Jellin kicked first, his square-toed boot striking Wallace in the side. Then Konnor. Then Sturgent. Wallace didn’t cry or even grimace in pain. Finally, Frackal’s kick elicited a soft yelp. And still, Wallace stared ahead vacantly, as if he wasn’t lying in the Cube’s central corridor, scrub bucket spilled at his side. It was as if he had left his body. Wallace, please don’t make this worse, I silently pleaded, hoping we still shared our old telepathy. But instead, he half rose and sneered at us Westsiders. “Is that the best you’ve got?” he challenged. Sturgent lunged, but I was able to hold him back. “Just wait a minute, Sturgent,” I said. “Let him go, I’m sure he’s sorry for spilling the trash in your room.” “He did it on purpose, to get back at us just because he’s got such a chip on his shoulder, ” said Jellin. “He walks around with an attitude, like he’s too good for the Cube. You know him, Ramcheck. Tell him his life will be much better when he complies with the rules.” “Wallace, just say you’re sorry. Everything will get better for you if you just fall in line,” I attempted lamely. “Easy for a Westsider to say,” Wallace said. He grabbed his sopping rag from the floor and flung it at my feet. Dirty water splashed all over my just-polished shoes. The other Westsiders rallied around me. “Don’t let him get away with that,” Konnor snarled. “Yeah, what are you going to do?” challenged Sturgent. My mind reeling, I leaned over Wallace and he finally met my eyes with his. I had known that face my whole life. About a year before, Wallace and I had come up to the Cube together, just days after our 15th birthdays. We were selected for inclusion into the Central Government’s grand design for a well-oiled future, coined as the Great Change. Us poor scraps from the Shallows! We spent the first week of training bunking with 66 other Initiates. There was barely any time to absorb what was happening or to reminisce about our old lives in the Shallows, so filled were our days. There were hours of physical trials, a battery of