'Is she asleep?'

'I think she's waking up!'

'Don't be silly, she's dreaming. Look, you can see her eyes moving under her eyelids. . .'

But nobody really knows. Answers aren't meant for the likes of us.

My sister, Nura, has been asleep for the past four months. Her slumber consumes everything, the lives, hopes, and futures of my whole family, even though we knew it was bound to happen. Very few families have a child live to sixteen, let alone two like mine: my cousin, Musa, and me. By living, we doomed Nura; we don't know of any family with three children alive.

No one knows for sure what causes the toxin-sickness. The lack of clean water can't help, or the rate bacteria flourishes. Nor the radiation that lingers, a relic of nuclear wars won and lost long ago. Whatever it is, it's killing our children—only the strongest of us survive to sixteen and qualify for adulthood vaccines. Once vaccinated, our immune systems can handle almost everything.

Why everyone can't be vaccinated, I don't know. No one does. Maybe only General Jinaka knows. I hope that one day, he has a child himself. And for the sickness to take his child away. I want him to know what it feels like.

But it's children like Nura who die instead. I miss her. I miss her so much. I miss waking up to her pulling my hair, wanting to play, her chimes-in-the-wind laugh. I miss how my dad used to watch us bicker with a smile and a drink in hand, and how we'd gang up on Musa, tickling him till he cried. I miss the glow of my mother's happiness. It's all gone now. Lost in an endless waiting game for something that will never happen. For we all know.

Nura will never wake up.

'Samma, c'mon. Let's get out of here.'

A hand grabs the back of my shirt and pulls me through the crowd, away from Nura and my parent's despair.

'Musa? What are you doing?'

I try to wriggle free but my cousin's too strong. Musa slams his shoulder against our front door, accidentally knocking into a shocked elderly couple on their way to pay their respects. I smile an apology as I stumble after Musa, but I shouldn't have bothered; they scuttle past us as fast as they can, avoiding eye-contact. I sigh. Even though Nu's the one who's sick, I'm the one treated like a pariah.

'Sorry, Sam. I just had to get out of there.' Musa sinks to the ground outside our pod, puffing out his cheeks and leaning his head against the smooth white plastic.

Ah. . . I hadn't realised I'd been holding my breath. It eases out from my chest in a sigh and in that moment, watching Musa, I feel lighter. I settle down beside him, chewing the ends of my plait as his eyebrows scrunch into a frown. 'I know. I'm sorry.'

'What are you sorry for? It's not your fault,' he snaps. But just as quickly, his temper wanes and he rubs his eyes. 'Sorry. I didn't mean it.'

'It's okay,' I mumble. 'It's hard on all of us.'

Musa shakes his head, picking at a hangnail on the side of his thumb. 'It's just. . . It's not fair. We should be celebrating. Hardly any families get two kids to sixteen. Hardly any. And all ours do is mope around after Nura. No one's even wished you happy birthday.'

I shrug. 'Well, in the grand scheme of things, it's not really important.'

'Of course, it is! Nura's going to die anyway, would it kill your parents to pay you some attention for a change?'

'Don't say that.' I struggle to my feet. I can't even believe those words came out of his mouth. 'That's a horrible thing to say.'

'Don't act like you weren't thinking it. You aren't perfect, you know.'

'I'm not saying I am!' Musa and I glower at each other, all family comradery vanishing abruptly. 'But getting mad won't solve anything. It's no one's fault Nu got sick. And it's not like it's your birthday being forgotten, is it.'

'Well, forgive me for caring.'

I put my head in my hands. What am I doing? Musa isn't just my cousin, he's my best friend. Born just eighteen-months apart, we've always looked out for each other. He's only upset on my behalf, and here I am, judging him for it. He looks so . . . I peek at him through my fingers. His mocha skin all flushed around his cheeks, eyes shining with something bright and furious, but not tears. Never tears.

Everything about Musa is tense. From his clenched jaw, that stretches his skin taught over bones, to the hairs from his glossy black bun straining to escape at the nape of his neck. I've been told we look alike, almost too alike, Musa and I. I look far more like him than I do my own sister. Nura's the complete opposite of me, all wispy light hair and delicate complexion. The only difference between Musa and I is that no one is scared of Musa.

Everyone is scared of me.

'Oh, forget it. Come on then, let's go celebrate. Just you and me.' Exactly the way it should be. I hold my hand out to Musa, smiling suddenly; I can never stay angry with Musa for long. He frowns, the fierce gleam in his eyes fading. 'How about we make a rule: no mourning on birthdays. Okay?'

