About a week later, I get held back after Military Tactics class. Dr. Andrews wants to speak with me.

"Yes, sir?" I'm praying I'm not in trouble. He's my favorite teacher, this is my favorite subject, and I can't imagine what I may have done wrong. Did a classmate cheat off of me during the last test? That happened a couple of years ago. He was expelled in disgrace; I got a very stern warning not to let it happen again, or else I'd be out too. (I claimed I didn't see him looking at my paper. I did. I just felt sorry for the kid, so I let him copy a little. But I learned my lesson.)

Dr. Andrews is a ridiculously tall man. Dressed in teacher's black academic robes, with the velvet-and-satin hood over his shoulders, he looks even more imposing. He peers down at me, his face pleasant. It doesn't seem like he's about to start yelling, praise be. "Miller, your paper on the pacification of New York and Chicago was very good."

"Thank you, sir!" No kidding?

"Very good. Thoughtful. And brazen: your thesis that a Commander should choose the most humane, Christian course of action in battle…it's not something you learned from me." He paused. "Nor from any other teacher here."

I don't know how to answer that, so I stay silent.

"I value original thought. I wrote a letter of accolade for you, placed it in your file."

"I appreciate that, Dr. Andrews. Truly. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I even emailed a copy of your paper to Commander Blaine. Thought he might like to read your critique."

My eyebrows shoot up. Somehow, I didn't think Blaine was still alive; history is usually about old dead guys. Besides, Gilead's a big country, and the Commanders are busy men. He wouldn't have time to read some kid's school report, right? "Did he…did he read it?" I blurt out, forgetting to address Dr. Andrews by name or title. He doesn't seem bothered by the mistake.

"He did indeed. He sent me a long email back—that same day!—complimenting the work and asking for my honest opinion of you. He also, according to the school secretary, put in a formal request for your entire file." I'm blushing, I know I am. He goes on, "Commander Blaine wrote me that he's looking for a few young men to start off in Eyes as drivers or personal aides, and asked if I thought you might be a good fit in that capacity. Is that something that appeals to you?"

"Yes sir, very much, sir. With God's grace, I would be honored to try."

"Don't ever say you'll try, Mister Miller. Say you'll do it."

"I'd be honored to work for the Eyes under Commander Blaine, Dr. Andrews."

He smiles at me like a proud father. "That's better. Well, it seems you have a plan for your life post-graduation. Praise be. Now, let me write you a pass to your next class." He adds with humor in his voice, "I wouldn't want you to get yet another demerit for attendance."

Again, I end up running through the halls. This time, though, I'm so happy I'm practically skipping like a little kid.

By His hand—and by Dr. Andrews' hand too—I have a way out. Away from Virginia, away from the Millers. I might get to work for a man with old-fashioned morality. At least, I hope that's what Commander Blaine is like. I picture a kind, wrinkled face, with wise old eyes but a still-sharp mind. Maybe he was in the American military, maybe he taught military tactics at some university, or maybe he was part of the original Sons of Jacob before the Revolution. Maybe he even knew my father.


A few months later, I'm dozing off after lights-out. Suddenly, the double doors burst open and two teachers enter, flipping the overhead lights on and waking everyone up.

"Hayes! On your feet."

Jefferson Hayes is a friend of mine. He's the great-great-something-grandson of Jefferson Davis, who was some great American patriot a long time ago. But since he's not one to brag, he just goes by Jeff when the teachers aren't listening. He's a good guy. Anything you need, he's the first person to offer help. Everyone likes him. So it's confusing me why he's being dragged out of our dorm room in his pajamas right now. Usually, demerit punishments are meted out before dinner.

"What's going on?" I whisper to John in the bunk next to mine.

"Someone ratted Jefferson out for touching himself," he whispers back.

Oh. This is bad. Poor Jeff. Bastinado is probably going to be the punishment. We've been told a zillion times not to 'spill seed' unless we're on top of a girl, trying for a baby. It's just sinful otherwise. And since we're almost never alone, I don't know how anyone thinks they can get away with it. I mean, I understand the temptation—I really do—but it's rarely worth the risk. The only place I've ever dared it is in the necessaries, if I take a shower at an odd time when nobody happens to be around.

