Arena 3. Morgan Rice

perfect,” I say, walking into the room.

      Once again, I’m overwhelmed by the sensation of peace and safety. I can’t remember the last time I stood in a room that smelled clean, that had been dusted and polished and vacuumed. Light streams through the window, making the room look even more welcoming.

      For the first time in a long time, I feel safe.

      Penelope likes it, too. She runs around happily in circles, jumping on the beds, wagging her tail and barking.

      “I must say it’s so exciting to have a dog in the house,” Neena says. “The other girls are just going to love her.”

      Bree grins from ear to ear, every inch the proud owner.

      “She’s so smart for a dog,” she says. “She saved our life once, when – ”

      I grab Bree’s arm and squeeze it to quiet her. For some reason, I don’t want what we’ve been through spoken about within our new home. I want it to be a new beginning for us, one free from the past. More than anything, I don’t want anyone to know about the arenas if they don’t have to. I’ve killed people. It will change the way they look at me, make them more cautious, and I don’t know if I can cope with that right now.

      Bree seems to understand what I’m trying to silently communicate. She lets her story disappear into the ether, and Neena doesn’t seem to notice.

      “There are things for you on the bed,” she says. “Not much, just a few bits to tide you over.”

      On each of our beds are neatly folded clothes. They’re made from the same dark material that General Reece and her army were wearing. The fabric is rough; I figure it must be home-grown cotton, colored by naturally made dyes and stitched into a uniform by the tailors she’d told us about.

      “Do you girls want to wash before lunch?” Neena asks.

      I nod and Neena takes me to the small bathroom that serves all twenty of the house’s residents, before leaving me be. It’s basic and the water is cold, but it feels amazing to be clean again.

      When Bree comes back into our room after her own shower, she starts laughing.

      “You look funny,” she says to me.

      I’ve changed into the stiff uniform that was left for me. Tendrils of hair hang over my shoulders, making wet patches in the fabric.

      “It’s itchy,” I say, wriggling uncomfortably.

      “Clean, though,” Bree replies, running her fingertips against the fabric of her own uniform. “And new.”

      I know what she means. It’s been years since we had anything that was ours, that wasn’t stolen or found or recycled. These are our clothes, never before worn. For the first time in a long time, we have possessions.

      Along with the new clothes, we are also given towels, shoes, nightwear, a pencil, a pad of paper, a watch, a flashlight, a whistle, and a penknife. It’s like a little welcome package. From what I’ve learned about the place so far, the contents seem very Fort Noix.

      Neena leads us out of the house and along the street, and after a short stroll we come to a larger building. I look up. It has the air of a town hall, yet simple, anonymous.

      We go inside and immediately the smell of food hits me. I start to salivate, while Bree’s eyes widen. The room is filled with tables, most taken up by farm workers, recognizable from their muddy clothes and sun-blushed skin.

      “There’s Ben and Charlie,” Bree says, pointing to a table.

      I notice that both of them have plates piled high with food, and both are gorging themselves.

      Neena must notice the look of want on my face because she smiles and says, “Go sit with them. I’ll bring you over some food.”

      We thank her and go to sit with Charlie and Ben on a bench filled with farm workers. Everyone nods politely to us as we take seats. For a community that doesn’t usually take in outsiders, they seem pretty accepting about the sudden appearance of four bedraggled, half-starved kids and a one-eyed Chihuahua.

      “Someone’s feeling more at home,” I say to Ben as he rams another mouthful of food into his mouth.

      But that same haunted look has returned to his eyes. He may be clean on the outside, but his mind appears to be polluted by the things he’s been through. And though he’s eating, he’s doing so mechanically. Not in the same way Charlie does, as though he’s relishing every single bite. Ben eats as though he can’t even taste the food. What’s more, he doesn’t say a word as we take our places beside him, almost as though he hasn’t noticed we’re there. I can’t help but worry for him. I’ve heard about people going through terrible ordeals only to then fall apart as soon as they reach safety. I pray that Ben won’t be one of them.

      I’m distracted when Neena returns with two plates of food, one for Bree and one for me, heaped with garlic-buttered chicken with roast potatoes and some kind of spicy zucchini and tomato side dish. I can’t remember the last time I saw food that looked like this. It looks like something you could order in a restaurant.

      I can’t hold myself back. I begin wolfing it down, making my taste buds come to life. It’s absolutely delicious. For so many years I subsisted on the plainest of foods, the tiniest of portions, and trained myself not to want more. Now, finally, I can let myself go.

      Bree is a little more restrained. She gives a generous portion of chicken to Penelope before seeing to herself. I feel a little embarrassed by the way I devour my food as if my life depends on it, but table manners aren’t exactly my priority right now.

      Down the table, across from us, I can’t help noticing a boy who looks a little older than me, feeding strips of meat to a pit bull terrier. The boy looks exactly like the type who’d own a pit bull. His head is shaved, and he has dark eyebrows, brooding eyes, and a cocky smile.

      “Who’s this?” he asks Bree, nodding at the Chihuahua.

      “Penelope,” she says. “And yours?”

      “Jack,” the boy says, rubbing the dog’s neck playfully.

      “I thought animals weren’t allowed here,” I say.

      His eyes meet mine, smoldering, intense.

      “He’s a guard dog,” he replies. Then he looks at Bree. “Do you reckon Penelope and Jack might want to be friends?”

      Bree laughs. “Maybe.”

      They both set their dogs down on the ground. Straightaway the two begin to play, chasing each other and gently pawing at each other’s face.

      Then, to my surprise, Jack bounds right over to me, leaps into my lap, and plants a big, slobbery, hot lick across my face.

      The others laugh, while I can’t help laughing myself.

      “I think he likes Brooke more than Penelope,” Bree says with a grin.

      “I think you might be right,” the boy replies, fixing his gaze on me.

      I finally manage to shove Jack off me, and as I wipe his drool from my cheek with my sleeve, the boy watches on, seemingly amused. He breaks apart a piece of bread with his strong fingers, and taps one edge into the juices on his plate.

      “So,” he says before taking a bite, “I’m guessing Brooke is your sister.”

      “Yes,” Bree says. “And I’m Bree.”

      Even though his mouth is full, he says, “Ryan,” and slides down the bench and stretches his hand out and shakes Bree’s.

      Then he offers it to me. I look up. His dark eyes bore into me, making a pit swirl in my stomach. The sensation reminds me of the first time I saw Logan: not the warm, slow-building feeling I got with Ben, but an instant, heart-stopping attraction. I don’t want to touch him, worried that I’ll somehow betray my attraction.

      Immediately, I feel guilty for having any kind of attraction to him at all. It’s only been a couple of hours since my dream about Logan. I still miss him.

      I