I was never a “poor little rich girl.” I had a lot of money, sure, but I also had parents who loved me, and who balanced the urge to give me everything I wanted with instilling me with a strong sense of personal responsibility. I never thought of my money as a burden. The only burden was the way it made people look at me. That was what I couldn’t stand, and that’s the reason I chose to go into the field I went into. I was good at being a Fictional. I was never that good at being a spoiled brat.
There are things money can’t buy. People who love you, a job you’re good at, a sense of personal respect… those are on the list.
—From Dandelion Mine, the blog of Magdalene Grace Garcia, July 31, 2041. Unpublished.
Buffy was complaining today about how we need a new transmitter for the van, and we can’t afford it right now. She wants us to ask the Masons for a loan. She doesn’t seem to understand that having parents who are in the media business doesn’t mean we can turn to them for every little thing we need. Sure, they’d probably give it to us, but we’d be giving up something a lot more valuable. We’d be giving up our independence. All it’s going to take is one loan, and they’ll have the leverage they need to start worming their way into our business. They want it. I know they want it.
And I am not going to let them have it.
—From Postcards from The Wall, the unpublished files of Georgia Mason, originally posted on July 31, 2041.
Seventeen
Georgia.”
The word was distorted enough to seem unimportant. I didn’t bother trying to respond. I was lying on something soft, it was pleasantly dark, and if people wanted to talk to me, they could knock themselves out. Nothing said I had to answer.
“She’s unresponsive.”
“I expected she might be. Let’s assume she’s awake, and put her back under for now.”
“Are you sure? The strain to her system—”
“We need to finish this.”
A needle slid into my arm. The sensation was sharp enough to break the haze, replacing soft darkness with sudden concern. I opened my eyes, peering into a blur of light. There were figures there, wearing medical scrubs, with clear plastic masks over their faces. That just made me more concerned. What were they doing that might splash them with my bodily fluids?
“Doctor—” The speaker sounded alarmed. Whatever I was supposed to do, opening my eyes apparently wasn’t on the list.
“I see her. Increase the midazolam drip—I want her out until we’re done.” The taller of the two figures bent toward me. “Georgia? Can you hear me?”
I made a sound. It was faint, somewhere between a gasp and a groan.
It was apparently enough. “Increase that dose now, Kathleen,” snapped Dr. Kimberley, her features becoming visible through the plastic as she leaned closer. She raised one blue-gloved hand, brushing my hair away from my face. “Don’t try to move, Georgia. This will all be over soon.”
That’s what I was afraid of. The room was getting dark around the edges, hard lines turning into soft blurs as whatever they were pumping into me started taking effect. I tried to yell at her, to demand to know what she thought she was doing, but all that emerged was a faint squeak, like a hinge that needed to be oiled.
Dr. Kimberley smiled. “There you are, my dear. Just rest. It will all be over soon.” Then she pulled her hand back, and once again, the world went away.
There was no sense of time in the darkness. But Shaun was there, somehow, and he held my hand, and we sat together in the black, and everything was fine, forever and ever and ever.
Or until his hand slipped out of mine, and the blackness began to fade, and I realized my temporary peace had been just another drug-induced lie. Fury flooded through me. How dare they keep playing with me this way? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t—
“Georgia.”
Again, the word was blurred and warped by what felt like an immense distance. This time, I forced myself to strain toward it, struggling to open my eyes. Nothing happened. Frustrated, I tried to respond, and again, managed to make only the faintest squeak.
That seemed to be enough. “She’s awake, Doctor. Not fully responsive, but recovering.”
“Good.” I heard the squeak of wheels rolling across a tile floor, followed by the soft compression of a body settling into a chair. “Georgia, this is Dr. Kimberley. I know you’re confused, and you may not have an easy time moving, but if you can, please squeeze my hand.”
Squeeze her hand? I wasn’t even touching her hand. Furious, I managed to squeak again.