The horror of sitting in a chair in the neonatal ward is second only to visiting the morgue. But it's a very close second.

I'm one of the only people who are disgusted with what they do there. With all the needles and concoctions they use to inject them with, you'd think it was a testing facility. Which I guess it is, technically.

There's a tap on the glass window behind me. It's Mom. She's holding a beautiful baby—a girl by the looks of her pink blanket—with wide, innocent blue eyes and a shock of dark hair, who's tugging at my mother's near-black locks. The girl's smiling that big, unguarded, toothless-all-gums smile that babies have. My gut clenches.

"Isn't she pretty?" Barely waiting for my stiff nod—I notice the avoidance of the word 'beautiful'—my mother coos to the baby. "Don't worry, Sweetie, we'll make you beautiful!" She whispers, then tucks the blanket tighter around the baby and disappears into the secluded room to the left. There's a large glass window, untinted, just for those parents who want to watch the Changing with their own eyes.

As I watch my mother head towards the table in the room, I do what I'm expected: I join the group of people clamouring to get closer to the window for a better view, where the girl's parents stand, holding hands and beaming like they're attending their child's Honour Ceremony, instead of something that might change her life forever. And the change is almost never good.

Judging by the mother's bright lavender eyes and the father's yellow blonde hair—who has buttercup-yellow as a natural born hair color, anyways?—I can tell that they're not the richest people in the city—but they're not the poorest, either. The colors are garish enough to be fashionable, but they're not vivid enough to have cost a fortune. You can't say that about most families, including mine.

Poor people get the colors that no one wants—like brown—or the leftovers from old batches. I was lucky, in a way. I got an amethyst eye color that wasn't so old that it had lost most of its vibrancy, though it is duller than the original coloring which was a shiny, bright purple. Mom still claims that my eye color more closely resembles the gem's actual shade, though.

There's a movement at the front of the crowd. The wall of people splits, revealing Mom at the window, talking. It takes me a few beats to realize she's talking to me through the microphone installed into the window. "Jill, come closer so you can watch the procedure, huh? You're going to be a Nurse, too, so this should be a great learning experience!"

In reality, I don't really want to become a Nurse, the very people who conduct the Changing, but what do you do when your parents badger you daily with hopes that you'll become one of the Helpers? They constantly shove pamphlets and school applications in my face, which, according to them, I will join when I graduate normal school in a few months when I turn 16.

The Helpers are the people who form groups that, obviously, help the government or public, including Nurses, Doctors, Law Keepers, that kind of thing. Nurses are at the bottom of the social ladder, even if they take care of one of the most important laws we have in Forget-Me-Not City. (See, even the name of the city reflects a color!)

I walk up to the window and stop next to the couple, who, under closer inspection, are very young, maybe just out of their teens. They smile at me. I smile back at them, though it probably looks more like a grimace, not a grin. Then there's a metallic squeal as my mother pulls the tray up to rest next to the sleeping baby, who, at the moment, is sucking her thumb.

I only have a few seconds to wonder what colors the couple have chosen before my mother picks up a large syringe filled with a neon green liquid. Even if this should be appalling and horrific to watch, all I can think is that I hope that the color was for her eyes, not her hair or skin. I've seen this so many times; I know how this plays out; I've become numb to it. In theory.

The lady holding the needle—because I can't think of this person as my mother—brings the end down to the infant's chubby arm and then, all of a sudden—I blink and miss it—there's a drop of blood trailing from where it must have pricked. The girl flails her arms wildly, letting out squalling cries. There's another prick with another needle, this one filled with a white liquid that resembles frost, and then the baby is left in a crib to Change. As I watch the baby thrashing her arms around, I notice how tiny her fist is. And then I glance a little farther down her arm and see the small bloody dot and I grit my teeth.

The Change isn't noticeable until a few minutes after it's started. We only notice the slight bleeding of white in her hair when her mother brings her hand to her mouth.

"Oh, our baby!" The woman gasps, tears leaking out of her eyes. She's smiling, even as her child is crying her eyes out from the pain. It's all I can do not to yell at her.

You see, I knew someone who was alive before the Law was made, so he had to get himself injected. Of course it's easier if you were born when the Law was active, since you can't remember the Changing. But it's a different story when you weren't. He described it as a fire licking up your body, like you were burning at the stake.

I can only stand while I listen to the wails of the baby.

And, after a few minutes, the couple has their newly Changed infant in their arms, her eyes as green as neon paint and her hair no longer the dark chestnut it was. It's almost a pure white, which you don't see often, since only the very rich can afford it. And then there's the color silver. Silver is only used by the absolute rich. In fact, the only family I've heard of that can afford it is the Blackthorn family, who only have one child, a boy about my age named Skye.

