the blood running downPeter’sarm,helooksupatmeandsays,“Wasitreallynecessarytoshoothim?”

Idon’tanswer.

“Sometimespainisforthegreatergood,”saysMarcuscalmly.

Inmy head, I see him standing beforeTobiaswith a belt in hand andhear his voice echo. This is for your own good. I look at him for a fewseconds.Doeshereallybelievethat?ItsoundslikesomethingtheDauntlesswouldsay.

“Let’sgo,”Isay.“Getup,Peter.”

“Youwanthimtowalk?”Calebdemands.“Areyouinsane?”

“Did I shoot him in the leg?” I say. “No.Hewalks.Where dowego,Peter?”

CalebhelpsPetertohisfeet.

“Theglassbuilding,”hesays,wincing.“Eighthfloor.”

Heleadsthewaythroughthedoor.

Iwalk into the roarof the riverand theblueglowof thePit,which isemptiernow than Ihaveever seen itbefore. I scan thewalls, searching forsigns of life, but I see nomovement andno figures standing in darkness. Ikeepmyguninhandandstarttowardthepaththatleadstotheglassceiling.The emptiness makes me shiver. It reminds me of the endless field in mycrownightmares.

“Whatmakesyouthinkyouhavetherighttoshootsomeone?”myfathersays ashe followsmeup thepath.Wepass the tattooplace.Where isTorinow?AndChristina?

“Nowisn’tthetimefordebatesaboutethics,”Isay.

“Now is the perfect time,” he says, “because you will soon get theopportunitytoshootsomeoneagain,andifyoudon’trealize—”

“Realize what?” I say without turning around. “That every second Iwaste means another Abnegation dead and another Dauntless made into amurderer?I’verealizedthat.Nowit’syourturn.”

“Thereisarightwaytodothings.”

“Whatmakesyousosurethatyouknowwhatitis?”Isay.

“Please stop fighting,” Caleb interrupts, his voice chiding. “We havemoreimportantthingstodorightnow.”

I keep climbing,my cheeks hot. A fewmonths ago I would not havedaredtosnapatmyfather.AfewhoursagoImightnothavedoneiteither.Butsomethingchangedwhentheyshotmymother.WhentheytookTobias.

Ihearmyfatherhuffandpuffoverthesoundofrushingwater.IforgotthatheisolderthanIam,thathisframecannolongertoleratetheweightofhisbody.

Before I ascend the metal stairs that will carry me above the glassceiling,IwaitindarknessandwatchthelightcastonthePitwallsbythesun.I watch until a shadow shifts over the sunlit wall and count until the next

shadowappears.Theguardsmaketheirroundseveryminuteandahalf,standfortwentyseconds,andthenmoveon.

“Therearemenwithgunsupthere.Whentheyseeme,theywillkillme,iftheycan,”Itellmyfatherquietly.Isearchhiseyes.“ShouldIletthem?”

Hestaresatmeforafewseconds.

“Go,”hesays,“andGodhelpyou.”

Iclimbthestairscarefully,stoppingjustbeforemyheademerges.Iwait,watchingtheshadowsmove,andwhenoneofthemstops,Istepup,pointmygun,andshoot.

Thebulletdoesnothit theguard. It shatters thewindowbehindhim. Ifireagainandduckasbulletshittheflooraroundmewithading.ThankGodtheglassceiling isbulletproof,or theglasswouldbreakandIwouldfall tomydeath.

Oneguarddown.Ibreathedeeplyandputjustmyhandovertheceiling,lookingthroughtheglasstoseemytarget.Itiltthegunbackandfireattheguard running towardme. The bullet hits him in the arm. Luckily it is hisshootingarm,becausehedropshisgunanditskidsacrossthefloor.

