Mora was never particularly keen on spending time with people she didn't understand. They were another species, really, one that left a lump in her throat and an involuntary smirk of defense crawling into her lips.

Peoples differences were no stranger to her, but God. The people who she just couldn't understand, who she just could not sit tight with or let her breath, they killed her. Behind the Fence, it was split for her. Some people were like her, curious and wanting and others were scared and retreating into their safe homes behind the wire. The ones who had no opinion or thoughts or feelings about the forests, nature, the fence, society they made her mind spin.

Such were the reasons why she was confused at herself and the events leading up to her being boosted over the Fence by one pair of big and tough hands and another scarred and clammy.

Morgan Kiel and Tucker Lodan were the type of people who she did not - could not - understand.

Tucker was notorious for not having any opinion on anything in school: always diplomatic, always easy to spill your opinions onto, always nodding as he heard your point. No judgements, no support, no anger, nothing. He was a blank canvas.

Morgan was another story.

In elementary school everyone had to write a paper on the forests for history class. After all, Before the Fence did shape everyones lives considerably. It's a paper conducted by the humanities professors in every year after third grade.

Everyone did it, whether because it was required or because all eight year olds want to share their opinion on everything, she didn't know.

Morgan, two grades ahead of her and scary, did not.

When his teacher came over to collect his paper on the Fence, Morgan just shrugged that shrug of his that involved his entire upper body. He hadn't done it, wouldn't do it.

(He never did.)

Mora thought he was scared, but she soon came to realize that he just didn't care. The Fence was up, nature was out, and he was fine with that. Morgan had no opinions on the whole thing and it made her blanch to even think about it.
Morgan and Tucker were two separate banes of her existence.

They were also helping her over the Fence, and then dropping behind it after her.

When she took her step behind the fence, boots crunching on the grass and leaves, her head cleared and her soul knew everything.

The chair was cold, and the eyes that bore into them were no warmer. There was no wind blowing into the room, but something was continually hitting and seeping into her skin as she relayed the events from their night into the woods.

Her words were shorter and more clipped than they had ever been, and the hazel of the eyes that sat next to her were as cold as the dead leaves that she would watch blow in the wind come fall.

The hand that gripped her hand was cold, and the memory of another's cold and rough hands compelled her to continue.

She doesn't particularly remember who had suggested it, only the feel of two pairs of eyes on her as she slipped her arms into her coat.

Morgan’s room was a mess. Newspapers, online printouts, handouts, paper in general line the walls and the desk that was on the far left corner.

She knew she had been wrong, she'd known about the scars. Seeing this was another thing entirely.

Dinner was an event. Mo and his moms were sitting across from dad, Mom, and Jenny. She was at the head, feeling generally very small and out of place.

Dad pushed the carrots around on his plate. “These are wonderful carrots, Genevieve.”

A beat, and then the musically accented “thank you, Richard” bounced back from the other side of the table. If the air in the room hadn’t been so thick, the smooth lilt of Mo’s maman’s voice would have pushed away any worries in her mind.

The only sound after that was the rustle of napkins and the silence of a nod back. Normally, she loved the quiet. This kind, though, not very much - it was like the calm before a storm, and her stomach rolled like thunder in anticipation.

The rapid questions of Nora and Brooke had been so upfront, so immediate that she almost missed the annoyance and pain in her head from being forced so directly to talk about what had happened that night of Nora’s party. Creating scenarios in her head as she shoveled in asparagus seemed to make her more anxious, and when Jenny coughed her shaking leg hit the table with a bang that resonated through the the table into her bones and made her face twitch into a wince and her eyes beg to roll back.

Mo raised his eyes at her, hazel eyes boring into her as she ducked her head into her chest. She rolled her shoulders into a shrug, and from under the red curtain of curls she saw him nod.

“So Mo--” began Mom and Carrie. A pause entered, and the breathy laughter that falls out after awkward moments tumbled out of their lips. Mom waved her hand, and Carrie sent her a tight-lipped smile of thanks.

“So Mo,” she began and paused again, blinking like she was looking for a way to say something in the politest way possible. “Mo, well. We’re confused as to what happened that night you two went over the Fence,” there was a collective wince at that “Gen and I were wondering--”

Mora was going to be sick.