There's nothing I can do for my friend right now, so I drift off to sleep, only waking up when Jefferson is brought back to the dorm. He's dragged in by two adults and dumped roughly in his bed. No shoes or socks. His feet are a bloody mess. Once the teachers leave, I get up, yank the neat hospital corners from the bottom of his mattress, and pull the blankets up to his calves so he doesn't stain the sheets with blood. "Do you need anything?" I whisper to him.

He doesn't even answer me. Just covers his face with his pillow. I pat his shoulder in commiseration before returning to my own bunk.

I'm lucky enough to have never had my feet whipped with a cat o' nine tails, but I know it takes a week or so before you can even walk normally. PE classes are going to be hell for him—we're all going to have to cover for him. I hope Jeff will at least be able to walk across the stage at graduation in two weeks. But how embarrassing for him and his family: if he's limping, everyone's going to know he broke a major rule. And if his parents find out which rule it was…well, I wouldn't want to be Jefferson.


"You know what 'team building' used to mean, boys, back in the old days? It meant sitting around in a circle and discussing feelings! Apologizing to any little snowflake who was offended at our words! Is that what we're doing here?"

"No sir!" we all bark, panting away. My Team Building teacher, Dr. Dolor, is so strange. Always shouting at us about how terrible it was in America, where people actually, uh, talked to the snowflakes in the winter? He also claims there were American men who cut off their privates to pretend they were women, and that men used to be able to marry other men. This all seems unlikely. I don't know, I'm not sure the guy is all there, if you get my meaning.

On the other hand, snowflakes would be pretty to see. It never snowed in Atlanta. We did get a little snow in Charlottesville a few years ago, but not much. Maybe an inch. I liked looking at snow, but had zero inclination to talk or apologize to it. Dolor's a nut job.

I wish it were snowing today; instead, it's a sweltering June day. Sweat is dripping from my forehead. But I truly shouldn't be thinking about the weather. I need to concentrate on what I'm doing.

Our current activity is a 500-meter foot race. Wouldn't be too hard, except only half of us are running. The other half—the heavier half of the class—is riding on the back of a classmate. Today, praise be, I'm one of the 'jockeys,' not the 'horses.' So I've got my legs wrapped around this poor boy's trembling ribcage, my hands holding on to his shoulders. He's buckling under my weight while he tries to keep up with the other racers. We're currently in ninth place out of eleven teams.

"Move it, Ashburn!" Dr. Dolor yells at my horse. "What if he were injured and you had to evacuate him from the battlefield? Could you do it? A squad is only as strong as its weakest link! Is that you?"

"No, sir," he yelps in a strangled voice, then collapses on the ground. We've been running for almost an hour now: short sprints, obstacle drills, and now this two-man race. I guess Ashburn has had it, with the heat and all.

I fall awkwardly on top of him, trying to roll off as quickly as I can (before the teasing starts). I hear a strange crunch. After a second, I look down at my leg and realize my left kneecap has dislocated out to the side. Then my brain catches up with my eyes, and I howl in pain. Worst pain of my entire life. Holy shit. I know better than to swear out loud, but holy shit this hurts like a motherfucker.

I scream again when the medics lift me onto the stretcher, stopping only when I catch sight of Ashburn, who is about two seconds away from bursting into tears. Everyone knows my accident was his fault, but I can't bring myself to tell him off. I couldn't possibly make him feel worse than he already does. The rest of our class is chewing him out, though, telling him they sure as heck wouldn't want to be on the battlefield with a weak loser like him.

"Come on, Miller, stiff upper lip!" Dr. Dolor tells me as he climbs into the ambulance. Just my luck, my least-favorite teacher, Dr. 'Americans Talk to Snowflakes' himself, gets to accompany me to the hospital. "Pain is a gift from God, reminding us we're alive."

Yeah, I'm definitely alive, if pain is the metric. I don't need any more reminders from the Lord, thank you very much.

I get no anesthetics in the hospital, not even aspirin. Think of our soldiers fighting and dying for our godly Republic, I'm told. They need the medicine more than you. A dislocated kneecap isn't nearly as painful as childbirth, and even a thirteen year-old girl can endure that without medication.

Peter, my squad leader, shows up at the hospital to support me. I'm so, so happy to see him. He tousles my hair—very gently, since any movement makes pain shoot through my leg like fire. "Well, looks like you've got an excuse to get out of PE for a while."

"I almost made it to graduation without any injuries," I say through clenched teeth. "So close. But yeah, I guess I'm done with PE for good now." I'm trying not to look too closely at Peter; Dr. Dolor is sitting right next to me, and he's got a super-sensitive gender traitor detector.

