No phone. There’s a very basic-looking computer tablet on the desk, however. As I expected, there’s no internet, but there appears to be an intranet of sorts for entertainment. Books, games, music.
The TV doesn’t connect to the outside, either. It only plays what’s on the intranet.
Unlike the room, where everything seems tailored to my individual taste, the entertainment options are varied. There are even foreign-language books and movies. Not just a few languages, either—it’s a pretty large assortment. I scan for French, simply out of habit. My French isn’t the textbook variety and, like the hitcher who left it behind, it has a heavy African accent. I can understand the language pretty well, though—well enough that I’ve watched a few French movies online.
But the only French movie I see is Amélie, dubbed not into English but Russian. Very few Spanish or German films either, which seems a bit odd to me. Mostly Eastern European.
A tap on the door, and an almost imperceptible pause before it opens.
“Oh, good. You’re awake. May I come in?” The woman sticking her head around the door looks to be in her mid-to late twenties. Blonde, short, a little on the plump side.
I nod, mostly because I’m sure she’s coming in either way and at least she bothered to be polite about it. She’s wearing blue scrubs, has a stethoscope around her neck, and is lugging a navy-blue bag with a white caduceus on the front.
“It’s Anna, right?”
I nod again.
“I’m Ashley-your-nurse,” she says, stringing the phrase together like it’s a single word. “Checking in to see how you’re doing. Any nausea or confusion?”
“The nausea passed. Still confused. Perhaps you could tell me where I am and how I got here?”
I have a pretty good idea on the latter question, but I ask anyway, just to see what her response will be.
“I’m sorry,” Ashley-my-nurse says. “You’ll go through the full orientation process tomorrow, and I’m sure those questions will be answered. I’m here to make sure you’ve recovered from the anesthesia. And to get a blood sample.”
We go through the usual battery of physical checks—pulse, blood pressure, temperature—then she pulls out a needle and vial. “Just a little pinch.”
I look away as the needle goes in. My needle phobia is secondhand from Arlene, but I still don’t like watching when it breaks the skin.
Once she has two rather large vials of my blood, she pops a piece of gauze and a bandage over the puncture in my arm.
“If you’re still feeling queasy,” she says as she puts her equipment away, “I’d suggest a light snack of crackers, dry cereal, or something like that before bed. And you really should try to get to sleep soon. I would imagine they’ll be in to get you no later than nine, although given that it’s nearly one, I’m going to recommend they give you a bit longer. If you need medical attention, hit the button near the door and someone will contact me.”
When Ashley stands to leave, I put a hand on her arm. “A boy was brought in several days ago. Taddeo Ramos, he’s—”
“I’m sorry. I can’t give you any information about other—”
“Just tell me if he’s okay. Please.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is firm, but not unkind. “I really can’t.”
Her eyes move toward the ceiling, very briefly, but it’s enough for me to be certain of what I assumed already. I’m being watched. She’s being watched.
Ashley waves the band on her wrist in front of the security panel to open the door. As she wheels the empty gurney out, I get a brief glimpse of the empty, dimly lit hallway.
“Try to get some sleep, Anna.” She gives me a fleeting look of sympathy. “You’ll need your rest.”
Her emphasis on the last sentence is clear, and it only ratchets up my anxiety. I’d love to break something right now, just to hear it shatter. I settle for hurling my empty water bottle at the wall. It connects with a very unsatisfying thwack and falls to the carpet.
I take two of my pills and eat a few of the Ritz Crackers, since dinner was the single egg roll I grabbed on the way back from the Chinese restaurant. When I’m finished, I crawl under the covers and change into one of the nightgowns from the dresser, tossing my clothes into a pile next to the bed. The idea of undressing in this place creeps me out. Are there cameras in the bathroom too, or only in here?