My body shaking, I launchmyself through the hole in the ceiling andsnatchthefallengunbeforehecangettoit.Abulletwhizzespastmyhead,soclosetohittingmethatitmovesmyhair.Eyeswide,Iflingmyrightarmovermy shoulder, forcing a searing pain throughmy body, and fire three timesbehindme.By somemiracle, one of the bullets hits a guard, andmy eyeswateruncontrollablyfromthepaininmyshoulder.Ijustrippedmystitches.I’msureofit.

Anotherguardstandsacrossfromme.Ilieflatonmystomachandpointbothgunsathim,myarmsrestingonthefloor.Istareintotheblackpinprickthatishisgunbarrel.

Thensomethingsurprisinghappens.Hejerkshischintotheside.Tellingmetogo.

HemustbeDivergent.

“Allclear!”Ishout.

Theguardducksintothefearlandscaperoom,andhe’sgone.

SlowlyIget tomyfeet,holdingmyrightarmagainstmychest.Ihavetunnelvision.IamrunningalongthispathandIwillnotbeabletostop,willnotbeabletothinkofanything,untilIreachtheend.

IhandoneguntoCalebandslidetheotheroneundermybelt.

“I thinkyouandMarcusshouldstayherewithhim,”Isay, jerkingmyheadtowardPeter.“He’ll justslowusdown.Makesurenoonecomesafterus.”

Ihopehedoesn’tunderstandwhat I’mdoing—keepinghimheresohestayssafe,eventhoughhewouldgladlygivehislifeforthis.IfIgoupintothebuilding,Iprobablywon’tcomebackdown.ThebestIcanhopeforistodestroy the simulation before someone killsme.When did I decide on thissuicidemission?Whywasn’titmoredifficult?

“Ican’tstayherewhileyougoupthereandriskyourlife,”saysCaleb.

“Ineedyouto,”Isay.

Peter sinks to his knees. His face glistens with sweat. For a second Ialmostfeelbadforhim,butthenIrememberEdward,andtheitchoffabricovermy eyes asmy attackers blindfoldedme, andmy sympathy is lost tohatred.Calebeventuallynods.

Iapproachoneof the fallenguardsand takehisgun,keepingmyeyesaway from the injury that killed him. My head pounds. I haven’t eaten; Ihaven’tslept;Ihaven’tsobbedorscreamedorevenpausedforamoment.Ibite my lip and push myself toward the elevators on the right side of theroom.Leveleight.

Once the elevator doors close, I lean the side ofmy head against theglassandlistentothebeeps.

Iglanceatmyfather.

“Thankyou.ForprotectingCaleb,”myfathersays.“Beatrice,I—”

The elevator reaches the eighth floor and the doors open. Two guardsstandreadywithgunsinhand,theirfacesblank.Myeyeswiden,andIdroptomybelly on the ground as the shots go off. I hear bullets strike glass.Theguardsslumptotheground,onealiveandgroaning,theotherfadingfast.Myfatherstandsabovethem,hisgunstillheldoutfromhisbody.

Istumbletomyfeet.Guardsrundownthehallwayontheleft.Judgingbythesynchronicityoftheirfootsteps,theyarecontrolledbythesimulation.Icould run down the right hallway, but if the guards came from the lefthallway, that’s where the computers are. I drop to the ground between theguardsmyfatherjustshotandlieasstillasIcan.

Myfatherjumpsoutoftheelevatorandsprintsdowntherighthallway,drawing theDauntless guards after him. I clapmy hand overmymouth tokeepfromscreamingathim.Thathallwaywillend.

ItrytoburymyheadsoIdon’tseeit,butIcan’t.Ipeeroverthefallen

guard’sback.My father firesoverhis shoulder at theguardspursuinghim,butheisnotfastenough.Oneofthemfiresathisstomach,andhegroanssoloudIcanalmostfeelitinmychest.

Heclutcheshisgut,hisshouldershittingthewall,andfiresagain.Andagain.Theguardsareunderthesimulation;theykeepmovingevenwhenthebulletshitthem,keepmovinguntiltheirheartsstop,buttheydon’treachmyfather.Bloodspillsoverhishandandthecolordrainsfromhisface.Anothershotandthelastguardisdown.

