"But why was he born to be a sort of lonely buffalo outside the herd? Not artist, not soldier, not bureaucrat, not certainly indispensable anywhere."

- Ford Maddox Ford

Chapter One

"This is not everything," Wilf heard a deep voice say. Later, much later, Wilf would remember that moment and think that that voice sounded eerily like Archer's, almost as if it was some kind of premonition of what was to come.

Wilf snapped awake and looked over his shoulder. No one was there. His heart was pounding. He sat up slowly and untwisted himself from the damp sheets. Last night Phil had persuaded him to go to an Edem party. Alcohol was on tap, and Wilf had drunk at a pace meant to obliterate any thoughts he might have. He had had no intention of doing Edem drugs at the beginning of the evening, but those too had been freely on offer and he vaguely remembered someone tightening an elastic over his right bicep and pushing the plunger in. There had been great warmth - cozy, safe, instantaneous.

Wilf moved his tongue, unsticking it from the roof of his mouth. He couldn't remember all of the night. He didn't remember where Phil had gone or when he had left the party. What he did remember was walking down his own New York City street in the pitch black of night and quietly riding the elevator up to his apartment. He remembered tiptoeing past his father's bedroom and crawling into his own bed when the display on his digital clock had read four A.M. It was only seven now. Wilf groaned again and rolled over.

His room was large and bare, the wooden floor scuffed, the plaster on the wall crumbling, with only a bed to furnish it. The large window with its permanently open curtains let in bright light that illuminated dust in its beams. Clothes were scattered around in piles.

Wilf heaved himself up and walked into the bathroom, peering at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. There were circles under his grey eyes and his skin was pale, although still clear and youthful. He leaned close and examined his chin, but it barely needed shaving. He ran his hand through his fair hair and frowned.

In the kitchen his father was sitting at the table, sunk in his own thoughts. His father wasn't a big man, perhaps a little taller than Wilf, and still slim. But his shoulders slouched in a way that suggested a long settled-in depression. He was in his old brown bathrobe and his face had two days worth of stubble on it. Some of his thick brown hair was sticking up. Wilf always felt bad when he saw his father. He felt guilty, as if his father's decline was his fault.

Wilf shuffled over to the table. He was still wearing his grey hoodie with its frayed cuffs and jeans and sneakers from last night.

"Hey, Dad," he said quietly.

"You're up early," his father said without looking up.

Wilf pulled out a chair and sat down. He glanced around the dim room. The lights were off and the room had no outside window. Wilf could just make out the familiar light green kitchen cupboards, the gouged old linoleum floor, the ancient slanting stove.

"Where were you last night?" His father's eyes were half closed and he looked older than fifty-four years. He was massaging his chest in a familiar and absent-minded movement.

"A party," Wilf said, nodding and trying to sound casual.

"What kind of gatherings do the Edem let kids have these days? I wasn't aware that parties were part of the program."

"Oh, uh . ."

Wilf's father glanced at him sharply. "You came in at four in the morning! You want to get picked up for breaking curfew? The last thing you need is a criminal record. It's bad enough to be young and male, but add a criminal record to that! You think you're getting harassed now at checkpoints?"

Wilf felt his cheeks flush. He wanted to swear at his father. "Dad -"

His father shook his head. "You should be more careful. Do you want to have another 'altercation?'" he asked sarcastically.

Wilf hunched his shoulders and glared down at the table. Just mentioning the fight made the nine-inch scar on the inside of Wilf's left forearm ache.

"It's -" His father started to say and then stopped abruptly. He glanced at the picture of flowers above the kitchen door. Years ago, when Wilf was a boy going to the junior school, Wilf's father had silently pulled up a kitchen chair and carefully taken the picture off the wall, showing Wilf the tiny listening device. Then he carefully slid the picture back onto its hook. Even then, at nine, Wilf had understood that knowing you were bugged and doing nothing was better than crushing the listening device and having the Edem know that you knew that you were bugged. Wilf could remember, though, his faint surprise that even for all the Edem Forces' technological superiority they couldn't have better disguised a bug. Wilf watched his father's shoulders fall as he remembered all the things they couldn't say. Although Wilf doubted anyone still listened to whatever this bug transmitted now. Who cared about them? One seventeen-year-old boy and one washed up old lawyer who hadn't worked in fifteen years, not since the Shift of Government. Wilf stood up to leave, to leave his father to his perpetually dim rooms that decayed around him and his meaningless life, where every bit of fight or individuality or intelligence seemed to have been bled out of him.

