Shatter-Me-PDF-Shatter-Me-Series-Shatter-Me-Shatter-Me-1-Tahereh-Mafi (1)

compounds stretching on for miles. “Cold air smells so
clean,” I tell him. “Fresh. Brand-new. It’s the most wonderful
smell in the world.”
His eyes look amused, troubled, interested, and confused
all at once. He shakes his head. Pats down his jacket and
reaches for an inside pocket. He pulls out a gun with a gold
hilt that glints in the sunlight.
I pull in a sharp breath.
He inspects the gun in a way I wouldn’t understand,
presumably to check whether or not it’s ready to fire. He
slips it into his hand, his finger poised directly over the
trigger. He turns and finally reads the expression on my
face.
He almost laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s not for you.”
“Why do you have a gun?” I swallow, hard, gripping my
arms tight across my chest. “What are we doing up here?”
Warner slips the gun back into his pocket and walks to the
opposite end of the ledge. He motions for me to follow him. I
creep closer. Follow his eyes. Peer over the barrier.
Every soldier in the building is standing not 15 feet below.
I distinguish almost 50 lines, each perfectly straight,
perfectly spaced, so many soldiers standing single file I lose
count. I wonder if Adam is in the crowd. I wonder if he can
see me.
I wonder what he thinks of me now.
The soldiers are standing in a square space almost
identical to the one Warner and I occupy, but they’re one
organized mass of black: black pants, black shirts, shin-high
black boots; not a single gun in sight. Each is standing with
his left fist pressed to his heart. Frozen in place.