His face splits into the cheeky, wide grin I know and love so much. 'I'm glad you said that, 'cause I've got a little something planned. C'mon.' Scrambling to his feet, he takes my hand and yanks me down the street, away from the shroud of misery that looms over our pod. And in our wake, the grey curl of mist that is always lurking, waiting, draws like a curtain over the town.

*

Al-Abhor, my home, used to be spectacular. High up in the Sǝhrazon hills beyond the Eternal Desert, it used to border a national park, full of wild birds of every colour and animals like monkeys—tiny, chittering macaques to giant, lumbering baboons. But the park and its creatures are long gone now, leaving our home deep in the dark, dank solitude of the hillside. Several narrow tunnels lead through the hills to our local wormholes, but first you have to wade through thick marshland. We usually use the northern tunnel to Wormhole 23, but this morning, Musa drags me down the southern tunnel. There can only be one possible destination.

'Why are we going to the baths?' I hold up the folds of my baggy trousers and squelch through the mud, trying hard to keep up with him. It slurps through the straps of my sandals, right in-between my toes. I scrunch up my nose. 'It's not Sunday.' Everyone hates bathing day. The water around here stings like crazy from the sulphurous rain. It makes the water burn to the touch and too acidic to drink. We suffer baths once a week out of necessity, but it's not exactly somewhere I'd volunteer to go more often.

'You'll see,' Musa grins. He's acting very strange. Extra fidgety; he does this dance from foot to foot when he's nervous, but this time there's an almost mischievous spring to his step. I glance up at the sky and bite the inside of my cheek; purplish-grey clouds roll over our heads, preparing to settle over the town and get cosy. I pause to watch the drizzle start from our vantage point on the hillside.

'Don't worry about the rain,' Musa says. But I can't tear my eyes away.

'The weather's always worse when I'm around.'

'Don't be silly. Compared to yesterday, this is beach weather.' Musa nudges me in the ribs, trying to get a smile. It's not working.

'It always rains when I'm around. . .' My words peter out as the rain grows heavier by the minute.

'You've got it backwards,' Musa mutters. 'It only rains when you leave.'

You are my starlight, my mum used to sing. The light of my life. Shining your way through darkest nights. To me, it's not just a song. It's a mockery. Only clouds follow me, wherever I go. The wind always whips around my face, and then, when I leave, it rains. Maybe the clouds are crying for me. The thought brings a lump to my throat, and a burning shame to creep inside my—

'Oi. Snap out of it.' Musa shoves me in the arm; I stagger, teetering on the edge of the hillside.

'Watch it, idiot!'

'Well stop moping and hurry up. You're only sixteen once.'

When we're together, our love grows stronger. Be mine forever, my sweet starlight.

We splash through the tunnel until we emerge in a clearing, where rocks have been piled high to create a ring, a large bowl-like crevice. A thick pipe sprouts from the rocks in a spout at the far end of the pool, from which steaming, purple-green water bursts forth. Mist rises from the water, casting a musty, sulphurous stench into the air that makes me gag and stings my eyes. Blinking, I turn to Musa, who's watching me through the mist with a most peculiar expression. The vapour settles in his hair, hissing on contact; droplets begin to run down his temple.

'What are we doing here, Musa?'

He scuffs his feet though the pebbles. 'I—I wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere we wouldn't be disturbed.'

I swallow. 'Why? What's going on?'

'I wanted somewhere for you to practise.' He takes a step towards me, and beads of sweat blossom on my forehead; whether from the heat of the steam or the beating of my heart faster and faster against my rib cage, I don't know.

'Musa?'

'I know you can do this.'

'No, Musa, not now, not today. I can't!'

'Yes, you can. Close your eyes.'

He's so close now, I can see the faint red marks on his cheeks where the mist is scalding him. The soft velvet of his eyes as they lock with my own. The bubbling of water mingles with the rush of blood through my ears—

'Focus.'

'I can't!'

'I said, focus—'

The noise stops. I breathe deeply and my rapid heartbeat slows, almost to a stop. A tingle on my fingertips slowly spreads through my arms, warming them through the chill.

'That's it, deep breaths, Sammi. You can do this. I know you can.'

The heat curls upwards through my body. I inhale deeply once again, sucking the mist into my body until I'm so full, consumed by it, I'm scared my lungs might burst. Then, as the heat burns my chest. . .

I blow.

The release is like nothing I've ever allowed myself to feel before. Mist floods from my mouth in a torrent, a stream, the force pushing me backwards as I struggle to stay upright, to keep calm, in control. The silence breaks too; all the sounds I've repressed come pouring back: my blood, the pool, Musa shouting my name.

At last, lungs empty, I open my eyes.

