My balcony overlooks the satellite. Steam rises from the black ground below. White light shines down on the twisting streets and the tilting complexes and the human beings. The faint wails of sirens bounce across the stretch of uneven towers. The edge of the great barrier wall looms like a mountain in the distance.

My mother stands behind me. I won’t look at her, but I can hear her breathing. She does it slowly. In and out. A perfect demonstration of calm. I’ve never been able to control myself as well as she can.

“Why are you being so difficult?” she asks. “Most girls would be grateful. At the very least excited.”

If she’s waiting for an answer, I won’t give her the satisfaction. The skin covering my knuckles strains as I grip my balcony’s railing. The heat on the satellite follows no matter where I go. It makes my fingers slick with sweat. My mother realizes that I refuse to speak. She sighs as though I’m a child.

“What are you trying to prove?”

I’m not trying to prove anything. That’s not what I’m trying to do.

“This is tradition, Sigourney,” she says.

When I don’t respond, my mother walks to the door. “Get ready to leave, then. I’ll be downstairs.” She pauses. “Don’t keep me waiting.” The door clicks shut behind her.

I count the seconds until I’m sure that a good amount of time has passed – that I’ve kept my mother waiting long enough. I stride into my bedroom and snap the balcony doors shut.

My mother thinks it’s important to follow tradition. She believes that following tradition is safe. You don’t stand out if you do what everyone else is doing. No one can hear you if you say what everyone else is saying. Blending in is camouflage. It’s protection. Being noticed can be dangerous.

She might be right, but I that doesn’t mean I like it. I doubt I ever will.

I walk down the stairs. My mother doesn’t say anything about the time it took me to join her, though she watches me to show that she isn’t pleased. Together, we leave for the slavehouse.

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