“--if you could tell us what happened, I mean--” Gen stopped at the look Mo was shooting her. Mora’s stomach churned as she popped another potato into her mouth.

“Why--” Mo stopped to breathe out a gust of air through his flared nostrils, his voice shaking in time with his shoulders. “Why,” he continued, voice steadier, “do you think that we could tell you anything that we haven’t already?”

“Well, we thought that with the pressure of Detective Jones, uh, votre manam et moi, nous avons pensé c’est vous--”

“No,” Mo said flatly. His eyes were tight and unforgiving as his pinched mouth, his tensed fists, his clenched jaw. Mora felt a calm rush over her at his anger, relaxing into the thought that his words put her besides him - that she was not the one who was facing this cold and harsh side of him.

She paused for a moment, waiting for any mouths to open. Seeing no one move but into themselves, she started. “I’m just curious,” she began, trying to keep her voice controlled and relaxed, “if you think we’re lying?” Mora raised her eyebrows at the parents on all sides of her, and shovelled another potato into her mouth. It was So Obvious that Mora Did Not Care, Not At All. Very clear, indeed, she thought, as she choked on the starch behind the hand covering her mouth.

“Mora,” Mom said in reproach, and two pairs of narrowed green eyes slid to meet one another. A hand, scarred and cold and comforting touched her knee. Mo, whose eyes had since softened but never calmed.

“No,” Mo’s maman’s musical voice went, but the betrayal cut up it’s beauty into something ugly. “We don’t.”

The hand on her knee tightened along with her throat.

Mora never gasped. And there she was, gasping. It wasn’t short, like the ones people used to do in movies, the ones where they were surprised. No, this was a gush of air running into her lungs, getting stopped, choking her, and tasting acrid once it finally got to her lungs.

She was scrubbing her shirt like killers did after they killed someone, blood all over the counter. (She was not a killer, Tucker went in there voluntarily, she thought, this was just an accident, it wasn’t her fault no of course not just wrong timing.) The smell of the carbon dioxide was lingering on her shirt and it wouldn’t. come. out.

A leaf fell from her hair as she shook, onto her hand, and she had to stifle a wail. Her brain went back to the pressed leaves above her bed, and immediately she ran away from it. She hated them, she really did. The leaves were ruined for her now, memoirs of terror.

She hated them, especially because they were still beautiful and seemingly fragile things.

Screw leaves, she thought, and even her thoughts were choked. Methodically, she returned back to scrubbing the smell out of her shirt.

An hour later, her hands were red, her knuckles worn from the grip and torn from branches, with her eyes to match.

The bathroom was dead, the only sound the running water. Feeling as though a coat of bricks had been laid upon her shoulders, Mora looked up into the mirror.

Leaves and branches alike were tangled in her hair, her eyes were bloodshot and the skin under her eyes worn from exhaustion and constant rubbing. And her cheeks, her cheeks were covered in thin and criss-crossing slashes from branches and blowing wind alike.

Her green eyes did not look haunted like the books told her they would. They were tired, though, franticly scared and a bit fanatic as well. She expected all of that.

It was the hunger that started back at her that made her throw herself onto her knees and wretch.

Morgan towered over her. At 6’3” he towered over a lot of people, though, and at 5’2” she was fairly accustomed to being tiny. It always left for a strange dynamic when they sat together, though.

“I saw Tucker’s mom shopping when I had to pick up milk yesterday,” was what he announced to her in lieu of a greeting when he slid into the seat next to her at lunch.

It wasn’t a particularly odd occurrence, him sitting with Mora and her friend’s at lunch (he had started doing it last week after their incident in the hallway, and she never thought to tell him to leave). Her lips curled into a smirk as she reached out a took one of the fries off his plate, and had to smother a snicker when she saw him glare at her in faux-irritation out of the side of his eye. “Anyways,” he continued, his voice a mix of amusement and seriousness, “she looked okay. A little tired.”

Mora squeezed her eyes shut, any trace of a smirk long gone. “No offense Nora,” she directed towards her friend, “but I wish I had never gone to your party.”