Musa is crouched on the ground by my feet. Something above us is blinding. I screw up my eyes against it, shielding my face with my hand. Is that . . . the sun?

The mist is gone.

'You did it.' Musa uses my hanging arm to pull himself upright, a laugh bursting from his mouth. 'Sammi! You did it!'

I stand, dazed, as Musa throws his arms around me, whooping, jumping up and down. All I can do is just stand. And stare.

The pool hasn't really changed. But with the mist gone, it looks naked. See, wherever there's water, there's always mist. But now—

I controlled it. I made it disappear.

'What. The. Hell.'

Musa's laughter dies in an instant. We swing around; a group of girls are stumbling towards us over the rocks, clothes tucked under their arms and flimsy bathing shoes flapping against the rocks. The heat in my cheeks begins to rise—flap, flap, flap—and the tingle in my fingers wavers as my control slips, like strings sliding through them. I fumble, desperately trying to seize the strings of control back but—

I lose them. An almighty splurge of water erupts from the pipe and with it comes the mist, galloping towards us, furious at being dispelled. It spreads its arms wide like it never left and the girls fade into its embrace almost at once. I can still make out their silhouettes though. Moving steadily towards us.

Musa curses, pushing me behind his back. 'What do you want, Zaida?'

'Need your cousin to protect you, do you, witch? Elementalist?'

Oh. That word. Elementalist. It stings more than the mist. I don't even really know what it means. What is an Elementalist, anyway? All I know is that the government wants them. These people with "special powers". The rhetoric goes that they are dangers to society. That they have to be found and they have to be stopped.

Zaida's getting closer, her clothes clutched to her chest. It's a struggle not to wince as she glowers around Musa at me, her dark hair plastered to her face. She sweeps it out of her eyes and beckons her friends forward. I know them all: Amani, Eshe and Salma.

Once, Nura and I were part of her group. But as we got older, strange things started to happen around me. Our friendship, that rotten fruit, soured. When Nura got sick, none of them even bothered to call. Not even a card, not even when they heard she was dying.

Some friends they turned out to be.

'I'm not an Elementalist. And I don't need anyone to protect me.' I try to edge around Musa but he's having none of it; strong arms push me back behind him.

Zaida smirks. 'Yeah, sure looks that way.' Her breath mingles with the mist, turning it from faint lavender to murky grey. 'What are you worried about, Musa? Scared she'll hurt us and you'll get the blame?'

'She wouldn't hurt anyone!' Before I can stop him, Musa lashes out, his pincer-grip leaving my arm for less than a second. He swipes at Zaida, who leaps backwards—but the rocks behind her are slick with algae and condensation. She slips, her arms circling through the air like a windmill—then Little Amani lunges, catching her before she hits the ground. Eshe and Salma grab her arms, steadying her. Their shocked expressions quickly turn to fury.

'You're just as bad as Samma!' Salma yells, tossing her hair over her shoulder. 'What are you playing at? You could have hurt her!'

'Good!' Musa roars, his cheeks darkening to a violent scarlet.

'Stop it.' I swing Musa around, taking his face in my hands. 'You're making things worse.'

'Yeah, listen to your freaky Elementalist cousin, Musa.' You have to hand it to her; Zaida's persistent. Now she's steady, Zaida approaches once again, although this time, she's a little more hesitant.

'She's not an Elementalist!'

'What would you call her then? She was controlling the mist! She's exactly the type of person the government's been telling us to report!' Zaida's eyes are round and earnest; I realise that she doesn't even mean to be cruel. In her eyes, she's just being honest. I wonder how often people disguise cruelty as honesty.

Musa hesitates. Even he doesn't know what to call me. What I am. 'She's—she's not dangerous. She's just Samma.' His cheeks flush again; maybe he realised just how lame that sounded.

'She's just Samma,' little Amani mimicks, snickering from behind Zaida's back.

'Come on, Musa, we saw her.' Eshe rolls her eyes. 'It's so obvious. She's not safe, we need to report her – besides, think of the rewards. We'll make a tonne of money. We'd be stupid not to.'

'You're stupid already.'

'Stop it!' It's a struggle just trying to restrain Musa. This isn't his fight, or anybody else's—it's mine and Zaida's. We glare at each other through the mist, our eyes slits of distrust and dislike. 'Leave Musa out of this. It's me you have a problem with.'

'Sammi –'

'Shut up, Musa. For once, just shut up.'

Zaida's taller than me. Despite being a year my junior. Her hate is so obvious – her lips curl into a grimace just looking at me. I step towards her, bridging the gap between us, ignoring every instinct that screams that it's incredibly stupid to go towards someone who hates you.

