The next morning at breakfast the Haunt is loud with talk and laughter. I sit at the campfire next to Collin holding a bowl of watery oatmeal. I’m not eating it, just drumming my fingers on the rim. Instead I’m watching. After seeing the blue vein on Chief’s chest I’m looking around at the Haunt with new eyes. They’re hard to spot, but they’re there. Blue veins peak out of shirts, wrap around ankles, hide behind long hair. No longer do the appearances of the Haunt simply look odd to me.

“And how are you doing this fine morning?” Noah asks me, shoving Collin over and plopping down between us.

“Ow!” I exclaim when he brushes against my arm, shocking me so severely I drop my oatmeal. Luckily the boy next to me catches it before it hits the ground.

“Wow, good catch,” I say, looking up from the floor to my breakfast’s savior. It’s the blind boy, the one with the thin layer of skin over closed eyes. Kyle.

“No problem,” he says, smiling directly at me. “A little dirt doesn’t hurt the flavor though.”

“Right. Thanks.” I busy myself with eating the oatmeal. How had he caught my bowl? I’d read that when one sense goes, the others grow stronger. There was a blind man in our village who could walk around just fine, but catch a bowl that I couldn’t even reach in time? No way.

“Did you sleep alright?” Zeak asks from across the fire. He is sitting on the ground with his boots off. His feet are almost in the fire.

“Not too bad,” I mummer and focus on my oatmeal.

“You surprise me, kid,” Layla says above me moments later. I tilt my head back and meet her eyes. “I thought that as soon as you got back for your little walk yesterday, you’d be asking me questions non-stop.”

“If you want questions, I got thousands,” I say. “I figured you didn’t want them.”

“Well aren’t you smart,” she teases. “Got some good news for you. Sold your horse yesterday and got a great price.”

“You sold him? I didn’t tell you to do that!”

“What were you going to do? Feed him? Exercise him? Board him with what money? I did you a favor. Eat up while the foods still warm.”

“Great,” I mutter. I follow Layla’s advice and eat my oatmeal, glowering at her while I do. I know she’s right, but that horse got me here. I don’t think I would have made it without him.

“You’ve got a big day,” Layla says. “An important step in your initiation.” She reaches out and tugs on my shirt. “You stand out.”

“My clothes? You want me to change my clothes?”

“Yep. Make you look like a kid from the Graveyard.”

“I’m not sure what else I could do.” My pants are already in rags, my coat is torn and muddy and most of the buttons have vanished. The black shirt I have is stained with sweat and missing the sleeves which I used for bandages.

“You look like crap, I’ll give you that. Being from the Haunt isn’t just about having nothing. We look tough. No one messes with us. You’d be surprised how much trouble an appearance can save you.

I believe her. Playing the poor farm kid got me into the city with little trouble and once I was inside I was judged solely on my clothes. Now I wonder if it would have been different if I was dressed well, obviously from money. “Fine. Anything that will move this along.”

“Great. You won’t regret it.”

Of course, I regret it mere moments after. Layla leads me out of the Haunt. We retrace the same path as last time and I try to pay better attention, noting the look of the tunnels.

“We’re not going above ground?” I say when she heads down a different path than before.

“Graveyard look comes from Graveyard folk,” she says.

The passageway she leads me to is one of the biggest and busiest I’ve seen yet. Makeshift stands are set up along the sides made from wooden boards, old doors, strips of metal. Some have only a few objects, lined carefully in a row. Others are covered in massive piles, odd things tangled together. As we walk past the stands we are offered a number of goods.

“Your lady looks hungry,” a man with an eye patch tells me. “Get her some bread. Fresh baked.”

“With sawdust,” Layla mutters. “Most of the people here will try to take advantage of you, especially if you look like an outsider. We don’t buy much here. Comes in handy for some things if we don’t have time to procure it ourselves.”

“Do above grounders come down here?”

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“Never. We call it a black market, but there’s nothing here that would interest above grounders. Most of the things sold here aren’t illegal to own. Clothes, food, books. They’re just stolen. Here we are.”

Near the end of the tunnel is one of the more permanent looking shops. Two wooden poles are dug into the dirt. Sheets are hung from them as makeshift walls, hiding the inside from view. Next to the sheets are several large crates. One is open and hundreds of leather belts tumble out of it to the muddy floor.

“Geneva?” Layla calls, knocking on one of the wooden polls.

A woman sticks her head out from behind a sheet. “Layla,” she says. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here. You still owe me for that last job I helped you pull.”

“Have I not paid you?” Layla says. “Well that is just rotten of me. How about this? You help my friend here find a new skin and I’ll pay you double.”