“No,” Nora shook her head, “I wish I had never thrown it.” She sighed and tucked her head into Brooke’s blonde hair.

Next to her, Morgan snorted. “Stop, both of you. Neither of you are to blame for this, or whatever. And neither am I, or Tucker. I was testy and Tucker was tipsy and he dared you to go past the Fence but, no. None of our faults.”

A cough drew their eyes to a girl, sheepishly standing at the end of the table.

“Hi,” she went as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “You guys are uh,” her eyes flickered over them, “Mora and Morgan, right?”

Mora nodded slowly, an eyebrow climbing up her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” the girl rushed out. “This is ridiculous but could you tell me what you did when you went past the Fence?” Somewhere between the apology and her ‘could you tell me,’ Mora’s face had dropped, along with her stomach.

It happened enough that she shouldn’t react each time, but every time someone came up to her (or them, when they were together) with questions, she froze. Mora would no longer see the questions in their eyes but the shadowy forest, blue eyes, scarred hands tugging on her jacket. Taking a deep breath that was a mix of school cafeteria and forest air, Mora shut her eyes again. Just as she was about to open her mouth, she felt Mo shift in his seat besides her.

“--for the school paper? Was this a bad time to ask? Oh, no, is she okay--”

“I don’t give a s*** about the school paper, Melanie,” came from Morgan. His tone was flat, and when Mora opened her eyes she saw that his eyes were even flatter. His arms were tense, and his swarthy hands were clenched into fists. “It’s always a bad time to ask us. Actually, how dare you?” His voice hadn’t risen, but the consonants were hard and clipped. The girl -- Melanie? -- looked as frozen as Mora was. “Of course she’s not okay how insensitive are you? God, get out of here. She, god we, don’t need this. Just leave,” his flipped his hand at her, nose flared in fury. Morgan shifted in his seat again, turning completely to her. Looking at her shaking form, he softened. Mora watched him swallow a question, as if he decided that she had heard enough that day. Immediately she felt her locked muscles begin to thaw, and she nodded at him.

Thanks, Mo, she thought wearily.

Mora woke to the soft rustle of guests and whispered voices. Tripping over the body of teenage boy Mora stumbled, hissing at the lump of blankets. She squatted down to yank at the tufts of black hair spiking out of the cocoon Morgan had made himself on the wooden floor.

"Wake up," she hissed at his sound of protest. Lightly tapping what she thought to be his arms with her foot, Mora scrunched up her nose in distaste. "We have company, Morgan. Now get up," she said, accentuating her words with light flicks of her feet.

"Leave me alone," he grumbled in a flat voice. "You are six years old, Mora," Morgan continued as she attempted to pull him (cocoon of blankets and pillows and all) through the doorway.

"Six and a half, actually," she whispered caustically as she proceeded to drag him into the hallway. Sitting down next to the mess of blankets, pillows, and boy, Mora clamped a hand down on Morgan's mouth when he opened it.

"They haven't told me anything that's happened to the Lodan boy yet. Just that they were both at Nora Livingstons party -- with a bonfire that we did not authorize, by the way -- with Tucker Lodan,  and the three of them decided to go past the Fence. They don't know what happened to Tucker in the woods, or so they say. Please, if you have any information that your kids told you but don't want to tell us, tells us now."

There were hums of the murmured responses, and then a pause before the low voice of her father spoke.

"The kids are scared. What they saw - they must be repressing it. If they're keeping it to themselves, it's for a reason. I doubt they're trying to keep you guys from solving the investigation. But these kids, they hardly seem functional without the other one there with them. Whatever happened that night left them shaken. Tread carefully, is all my advice. As a father and a forensic psychologist."

Now fully awake, Morgan sat back against the wall, shifting under the blanket. A sigh rumbled from his throat as she lifted a shaking hand to push back her hair. Screwed, she thought, they were screwed in the head and with the law, the two of them. What a pair, her conscious snarled back at her.

"We're screwed," he breathed out.

August twenty-third, 2076: WILLIAMSBURG LOCAL PAPER
As a warning to the general public of Williamsburg, Governor Tate has issued a warning to all of those who wish to venture into the woods past ten: police will not be answering calls from those lost or stuck or otherwise inconvenienced in the woods. This will be our final warning; any assistance from outside help will come from your private help such as friends and family who are willing to go in and help.