"Sit down, kid," his father said, standing up and putting a surprisingly firm hand on Wilf's shoulder. He turned to the stove and put the kettle on. "I have news."

"News?" Wilf said, flopping down on a kitchen chair.

"I've made plans."

Wilf swallowed. "What sort of plans?"

"Well, I -" He hesitated. "We're going to Canada."

"Why?" Wilf asked with an incredulous look. "What?"

"I've got a job."

Wilf stared at his father in stunned silence. He felt confused. His father had never spoken to him about any plans or even a desire to work again. Wilf wasn't entirely clear on what his father did for money; he knew his father pawned things and he knew he wasn't paying Wilf's school fees anymore. But Wilf hadn't realized that this couldn't go on indefinitely.

Wilf's father sat down again, watching his son's face carefully. "We don't have anything to stay for, do we?"

"I've got school! I'm in my last year. And go to Canada?"

"But Wilf," Roger said looking at his son and wrinkling his forehead, "you're not really leaving anything behind, are you? "

"What about my friends? What about Phil and - " Wilf stopped himself before he said Zig's name. He never talked about Zig to his father.

Wilf's father looked at him intently for a moment, thinking. "I'm not sure Phil - " He stopped and changed tactics. "You can write to Phil." He waved his hand. "Come on, Wilf." Roger hesitated and put his hand on his son's arm. "I want you to come, Wilf," he said beseechingly.

Wilf leaned back and then realized what he was being asked. In reality he could stay behind. His father couldn't make him go, couldn't cart him across the border if he didn't want to go. And what could his father offer him? It was November, and Wilf would graduate from high school in June. His eighteenth birthday was in a year. He could probably stay with Zig for seven months. Or longer. Really, he could already do what he wanted. Wilf kicked a little pile of plaster that had come down from the ceiling a few weeks ago and that no one had bothered to sweep away. "What's in Canada? Are you gonna work in the mines? Aren't you a bit old for that?"

Roger cleared his throat. "I've got a job as a prison guard in one of the carninium mines."

A prison guard for the Edem? Wilf thought. That wasn't just working for them, that was actively working against the Resistance.

Wilf swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this?"

"We're out of money."

"But, I could get a job. I mean, why - "

"We have to do something, Wilf."

"What about mom?" Wilf said miserably.

Roger glanced at the picture and frowned. "There's nothing we can do."

"But, but . . ." Wilf hesitated, looking at his hands in his lap. They never talked about his mother. "But if she wants to find us . . . I mean, if we're here she could get a message to us. If we're in Canada . . . " He looked up at his father. "She'll never be able to find us there."

"Wilf," Roger said softly. "It's been thirteen years now . . . "

Wilf sat very still in his chair. He didn't believe his mother was dead; he never believed that even for an instant. He felt he would have been able to feel it somehow if she died. In his mind he knew she was out there, either working with the Resistance or in some prison camp somewhere.

Somewhere out in the street a distant siren blared.

"When are you planning on going?" Wilf asked.

"This afternoon."

Wilf cursed in shock and then sat in stunned silence. He felt the trick in this. All those conversations his father had with grandpa suddenly made sense. Wilf had thought his father was getting careless, talking about his mother sentimentally to his grandfather, risking letting something slip that the telephone listening streams could pick up. But his father hadn't been sinking into nostalgia and sentimentality. He had been planning.

Wilf put his head in his hands and everything started to make sense. He saw this autumn as his father must have seen it: his altercation, the late nights, the falling grades, the pointlessness Wilf felt about graduation. In Canada there were the huge carninium mines that the Edem needed to power their ships. Wilf knew these employed hundreds of thousands of men, free men and prisoners, Edem and non-Edem alike. Not only could Roger earn a living there but so could a seventeen-year-old boy who was capable of keeping his head down. There would be a future there.

"Was this grandpa's idea?" Wilf asked.