Geneva pulls back the sheet. She is not too much older than me. I can’t stop staring at her hair. Half of it is blonde, almost white, and the other half black. It’s pulled back into a long braid, the two colors entwining down her back. Was she born like that? Her eyebrows are a dark brown, almost the same color as her skin.

“Double?” she says. Apparently this is a big get, because she smiles widely and beckons us forward. “You got it.”

Layla pushes me into the tent. “This is Javin.”

“And what’s wrong with him?” Geneva asks, circling around me. She picks a loose thread off my pants and lets it drop to the floor.

“I don’t even know how to answer that question,” Layla says, chuckling. “For the moment we need him to look like he belongs to the graveyard. Not from some farm no one’s ever heard of or cares about.”

“Hey!” I protest as Geneva starts to unbutton my coat.

“Relax,” she says, pushing the coat to the floor. “You’re tall. I don’t know if I’ll have pants that will fit.” She kneels down and wraps her hands around one of my thighs. “Maybe I can sew some together.” She stands back up, grabbing the hem of my shirt when she does and pulling it up and off my body. I guess this is how things are done here. “I’ll be right back,” Geneva says and disappears behind a curtain.

I jump slightly when I feel Layla touch my bare back.

“Where did you get this?” She asks, tracing a scar on my back. It makes me shiver.

“In the Forsyth. Climbed up too high. The branch I reached for snapped and cut it on another branch when I fell. I got eighteen stitches.”

“But who’s counting?” Layla says. I can just feel the tip of her finger running up my back. “You’ll have more scars by the time this is done. I promise you that.”

Geneva returns with an armful of clothing. “Here.” She tosses me a white shirt with short sleeves. I put it on. The fabric is old and thin. I can almost see through it. Over that goes a dark gray sweater with several tears. “Layers are important in the Delphast,” she says as I pull it on. I already know that’s true. Above ground I was sweating in my jacket. Down here there is an ever present cool breeze.

Geneva unfolds a pair of black pants. “This is all I could find that’s long enough.” I recognize them although it takes me a moment to remember where.

“The guards wear these, don’t they?”

“They’re similar,” Geneva says. She reaches to unbuckle my belt.

I stop her. “I can do that, thanks.”

Layla rolls her eyes at me and turns around. “So modest.”

The pants Geneva are reinforced with a hard material in the thighs and knees to protect from attacks. My dislike for having any similarities to the guards is dissipated by how comfortable they are. Well, anything would be more comfortable than pants with only half a leg. I slip my boots back on over the pants. Other than some extra mud, they remain in good condition. Next Geneva gives me a jacket made of dark gray wool. It seems to be very poorly made, with exposed seams. As I put it on I realize it is riddled with tiny holes.

“Bugs,” Geneva says when I ask. “Don’t worry. I cleaned it.” She leaves the jacket unbuttoned and takes a thin, black scarf, similar to the one Layla wears, and wraps it in a tight circle around my neck all the way to the base of my chin.. “What do you think?” She asks Layla.

“Better,” she says, crossing her arms. “Much better. You only look a bit like a tree now, kid. We’re still missing something though.”

Behind me, Geneva tassels my hair. “I think so too. Should we buzz it?”

“No,” Layla says. “How about just a little off the sides?”

With a click Geneva flicks open a straight razor blade.

“Wait,” I tell her and hold my hand out for the razor. “I want to do it.”

“Your hair,” Geneva says, handing me the blade. “Just don’t complain to me when you take off an ear.”

“He’ll do fine,” Layla says. She picks up a hand mirror from on top of a pile of hats. She holds it up to me. “Here you go, kid.”

Just a few months ago I started shaving. When my dad showed me how to use my dagger to trim the barest shadow of whiskers that had appeared on my face, I felt as if I was participating in some important step. That once I ran that blade across my cheeks I would be catapulted forward into my adult years. And here I am away from home, on my own. I feel less of an adult than ever before. Perhaps this razor blade will be successful in catapulting me forward. I weigh the blade in my hand for a moment. Then the razor is against my skull and hair is falling to the ground.

I try to watch my reflection in the mirror. Pale, hollow cheeks. It’s much the same as when I saw myself in the plate aboveground. There is something new though. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s hard to keep my eyes on the task at hand. Layla is staring at me, holding the mirror partially in front of her face so her eyes blink at me above my own. It’s distracting.

“I think that’s enough,” Layla says once I’ve shaved off the sides of my hair.

“Do you have scissors?” I ask Geneva. She hands them to me after a moment and I raise them to the top of my head. Snip. Snip. My hair was never that long. It fell just beneath my ears. Now there is more skin than hair.

When I am done I hand the scissors back to Geneva. Layla holds up the mirror for my final inspection, but I push it down. “What do you think?” I ask her.

She runs a hand above my ear to the back of my head and then up to the top. “I think you look like a rat now and maybe even a member of the Haunt.”