Mora’s eyes flew down to the paper stapled to the other side of the newspaper.

January thirtieth, 2077: WILLIAMSBURG LOCAL PAPER
Like the rest of the country, Williamsburg will be enforcing the curfew. Eight o’clock will be the first alarm, which will last for a minute. These alarms will be hourly until eleven o’clock, in which police officers are warranted to arrest any civilians still out of there homes for their own personal safety.

Taped to the bottom of that one read:

March fifth, 2077: WILLIAMSBURG LOCAL PAPER
Curfew has been moved down to five p.m. and alarms will sound hourly until eight. Curfew extends until five in the morning, no exceptions except for emergencies such as death, impending childbirth, or cases in need of immediate medical attention.
Governor Laney has no further statements on the matter.

Her eyes went to the clip out on the wall.

July 19th, 2085:  THE NEW YORK TIMES
President Rodriguez has begun plans for fencing in the U.S populace, very much alike France and Germany’s presidents also have within the past year. All areas with dense deciduous forests will be contained into communities behind a fence, essentially creating a barrier between the forests and the populace. All animals available will be brought into safety as well. Massachusetts has already begun to build underground tunnels between towns, and Minnesota has begun building bridges.

Mora’s lips twisted into a grimace as she snagged the pamphlet from Mo’s desk.

BASTLLE COUNTY PARK: CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF EVENTS LEADING UP TO FENCING IN HUMANITY.
2075: the trees and brush in the biomes of deciduous temperate forest and tropical rainforests and taiga have begun to grow back and become denser. The trees most recently cut down in the Amazon forest have begun to grow back within three months, taller and denser. Areas in which lumber companies have not reached, such as Siberia’s Taiga, have seemingly grown denser, even in the snow.
By June sparse forests all over the world were dense, and cameras were put in all forests across the world to monitor growth patterns.
2076: Most police forces would shut down calls from civilians past the wood border. Surprisingly enough, no uprisings arose.
2077: Curfews, first originating in Canada, were enforced. The United States of America’s official and national curfew being eight o’clock, although individual towns (depending on regions and biome) could enforce earlier ones.
2079: Towards the centers of large masses of the forests, carbon dioxide levels increased to uninhabitable levels. All animals have been moved closer to surrounding towns.
2082: Vines in tropical forests have been recorded to move along the forest floor and catch onto anything moving. Poison ivy has been reported to do the same.
2085: Plans to fence in the U.S went underway under President Michelle Rodriguez and her First Lady Chrystelle Jones, much like the ones already put up in Germany and France.
2088: Branches move without wind, and will slash at any movement, much like the vines in ‘82. Reports of people, including children, being scarred from the branches put the U.S government into action.
2090: Nature is uninhabitable. All animals have habitats in communities that are like zoo's, behind the general Fences  with the human populace. Going past the fence is now a felony in the United States of America.

“You really need to explain a few things to me” Mora said as she collapsed onto her bed with a yawn.

Morgan leaned against the her bedroom door, eyes locked carefully onto the dirty carpet that was half ripped up from Tom, her yellow and angry cat. She watched him swallow, in a way that was not in concern or in attraction or in anything really other than needing to be aware of him. Mora couldn’t remember why she hated hated him five days ago, but seeing him as a puppy feeling down was not helping her continue any feelings toward him along the lines of hostility.

“What do you want me to explain, again?”

She took a moment before letting an “anything” escape her mind en route her tongue.

“I hate being called Mo by anyone but my mothers, I hate nature, and I hate Detective Jones. I used to hate that you seemed to hate me even though we had never even had a conversation.”

Her lips twitched, and any dark twist of her bones towards him softened.

“You seem angry.”

“I am.” He looked up then, and the hazel eyes were glaring at her in an intensity that she’d never seen from him before. Her question of why slipped out before she could think of anything more specific, and he shrugged. A bitter smile that seemed so foreign to her but so natural on him twisted his face into something that could be more intimidating than his towering stature. “Nature is so twisted, man.”