“Dad,”Isay.Imeanforittobeashout,butitisjustawheeze.

Heslumps to theground.Oureyesmeet like theyardsbetweenusarenothing.

His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but then his chindropstohischestandhisbodyrelaxes.

Myeyesburnand Iam tooweak to rise; thescentof sweatandbloodmakesmefeelsick.Iwanttorestmyheadonthegroundandletthatbetheendofit.Iwanttosleepnowandneverwake.

Butwhat I said tomyfatherbeforewas right—foreverysecond that Iwaste,anotherAbnegationmemberdies.Thereisonlyonethingleftformeintheworldnow,anditistodestroythesimulation.

I pushmyself up and run down the hallway, turning right at the end.Thereisonlyonedoorahead.Iopenit.

Theoppositewall ismadeupentirelyofscreens,eachafoottallandafootwide.Therearedozensofthem,eachoneshowingadifferentpartofthecity.Thefence.TheHub.ThestreetsintheAbnegationsector,nowcrawlingwithDauntless soldiers. The ground level of the building below us, whereCaleb,Marcus, andPeterwait forme to return. It is awall of everything Ihaveeverseen,everythingIhaveeverknown.

Oneofthescreenshasalineofcodeonitinsteadofanimage.ItbreezespastfasterthanIcanread.Itisthesimulation,thecodealreadycompiled,acomplicatedlistofcommandsthatanticipateandaddressathousanddifferentoutcomes.

In front of the screen is a chair and a desk. Sitting in the chair is aDauntlesssoldier.

“Tobias,”Isay.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT

TOBIAS’SHEADTURNS,andhisdarkeyesshifttome.Hiseyebrowsdrawin.Hestands.Helooksconfused.Heraiseshisgun.

“Dropyourweapon,”hesays.

“Tobias,”Isay,“you’reinasimulation.”

“Dropyourweapon,”herepeats.“OrI’llfire.”

Jeanine said he didn’t knowme. Jeanine also said that the simulationmadeTobias’sfriendsintoenemies.Hewillshootmeifhehasto.

Isetmygundownatmyfeet.

“Dropyourweapon!”shoutsTobias.

“Idid,”Isay.Alittlevoice inmyheadsings thathecan’thearme,hecan’tseeme,hedoesn’tknowme.Tonguesofflamepressbehindmyeyes.Ican’tjuststandhereandlethimshootme.

Irunathim,grabbinghiswrist.Ifeelhismusclesshiftashepinchesthetrigger and duckmy head just in time. The bullet hits thewall behindme.Gasping,IkickhimintheribsandtwisthiswristtothesideashardasIcan.Hedropsthegun.

Ican’tbeatTobiasinafight.Iknowthatalready.ButIhavetodestroythecomputer. Idivefor thegun,butbefore Ican touch it,hegrabsmeandwrenchesmetotheside.

Istareintohisdark,conflictedeyesforaninstantbeforehepunchesmeinthejaw.MyheadjerkstothesideandIcringeawayfromhim,flingingmyhandsuptoprotectmyface.Ican’tfall;Ican’tfallorhe’llkickme,andthatwillbeworse,thatwillbemuchworse.Ikickthegunbackwithmyheelsohe can’t grab it and, ignoring the throbbing in my jaw, kick him in thestomach.

HecatchesmyfootandpullsmedownsoIfallonmyshoulder.Thepainmakesmyvisiongoblackat theedges. I stareupathim.Hepullshis footbacklikehe’sabouttokickme,andIrollontomyknees,stretchingmyarmoutfor thegun. Idon’tknowwhatI’lldowith it. Ican’tshoothim,Ican’tshoothim,Ican’t.Heisintheresomewhere.

Hegrabsmebymyhairandyanksmetotheside.Ireachbackandgrabhiswrist,buthe’stoostrongandmyforeheadsmacksintothewall.

