chapter 2
The machine clicks off, its buzz fading into the background, as I slowly gain consciousness. I am dizzy and nauseous from the drug, but can feel the hazy effect wearing off. My body is numb, and my eyelids are heavy. I remain perfectly still on the table, the bright lights overhead warming me. I can hear talking in the room, and though I know it’s likely about me, I can’t bring myself to focus on what’s being said.
I lie still with my eyes closed, drawing shallow breaths. A man’s voice barks an order, and footsteps retreat into the distance.
I hear voices again, only this time it sounds like there are many more. I realize if they think I’m still asleep, they’ll talk freely in front of me. I keep my eyes closed and force myself to concentrate on the voices until they come into focus.
“She failed the mindscan.”
I wonder what it means to fail the mindscan. I had never heard it put that way before. Did it mean I was a Reject?
“Do it again,” an unfamiliar male voice says.
“We did sir, on the highest setting.” The woman speaks this time.
“Her brain activity never dropped. Her heart rate and breaths per minute increased only slightly, and even then, she was able to get them under control,” the man who stuck me with the needle says nervously.
Their eyes prick my skin. I remain perfectly still, afraid to do the wrong thing, afraid I somehow already have.
“She’s Britta Sterling’s daughter.” The words hang in the air. What does my mom have to do with this? Papers rustle, and I imagine it’s my file changing hands.
No one answers. My knees begin to shake, and my mouth goes completely dry. I feel a needle at my arm again, and I gasp when the rush of cool liquid hits my blood stream. If the first injection was to put me to sleep, this one is clearly designed to wake me up. My eyes blink open slowly against the light that seems to have grown brighter above me.
“Eve, can you hear me?” the woman asks.
I turn my head toward her voice and try to focus. Spots dance in front of my eyes. I try to speak, the word yes forming in my throat, but when I open my mouth, only a small moan escapes my lips. I feel like I’ve been out much longer than the few minutes it seemed.
My eyes adjust, and I scan the bodies standing over me. There are five people in the room now. The original woman and man who administered the scan are now joined by an older man in a crisp military uniform, a plump woman in a gray smock dress and a guy only a couple of years older than me, wearing camouflage pants tucked into boots and a T-shirt stretched tightly across his frame. I am being watched. The effect is daunting.
They all wait for me to do or say something. I keep my face completely composed and stare right back at them, unblinking. The woman takes my arm and pulls me up so I’m sitting on the edge of the table. I swing my legs over the side, and when I’m sure I’ll be steady on my feet, I drop down until my bare feet touch the floor. Now that I’m standing in front of them, I feel small, inconsequential. I can sense they’re deciding what to do with me. Determining my fate.
My gown gapes open in the front, showing everything – or lack thereof – but rather than pulling it closed, I stand there defiantly.
The older man in the military uniform – O’Donovan, as the badge on his chest says – looks me over the way a man looks at a woman. I fight the urge to shield myself and instead stare straight ahead. They can only take what you give them. And I will not give them the satisfaction of having any more power over me than they already do.
The plump lady steps forward. She opens the gown farther and pokes at my ribs. “Nothing to her, so you won’t want her, Will,” she says to the guy about my age. While the rest of their eyes harden and look me over for weaknesses, Will’s eyes are locked on mine, looking troubled. I watch him for too long, until the lady pokes a finger at me again. “You speak?”
I swallow and look away from Will. “I do.” I’m surprised by how composed my voice sounds. My insides are flipping around like fish trapped on the bottom of a boat. “Am I a Reject?” My voice rises despite my best attempt to keep calm, rational.
The woman who administered the test shifts her weight. “There are a tiny percentage of people whose mindscans don’t work properly. You are not a Reject, but you also cannot be declared as passing.”
“What happens now?”
She looks down, as though she’s considering how to tell me. “Defects,” she emphasizes the word, “are taken to the testing center in Ward A, where we try to discover why the technology failed.”
Defect. The stories come flooding back. Whispered rumors on the playground at school. Simon’s older brother was one of them. A Defect. He was kept in the compound for endless psychological testing, as they tried to uncover what was different about his mind.
She looks back up at me. “Defects who show certain abilities are taken to Ward B and trained to become guards, to work at the compound patrolling the fence and doing other jobs under the direction of the military.”
“What are we even discussing this for? She won’t make a good guard. Take her, Dorie,” O’Donovan says and turns to leave.
After a second, Will drops his eyes from mine and follows O’Donovan out of the room. I’m unsure whether he’s relieved or disappointed that he doesn’t have to take me.
Dorie grips my arm and pushes me forward. “Move.”
I stumble toward the door, nearly tripping over my own feet. I clutch the door frame and hold myself there. “Wait. It can’t be right. Do it to me again,” I turn back to face them, pleading.
“There’s no use, Eve. The mindscan is never wrong. And with the results you received – there’s no denying your fate.” What does that mean? What are my results?
Dorie pries my fingers from the door and shoves me forward. I pull the robe closed in front of me and let her move me farther along, down the hall, deeper into the compound.
I picture my mother in the waiting room being pulled aside and told of the news. I can see her eyes fill with tears and imagine her taking the news silently, nodding to their words. Words like diseased, and incurable. Defect. They are just words though. They will not define me.
***
An uncomfortable fullness in my bladder wakes me from a deep, but restless sleep. I shift on the bed, badly in need of a bathroom, before realizing my ankles are tethered to the footboard. Momentarily forgetting about the need to pee, I survey the length of my body. I’m wearing scratchy grey cotton scrubs that I have no memory changing into. I seem to be in one piece, yet feel woozy and weak.