The truth of it wasn't anywhere near funny or even ironic, God, but she laughed until she snorted. The smile on his face curled into one of gentle pleasure, and his glare became mocking. Both were contradictions to him as an overall person, she thought, because obviously she was an amazing judge of character. Specifically, Morgan Kiel.

"And you? What are you going to tell me?"

Mora looked to the ceiling and back to his eyes.

"I'll be called Mo for the both of us, nature intrigues me and after the other night the interest is still there and I'm terrified. Detective Jones is a dick, I agree."

Morgan blinked at her, before he snorted.

"I'll tolerate you calling me Mo."

Mora's smile blinded the room.

The detective in charge of interrogating the two of them was called Detective Jones, and Mora can't help but feeling like screaming whenever he breathed.

"Could you at least try to explain what happened that night, sweetheart?" he said in a monotone voice, his oily voice beginning to edge into frustration.

"Don't call me sweetheart."

He stared, and she stared back.

Truly, she wanted to tell this creep of a cop what had happened. The only thing that she even remembered was the smell of carbon dioxide and the rough scraping of the bark on the trees.

She could still feel the puffs of breath she had heaved out while sprinting out of the woods blindly. The feel of Morgan's presence behind her, sometimes in front of her, hadn't comforted her at all, she knew.

The last thing she remembers about Tucker, the real reason why Detective Jones was there in that cold room that made her sit in that cold chair that made her backside ache with the power of a thousand suns, was his laugh of amazement.

The real truth of last night was the terror of the happenings, but the gnarled and overgrown beauty of the setting was all encompassing. She couldn't help but feel the warm satisfaction of feeling the trees and the leaves beneath her palm. Before the acrid smell of carbon dioxide had filled her lungs, she had felt the first truly fresh air settle into her body. It had woken her, and Mora was still thrumming with it.

"Miss Berry, please just tell me whatever you can," the detective said, shaking her from her thoughts. His old face had softened somewhat, with a pity that erupted a volcano inside her.

She cocked her head as she drummed her fingers to the beat of the energy inside her, her voice drawling out her own question. "What has Morgan told you?"

When she was younger, she used to study him. Watch the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or the laughter lines that came out around his friends. How he crunched the space between his eyebrows together when he was concentrating, and the way how his mouth slid into a straight line when he was upset. Always, she watched him with a type of passive aggressive interest.

“You’re such a little hater,” Brooke had drily told her once after a particularly long rant on Morgan. “If you dislike him so much, why do you pay attention to him at all? You’re going to get wrinkles,” she had continued cheekily as she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles on Mora’s cheek.

Mora’s lips had pursed then, and at the memory she was caught in between pursing them again and rolling her eyes. Morgan was a sore spot her her, and she had always tried to keep him out of her mind. He had induced stress, and so unless provoked Mora had treated him like a bad memory.

Now, though. Now he was there, constantly. After their talk two days ago she hadn’t spent any time with him at all, only acknowledging him in the hallways with a brief nod or a smile when he caught her eye at lunch.

Any small encounter with him shook her. Her first impulse was to scowl, or raise her eyebrows, or at least give him a look of incredulity. That’s what she’d always done, and her habitual reactions to him were hard to break.

Mora shook her head, exhaling out of her nose with a huff that probably made her look like a bull. (“You even have the nose ring,” Nora would have told her if she had been there.) It was last block, and Mora never saw Morgan -- Mo -- last block, absolutely never, so why would she now? It was that last calming thought that she took her Environmental Science book.

She dropped it five seconds later, though, when an increasingly familiar hand landed on her shoulder.

Mora stiffened at the weight of it, caught in between the desire to turn around with curled lips and a snarl or to pick up her book and bolt. With bull-like snuff Mora decided that neither would do, so she closed her eyes as she turned around.

Opening her eyes to meet his, she raised her eyebrow before sliding them to the hand that was still on her shoulder.

“Nah,” she said bluntly, her nose twitching. She could almost hear imaginary-Nora snickering out a “too soon there, bud” from behind her.

Morgan snatched his hand away to run it through his hair, almost smirking. Mora’s stare grew steely in irritation.

