Margot swiped my Tuesday jumpsuit again. She'll never admit it, but I know it was her. She smirks at me from across our block, perched at the end of her tightly made bed. Her grin widens as I tear through our cell.

I sigh. "Margot, have you seen my Tuesday peels?" She ignores me, running a finger along the edge of her shiny metal collar.

5:59 a.m.

Shit.

I rip off my night suit and throw on my white Wednesday clothes, kicking my navy blue nights to the side as the steel door clanks open. Margot and I snap to our feet.

"Morning inspection!" booms the stiff-legged guard, banging his AK-47 against the barred door.

Don't check the day label. Please don't check the day label.

Two nurses in seafoam scrubs and the armed jack bustle inside our cramped cell. The shorter nurse approaches me and shines a dome-like light into my pupils. She deposits a blue pill into one hand and shoves a paper cup of water into the other. I down it in one gulp and thrust out my tongue to show her my empty mouth. She holds up her silvery device and presses it to my neck above my collar; it pierces my skin with a sharp stab, drawing a few droplets of blood.

The jack narrows his eyes and steps toward me. I raise my right hand in a stiff salute. He scrunches a fistful of my uniform in his meaty hand and yanks out the label.

"Prisoner E.S.-124." His smooth, acidic voice sinks into my bones.

"Sir, yes, sir."

"These are your Wednesday clothes."

"Sir, yes, sir."

"And do you know what day it is?"

"Tuesday, sir."

He flings his hand back and slaps me across the face. Tears prickle in my eyes, but I don't let myself wobble.

"Get going." He spits a wad of saliva at my feet. "State your manifesto."

Clenching my teeth, I watch the shiny silver button on his gray uniform. "I don't know what I have done; I just know that I am bad. I am here because I deserve to be here, and I am here because I must be fixed. I seek to reform under your guidance."

He moves down to Margot, who repeats the words. My cellmate and I stand two feet apart and salute as our guests proceed to the door. The two nurses chatter between themselves as the suffocating white hall light drowns the dimly lit cage that is our cell.

The guard pivots back around mid-step. "Prisoner E.S.-124?"

I startle. "Yes, sir?"

"Block Director Levine requires your presence in her office immediately. Make it quick. Then down to breakfast without delay."

He struts into the hall without another word, unclicking the dead bolt. I swallow.

Why does Director Levine want to see me?

Margot smirks and kicks a wad of white fabric out from under her bed — my now dust-covered, crinkled Tuesday jumpsuit. She slams her shoulder into mine as she brushes past me into the hall. I close my eyes.

Day 741 in this hellhole.

* * *

Director Levine's office reeks of egg salad and mildew, as if rotting garbage festers in the cement walls. I wrinkle my nose. Did something shrivel up and die in her drop ceiling?

She stretches out a hand with well-manicured fingernails, inviting me to plop down on a cold metal chair. I take a seat, hands jittering in my lap. An oscillating fan whirs softly on the block director's desk, creating a light breeze that frees a few dirty-blond hairs from my bun.

Levine shifts in her chair and it squeaks. "E.S.-124. Evelyn Summers." She sucks the butt of a pen. "How long have you been with us?"

"Seven-hundred-forty-one days, ma'am. A little over two years."

Her lavender-walled office mocks me; they probably painted it to signify a step above the gray concrete rooms of the lowly inmates of Block Four.

"You've done remarkably well with your rehabilitation, Evelyn."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"You've been a Level Three for what, nine months now?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And don't think I've forgotten your record-breaking seventy-four days in Level One when you arrived. Shortest I've ever seen someone wear Level-One orange." She winks. "You've progressed quickly through your reformation."

My lip twitches. "Thank you, ma'am."

"You have not come to me once asking to have your collar loosened."

"I have pain because I deserve it, ma'am."

"Indeed." A half smile spreads across her face, so gaunt it could belong to a corpse. "I think you're ready to begin your Freedom Trials."

My heart jolts.

I force the balloon of joy inside me to deflate, for fear of bursting and exploding forbidden happiness all over the room.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Director Levine brushes a strand of copper hair behind her ear and slumps back in her chair. It's the most laid-back I've ever seen her. I tighten my spine and keep my eyes straight ahead, fighting back the giddy somersaults in my stomach.

"And you know what it means," she says, "if you complete your trials?"

"It means ... I'll be free."

Home. I can go home. I can see my mom. See my friends. Finish school.

"Indeed." She grins, folding her fingers beneath her bony chin. "Collar off, back out in the world. But you'll need to prove to everyone — to me, to the other directors, and to yourself — how bad you want your freedom."

I nod.

"Personally, I believe you're ready," she continues. "But before you officially qualify to begin your trials, you'll be given one prerequisite task volunteering with the lower levels. To ensure that you are, in fact, ready to proceed and fight for your freedom. That you truly reject the reprehensible nature of the crime you committed. Can I count on you to do that, Evelyn?"

The smile bursts across my face before I can stop it. "You can, ma'am."

"Good. So tell me." She clasps her hands over the desk. "What was your life like before you came to us?"

I'm taken aback. "What information would you like to know, ma'am?"

"I would like to know about the Evelyn before rehabilitation. What brought you to us."

It's an odd request. She could easily look this up in my file. I stroke my slick white collar with my forefinger, pressing it farther into my neck.

"I lived with my mother, ma'am. I was a student — an honor student. I played JV basketball, the only freshman on the team. I was finishing ninth grade when ... the crime happened."

Whatever it was.

"When the crime happened?" She raises her brows in an unspoken challenge.

Shit. "I mean, when I committed the crime," I correct, my face heating. Taking responsibility for one's actions is the first lesson they drill into our heads. If I can't do that, they'll never approve me for the trials.

But Director Levine doesn't comment on my mistake. She purses her lips in a display of fake sympathy. "Can you see yourself returning to that old life, Evelyn?" "Yes, ma'am." My hands fidget in my lap.

"And can you see yourself committing another crime?"

"No, ma'am."

"Why not?"

"Because I have reformed, ma'am."

"Good. That's all." She pulls herself up with a curt nod. "Report to the cafeteria for breakfast. You'll receive further instructions shortly."

I scratch my plastic fork across the Styrofoam tray, creating indented crop circles around my breakfast. A prong from the utensil snaps off and flies across the table. I guess in prison, flimsy forks are better than metal ones — or as the jacks say, potential weapons. The over-dulled blade of my plastic knife barely makes a mark when I...