I only have to wait for a few more minutes before it's my turn to be treated. Peter sort of holds my arm—not my hand, of course—while two doctors examine me gingerly. I yelp when they touch my leg. Dolor tells me repeatedly to 'man up.' I ignore his advice but "yes sir" him anyway; the stupid horse and jockey exercise was his idea in the first place, so this is all his fault. After examining my knee, the two doctors look at each other in silent understanding. Without warning, one doctor pushes my hips down while the other one wrenches my knee back into its socket. I see white lights in front of my eyes, the pain is so bad. But after a weird sucking noise, the problem is suddenly fixed.

"Better?" one of the doctors says to me. My first impulse is to kick him in the face, just to show how much better my leg is feeling. But I just nod humbly.

I have newfound respect for all women who give birth. At least this pain, although excruciating, was over as soon as the doctors popped the knee back in. Labor, from what I remember from the experiences of the two Ofhenrys, goes on for hours and hours. I can't even imagine the torture. As the nurse puts a soft foam immobilizer around my leg, I vow to be very nice to handmaids from now on.


Two weeks later, I graduate from the Guardian Preparatory Academy. No more Prussian-blue uniforms. After our commencement exercises, we get a whole suitcase full of black Guardian uniforms along with our diplomas. No sidearm yet, but we are given a dagger engraved with the Guardian Oath as well as a fun multi-tool. We get dog tags, too, which I wear proudly under my new black shirt. The dagger goes on my belt. The stupid blue-and-white immobilizer on my leg does cramp my style, but I still think I look better now in all black. Tougher, older.

I return to Richmond with my parents for a few days before shipping off for duty in Boston. Commander Blaine's offer was actually serious—I'm going to be a personal aide, shared between him and another Council member, Commander Joseph Lawrence. According to Dr. Andrews, that man is super influential, an original designer of Gilead's economy. But before I go north, I suffer through four days at home. At least the Martha's cooking is as good as I remember—far better than dorm food—and my father treats me with grudging respect now. He doesn't even insult me, let alone hit. After all, I'm temporarily a cripple. A wounded warrior.

The newest Ofhenry is pregnant: baby number three for our prayerful household. As I promised God, I go out of my way to take care of her, bringing her food to her room on a tray, chatting politely to her, getting her a bag of ice for her swollen eye. Maybe that's why my father is being nice to me: he's beating on the handmaid instead? Or maybe my mother hit Ofhenry. She hates the handmaids, especially while they're pregnant, although that's kinda the entire point of having a handmaid in the house. My mother isn't the most logical of women.

Anyway, now that I'm sixteen, the Millers' legal responsibility towards me is over. If I were their biological child, I'm sure they'd want me back at holiday dinners and stuff, but I'm just a placement. They never really loved me. I never warmed to them, either. They take me to the Richmond train station, along with their kids and the Martha, and wave me off. And that's the end of that chapter of my life.


I step onto the train platform in Boston, hoping there's a driver or Guardian to meet me. This city is somewhat cooler and a lot less humid than Virginia. Everyone's dressed sharply and moves with a purpose. I notice that none of the handmaids here wear the piety ring and mask over their mouths. The spacious train station is bigger than Richmond's, much more elegant but also modern. I already love it here.

Near the front of the train, there's a Commander holding a sign with my name. Boston has a lot of good-looking people, but this guy has got to be the most handsome man I have ever seen in my entire life. Exotically dark hair and eyes, chiseled face, a sensuous mouth. Thin build, but I imagine he's got some nice muscles under that suit. Commander Absalom, the comeliest man in the kingdom. He looks straight at me and smiles slightly in recognition. Those eyes, those lips…!

"Um, buh, blessed morning, uh, Commander." I'm stuttering. First time in my life for that. My mouth is dry. Please, dear Lord, let me be working alongside this man.

He ignores my incoherence and speaks in a relaxed, friendly tone. "Blessed morning. You must be Samuel."

"Yes sir, Samuel Miller. I'm supposed to be meet—working for Commander Blaine."

He nods, offering me a hand to shake. Long, tapered fingers, expensive watch, gold wedding band. "Right. I'm Nick Blaine. Nice to meet you."

This is Commander Blaine? The wise old man that I'd been picturing evaporates, along with pretty much every other thought that has ever occupied my brain. I try to come up with an appropriate prayer of thanks, but the only words I have are holy cow.