“Sorry, Mo,” he went on. The smirk trembled a little, and the nervous vibration of it shifted something in her chest. He bent down and grabbed her book for her, holding it out to her loftily. She wanted to hate his ease, but instead it only softened her more. What a jerk, she thought. “I just thought you’d want to know that your mom invited my moms and me to dinner sometime,” he continued lazily. “I was actually yelling your name the entire way down the hallway, but you didn’t hear me.” He waved EnviSci textbook that he still held around, as if to prove his point.

Cute, she thought irritatedly as she snagged her book from his hand. “Sick,” she said dryly as she turned to leave for class.

She only waved a hand at him in response to his goodbye.

Her shoulder still tingled.

"And then he," she paused her pacing across the wood floors of her bedroom to hold up a finger and widened eyes to her audience, "and then he took off his shirt."

Mom raised her eyebrows and went "I don't need to hear this, Mo" the same time Nora leaned on her elbows, grinning lavisiciously as she cackled out a "please continue."

A smile fought at her lips as Mora shook her head, red curls bouncing in the light. "No no no," pause, "no. Not like that." Swallowing a grin to match her best friends, she tried for a reassuringly ernest look to her mother while simultaneously sending a stern-but-endeared look to Nora.

"Well then that's boring."

"Oh thank God. I prefer boring."

"Not boring!" Mora stammered out, wincing at the memory. Sitting down on the floor, she began to pick at the torn carpet. "He," she began slowly, "has these huge scars down his back. From a tree, when he was little and he went on this picnic with his moms and oh god, you should've seen it. It was awful, it looks like his spine should be crooked."
Her mom moved onto the floor next to her, Nora now sitting rigidly on her bed, eyes intent on looking at anywhere but her eyes.

"Apparently, young Morgan couldn't handle his bladder," she snorted, "and had to go by the forest. Honestly. He was like, three. Jesus. And they, the trees," she breathe in shakily. “They just tore him up.”

When her mom came back into the room with a tray of marshmallows and hot chocolate, Nora was gripping her hands as Mora tucked her knees into her and stared at the floor in anger.

Nature: so twisted, man.

"Whoa."

She turned around and grinned at Tucker. His face was alight with wonder as he took in the night-colored leaves and the broad turnings of the trees; the gnarled nature of the branches and the overgrown bushes. His dark blue eyes were lit up in feverish excitement and determination as they flitted between her and the expanse of the forest.

"I know," came from Morgan flatly. Still facing Tucker, Mora slid her eyes to look at his dark figure, pushing his glasses up his nose as he stood half in the shadows, half bathing in the light of the fluorescents above. He looked terrified and intoxicated all at once, and a smirk tugged at her lips.

"Let's go," she said as began to trudge into the woods, hands pressing down on the puffs of her dress against the wind.

"I remember I heard a few things that night, just when we were going in. Someone breathing in, like a gasp. Someone breathing out, kind of sighing. And the rustle of the wind against the leaves and the thick of the trees. In that moment, all I was feeling was this kind of aching excitement to get in, like my soul was going to be ripped apart if I didn't go in. It's the sort of thing that you listen to, you know? That haunting... hungriness, the fear that excites you? Maybe it's just adrenaline, but it's like the trees made me come alive. I remember while I was walking in and they were walking behind me that my legs were screaming at me to run through the woods. All of the blood was coursing through me really fast and really hard, like I was aware of every single inch of what was going on in my body. I knew everything that was going on inside of me. Walking around now, I uh. I still feel the hungriness? And the fear but it's different. Because I still want to be past the Fence but then I remember Tucker's excitement to be past the Fence and it's just like. He was excited but not afraid, and God. He's dead I know he is and that excitement wasn't there when it happened. He died afraid and alone, and now I live with that. Because he could have died afraid but not alone and God I wish he was still here but I don't regret leaving. Holy s*** though, because I still want to go back in. It's like the woods made me want to go back in and feel that awareness again but it terrifies me. What could happen to me. I just. I don't know. Yeah."

He was always there.

Both of the boys were with her, really. Mo and his scarred hands were always behind her, letting her lead, a constant companion that she didn't have to explain anything to, could lean on when the questions made her numb her brain.