Heisintheresomewhere.

“Tobias,”Isay.

Didhisgripfalter?Itwistandkickback,myheelhittinghimintheleg.Whenmyhairslips throughhis fingers, Idiveat thegunandmyfingertipsclose around the coolmetal. I flip over ontomyback and point the gun athim.

“Tobias,”Isay.“Iknowyou’reintheresomewhere.”

But ifhewas,heprobablywouldn’t start towardme likehe’sabout tokillmeforcertainthistime.

Myheadthrobs.Istand.

“Tobias,please.”Iambegging.Iampathetic.Tearsmakemyfacehot.“Please. See me.” He walks toward me, his movements dangerous, fast,powerful.Thegunshakesinmyhands.“Pleaseseeme,Tobias,please!”

Evenwhenhescowls,hiseyeslookthoughtful,andIrememberhowhismouthcurledwhenhesmiled.

Ican’tkillhim.IamnotsureifIlovehim;notsureifthat’swhy.ButIamsureofwhathewoulddo ifourpositionswere reversed. Iamsure thatnothingisworthkillinghimfor.

Ihavedonethisbefore—inmyfearlandscape,withtheguninmyhand,avoiceshoutingatmetofireatthepeopleIlove.Ivolunteeredtodieinstead,thattime,butIcan’timaginehowthatwouldhelpmenow.ButIjustknow,Iknowwhattherightthingtodois.

Myfathersays—usedtosay—thatthereispowerinself-sacrifice.

IturntheguninmyhandsandpressitintoTobias’spalm.

Hepushesthebarrelintomyforehead.Mytearshavestoppedandtheairfeelscoldasittouchesmycheeks.IreachoutandrestmyhandonhischestsoIcanfeelhisheartbeat.Atleasthisheartbeatisstillhim.

Thebulletclicks into thechamber.Maybe itwillbeaseasy to lethimshootmeasitwasinthefearlandscape,asitisinmydreams.Maybeitwilljustbeabang,andthelightswilllift,andIwillfindmyselfinanotherworld.Istandstillandwait.

CanIbeforgivenforallI’vedonetogethere?

Idon’tknow.Idon’tknow.

Please.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE

THE SHOT DOESN’T come. He stares at me with the same ferocity butdoesn’tmove.Whydoesn’theshootme?Hisheartpoundsagainstmypalm,andmyownheart lifts.He isDivergent.He can fight this simulation.Anysimulation.

“Tobias,”Isay.“It’sme.”

Istepforwardandwrapmyarmsaroundhim.Hisbodyisstiff.Hisheartbeatsfaster.Icanfeelitagainstmycheek.Athudagainstmycheek.Athudasthegunhits thefloor.Hegrabsmyshoulders—toohard,hisfingersdiggingintomyskinwherethebulletwas.Icryoutashepullsmeback.Maybehemeanstokillmeinsomecruelerway.

“Tris,”hesays,andit’shimagain.Hismouthcollideswithmine.

Hisarmwrapsaroundmeandheliftsmeup,holdingmeagainsthim,hishandsclutchingatmyback.Hisfaceandthebackofhisneckareslickwithsweat,hisbodyisshaking,andmyshoulderblazeswithpain,butIdon’tcare,Idon’tcare,Idon’tcare.

He sets me down and stares at me, his fingers brushing over myforehead,myeyebrows,mycheeks,mylips.

Somethinglikeasobandasighandamoanescapeshim,andhekissesmeagain.Hiseyesarebrightwithtears.IneverthoughtIwouldseeTobiascry.Itmakesmehurt.

Ipullmyselftohischestandcryintohisshirt.Allthethrobbinginmyheadcomesback,andtheacheinmyshoulder,andIfeellikemybodyweightdoubles.Ileanagainsthim,andhesupportsme.

“Howdidyoudoit?”Isay.

“Idon’tknow,”hesays.“Ijustheardyourvoice.”