Roger ignored the question. "We'll be going to the Muskoka area," Roger said. "Your mother's family used to have a cottage there, before the Shift - Anyway, it's beautiful there. And I've taken the liberty of enrolling you in a great little school. We'll have a car. It comes with the job. I'll teach you how to drive. It will be really nice, Wilf. Fresh air. Freedom. It's not like here, Wilf. There's no segregation in Canada." He hesitated. "Give it a chance."

Wilf stood up shakily and paced the kitchen. "You expect me to pack up my life, just like that? Why didn't you tell me before?"

Roger hesitated. "I didn't want to fight with you about this for weeks. You make your decision, Wilf. You can hit the streets here, or crash with Phil, or do whatever boys do these days. Or you can come with me. Do what you like."

Wilf clenched his jaw. "I have to see Phil."

"Okay." Roger leaned towards Wilf. "The train leaves at one PM." He put his hand on Wilf's arm entreatingly. "Please come."

Wilf shook his arm off and walked out of the apartment. On the street outside the sky was filled with brilliant sunshine. Wilf's head was throbbing. He wondered what had woken him up this morning; he wondered if his father had dropped books outside his bedroom door to wake him up. He wouldn't put it past him.

There was hardly anyone around now. Two soldiers stationed at a checkpoint looked up and glanced at Wilf. They only shrugged and turned back to their cigarettes, though. Wilf walked through the streets until he reached Phil's front stoop. He hesitated in front of the huge brass knocker on the thick black door. Then he gave two sharp knocks.

Phil's stepfather answered, which was the worst possibility. Wilf had never even seen Ebsen answer the door before. It had always been Phil, or the maid, or Phil's little half-brothers, or even Phil's mother. But then Wilf had never knocked on the door before at eight AM on a Saturday morning.

Ebsen was a large, imposing man, like so many of the Edem. He was over six feet tall and menacingly well-muscled. He needed a shave right now and had circles under his dark eyes. One hand held a lit cigarette. Despite the early hour he still managed to have a military look about him. A military shirt was casually open thrown over an undershirt, and he still wore his black leather Edem gloves on his hands and his black marching boots. He glared at Wilf. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh, I want to see Phil."

Ebsen blew smoke out of his nose slowly. "I thought you might be the one to know where he is. He's not here."

"Oh. Um, we were at a party last night. But we got separated."

"Party? What kind of party?" He took another drag on his cigarette. "Never mind. Are you worried about him?"

"No. No. It's just I, uh, need to talk to him."

"Why?" Ebsen asked, narrowing his eyes. Wilf was still standing on the front step. Ebsen had made no motion that he should come in. "My father's going away. We -"

Ebsen reached out and tightly grasped Wilf's arm, pulling him into the house. He pushed the door closed behind Wilf with his foot. He leaned one hand against the hall wall over Wilf's head and looked down at him. "Where?"

Wilf couldn't help sputtering. "He got a job. In Canada. In the mines."

Ebsen scowled. "Does the controller know?" He leaned closer, his face only inches from Wilf's.

"Yes, sir, the controller knows," Wilf said quickly, nodding earnestly. In truth Wilf had no idea if the controller knew, but he wasn't about to say that to Ebsen. "He has his paperwork. It's just, he only told me this morning."

Ebsen leaned back and laughed. "What, isn't he taking you with him?"

"Yes, well . . . He said I should come with him, anyway."

Ebsen smiled ruefully and turned his back to Wilf, walking towards the kitchen that was past the hallway. Wilf could hear the cook clattering pans. Wilf bit his lip and followed him.

"So was it a fun party?" Ebsen asked, picking up a freshly baked muffin and eating it. Wilf saw the big cook, Mr. Winston, familiar from Wilf's many visits to the house, scowl. Wilf remembered the party and felt himself starting to turn red.

"You can't stay here," Ebsen said, watching Wilf carefully. He leaned against the wall and tossed the wrapper from the muffin carelessly onto the white granite countertop, crossing his arms. "And you shouldn't even think of staying with Zig."

