TOBIAS

I hunch over my bowl of oatmeal in the morning, guiding the spoon to my mouth by instinct, not sight.

"Tired?" Evelyn asks, without actually needing an answer. I hear her rustling through her bag. She fishes something out of it and returns to the kitchen, clattering around too loudly as she pulls items from the cupboards and drawers. Before long, she sets a mug in front of me and says, "Here, drink this. A little something I discovered on the outside."

I can feel heat emanating toward me and I squint at it. It's a steaming cup of dark brown liquid. I frown, reminded of the dark brown of Dauntless cake and hoping it's not another overly-sweet beverage. It's just too early for that. I raise an eyebrow at Evelyn and she nods encouragingly. I lift the mug to my lips and carefully take a sip. I have to press my lips together to keep from spitting it all over my oatmeal.

"It's—bitter!" I say, looking up at her, surprised.

"Yes," she says, and I can tell she's trying not to smile, "but it'll wake you up." She nods at the cup in my hand, "That's how I make mine but—," she fetches something from the kitchen and says, "you can use a little sugar, if you need it," holding out a small container, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"I'm fine," I mumble into the mug, bringing it to my mouth, again. I wonder if I could justify skipping work to give Zeke a beating. I really shouldn't have let him drag me out so late on a work night. But it had been so long since we—since I—had let loose like that, just for fun. I smile and hope he enjoys explaining his fat lip.

Then I remember that Johanna was due back from D.C. last night and expects to meet at the office mid-morning to brief me on her trip and plan out our schedule for the next few weeks. I sit up straight and stretch before hastily shoveling a few spoonfuls into my mouth. Suddenly, I'm anxious to get going.

By the time Johanna arrives I've completed all the busywork I couldn't concentrate on the day before. It's filed away and the desk is clear. I even had time to jot down a list, point by point, of things I want to discuss. So when she opens the door, her eyes move around the small orderly room, taking in the clean desk, the list, and me standing, not too close, next to the glass as I stare out the window and drum my fingers against my crossed arms.

"Tobias," she says warmly.

Johanna Reyes is the kind of woman who knows how to be direct and compelling, and effective, without having to be harsh. She wears her hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, not the way she used to wear it, hiding the scar on her face as though it was a sign of strife and disunity, a shameful thing. She is more confident, now, but still gentle, all at the same time. I enjoy working with her.

She settles in at the desk and I pull up a chair to the other side. It doesn't take her long to review the meetings she attended and the votes she cast on one or two pieces of legislation. Then I give her a quick rundown of all the files I sorted through while she was gone—and, most importantly, my meeting with George and Amar yesterday.

"Well," Johanna says thoughtfully, swiveling around to stare at the city, "you should definitely go back to the Fringe today. I think it would be a good idea to have a public meeting, a forum. But we want good attendance, so it can't be an impromptu sort of thing. You'll need to advertise."

"Advertise?" I say, pen poised over my notepad.

She turns back to me and says, "Post notices. Signs. Give a specific date and location. Say—one week from today at the intersection of their four main roads." She stares past me, deep in planning mode. "Give people a chance to talk about it and spread the word. Give them a chance to prepare for it, if they want to. Go talk to them. Let them know we really want to hear what they have to say."

"Don't we already do that?" I ask uncertainly, wondering if I've been wasting my time these past couple years.

"Yes, we do. We have," Johanna agrees, resting her pointer finger against her lips. "But we clearly need to do more and, if there's one thing I learned in Amity, it's that people respond well to a corporal meeting. Talking about problems in casual conversation is usually nothing more than the venting of complaints and feelings. It's mostly negative. Raising opinions and ideas in a formal gathering feels—productive. Like it matters and holds more weight. There is unity of purpose." She nods to herself.

She looks at me and scribbles on her own notepad. "We'll both go," she says decisively. "Show a united presence. We'll field questions and bring our different backgrounds to bear. Hopefully," she pauses, tapping the desk with her pen, "hopefully, it will help to diffuse some of the tension."

"I'll put together some signs this afternoon," I say. "And I'll get in touch with George and Amar, see if they'll meet me in the Fringe tomorrow morning with some members of their team. If they don't already have other assignments or patrols scheduled, they can help me post them and pass them out."

I stand and tuck my notebook under my arm. "If there's nothing else, would you like me to get to started?" I ask, thankful for a plan to execute.

"Go ahead, Tobias. Give me an update tomorrow. And when you get the chance, write down anything you think it's important for us to address next week. Best to think over it and be prepared," Johanna says, already shuffling through the papers she removed from a case at her feet.

I am already at the end of the hall when I remember what I forgot. There is a moment's hesitation and then I decide to turn around, jogging back to the door. Johanna looks up, surprised, when I throw the door open hurriedly.

My upper half hangs into the room, supported by one hand on the door frame and the other on the handle. The notebook is pinned between my thumb and the frame and sticks into the room at an odd angle. She stares at it, eyebrows raised, probably expecting me to drop it.

"Johanna, I forgot to mention—you know Evelyn came back, and she's staying with me for a few days—really, no more than a few weeks—until she finds a job and her own place." I decide it's best to just lay out my request. Johanna appreciates the straightforward approach, and I respect her too much to try anything else. "She'd like to begin training with the Transportation Department. Specifically, operating trains. Could you put in a good word with the supervisor? I think it would help."

I chew the inside of my cheek as I wait for her reply with mixed feelings. I am still not sure what obligation I have to Evelyn. She didn't ask for me to intervene. I volunteered my help. And I do want her to get this job. But is that because I want her to move forward with her life and be successful? Or is it because I just want her to move on?

My brow furrows under the weight of my internal confusion and Johanna's eyes rest thoughtfully on my face, as though my scars are as evident as hers.

She nods at me. In spite of her history with my family, she is a peacemaker at heart. And I think she wants to encourage that in me. So much of my life to this point has been spent in bondage to violence, thrown into one conflict after another. Rebuilding the city takes time, and we are committed to that. But healing people, takes longer. And we are committed to that, too. We are all mending, one at a time.

"I'll call right after their lunch break and see what I can do. If they have a new group ready to go through the orientation program, she might be able to start within the week," she says and smiles.

"Thanks," I say, pulling my body back out into the hall. No more adequate words come to me, but that doesn't matter. With Johanna, it's enough. She's already gone back to her work, humming, a tune I am certain would mean something to another Amity. I just admire the soothing melody for what it is, getting softer and softer as it follows me to the exit.

The next week is a blur of activity. I am constantly running back and forth between the city and the Fringe. Amar offered to let me stay with him at the Bureau, but I have no desire to set foot in that place, again. We are working toward resolution, and I am outwardly promoting it. But, there are some lines I will not cross to get it.

So I take the train out every day, reveling in its movement and the energy it gives me. Each time, I stand at the back door of the last car and watch the city pass, just like I did the last time I left it with her. Amar always meets me with his black truck, and I hop into the passenger's seat for another long day of passing out fliers and replacing the ones that were torn down or defaced.

I try to be hopeful that people will come to this gathering. I try to be hopeful that words can turn the tide, here. But I am not from a place where words are powerful. I am not like Johanna or Christina. I look down at the notepad on my lap, the one I have carried with me everywhere we went this week, in case inspiration struck me. It is a very short list, and they are just words.