Afterafewseconds,IrememberwhyI’mhere.Ipullbackandwipemy

cheekswith theheelsofmyhandsand turn toward the screensagain. I seeonethatoverlooksthedrinkingfountain.TobiaswassoparanoidwhenIwasrailing against Dauntless there. He kept looking at the wall above thefountain.NowIknowwhy.

Tobias and I stand there for a while, and I think I know what he’sthinking,becauseI’mthinkingittoo:Howcansomethingsosmallcontrolsomanypeople?

“WasIrunningthesimulation?”hesays.

“Idon’tknow ifyouwere running it somuchasmonitoring it,” I say.“It’s already complete. I have no idea how, but Jeaninemade it so it couldworkonitsown.”

Heshakeshishead.“It’s…incredible.Terrible,evil…butincredible.”

Iseemovementononeofthescreensandseemybrother,Marcus,andPeter standing on the first floor of the building. Surrounding them areDauntlesssoldiers,allinblack,allcarryingweapons.

“Tobias,”Isaytersely.“Now!”

Herunstothecomputerscreenandtapsitafewtimeswithhisfinger.Ican’tlookatwhathe’sdoing.AllIcanseeismybrother.HeholdsthegunIgavehimstraightout fromhisbody, likehe’s ready touse it. Ibitemy lip.Don’tshoot.Tobiaspressesthescreenafewmoretimes,typinginlettersthatmakenosensetome.Don’tshoot.

I see a flash of light—a spark, from one of the guns—and gasp.MybrotherandMarcusandPetercrouchonthegroundwiththeirarmsovertheirheads. After a moment they all stir, so I know they’re still alive, and theDauntlesssoldiersadvance.Aclusterofblackaroundmybrother.

“Tobias,”Isay.

Hepressesthescreenagain,andeveryoneonthefirstfloorgoesstill.

Theirarmsdroptotheirsides.

And then theDauntlessmove.Their heads turn from side to side, andtheydrop theirguns,and theirmouthsmovelike they’reshouting,and theyshoveeachother,andsomeof themsink to theirknees,holding theirheadsandrockingbackandforth,backandforth.

Allthetensioninmychestunravels,andIsitdown,heavingasigh.

Tobiascrouchesnexttothecomputerandpullsthesideofthecaseoff.

“I have to get the data,” he says, “or they’ll just start the simulationagain.”

I watch the frenzy on the screen. It is the same frenzy that must behappeningonthestreets.Iscanthescreens,onebyone,lookingforonethatshowstheAbnegationsectorofthecity.Thereisonlyone—it’satthefarendof the room, on the bottom.TheDauntless on that screen are firing at oneanother, shoving one another, screaming—chaos. Black-clothed men andwomendroptotheground.Peoplesprintineverydirection.

“Gotit,”saysTobias,holdingupthecomputer’sharddrive.Itisapieceofmetalaboutthesizeofhispalm.Heoffersit tome,andIshoveit inmybackpocket.

“Wehavetoleave,”Isay,gettingtomyfeet.Ipointatthescreenontheright.

“Yes,wedo.”Hewrapshisarmacrossmyshoulders.“Comeon.”

Wewalktogetherdownthehallwayandaroundthecorner.Theelevatorremindsmeofmyfather.Ican’tstopmyselffromlookingforhisbody.

Itisonthefloornexttotheelevator,surroundedbythebodiesofseveralguards.Astrangledscreamescapesme.Iturnaway.BileleapsintomythroatandIthrowupagainstthewall.

ForasecondIfeellikeeverythinginsidemeisbreaking,andIcrouchbyabody,breathingthroughmymouthsoIdon’tsmell theblood.Iclampmyhandovermymouth to contain a sob. Fivemore seconds. Five seconds ofweaknessandthenIgetup.One,two.Three,four.

Five.