'I know you have powers, Samma. Just admit it. You're an Elementalist.'

'So what if I am?' My mouth goes dry.

'Then you don't belong here.'

It doesn't sound like much, does it. Being told you don't belong. I'm sure much nastier things have been said, in the whole wide history of spite. But to me . . . it feels like Zaida has reached inside my chest, grabbed my heart and squished it between her nails. I can almost picture the blood trickling between her claws. She's plucked every doubt inside my head and wrapped me up in them, winding them around me until I'm a fly trapped in her web. And she knows it—that playful smile that dances on her lips—she knows what she's doing. I can see how much she enjoys it.

'GET. LOST.' To say that I've never seen Musa this angry is an understatement. He storms at Zaida and with a titter of glee, the girls scatter. Damage done. I watch him splash after them over the rocks as they disappear into the mist.

Elementalist, Zaida called me. With such venom. What did I ever do to make her so afraid?

But the worst thing? I sink down beside the pool, tracing the mist-swirl patterns through the water with my finger. The worst thing is that I'm starting to think she might be right.

Of course people have noticed. When I walk down the street and the mist parts for me. When the clouds darken with my anger. When I leave and it starts to rain.

'They're just jealous,' Nura used to say. My mum would then stroke Nura's silken mane and say something like what a kind daughter I have, defending her sister so. Then she'd sing, and she'd say she sang for us both: you are my starlight, the light of my life. . .

But I know she never sang for me.

No matter how much I long for it to disappear, the mist is always here. Drawn towards me. And now it's taken Nura. It's taken our starlight. . .

'Are you okay?'

I hadn't noticed Musa return. I turn to see him watching me, arms swinging awkward by his side, so forlorn it makes my heart ache. His left cheek bears a scratch from his ear lobe to the corner of his mouth, and his hair has come untied, now free and rumpled. I lean back on my hands, letting my legs swing over the side of the pool, my toes inches from the water. Musa sits down beside me.

'I'm sorry for what they said. They're so mean.' He stares off into the distance. The scratch on his cheek looks like a road. A track for tears.

'It doesn't matter,' I whisper.

'It does! They used to be our friends. How can they call you that? An Elementalist. . . You're not!' He says it a bit too vehemently. Thou dost protest too much, so they say.

'What am I then? We both know there's something not right about me. We saw today what I can do.' My voice sounds resigned even to my own ears. Musa doesn't reply. How can he? How can he know when I don't even know myself?

'I don't care what you are,' he eventually says. 'Nothing could change the way I feel about you.'

It's such a ludicrous thing to say that I can't help snorting. Musa looks so offended by my reaction, and it's so sweet, that I throw my arms around him.

'I didn't mean to laugh! I'm sorry. I love you, best cousin, please don't be mad—'

'Ugh.' Musa rolls his eyes, but I notice the smile he restrains. 'It's fine. Don't go all soppy on me.'

'It's true. You've always got my back.'

He nods, turning away but I still spot his smile breaking free. A fierce protectiveness rises inside my chest.

'I'll always have your back too, Musa. I promise.'

He says nothing, just takes my hand and squeezes it, his fingers soft and warm against the numbness of my own. Eventually, he breaks the silence.

'I made you something.' His voice is so soft, it's almost drowned out by the bubbling pool. When I don't reply, he fumbles in his pocket and brings out a small, badly-wrapped package, which he presses into my hands.

I can't help but grin. 'A present?'

'Open it.' Musa sighs as he watches my fingers slip on the paper. 'I couldn't stand your sixteenth birthday, the most important day of your whole life, being completely ignored.'

The last leaf of paper falls away and I stare, mouth-open, at the little bundle coiled in my palm. I hold it up, as delicately as I might hold a dragon-fly's wing.

It's a chain. Impossibly thin, rustic loops; I can just imagine Musa's grimace of concentration as he wove chunks of metal, cursing as he burnt himself on the forging flames.

My eyes fill until the chain is just a blur.

'Don't you like it? I'm sorry it's not pretty, I didn't have much to work with. Just some scraps left from the pump I've been making—'

'It's—' The most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.

'Garbage.' Musa's face is burning; I can't bear it a second longer. Gentle this time, I draw him towards me, holding him close, letting my tears fall unchecked onto his shoulder.

'It's perfect,' I mumble into his shirt, snuffling and wiping my nose on the back of my hand.

'Really?'

'Really.'

With clumsy, unpractised fingers, Musa undoes the clasp and fastens the chain around my wrist. And I know that whilst I may not belong with my people in Al-Abhor, I will always belong to Musa and he will always belong to me.

All I have to do is look at my wrist to remember.