I look over the rest of myself and become aware of new aches and pains. I’m certain I’ve been prodded and poked and shudder at the thought. My arms are bruised with track marks. The skin is tender and purple, puckered up where it met countless needles.
My eyes travel along my arm and stop at the new tattoo across my wrist. It’s a barcode with the number 5491 in block lettering underneath. The black numbers are raised and red, as if my skin is rebelling against them. I am marked as a Defect, a constant reminder that I can never go home.
My head throbs. I clench my eyes closed and curl up on my side, trying to lessen the insistence in my bladder. I try to recall the series of events between walking into the compound with my mom and ending with me in this bed. I’m strapped to a hospital bed in what I can only guess is a mental ward. My stomach grumbles loudly, forcing me back into awareness.
I breathe deeply, willing myself to stay calm. Freaking out, hyperventilating and giving into the gravity of the situation will get me nowhere. If I stay calm and look at things rationally, I’ll have a much better chance of surviving this nightmare. They can only take what you give them. They will not take my sanity, my inner strength.
The first order of business is a bathroom. Surely someone will come by soon to check on me. And then I can figure out where I am. Having taken stock of my injuries and various discomforts, I survey the room around me. Faint light seeps into the edges of the room from the narrow windows near the ceiling, like we’re underground. Row after row of hospital beds with sleeping women line the room. Some are old, their gray hair scattered across their pillows, and some closer to my age, their faces smooth in sleep. I look at the bed across from mine, and dark eyes are looking back at me.
“You’re up,” she whispers after a moment of studying me in silence. I watch her without answering. Her hair is black and frizzy, like she stuck her finger in a socket. Her face is expressionless. “I’m Willow,” she says.
“Eve,” I say. “How long was I out?”
“Two days,” she says without hesitating.
Two days? Lying in this dungeon for two days without food, without water? It seems unimaginable that much time has passed. My throat is dry and cracked. My hollow stomach shrinks into my ribs.
The doors to the dormitory swing open and a thin nurse with silver hair seems to glide across the room, as though her feet barely touch the floor. She pulls a cart in behind her, letting the door swing closed. The clicking sound once it closes tells me there’s some sort of locking mechanism in place. The cart is topped with steaming bowls of broth, and my stomach clenches in anticipation of something warm to fill it.
She parks the cart and comes to my bed. “There she is.” She helps me sit up against the back of my headboard. “Next time you won’t need so much – little thing like you – you were out longer than we expected.” She brings me a cup of broth, but stops before handing it to me. “Think you can keep this down?”
I nod, my mouth watering. She offers it to me, and I wrap my fingers around the warmth of the cup. My hands are shaking as I bring it to my lips. I manage a small sip. It glides easily down my throat, washing away the bitterness. It tastes like tree bark and something salty. I take a bigger gulp and the nurse turns to walk away.
Willow takes her cup of broth and downs it in one gulp, keeping her eyes on me. The others begin to wake and look in my direction. It’s like I’m the shiny, new toy in the room. I choke on a gulp of the broth and cough.
“You’re lucky we have Susanne today. She’s the only one who treats us like we’re still human,” Willow says, nodding to the nurse.
After the broth’s been distributed and the empty cups collected, Susanne begins to unshackle us, one by one. I rub my raw ankles and pull my knees to my chest. “What happens now?” I ask Willow.
“It’s shower day.”
We’re herded down the hall – single file – with two guards leading the way and two behind us. We’re taken into an open room with water spouts along the walls, every few feet or so.
The women and girls around me begin to undress while the male guards watch, smoking and talking casually at the edge of the room. I hesitate.
Willow pulls her shirt off over her head. “Just do it. We only get to shower once a week.” She strips the rest of the way and tiptoes along the tile floor to the shower head in the far corner.
I glance back at the guards. They’re watching me and seem to be waiting for something. I quickly strip off the too big cotton draw string pants and shirt they’ve dressed me in and follow Willow’s path across the floor. I feel the spray of the water lick my ankles and hear laughter behind me.
“Susanne, there’s been some mistake – there’s no way this one’s sixteen.” The men laugh, their eyes on my body. I keep my chin high and walk straight ahead. Once my head’s under the water it drowns out their voices, and I concentrate on the warmth. I wash quickly, and then we’re prodded back into the dormitory.
***
I jerk awake in the night, suddenly aware of someone watching me. I feel his presence before I see him. But once my eyes adjust to the darkened room, I’m pretty sure it’s Will – the guard I saw right after my mindscan. I gasp and try to sit up before remembering I’m chained to the bed.
He brings a finger to his lips. I watch his eyes in the pale moonlight. They are dark and intense and locked on mine. He lowers his finger once he realizes I’ll stay quiet. His eyes have the same serious, troubled look, and he’s just as silent as the first time I met him.
He reaches for my wrist and turns it over, then runs his fingers along the tattoo there, almost as if he knows his cooling touch will soothe the raised, pink skin. I watch him silently, and my chest gets tight.
I blink up at him and – just as suddenly as he appeared – he’s gone.
The next morning, I’m convinced I dreamed the whole thing, but there’s a thin layer of greasy balm smeared across my tattoo, making me wonder if he really was here. I bring my wrist to my nose and inhale. It smells like mint. I breathe it in again and again until I can no longer smell it.