Wilf looked at the floor. He didn't know why he had ever told Ebsen about Zig. He never would have even imagined so much as mentioning it to his own father. But Ebsen was different. As much as he was imposing, he had paid attention to Wilf when he was younger. When Ebsen had first married Phil's mother he used to take the two boys out on weekends to Coney Island or go-karting or skate boarding. He would be sitting there, on the sidelines of whatever they were doing, with a cigarette, watching and listening. But Ebsen didn't take them out anymore. Phil's three younger half siblings tended to absorb what free time Ebsen had now, Wilf supposed. But sometimes Ebsen would still come in and sit beside them when they were watching TV and Wilf, still, even after all this time, would find himself causally talking to Ebsen and telling him things about his life. He felt like he couldn't help himself.

That was how he had blurted out about Zig, which he knew full well he shouldn't mention to anyone. Wilf had met Zig at some club a couple of years back. He was unusual for an Edem. It cracked Wilf and Phil up every time they thought of him in the military. He was the least military person they knew. He even slouched when he walked. He had a job at a jazz bar four evenings a week now and the rest of the time he spent hanging out in an abandoned and depilated warehouse on the lower east side. Wilf and Zig and Phil at first, and then soon just Wilf and Zig, would lounge around the second floor of the warehouse, throwing spitballs at the broken windows and smoking pot and talking about life. It was ironic, Wilf thought, that his mother was a Resistance fighter and yet the only two adults he had ever really trusted - Ebsen and Zig - were Edem.

Ebsen watched Wilf carefully. "Don't stay with Zig," he repeated. "You don't think he wants anything from you but you'll see. Go with your father."

Wilf felt his face flush bright red. He didn't say anything.

Ebsen shrugged. "This is a good opportunity for you. You know that, right? You'll have options there. Go. Don't be a stupid fool."

There was a beeping from the table and Ebsen picked up his phone. He cursed under his breath. "I'll tell Phil you were here when he shows up," he said, his attention focused on the tiny screen in his hands. He walked away, further into the depths of the house.

Wilf stood planted firmly where he stood, his forehead wrinkled. "You should go home, Mr. Ford," Mr. Winston said over his shoulder to Wilf. "Unless you want to explain to the missus exactly where you think Phil is right now. And since I don't think you have any answer, you should really go."

Wilf scowled and walked out, back into the sunlit street. He knew he should go with his father. There was nothing here for him to stay for. He had two friends in NY. He was one of four hundred and fifty students in an overcrowded school where no one had asked him any questions since last May. He hadn't seen his mother in thirteen years.

Wilf sat down on the curb at the side of the street. He hated the Edem, he thought to himself, for forming this world where his mother had fled and his father was . . . What was his father? A loser? An alcoholic? Wilf hated his father, too. He hated him for puking in the bathroom every second night when it was supposed to be Wilf's time in life for that kind of thing. Well, Wilf had spent some time puking in the bathroom, too, these days, he had to admit to himself. Wilf buried his face in his hands. However inadequate his father was, Wilf knew that he loved Wilf. He pushed himself off the curb and continued walking home.

Wilf glanced around street that Phil and he had walked down so many times since they were boys in the junior school. Everything was so familiar. Wilf had never lived anywhere else. And yet he had the feeling that he might not ever sit on this curb again. Wilf watched as some of the stores started opening up for the day. The traffic was busier now. Back at the apartment Wilf's father had two suitcases packed. He smiled when he saw Wilf and embraced him. "It's good that you're here, kid."

"Where else do I have to go?" Wilf shrugged to himself slightly and walked into his room. He ran his fingers over his dusty windowsill and glanced over the room, with its plaster medallion on the ceiling and its foot high wooden baseboards. Once, his parents had been rich. His father an up-and-coming corporate lawyer in New York, his mother a scientist with a prominent think-tank. They had bought this apartment with its views of central park. But now, all their beautiful furniture had been pawned and the rooms were in disrepair.

