Page 5 of The Last Love Story

I smile as I reach into my pocket, pulling out the poker chip. His eyes follow the motion as I flip it between my fingers.

“I don’t know. Computer malfunction or insanely brave illegal search engine attempt... which was the more creative way to get out of class?”

Hux huffs out a breath. It’s half a laugh, which for some reason makes my lungs feel tight. I flip the poker chip in the air, catching it in my palm before holding it out to him.

“You’re right. Keep it.” And then he strides away.

With every step, I wait for him to say something, biting my lip to fight the need to goad him into saying... something.

When he reaches the door, he finally turns. “Two minutes, Hart.” The door squeaks open, then closed.

I watch the monitors, but it feels like a DopaMine feed washing over me, because I can’t focus enough to absorb any of it.

Then, I stand, stopping as I feel a vibration from my pocket tablet.

1 New Message—Unknown Number

With a trembling finger, I prod at the touchscreen. Instantly, the words send a shock down my spine, knocking a sharp breath out of me like a punch to the gut.

Happy eighteenth birthday, Ripley.

Chapter 2

“Welcome to Post Angeles. South District, to the left. North, to the right. Be ready to scan,” a familiar monotone voice crackles over the speakers. Around me, all of Post Angeles springs up—the steel buildings, the steel-colored sky, our steely uniforms. The entire world is gray. In my classroom, I’ve been trained to identify so many things that don’t exist anymore. Cobalt. Azure. Sapphire. A real, blue sky.

Happy eighteenth birthday, Ripley.

A sudden scream builds in my throat and I fight a bizarre instinct to rip the very necessary mask from my face, to take a gasp of the air like it won’t choke me.

Maybe it’s a joke, I decide, as we turn as one to the light-rail station, and the street widens, dipping into a low decline that reveals a cityscape beyond.

People used to work and live in the skyscrapers that jutawkwardly against the horizon, but now they house Alba and its massive power banks.

I climb the stairs to the light-rail platform, raising my wrist and letting my Move ID run over the sensor.Beep.For the first time in my life, that noise I’ve heard a million times inspires a thrill of fear in my gut. If someone really is looking for me, I just flagged my location in the system.

I glance around, half waiting for Hammers in their nondescript black uniforms to cut through the crowd.Ripley Hart! You’re in violation of the Federations’ Streamlining War Conscription Act. Put your hands behind your back.

And they’d cuff me, put me in a van, and I’d disappear. My parents wouldn’t even know what happened to me. If they were lucky, they’d get a message on their tablets, a little rectangle breaking up their DopaMine feeds. My mom is probably watchingThe Darkest WifeorThe Smallest, Tiny Thing. I wonder if she’d even notice the text.

Happy eighteenth birthday, Ripley.

Just a joke, I tell myself. Hux, probably messing with me after our latest standoff. But he seemed so upset about his friend Banks. Who else could it be? And why do they think it’s my birthday? I have until September. I have to have until September.

I try to shake off the feeling of dread. Even though the platform is dotted with people, no one speaks. The side of the building across the tracks is one giant screen, and two virtual newscasters talk about stock prices, the weather, andan update about a new dog rescue. It’s all positive, smoothed out like their AI-generated faces. When they mention the war raging across the sea, it’s medals and smiling faces and parades. When mention of the book ban comes up, they show stock footage of some German book and another with a pentagram on its cover, then cut to footage of the president signing the bill at his desk, finger looping in broad strokes over the tablet.

President Graves. I feel myself jump when he looks up at the camera and offers his trademark stoic stare.

If I do flinch seeing our president, no one notices. No one is even watching the news. Everyone is on their pocket tablets, and some are staring at the small screens on their watches. DopaMine—the personalized channel that attunes to each individual and provides content—unlocks when workers clock out. I look down at my screen as it dings, the typical singsong beep of DopaMine. A sad face appears, accompanied by the words:Looks like you’ve had a bad day, Ripley! Your streaming has been cut by an hour.

I roll my eyes. Of course—I had forgotten about detention. This day couldn’t get any worse.

I wish I could say I don’t care, that I am the one special person in this sea of tech drones. But I care a lot. My show,Broken Harts, is one safe thing I can always talk about with Nef. Hers has another name of course, but our tastes are so similar that the storylines are pretty much identical. Now wewon’t be able to talk about it at lunch tomorrow, and it’s the only thing we can talk about. It’s not much, but it is usually enough to loosen that knot in my chest.

Now I have nothing to look at on my commute home, while everyone else around me is happily sucked into their screens. I check my tablet again, pure muscle memory, but of course it’s still locked. The crash-out brews under my collarbone like one of the tropical storms that batters the coast of Washington. Suddenly, the screen on the side of the building transitions to the footage I saw with Hux: the town in South London. My heart stops.

But instead of showing the burn marks or the bodies, the camera zooms in on a face that every person on this platform knows.

Callum Graves. The president’s son.