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He didn’t know that pushing through pain is one of my oldest habits, learned young, like chewing on my thumbnail, or holding my fork in my left hand instead of my right.
“Stiffs are uptight,” the boy says plainly, like it’s a fact. “So, to prove you’re really Dauntless now . . . I dare you to get a tattoo.”
Shouldn’t have to be
But it doesn’t match who I am—I should be scarred, marked, the way they are, but marked with memories of pain, scarred with the things I have survived.
As I start toward the dorms, I hear something at the end of the hallway we just walked down—something like quiet, shuffling footsteps, moving in the opposite direction.
With a start, I realize that one of them is Jeanine Matthews, representative of Erudite.
“An initiate came forward to express his concerns for your and Tobias’s well-being,”
An initiate came forward to express his concerns—and I’m sure I know who that initiate is. Our only former Erudite: Eric.
“Amar,” he says, a little breathless. “Amar is . . .” He shakes his head. “Amar is dead.”
I am not Tobias Eaton, not anymore, never again. I am Dauntless.
