Dad says everyone has a story worth telling. Most of them begin many years ago, after the second bomb exploded, revealing a deadly contagion that divided the population into the pure, the infected and the enraged. Many tell of the moment when we rose from the ashes and began anew. Others tell of the day we built a wall to keep them out. For some, they are nothing more than footprints left behind—a simple name carved into the gnarled bark of a juniper tree. My story begins with a boy. The mute on the other side of the wall, known only as Six, who touched my heart in a way words never could and gave me the courage to face my darkest truth.