By evening, Doctor Callaway returns with the schedule. The list is neat, typed, stapled. Foolish. There’s a lot of damage I can do with a staple. But I say nothing and accept it with both hands like a supplicant offered a relic.
0700 wake; 0730 vitals; 0800 breakfast; 0900 check-in; 1000 crafts; 1130 reading; 1300 lunch; 1400 supervised solarium; 1600 resting time; 1700 therapy; 1830 dinner; 2000 quiet hour; 2100 lights.
“I love a lights-out,” I say. “Such ambition.”
She ignores that. “We’ll add garden time when I decide you won’t use it to mulch the staff.”
“It was one staff,” I say. “And he mulched beautifully.”
“Kayla.”
“Doctor.”
We regard each other like opponents across a chessboard. I can see the move she thinks she’s going to make. She can see the move I want her to think I am.
“What isArk?” I ask, looking guilelessly amused.
Her face doesn’t change. But her pulse skips once at her throat. “A boat,” she says. “In a story. The bible I think.”
“Cute.” I lay the paper on my lap and smooth the crease. “Try again.”
She doesn’t. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She won’t. But she will think about it all night and arrive at work with a little extra brightness to her polish, the way professionals do when they’ve convinced themselves they’re the one driving. And she’ll have a cover story ready. One I won’t believe.
“Doctor Callaway,” I say as she reaches the door.
She stops, hand on the frame. “Yes?”
“You’re doing very well,” I tell her.
“Go to sleep,” she says, but I see the small, involuntary laugh she swallows, and I know I’ve won today’s game.
I don’t sleep. The ceiling hums. The camera ticks, tiny variations like a breath catching. Somewhere along the corridor, a code is called in a calm voice and then cancelled in a calmer one. I think about the garden. I think about the way the chipper took him in, jawing down on his panic like it was an argument. Then I think about Nightshade’s hands, steady even when he’s breaking; about Hatchet’s silence; about Bones’ eyes when he decides who lives. I count the holes I’ve left in people and the holes people left in me and get lost somewhere after six.
Morning keeps its promise. Vitals, breakfast, the pulse oximeter chewing on my finger like an affectionate animal. They tell me I have a nice rhythm. I tell him so does he. He blushes and I catalogue the name on his badge.Ralph. People who blush are the easiest hooks.
Craft hour is a joke until it isn’t. They bring yarn and blunt needles and a basket of squares a dozen other people have started and never finished. I don’t care enough to think about them. My hands remember how to be careful. I knit three neat rows and nobody loses a finger. This passes for success and two different staff members say they’re proud of me with thatworried soft voice adults use when they’ve forgotten children know they’re lying.
Reading is better. They take me to the solarium – white chairs, white light, plants that look exhausted by the concept of being indoors, poor babies. The glass is reinforced, of course. The lock on the door is new. The camera in the corner is older than the wiring. The orderly posted in the corner is neither.
“Morning,” he says, and gives me a smile he has practised in mirrors. The name on his tag isCalebin letters that think they’re bigger than they are. He has a scab along the side of his thumb and a set of keys clipped to his belt.
“Morning,” I say back, and give him the look that convinces men they’re clever. “You’ll watch me nap?”
“Read,” he corrects, nodding at the book. “No sleeping in the solarium.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll get a crick in your neck.” He pulls a face like he’s been human before. “Hurts like hell.”
I make a sound that could be sympathy. He relaxes infinitesimally and shifts his weight. The keys jangle once. He doesn’t hear them. I do. I learn their song.
Doctor Callaway arrives halfway through reading time. She sits opposite me and pretends she’s not checking the angles of the cameras. She pretends a lot of things.
“How are we?” she asks.
“I’ma delight,” I say, “but you’re better after coffee.”
