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the other trainers picked their newbies and broke off to start discussing the process. I waited, numb from my decision, until Twenty-two strolled over to me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black pants.
    “You like me after all,” he said.
    I frowned. I didn’t know about that. I was curious. Intrigued. Like? That was pushing it.
    “Or maybe not,” he said with a laugh.
    “I considered what you said. About the lower numbers not having me.”
    “Ah. So not because of me.”
    He smiled at me and I got the impression he didn’t believe a word that had just come out of my mouth. I shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. I wanted to fidget, and I never fidgeted.
    “Are you a good runner?” I asked quickly.
    “I doubt it.”
    I sighed. “We’ll meet at the indoor track every morning at seven.”
    “Okay.”
    “Try not to scream when I break your bones. It bothers me. You can cry if you want; that’s fine.”
    He burst out laughing. I didn’t realize that was a funny statement.
    “Got it,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to cover his grin. “Screaming, no. Crying, yes.”
    “Have you ever handled any weapons?”
    “No.”
    “Skills?”
    “I’m good with tech stuff.”
    “Tech stuff?” I repeated with a confused frown. “Where did you see computers in the slums?”
    “I’m not from the slums.” He lowered his voice when he said it.
    I blinked. “You’re from the rico ?”
    He laughed slightly. “No one calls it that. It’s just Austin.”
    No one from the rico called it that. Outside, in the slums, we used the Spanish word for rich to refer to the wealthy side of the cities.
    I took a quick glance around the gym. There were a few Reboots from the rico , but they were certainly in the minority. I’d never trained one. My last trainee, Marie One-thirty-five, had lived on the streets in Richards, and she’d been tougher for it. Slum life made better, stronger Reboots. Twenty-two was doubly screwed. I wasn’t sure I would have picked him if I’d known that.
    “How’d you die?” I asked.
    “KDH.”
    “I thought they had mostly eradicated the KDH virus in the wealthy parts of town,” I said.
    “They’re close. I’m just one of the lucky few.”
    I grimaced. KDH was a nasty way to die. They named the virus for the city that had been ground zero of the outbreak, Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina. It was a different strain of a respiratory virus common in children, and killed most humans within a few days.
    “My parents took me to a slum hospital because they couldn’t afford any medicines,” he continued.
    “That was dumb.” Everyone knew KDH was rampant in the slums. No one was getting treated for it there.
    “Yeah, well, they were desperate. And they didn’t realize . . .”
    “You only go to the hospital in the slums to die and be sorted.”
    “Yes. How did you die?” he asked.
    “I was shot,” I said. “Any other skills?”
    “I don’t think so. Wait, how old were you when you died?”
    “Twelve. We’re not talking about me.”
    “Who would shoot a twelve-year-old?” he asked with the innocence that could only come from living his entire life inside walls where nothing bad happened.
    “We’re not talking about me,” I repeated. What was the point, anyway? How would I explain a life of strung-out parents and dirty shacks and the fighting and screaming that came when they went too long without a fix? A rich kid would never understand.
    “Newbies!” Manny called, motioning for them to join him by the gym door.
    “We’re not starting now?” Twenty-two asked.
    “No, you have more tests to do,” I said, gesturing to the medical personnel. “We’ll start tomorrow.”
    He let out a sigh as he ran a hand down his face. “Seriously? More tests?”
    “Yes.”
    He looked from me to the other newbies, who had already joined Manny. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
    “Twenty-two!” Manny yelled. “Move it!”
    I gestured for him to go and he