I am not really aware ofmy surroundings. There is an elevator and a

glass room and a rush of cold air. There is a shouting crowd ofDauntlesssoldiersdressedinblack.IsearchforCaleb’sface,butitisnowhere,nowhereuntilweleavetheglassbuildingandstepoutintosunlight.

CalebrunstomewhenIwalkthroughthedoors,andIfallagainsthim.Heholdsmetightly.

“Dad?”hesays.

Ijustshakemyhead.

“Well,”hesays,almostchokingontheword,“hewouldhavewanteditthatway.”

OverCaleb’sshoulder,IseeTobiasstopinthemiddleofafootstep.HisentirebodygoesrigidashiseyesfocusonMarcus.Intherushtodestroythesimulation,Iforgottowarnhim.

Marcuswalksup toTobias andwrapshis armsaroundhis son.Tobiasstays frozen, his arms at his sides and his face blank. I watch his Adam’sapplebobupanddownandhiseyeslifttotheceiling.

“Son,”sighsMarcus.

Tobiaswinces.

“Hey,”Isay,pullingawayfromCaleb.Irememberthebeltstingingonmywrist in Tobias’s fear landscape and slip into the space between them,pushingMarcusback.“Hey.Getawayfromhim.”

IfeelTobias’sbreathsagainstmyneck;theycomeinsharpbursts.

“Stayaway,”Ihiss.

“Beatrice,whatareyoudoing?”asksCaleb.

“Tris,”Tobiassays.

Marcusgivesmeascandalizedlookthatseemsfalsetome—hiseyesaretoowideandhismouthistooopen.IfIcouldfindawaytosmackthatlookoffhisface,Iwould.

“Not all those Erudite articles were full of lies,” I say, narrowingmyeyesatMarcus.

“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”Marcussaysquietly.“Idon’tknowwhatyou’vebeentold,Beatrice,but—”

“The only reason I haven’t shot you yet is because he’s the one whoshould get to do it,” I say. “Stay away fromhim or I’ll decide I no longercare.”

Tobias’shandssliparoundmyarmsandsqueeze.Marcus’seyesstayonmineforafewseconds,andIcan’thelpbutseethemasblackpits,liketheywereinTobias’sfearlandscape.Thenhelooksaway.

“Wehavetogo,”Tobiassaysunsteadily.“Thetrainshouldbehereanysecond.”

Wewalkoverunyieldinggroundtowardthetraintracks.Tobias’sjawisclenched and he stares straight ahead. I feel a twinge of regret. Maybe Ishouldhavelethimdealwithhisfatheronhisown.

“Sorry,”Imutter.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he replies, taking my hand. Hisfingersarestillshaking.

“Ifwetakethetrainintheoppositedirection,outofthecityinsteadofin,wecangettoAmityheadquarters,”Isay.“That’swheretheotherswent.”

“WhataboutCandor?”mybrotherasks.“Whatdoyouthinkthey’lldo?”

Idon’tknowhowCandorwillrespondtotheattack.Theywouldn’tsidewiththeErudite—theywouldneverdosomethingthatunderhanded.ButtheymaynotfighttheEruditeeither.

We stand next to the tracks for a fewminutes before the train comes.EventuallyTobiaspicksmeup,becauseIamdeadonmyfeet,andIleanmyhead into his shoulder, taking deep breaths of his skin. Since he savedmefromtheattack,Ihaveassociatedhissmellwithsafety,soaslongasIfocusonit,Ifeelsafenow.

Thetruthis,IwillnotfeelsafeaslongasPeterandMarcusarewithus.Itrynot to lookat them,but I feel theirpresence like Iwould feelablanketovermyface.ThecrueltyoffateisthatImusttravelwiththepeopleIhatewhenthepeopleIlovearedeadbehindme.

Dead, or waking as murderers. Where are Christina and Tori now?Wanderingthestreets,plaguedwithguilt forwhat they’vedone?Orturninggunsonthepeoplewhoforcedthemtodoit?Oraretheyalreadydeadtoo?IwishIknew.

