“Did something happen?” I say, as tranquil as I can manage.

Ava plops down hard on the bed, sliding off her shoes with her toes. “Just let me appreciate the AC for a moment.”

I join Ava on the bed and catch the sharp scents of sweat and sunlight. The lingering traces of being in the open air. I scoot closer to her, feeling nearer to the sun by proximity. Five hours and sixteen minutes until it’s my turn above ground.

“I finished our English paper,” I finally say.

“I saw. Why do you insist on correcting my drafts in red? It makes it look like our assignments are covered in blood.”

I smile, amused.

“I’m just going to get this out of the way,” Ava says, sighing heavily. “I got an A minus on our Spanish oral.”

“That’s all right . . .” I wonder if this is really the most damning news of the day. “I’ll make up for it on the exam next week.”

Ava nods, thoughtful. She lies down across the bed, her head finding the corner of a pillow. She pops the knuckle of her thumb, and I fold my hands in my lap and wait for her to speak. I should give her time to decompress.

“A girl caught me in the bathroom stall with the unapproved makeup,” she says, finally. “I looked her up—her name is Tifani Cheng.”

My mind goes straight to the worst-case scenario. We’ve been expelled.

“But Tifani just laughed it off and let Jocelyn Wood slap a patch of Tape on her skin right in front of me. Morgan Vega was there too,” Ava continues. “I recorded more details about what was said in the journal.”

I roll my eyes, annoyed at the girls’ arrogance. “Stupid. They’re going to get arrested. Your last name only goes so far.”

The government takes the war on drugs very seriously. If Tifani gets caught using, she faces a minimum ten years of hard penal labor in a local prison farm.

“Halton was creepier than usual today,” Ava continues. “He would not stop staring at us in choir and again in the cafeteria.”

I jerk up, sending Ava bouncing on the mattress.

“Shit!” I say. “He’s going to ask us to the Gala!”

Instantly realizing I’m right, Ava lurches forward. “Disgusting!” She shakes her body in exaggerated distaste. “I hope he asks when it’s your day at school!”

With a mischievous smile, I shove Ava back down on the bed, and we both erupt into the same deep laughter.

I swallow a few muffled snorts, already strategizing how best to avoid Halton’s advances, when I suddenly register that Ava has gone quiet. She stares stiffly at the ceiling above, her mind faraway. My smile disappears.

“What else happened?”

“A woman was tasered on my walk home. For stealing water.” Ava pauses and slowly turns her head toward me, her bangs a tangled mop on her forehead. “It nearly caused a riot.”

My heart sinks. Not for the woman, but for us. “They’ll increase security on campus now. Father won’t be pleased.”

Ava attempts to shove her bangs behind her ears and sits bolt upright.

“Mira, she stared right at me while it was all happening. The crowd started screaming ‘Enough’ to the Guards, and I just stood there,” she says rapidly, locking my hand in hers. “I can’t shake seeing the fear in her eyes. The absolute fear.”

I remember those old airline safety videos we used to watch when we were younger. We wanted to be ready in case we ever got to fly. In the event of an emergency, always put on your own mask first before helping others near you.

“You couldn’t do anything for her.” In truth, Ava should have left the scene sooner, but I decide not to press.

Ava tightens her grip on my hand, her expression both earnest and drained. She squares her shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes.

“Will you go up for dinner?” she asks.

Startled at the suggestion, I pull away, separating our linked hands. Why would she ask this of me? Especially tonight.

“My head is still pounding from the damn Scream Gun the Guard fired off to control the crowd,” Ava urges, placing her hand to her right temple. “I don’t want Father to see. He’ll make a big deal of everything like he always does.”

My fingers brush my right wrist. “Father would be furious with us. It’s your day up, and we can’t break the schedule.”

“He probably won’t even notice.” Ava reaches out again for my hand, forcing me to listen. “I don’t have the energy to play the game tonight, and I’m sick of always having to follow rules. We’re eighteen, Mira. We should be able to make our own decisions.”

“I don’t know. It’s an important dinner, and you’re the one with the microchip.” I shift in my seat. “It’s dangerous.”

“It’s not like I’m asking you to try and cross the US border,” she retorts. “It’s dinner at our own house!”

I scoff at her attempt to make her request sound simple. “Yes, but it’s who is invited for dinner that you’re failing to acknowledge here.”

“Why can’t you just help me and tag team?” She lets out a long sigh. Her voice softens. “Today was crazy, Mira.”

“Crazy is all the more reason to stick to the rules.”

Our eyes lock: Ava’s insistent, mine unwavering. “I’d do it for you,” Ava throws at me. She rises from the bed and storms up the stairs.

“Ava!” I call after her. She doesn’t respond, simply knocks twice on the wall to open the passageway. I surge to my feet on pure instinct—from the guilt of never wanting to upset her, from never wanting to disappoint.

“Fine. I’ll go up.”

Ava stops and turns. Our eyes meet, and we understand one another with just a glance.

I walk to the desk in the corner and open the bottom drawer. I take out a small box that contains strips of Ava’s fingerprints. Ava approaches and helps me carefully apply the prints to each of my fingertips. “The only part of me that you don’t have,” she says.

We smile at each other, our bond quiet and absolute.

There’s something about emerging from a bath that makes me feel like I can do anything. It’s a blank slate, a renewal. A transformation into Ava.

I softly shut the door to Ava’s bedroom, where we each sleep when it’s our turn to play the game, and stride down the hallway, gaining confidence with each step. As I descend the long staircase to the dining room, I press down on the frills and embellishments of my dress, hoping to make them disappear. Or at least make them less noticeable. Ava and I prefer comfort and simplicity, but Father expects us to wear our finest on an occasion such as this. To show respect for our guests.

We can do this.

I clasp my hands into a stiff ball and place them behind my back, so as not to focus on my microchipless wrist. Out of sight, out of mind.

The empty, useless capsule implanted beneath my skin was designed by my father to help make me feel “normal.” But it’s all just for show. After all these years venturing above ground without a real chip, I’ve grown accustomed to the unsettling sensation of feeling publicly naked and exposed. Convinced a thousand eyes are on me and know what I really am.

There’s no other way. An individual’s microchip is impossible to duplicate. And Father spent years researching ways Ava and I could trade the chip, like taking it out of her wrist and putting it into mine when it was my day to go up. But this proved equally impossible. The older Ava and I get, the more the possibility of mutations in our DNA grows, altering our identical genetic information. The microchip would detect the unregistered DNA instantly, setting off the alarm. The only way for me to have a life outside the basement is to walk around with an imitation microchip. And nerves of steel.