It probably had a point, but there were more important things to focus on right now. Instead of giving in to the lure of the one-inch-thick plastic mattress, I limped over to the wall separating my cell from my sister’s and slid down it to sit on the cold floor.
The wall was too thick to hear anything from the other side. Or, more accurately, any sound loud enough to penetrate the insulated concrete would also bring guards running. I still liked to sit here and pretend Del was doing the same on the other side. I liked the idea that we could whisper secrets to each other, even if it was a fantasy.
Angling my body away from the camera mounted at ceiling height in the corner, I pulled the mystery wad out of my sleeve and examined it.
It was a bunched-up mass of toilet paper, but the white single-ply tissue was covered in squiggles of black and gray. I straightened it out and squinted, taking in the small, messy writing crammed onto the long strip.
Paper is paper, it said.Right? So, I managed to steal a sharpie, but I think it’s about to die. Anyway...
I settled in, still keeping the message hidden from the red eye of the camera gazing down at me.
It was typical Del—reminiscing about our childhood before we were taken, wishing we could escape. Writing things that would get her thrown in the Pit for a week if she got caught.Of course, the same thing would happen to me if I got caught reading what she’d written.
The ending felt different, though. Heavier... more immediate, somehow.
I heard some guards talking about their supply of omegas getting cut off, and how the people in charge were freaking out. What do you think it means?
By the last sentence, the sharpie had grown so faint that I could barely make out the words.
The lock on the door clanked, and I shot to my feet so fast that my muscles screamed in protest. Rushing over to the toilet, I tossed the note into the bowl and flushed—turning around just in time to look at least vaguely casual as two guards entered.
“Time for another session with Dr. Sakarov,” said the one on the right. “Get a move on, Boobs.”
I ignored the rude nickname, but I winced internally at the prospect of another session so soon. It had only been three days, and since yesterday, the nausea had been so bad I could barely keep water down.
Knowing there was no point in trying to resist. I walked out of the cell on shaking legs. The second guard—one I didn’t recognize—made no attempt to hide the way he stared at my chest as I passed.
“Why d’you call her Boobs?” he asked, as they fell in on either side of me. “They ain’tthatbig.”
The first guard grunted. “It’s her number. She’s Subject 8008.”
I could imagine the second guard’s heavy brow knitting as the silence stretched.
“I don’t get it,” he said eventually.
“That’s cuz you’re an idiot,” replied the first guard.
The walk to the labs felt nearly as long as the exercise hour. When we finally arrived, Dr. Sakarov was waiting, along with Dr. Hwan.
Both men were gray-haired and pudgy, smelling of soap, disinfectant, and beta-male sweat. Dr. Sakarov was several inches taller than Dr. Hwan, with a shiny bald spot on the back of his head and a mask covering his sagging jowls. All the doctors here were bad news, but being in Sakarov’s vicinity always gave me a special level of cringe.
It was something about the proprietary way he handled my body, as though he’d claimed ownership, with plans to move in and redecorate.
“Put her on the table,” he ordered the guards, with his raspy Russian accent.
The guards manhandled me onto the metal table and strapped my arms and legs down before retreating to the area just inside the doorway. I closed my eyes, hoping to go away inside my head before the needles came out. Sometimes that worked. Sometimes it didn’t.
Today, I thought about the things Del had written. Our childhood... our home in the windy desert of southern New Mexico, with mountains looming on the horizon, clad in shades of purple and orange.
It... sort of worked.
I was aware of my blood being drawn, but it felt distant. When the bigger needles came out, it was worse—but then, Dr. Hwan said, “This Vozzina case. Are you following it?”
“Obviously,” Dr. Sakarov replied in a dry tone, not stopping what he was doing to my arm.
“The sentencing came down today,” Dr. Hwan went on. “The organization isn’t going to recover from that. Our supply has already dried up.”
My eyes flew open, landing on the readout screen where green digital readouts against a black background tracked my heart rate and blood pressure. ‘8008’ flashed in the upper right corner, the numbers chunky and square. B-O-O-B.