Atthesametime,IhopeIneverfindout.Ifsheisstillalive,ChristinawillfindWill’sbody.Andifsheseesmeagain,herCandor-trainedeyeswillsee that I am the one who killed him, I know it. I know it and the guiltstranglesmeandcrushesme,soIhavetoforgetit.Imakemyselfforgetit.

Thetraincomes,andTobiassetsmedownsoIcanjumpon.Ijogafewstepsnexttothecarandthenthrowmybodytotheside,landingonmyleftarm.Iwigglemybodyinsideandsitagainstthewall.Calebsitsacrossfromme, and Tobias sits next to me, forming a barrier between my body andMarcusandPeter.Myenemies.Hisenemies.

The train turns, and I see the city behind us. It will get smaller andsmaller untilwe seewhere the tracks end, the forests and fields I last sawwhen I was too young to appreciate them. The kindness of Amity willcomfortusforawhile,thoughwecan’tstaythereforever.SoontheEruditeandthecorruptDauntlessleaderswilllookforus,andwewillhavetomoveon.

Tobiaspullsmeagainsthim.Webendourkneesandourheadsso thatweareenclosed together inaroomofourownmaking,unable tosee thosewhotroubleus,ourbreathmixingonthewayinandonthewayout.

“Myparents,”Isay.“Theydiedtoday.”

Even though I said it, andeven though Iknow it’s true, itdoesn’t feelreal.

“Theydiedforme,”Isay.Thatfeelsimportant.

“Theylovedyou,”hereplies.“Tothemtherewasnobetterwaytoshowyou.”

Inod,andmyeyesfollowthelineofhisjaw.

“You nearly died today,” he says. “I almost shot you.Whydidn’t youshootme,Tris?”

“Icouldn’tdothat,”Isay.“Itwouldhavebeenlikeshootingmyself.”

Helookspainedandleansclosertome,sohislipsbrushminewhenhespeaks.

“Ihavesomethingtotellyou,”hesays.

Irunmyfingersalongthetendonsinhishandandlookbackathim.

“Imightbeinlovewithyou.”Hesmilesalittle.“I’mwaitinguntilI’msuretotellyou,though.”

“That’ssensibleofyou,”Isay,smilingtoo.“Weshouldfindsomepapersoyoucanmakealistorachartorsomething.”

Ifeelhislaughteragainstmyside,hisnoseslidingalongmyjaw,hislipspressingbehindmyear.

“Maybe I’m already sure,” he says, “and I just don’twant to frightenyou.”

Ilaughalittle.“Thenyoushouldknowbetter.”

“Fine,”hesays.“ThenIloveyou.”

Ikisshimasthetrainslidesintounlit,uncertainland.IkisshimforaslongasIwant,forlongerthanIshould,giventhatmybrothersitsthreefeetawayfromme.

I reach into my pocket and take out the hard drive that contains thesimulation data. I turn it inmy hands, letting it catch the fading light andreflectit.Marcus’seyesclinggreedilytothemovement.Notsafe,Ithink.Notquite.

Iclutchtheharddrivetomychest, leanmyheadonTobias’sshoulder,andtrytosleep.

AbnegationandDauntlessarebothbroken,theirmembersscattered.We

are like the factionlessnow. Idonotknowwhat lifewillbe like, separatedfromafaction—itfeelsdisengaged,likealeafdividedfromthetreethatgivesitsustenance.Wearecreaturesofloss;wehavelefteverythingbehind.Ihavenohome,nopath,andnocertainty.IamnolongerTris,theselfless,orTris,thebrave.

Isupposethatnow,Imustbecomemorethaneither.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you, God, for your Son and for blessing me beyondcomprehension.

Thanks also to: Joanna Stampfel-Volpe, my badass agent, who worksharderthananyoneIknow—yourkindnessandgenerositycontinuetoamazeme.MollyO’Neill,alsoknownastheEditorofWonder—Idon’tknowhowyoumanagetohaveasharpeditorialeyeandahugeheartatthesametime,butyoudo.IamsofortunatetohavetwopeoplelikeyouandJoannaonmyside.