Wilf started throwing his clothes into a large knapsack that his father had used for camping before his son was born, in a world without the Edem. He pulled a couple of dirty jeans from one pile on the floor and a few T-shirts and sweatshirts from another pile. He tossed his school uniform, with its tie and formal blazer on the bed. He glanced at them and thought about not taking them, but then put them into his bag just in case. He hesitated by a pile next to his schoolbooks, and picked up an antique wooden box that his grandfather had given him. He opened it carefully and looked at the jumble of photographs and papers inside. There was a ticket stub from a movie he and a girl he liked had gone to see; a ribbon he had won in a swimming competition at twelve; a baseball card for his favorite player from when he was nine. But mostly, what was in the box were what was left of his family photos. After his mother had gone, the police had come and searched everything, tipping over his father's bookcases and filing cabinets, ripping pages out of photo albums and pulling pictures off the walls. What was left Roger had gathered up and later, when Wilf was older, Wilf had appropriated it as his own. He glanced at a picture of himself as a young toddler - a happy baby whose parents had no idea that something called a 'Shift of Government' could ever even happen. Wilf shut the box quickly and stuffed it into his backpack. He pulled a baseball cap over his head and slunk into the living room.

The drapes were open and the extent of the dilapidation of the room was evident. Water stains linked the windows to the floor. The Persian carpet on the floor was thread bare, probably the only reason it hadn't been pawned. A table in the corner still held a thousand piece puzzle that Wilf remembered starting with his father eleven months ago over last Christmas break. Wilf's father lined his suitcases up by the front door. "Ready to go?"

"Umm . . . " Wilf tiptoed over to the huge windows that looked out over the park and the city. "This view has got to be worth something. Did you sell the apartment?"

Wilf's father nodded.

"What if mom tries to find us?" Wilf said bringing up the subject again, his eyes fixed on the view.

"Wilf . . . Just leave it alone."

"But, Dad, if we go -"

"Sh." Wilf's father said sharply. "Here, carry this suitcase. Have you got everything you need?"

"Dad," Wilf said, still looking out the window. "Did you leave a forwarding address?"

Wilf's father laughed darkly and shook his head. "I paid my debts here, Wilf. I sold everything. Paid everything back. I don't want anyone from here contacting me. I don't need to send Christmas cards, Wilf. The last thing I want is for anyone to try to track me down. Of course, if the government needs to find me, they can use our travel documents. Wilf . . " Wilf's father walked over to him and touched his shoulder. "Wilf, it's time to move on." Wilf turned away from the view and picked up one of the suitcases. He had his backpack on his back and his father had the other two suitcases. His father opened the door and they stepped out into the hall. So this is what it's come to, he thought, our lives - my entire lifetime - can be packed into four bags. His father pressed the button for the elevator and they rode in silence down to the lobby.

They stepped through the revolving door and out onto the bustling street. Wilf's head was still throbbing. Through blurry eyes, he watched his father hail a taxi and he was glad to be able to collapse in the back. At the train station, the crowds made him nervous. All the lines of people, the guards with their guns, and his father having to show his papers over and over again. Every time Wilf showed his passport he couldn't stop his hand from trembling just slightly. He was impressed that his father's hands were steady and that his father's voice betrayed no hesitation.

They boarded their train and Wilf watched the city and then the countryside roll past his window. Wilf had hardly ever been outside New York before. The view out the window was of the suburbs, and then the green fields of farms that made Wilf think of idealized childhoods that he used to read about in books. He felt his heart ache.

At the border, the guards asked them for their papers. Soon after, the sun set and Wilf stared out the window at the darkness which reflected Wilf's own image back to him like a mirror.

It was past midnight when the train pulled into Huntsville station. Wilf and his father's luggage was strewn around their feet in their compartment. "This is our stop," Roger said.

Once on the platform, Wilf stuffed his hands in his pockets and shivered. "Where do we go from here?" He asked.

"I'm not sure," Roger muttered quietly. He walked towards the ticket office, where there was a light on, and Wilf followed him. An Edem soldier was leaning back on two legs of a chair and regaling a scruffy looking man in a train company uniform with some story. His rifle was leaning up against the wall beside him. They were laughing and smoking, with a bottle of gin on the table between them. The soldier looked up when Roger and Wilf approached.

"Are you Roger Ford?" The soldier asked casually. He wasn't in uniform, Wilf noted. In fact, he might not have been a soldier at all. Except for the gun casually leaning against the wall. He wasn't wearing marching boots or gloves either. Wilf glanced down at his hands, one of which held a cigarette and the other was resting on the table. Wilf could clearly make out the black, inch long, narrow claws at the ends of his fingers. In New York, even late at night and at parties, Edem men always kept their claws covered. It was gauche not to. Wilf swallowed. Just seeing those claws made the scar on his left forearm ache.

