“America can no longer attack our enemies—we can only defend. And what my wall cannot defend, I make damn certain my soldiers and my drones protect, because if the outside world succeeds, they will bring with them disease, starvation, lawlessness, and war. And though these Gluts will never get through, they will keep trying. Desperation is a hard foe to fight against, because the desperate never stop.”

I keep my head down and concentrate on cutting my meat. To my left I note Halton’s gaze lingering over portraits of Ava and my father, our perfect two-member family. I guess he doesn’t have an opinion on these matters. I’m unsure if I do either. Famine breeds war, and humankind will always raid before they starve. But can we blame the desperate? I didn’t do anything special or have a say in the matter—I was just lucky enough to be born in a land still capable of growing food. Most political issues are so black-and-white, but I live in the gray. I am the gray.

“America idolizes you for your overwhelming success in protecting the Texan borders against the dangers that lie outside our walls. But what of your citizens who are here, inside your own Big Fence, starving and sick with no hope for aid?” Father says.

Stunned, I have trouble swallowing my steak. Trouble digesting my Father’s brazenness. I can count on one hand the times he’s let slip criticisms of Roth or his policies to me and Ava. He would never reproach the governor to his face. No one does.

“The lazy, useless degenerates that do nothing but suck up our state’s resources, begging for handouts? Waging riots and violence when they don’t get what they want? Are these your people, Darren?”

Amazingly, Father keeps pushing. “These people are your own citizens, Governor, simply fighting for survival. With no foreseeable solution, the global climate crisis has our country balancing on the edge of a tipping point. As the temperatures continue to rise, so too will the tensions between the elite and the lower classes. We must adapt and adjust our model, or the United States will collapse. And until leaders with your power start to listen, riots like the one that nearly erupted outside Strake are just the beginning.”

Governor Roth cuts a large piece from his bloody steak, taking his time to chew. The tension is like sitting next to a bomb, anticipating the blast.

“You would have our country buried under lowlifes and filth?” the governor begins in a calm voice. Unnaturally calm. “You’re a doctor . . . Take a gunshot to the belly, for instance. When a body is bleeding, you must find the source, the cause. It is messy and violent as you dig and search, but then you finally see it. The bullet. The cause of all this turmoil. The threat to life. And so you expel it, you seal up the wound. There is no more blood, and the body heals.”

I dare to sneak a glance at the governor and discover the vein on his temple has disappeared. The cool, sterile look he gives my father causes every hair on my skin to rise.

“I will protect the body of Texas and drive out all who threaten to kill it.”

The governor sits back, allowing his allegory to sink in.

“The great Han and Roman Empires fell in the end because of their weak and shortsighted leaders. That will not be my legacy.”

My father turns to me, face cordial and composed. “Ava, why don’t you show Halton the neighborhood greenhouse and pick a bouquet of fresh flowers for Mrs. Roth to bring home?”

Before turning back to his sparring match, he gives me a double take. It’s quick and subtle, but through his politician façade, I can see his anger.

We’re caught. He knows I’m Mira.

“Yes, Father.” I rise from my chair dutifully, wondering if Ava has been watching from the basement. I hope she’s formulating a better excuse than the one she gave me.

Governor Roth gives a small nod to Agent Hayes, who stands forgotten in the corner. Hayes falls in behind Halton, becoming his shadow as I lead the way out the front door.

I escort a brooding Halton along a path of leafy greens and vegetable vines, ignoring the patches of yellow flowers we pass. My mind still solidly in the dining room, I have little patience to play the cordial tour guide. I grip my basket and shovel with white knuckles, a thousand thoughts racing through my head. I try hopelessly to grab hold of only one.

How did Father realize it was me . . . does he really believe the United States will collapse . . . he dared to criticize . . . my father is the bullet the governor will expel . . .

“We’re passing all the flowers,” Halton says, jolting me back into the present.

“They’re black-eyed Susans,” I say, not slowing my pace.

I note Halton’s heavy feet, stumbling slightly as he follows me. A neighbor from two houses down attempts to blend in with a line of bell pepper plants as he watches us from three rows over. His eyes fall nervously on our surly chaperone standing guard at the back entrance. Just get this done quick.

A classical piece of music plays softly overhead, encouraging the plants to grow. Jules Massenet’s “Meditation” from the opera Thaïs. The solo violin rings across the greenhouse, and it’s as if I can actually see every plant reach out its limbs to be nearer to the speakers.

“How do you get the flowers to grow here? Do you cheat your water rations?” asks Halton.

I roll my eyes, careful he doesn’t see. “They’re drought tolerant.”

I turn to find him no longer following me, but staring fixedly at the golden flowers. Black-eyed Susans are best known as wildflowers. This is probably the nearest he’s ever been to anything wild in his life.

“They are also a pioneer plant,” I continue as he leans in to study them closer, his body bent forward like a broken stem. “If a fire burns down part of a forest, this plant will be one of the first to grow again.”

He grabs hold of a single flower with his thumb and forefinger.

“No! Don’t touch them!” I hear myself shout. Before he can pluck the stem, I rush toward him, forgetting myself.

Halton stiffens at my words, all at once sobering up. He shoots an embarrassed glance toward Agent Hayes before shifting his gaze to my hapless neighbor. The man gives a perceptible jump and rushes for the front exit.

Immediately recognizing my misstep, I produce a charming smile, ignoring the sudden tension. “I apologize if I spoke out of line, but the flowers are very special to me. My mother planted them.”

I gesture amiably toward the eagle’s claw cacti. “How many do you think Mrs. Roth will wish to take home?”

Halton’s mouth turns down in aversion. “None.”

Well, these are the only ones I’m giving you, so how can we make this easy?

“I think they have an unassuming beauty,” I say, trying to sell him. He displays a shy smile, reading into my words. “They personify the people of our state. Strong and resilient,” I add for good measure.

Halton nods in approval, buying my bullshit.

I pull on a pair of gloves and begin to dig up the roots of the barbed plant with my shovel. I sense his eyes on me, analyzing my every move. He wets his lips and steps closer to me.

“They say you weren’t born in a hospital but in your home. That’s very uncommon.”

“My mother wanted a natural home birth, and my father is a prominent doctor. The governor granted them his consent.”

Should I ask you about your own missing parent? His mother passed away from skin cancer when he was five, but what happened to his father? The details are murky, filled with holes and dark spots. The entire country acts as if Halton’s father had never been born.