I reach for my coat and bag, and after my mother exchanges her white Nurse's gown for her jacket, we leave and head home. Like nothing has happened. Like she hasn't just permanently altered a life.

Dad is waiting for us when we get home. He's reading the newspaper on the front porch of our house, which is in the underdeveloped part of the city. When we get out of the car, he waves me over with the paper.

"Did you hear? There's been another robbery!" He shakes his head in disbelief. "In and out, and no one noticed!"

At the mention of the robbery, I reach for the paper, scanning the front page. There it is: The Phantom Thief Strikes Again!

The article goes on to say that the Law Keepers are still on the lookout for the thief, who they say stole from a nearby mansion, belonging to Ms. Romana. He stole a priceless family heirloom, a necklace, and took off without tripping the multiple security systems they had in place.

This article is actually really late. This happened two days ago! And, despite what they claim, I doubt he actually did get out without being noticed. Lumina, Romana's granddaughter, says she spotted the thief and ran after him. But, guessing from the way she blushed when she told the class the day after the robbery, he probably complimented her and used her blush as a diversion to escape. Maybe she's too embarrassed to admit she let an infamous criminal escape and didn't tell the Law Keepers or the press.

I hide my smile as my father talks animatedly with Mom and head up to my room.

I still can't hide my happiness at the news, even if I heard it before. Yes! He struck again. I stick the article into my scrapbook, then wonder again who it might be. He must be part of the resistance! It has to be one of the angry protesters against the segregation! He must be in the ranks of the poor!

I sit on my bed, cross-legged, and tug at my straight brown hair. It falls out of its pony-tail easily, and I place the orange ribbon on my dresser. I knock a paper off by accident, which lands next to my pillow, and I reach to pick it up.

It's a picture of what the thief supposed to look like. In the picture, he has brown hair, darker than mine, light coloured eyes, and a pale complexion. Even the Law Keepers think he's one of us.

"Jill! Come down for supper, honey!"

My mother's voice jerks me out of my thoughts, and I put down the picture, jumping up off my bed. Guess I'll have time before bed to think about that.


As I am getting ready for bed, I hear a soft thud. It's so quiet that I know most people wouldn't hear it, much less take notice of it. I eye my window suspiciously for a few moments, then walk over to it and tug it open. Leaning out, I nearly fall out when I see the hooded figure standing on my roof.

"Aah—"My scream is cut off by a cool hand. The person puts a finger to his lips and says 'Quiet!' I nod. What if he has a gun? The thought that he might be armed makes my eyes widen and my pulse quicken. He holds his hand over my mouth a few seconds more, and then lifts it off cautiously, probably expecting that I would try to scream again. He doesn't need to worry. The thought of my parents finding me dead in my room tomorrow stops any thoughts of screaming.

"Hello, Beautiful. Now, I don't mean to be rude, but how ever did you hear me?" He asks, his voice husky from whispering. I shrug, wondering why he's staying, where he can be caught. I counter with a question of my own.

"Who're you?" I demand.

"Beautiful and feisty." He sounds so amused that I nearly scream just to spite him. He must have guessed what I'm thinking because he pulls away a bit. Continuing on a bit more seriously, he says, "To answer your question, Maiden, I'm in the newspaper almost every day."

He's the Phantom Thief? I take in all I can of him that I can see. I can tell he's taller than me, even if he's crouching, and I already know he's a boy from the newspaper, but he must be at least my age, most likely older by a year or two. Only half of his face is visible from under the shadow of the hood of his black sweater, but the hair I can see is long, down to his jaw. Which I find strange enough until I notice his hair color.

My eyes widen and I look up only to meet a sea-green gaze.

His hair's silver.

"W-wait," I start, my hand shaking as I push it through my hair. "You're the Phantom Thief? W-why do you have silver hair?" This isn't making any sense. But, his answer opens a pit of anger I didn't know I have.

"Well, since the Great War of the Classes, we—"

"I know my history!" I snap. Why did he have to be so infuriating? Oh, that's right, he's rich. "Listen here, Pretty Boy, I'm asking why you have the color silver for your hair. Only the Blackthorn family can afford it. Are you claiming to be their son, Skye?"

He smirks, making me even more irritated with him. "Why, yes, Beautiful. So you're not just a pretty face. Smart, too. I like that." He smiles a devilish grin that most would find very attractive, but I'm not in the mood.

All of a sudden, there are footsteps on the stairs, and my father is calling my name from the hallway. Skye glances towards my bedroom door, and then looks back at me. "Sorry, I got to jet. But don't worry; we'll meet again." And he starts to leave.

I look him straight in the eyes and snort. "You better not say anything cheesy like 'it's written in the stars' or something."

He pauses where he is, at the edge of the roof, and smirks over his shoulder; I notice his hood is back up over his head. "It's written in the stars." And then he jumps over the edge of the roof just as my father bursts into my room.