Tucker and his exhalation of excitement, wonder. The look of him, silent and alone and terrified and confused as the acrid smell of carbon dioxide filled their lungs and the wind rustled the wicked and beautiful trees in excited anticipation.

Leaning against Morgan as Nora stood next to them, one pair of eyes were narrowed, another's tired, and another's wide as all three of them watched the mouth of their classmates come up to them slowly. Their questions, always tedious, always angst-inducing, always expected, not always respectful and not always blunt.

One morning when the morning sky was gray from the rain and the leaves that could be seen from above the Fence were dropping (something that stuck Mora with a feeling of satisfaction; there had been another nightmare last night of the uneven puffs of air behind her as her feet ached from running around branches and bushes and tripping on roots) and she was alone in the glaringly light cafe did someone walk up to her.

"You're kind of surprising everyone, you know," came a voice from behind.

Swallowing the fighting urges to turn around a snap or to shrug and continue her stunningly boring activity of blankly staring out the window, Mora turned around and stared.

The mans smiled at her, kindness leaking out of his brown eyes. She found herself sinking into the warmth of him, his brown skin glowing even in the glare of the lights, reminding her so much of her father that any irritation washed away as he began to talk. "Out of the two of you, you and your friend, we all thought that you would be the one found yelling at people. Never stopped you before," he chucked as Mora frowned. "Loud and outspoken, you are, if I do say so myself."

Maybe he was too much like her father, she thought as the frown scrunched up her nose and her eyes twitched. "How observational of yourself, sir," she said.

"Yes well," he chirped on cheerfully, "I do believe I lost a few bets." There was a strangled sound from the back of her throat. "But the reason I came over here was to tell you to not lose yourself. I used to love hearing you shouting at your friends from a mile away. So much spirit," he shook his head and moved to put his hand on her shoulder, but hesitated. There was an awkward (but relieving) beat before she slid over so that his brown hand rested on the lighter brown of hers. "Keep on chugging."

Disgruntled and touched, she nodded once and gulped her coffee.

"Oh and take care of yourself!" he yelled as he opened the door of the cafe as she choked on the feeling of a burnt throat.

The wind was cold when it cut through the thick of her jacket, and her gloved hand shook as she raised it to push open the steel doors of the research lab.

Her mom had hugged her tightly before jumping into the car next to her, smile wavering under the weight of the tears that threatened to spill over her eyes. "I remember, when you were six you stormed up to your father and I, completely indignant over the fact that career day hadn't had a booth for botany. And then, when you were ten you and Jenny spent hours looking up schools to see if any offered classes on botany or biology classes, at least. And then when you were sixteen, well." Her mother smiled at her softly as she reached over to squeeze her wrist, knuckles white. "And now, here you are. I'm so proud of you, dear.”

Mora exhaled all of worries with the opening of the door, and a grin creeped onto her lips as she stepped inside.

"So I'm looking into poisonous plants, and I think I've really got something--"

Mora blinked up at him from her position on the floor. "Why are you looking into poisonous plants?" Shifting closer to the warm sunlight ray on the floor, she sunk into the floor. "Like. Do I have to be worried?" She smirked as Mo frowned down at her from his position on the couch.

"You're juvenile," he stated primly out of pursed lips. Morgan straightened out before spreading his findings out on the coffee table. Mora watched as the sun brightened his light hands as he skimmed his fingertips over certain pictures. "These here are belladonna. They're assholes, to be honest. And Foxglove can kill you, if you're unlucky enough. Oh, and Bleeding Heart--"

"There's a plant called Bleeding Heart? I would think that it's poisonous. Jesus, Mo."

"Actually, it's only fatal to cows. Poor babies."

Mora stared, blinked, and nodded. "Why were you looking up poisonous plants, again?"

Morgan grew quiet and sunk into the couch. Looking at him as he curled into himself, the fact that he was only two years older than herself was driven home. Before they'd actually known each other, he was tall and rebellious and huge in the idea that he didn't care about the world behind the Fence. That night, he was silent but always there. She closed her eyes tight as she remembered his scarred hands on her shoulder when the smell of carbon dioxide had grown stronger, urging her to turn back.