"Yes," Wilf's father said, clearing his throat. "I'm Roger."

"I've been waiting here three hours," the Edem said, waving his cigarette in the air. "These trains . . . you'd think they could do something about that." He stopped to inhale deeply on his cigarette. "Archer wanted me to meet you." He stood up and walked towards the front door of the station. Wilf and Roger followed. The three of them walked outside. "This is your car," he said gesturing towards an ancient looking blue Cutlass. He handed Roger the keys. "There's some supplies in the trunk. Blankets. A flashlight. Stuff for the cottage."

Roger nodded. The Edem glanced at Wilf, who was still wearing jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers from the night before. "You got to dress warmer, kid. This your son?"

Roger nodded again.

"Here's your map to the cottage," the Edem went on. "It's pretty straight forward." He hesitated. "It's not a great place, but . . . You'll be okay."

They stood in silence for a minute. "I'll see you on Monday, Roger." With that, the Edem climbed into a jeep that was parked next to the car and drove away.

Roger opened the driver side door and reached over to unlock Wilf's side. They threw their luggage in the back-seat and sat down next to each other. "He never told you his name," Wilf said.

"We'll find out later," Roger muttered. He squinted at the map in the glow of the station lights. "Let's find this cottage, eh, kid?"

Slowly they started driving down a pitch black road. They sat in silence for several minutes. Wilf tucked his hands under his legs to keep warm.

"Where is this place anyway?" Wilf's father didn't answer. Wilf glanced over at the speedometer. "Dad, you can drive more than 10 km an hour. Ebsen used to take Phil and I out all the time. You can go really fast, you know."

"Wilf, I drove until the Shift of Government! I know how to drive."

"Then why are you going so slowly?"

"I just don't want to end up in a ditch. Now be quiet, Wilf."

What seemed like an hour later they pulled up to a small cabin. Wilf stepped out of the car into a snowdrift. "Leave everything for tomorrow. Just help me with these blankets." Wilf took a couple of blankets and waited while his father fumbled with the door. They shuffled in and Wilf felt for a light switch. The main room of the cabin was only about fifteen by fifteen feet. There was a small kitchen in one corner, a fireplace on the main wall, and a worn rug on the floor. The walls were bare wood. But everything was clean, which was more than Wilf could have said about his New York home.

Wilf opened a couple of kitchen cupboards. There were tins of soup and beans and cocoa mix. There was even dark chocolate in silver foil. "Hey dad," Wilf shouted to his father, stuffing two large pieces into his mouth.

Still chewing, Wilf walked in one of the doors off the main room, into what once would have been a porch but had now been converted into a bedroom. Thick, ancient ruckled glass windows surrounded three sides of the room. The other wall was the green clapboard that made up the outside of the cottage. There was only space for a bed and a dresser. "Hey, Dad, I'd like this room."

"Sure. It'll be cold, though," Roger said.

"I think everything will be cold here," Wilf said laughing. He handed a blanket to his dad and soon after collapsed on his new bed into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning he woke up to a view of a snowy forest. He squinted through the foggy windows, trying to pick out deer or a lake, but he saw nothing except his own breath. He shivered and was glad he'd slept in everything he had on, including his shoes.

His dad was already in the kitchen, messing around with pans. "I think our main source of heat, Wilf, is the fireplace. We've got tons of firewood outside under a tarp. I got a fire going." Wilf walked up to the open hearth fireplace and warmed his hands. "We also have some bags of oatmeal, some powdered milk, tea . . . I'm getting a good breakfast going."

Wilf rubbed his eyes. "Where's the washroom?"

"Uh . . . It's a little primitive. There's an outhouse out back."

Wilf swore softly under his breath.

"Wilf!" His father said sharply.

Wilf looked up at him. So things were going to be different here. "What, you're going to start being a dad now? Don't you think it's a bit late for that?"

"I've always been your father Wilf. But I would like some things to change up here. For example, I won't be drinking."

"Right!" Wilf said and rolled his eyes. When he saw his father's hurt expression he regretted it. He fumbled with the latch on the door and went outside. The snow came up to his knees and caked onto his jeans. Wilf swore again.