“Don’t worry.” Jan waves a hand. “She went quiet pretty soon. Most of ’em do. Takes her medicine regular-like, doesn’t give nobody no trouble.” She pats my shoulder. “Ready?”
I can only nod, although ready is the last thing I feel. My body is filled with a need to turn, to run. But instead I stand up and follow Jan through the double doors into another hallway, as spotlessly white as the one we have just passed through, lined on both sides with white, windowless doors. Each step seems to be harder than the last. I can feel the chilly bite of the floor through the slippers, which are tissue-thin, and every time I put a heel down, a shiver runs all the way up my spine.
Too soon, we reach a door marked 2225. Jan raps twice on the door, hard, but doesn’t seem to expect a response. She removes her key card from around her neck, holds it up to the scanner to the left of the door—“We got all new systems after the Incidents; neat, huh?”—and, when the lock slides open with a click, pushes the door open firmly.
“Got a visitor,” she calls cheerfully as she passes into the room. This last step is the hardest. For a second I think I won’t be able to do it. I have to practically throw myself forward, over the threshold, into the cell. As I do, the air leaves my chest.
She is sitting in the corner, in a plastic chair with rounded corners, staring out of a small window fitted with heavy iron bars. She doesn’t turn when we enter, although I can make out her profile, which is just touched with the light filtering in from outside: the small, ski-jump nose, the exquisite little mouth, the long fringe of lashes, her seashell-pink ear and the neat procedural scar just beneath it. Her hair is long and blond, and hangs loose, nearly to her waist. I estimate that she’s about thirty.
She is beautiful.
She looks like me.
My stomach lurches.
“Morning,” Jan says loudly, as if Cassandra won’t hear us otherwise, even though the room is tiny. It’s too small to contain all of us comfortably, and even though the space is bare except for a cot, a chair, a sink, and a toilet, it feels overcrowded. “Brought somebody to see you. Nice surprise, isn’t it?”
Cassandra doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even acknowledge us.
Jan rolls her eyes expressively, mouths I’m sorry to me. Out loud, she says, “Come on, now. Don’t be rude. Turn around and say hello like a good girl.”
Cassie does turn then, although her eyes pass over me completely and go directly to Jan. “May I have a tray, please? I missed breakfast this morning.”
Jan puts her hands on her hips and says, in an exaggerated tone of reproach—as though she is speaking to a child—“Now that was silly of you, wasn’t it?”
“I wasn’t hungry,” Cassie says simply.
Jan sighs. “You’re lucky I’m feeling nice today,” she says with a wink. “You okay here for a minute?” This question is directed to me.
“I—”
“Don’t worry,” Jan says. “She’s harmless.” She raises her voice and assumes the forced-cheerful tone. “Be right back. You be a good girl. Don’t make no trouble for your guest.” She turns once again to me. “Any problems, just hit the emergency button next to the door.”
Before I can respond, she bustles into the hallway again, closing the door behind her. I hear the lock slide into place. Fear stabs, sharp and clear, through the muffling effects of the cure.
For a moment there is silence as I try to remember what I came here to say. The fact that I have found her—the mysterious woman—is overwhelming, and I suddenly can’t think of what to ask her.
Her eyes click to mine. They are hazel, and very clear. Smart.
Not crazy.
“Who are you?” Now that Jan has left the room, her voice takes on an accusatory edge. “What are you doing here?”
“My name is Hana Tate,” I say. I suck in a deep breath. “I’m marrying Fred Hargrove next Saturday.”
Silence stretches between us. I feel her eyes sweeping over me and force myself to stand still. “His taste hasn’t changed,” she says neutrally. Then she turns back to the window.
“Please.” My voice cracks a little. I wish I had some water. “I’d like to know what happened.”
Her hands are still in her lap. She must have perfected this art over the years: sitting motionless. “I’m crazy,” she says tonelessly. “Didn’t they tell you?”
“I don’t believe it,” I say, and it’s true, I don’t. Now that I’m speaking to her, I know for a fact that she is sane. “I want the truth.”
“Why?” She turns back to me. “Why do you care?”
So it won’t happen to me; so I can stop it. That’s the true and selfish reason. But I can’t say that. She has no reason to help me. We are not made to care for strangers any longer.
Before I can think of anything to say, she laughs: a dry sound, as though her throat has been long in disuse. “You want to know what I did, don’t you? You want to be sure you don’t make the same mistake.”