"We need to leave," he had said, low - as though he would disturb something if he spoke at a normal level. Tucker's grunt of disagreement still rung in her ears.

And after, he was always there. A silent presence if need be, a physical reassurance of not being alone in everything. He could crack jokes, awful ones that were half pitiful but endearing nonetheless, if she needed the weight on her chest lifted. Mo wasn't her friend, protector, partner. He simply was there, a contrast of dark and light that she never knew that she wanted around. His presence was nearly everything to her. She supposed that his importance made him larger to her.

Mora wasn't blind - she knew he struggled with the situation just as much as she did. Some mornings she would wake to find him, sleeping, on her bedroom floor or the couch in the living room. Coming home to seeing him having coffee with her mom or dad wasn't out of the norm. He craved her nearness as she did his. When they couldn't physically lean into each other, and the scars tingled and his mind felt like it was collapsing  in on itself, he would call her, voice scratchy from tears. Walking into his very room was evidence enough of his turmoil.

She had seen him cry into her shoulder as he was curled himself around her, had seen him lean against one of his mothers -- or even her own -- in exhaustion that only came from a terror inside of oneself (she had recognized it; if only her past self could see them now. She found more of herself reflected back by Morgan than anyone she has ever met).

But never had she ever seen him so defeated, or small. Almost childlike was his face, hazel eyes wide and downcast, lips that were once in a frown now in a frozen tremble.

"Morgan," she said once. When he shrugged his shoulders she slid onto the couch next to him. "Mo."

"I wanted," he began before stopping. He flexed his hands down to his knees. "I wanted to see if maybe I could figure out what started it all. Poisonous plants are one of the things that the scientists never really looked at. Everyone always thought that it was man made or something. But when I got those scars and I was near the woods, I don't know. There's this charge in the air and it doesn't feel artificial. Natural, it seems natural. I think that maybe it's the plants and the roots and the trees themselves. Nothing did this to them: they did it themselves. They adapted, or evolved, or something."

"Why did you do all of this?" she asked, knowing the answer in the pit of her stomach.

"Well I started it when I was younger, way younger. I was six, I think. It was just a theory, not even a hypothesis. Just research, really. Fueled by hatred and bitterness and this need to know why me. It's why I went into the woods with you guys that night. I was terrified; I think I might have literally peed my pants when Tucker dared you. But I wanted to know if my theory was right, if it was consistent. So I went, to see if I would feel it again. That energy. And I did, Mora, I freaking did. The entire time, and then when the carbon dioxide became denser, the energy it shifted. Did you feel it? I've never asked. But it felt menacing like it wanted us out. My theory was proved true. And now I'm continuing it, for myself. And Tucker, and you."

After ten minutes of trying to find the receptionist, and then another ten minutes of waiting, a woman in a lab coat walked in briskly and came at a stop in front of her.

“Mora Berry, it’s so good to meet you,” the woman greeted her with a warm smile as she fixed her hijab. “I am Abira Issa, your new boss.”

With another smooth smile, Abira walked Mora through her tour of the lab, going over safety procedures that she would break, and rules that Mora liked enough to keep in mind. The glass walls held most of her attention, eyes widening to take as much as possible in. Her jaw clenched as her ribs expanded as the wind and the rain whipped the trees next to the walls, plastering a few stray golden leaves to the wall. The blood in her veins was running through her, stronger, faster than when she had been waiting downstairs. The odd mix of terror and excitement that was only ever brought on by nature.

“--among that, we’re also attempting to plant trees in the Fence. Regulated ones, to see if it’s the soil. However, because of your dissertation, you’ll be working with Dr. Kiel in the theoretics department, which essentially creates a large majority of the hypotheses we will test there and -- oh! Well here he is now.”

“Miss Mora Berry,” came from the hazel-eyed and dark haired man at the end of the hallway. He grinned knowingly as he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Such an honor, I’m sure--”

Mora turned away from Abira and the whirling trees to grin. Mo, she thought giddily as the sense of his presence settled into her bones once again. Any rush of adrenaline from the trees faded as she sighed into the feel of his scarred hand around hers, and the warmth of the energy of the person who knows you the best.