KatherineTegen,whorunsanamazingimprint.BarbFitzsimmons,AmyRyan,andJoelTippie,whodesignedabeautifulandpowerfulcover.BrennaFranzitta, Amy Vinchesi, and Jennifer Strada, my production editor, copyeditor, and proofreader (respectively), also known asgrammar/punctuation/formattingninjas—yourworkissoimportant.Fantasticmarketing and publicity directors Suzanne Daghlian, Patty Rosati, ColleenO’Connell, and SandeeRoston;AllisonVerost,my publicist; and everyoneelseinthemarketingandpublicitydepartments.

JeanMcGinley, AlphaWong, and the rest of the subrights team, whohavemadeitpossibleformybooktobereadinmorelanguagesthanIwillever be able to read, and thanks to all the amazing foreign publisherswhohavegivenmybookahome.TheproductionteamandtheHarperMediaaudioande-book team, forall theirhardwork.Thebrilliantpeopleover in sales,whohavedone somuch formybook, andwho, I’veheard,havealmost asmuch love for Four as I do. And everyone else at HarperCollins who hassupportedmybook—ittakesavillage,andI’msohappytoliveinyours.

NancyCoffey, literary agent legend, for believing inmy book and forgivingmesuchawarmwelcome.PouyaShahbazian,forbeingafilm-rightswhiz and for supporting my Top Chef addiction. Shauna Seliy, BrianBouldrey, and Averill Curdy, my professors, for helping me to drasticallyimprove my writing. Jennifer Wood, my writing buddy, for her expertbrainstorming skills. Sumayyah Daud, Veronique Pettingill, Kathy Bradey,DebraDriza,LaraErlich,andAbigailSchmidt,mybetareaders,foralltheirnotes and enthusiasm. Nelson Fitch, for taking my pictures and being sosupportive.

My friends, who stick with me even when I’m moody and reclusive.Mike,forteachingmealotaboutlife.IngridandKarl,mysisterandbrother,fortheirunfailingloveandenthusiasm,andFrank,fortalkingmethroughthehardstuff—yoursupportmeansmoretomethanyouknow.AndBarbara,mymother,whoalwaysencouragedmetowrite,evenbeforeanyofusknewthat

itwouldcometoanything.

AbouttheAuthor

VERONICA ROTH graduated from Northwestern University with adegreeincreativewriting.Whileshewasastudent,sheoftenchosetoworkon the story that would become DIVERGENT instead of doing herhomework.Itwasindeedatransformingchoice.Nowafull-timewriter,Ms.RothlivesnearChicago.DIVERGENTisherfirstnovel.

YoucanvisitheronlineatWWW.VERONICAROTHBOOKS.COM.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on yourfavoriteHarperCollinsauthors.

PRAISEFORDIVERGENT

“DIVERGENT is a captivating, fascinating book that kept me inconstant suspense andwas never short on surprises. It will be a long timebeforeIquitthinkingaboutthishauntingvisionofthefuture.”

—JAMES DASHNER, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLINGAUTHOROFTHEMAZERUNNER

“A taut and shiveringly exciting read! Tris is exactly the sort of

unflinchingandfierceheroineIlove.Icouldn’tturnthepagesfastenough.”

—MELISSAMARR,NEWYORKTIMESBESTSELLINGAUTHOROFWICKEDLOVELY

“Wellwrittenandbrilliantlyexecuted,DIVERGENTisaheart-pounding

debut that cannot bemissed.Tris stands out in her action-packed, thrilling,andemotionallyhonestjourneytodeterminewhoshewantstobeinasocietythatdemandssheconform.It’sdystopianfictionatitsbest!”

—KIERSTEN WHITE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLINGAUTHOROFPARANORMALCY