We take the stairs.
Anderson never stops, never seems out of breath. He moves with the strength of a younger man but with the kind of confidence acquired only by age. He carries himself with a certainty both terrifying and aspirational. Faces pale at the sight of him. Most look away. Some can’t help but stare. One woman nearly faints when his body brushes against hers, and Anderson doesn’t even break his stride when she causes a scene.
I am fascinated.
The speakers crackle. A smooth, robotic female voice announces a code-green situation so calmly I can’t help but be surprised by the collective reaction. I witness something akin to chaos as doors slam open around the building. It all seems to happen in sync, a domino effect echoing along corridors from top to bottom of the compound. Men and women in lab coats surge and swarm all levels, jamming the walkways as they scuttle along.
Still, Anderson does not stop. The world revolves around him, makes room for him. Slows when he speeds up. He does not accommodate anyone. Anything.
I am taking notes.
Finally, we reach a door. Anderson presses his hand against the biometric scanner, then peers into a camera that reads his eyes.
The door fissures open.
I smell something sterile, like antiseptic, and the moment we step into the room the scent burns my nose, causing my eyes to tear. The entrance is unusual; a short hallway that hides the rest of the room from immediate view. As we approach, I hear three monitors beep at three different decibel levels. When we round the corner, the room quadruples in size. The space is vast and bright, natural light combining with the searing white glow of artificial bulbs overhead.
There’s little else here but a single bed and the figure strapped into it. The beeping is coming not from three machines, but seven, all of which seem to be affixed to the unconscious body of a boy. I don’t know him, but he can’t be much older than I am. His hair is cropped close to his scalp, a soft buzz of brown interrupted only by the wires drilled into his skull. There’s a sheet pulled up to his neck, so I can’t see much more than his resting face, but the sight of him there, strapped down like that, reminds me of something.
A flash of memory flares through me.
It’s vague, distorted. I try to peel back the hazy layers, but when I manage a glimpse of something—a cave, a tall black man, a tank full of water—I feel a sharp, electrifying sting of rage that leaves my hands shaking. It unmoors me.
I take a jerky step back and shake my head a fraction of an inch, trying to compose myself, but my mind feels foggy, confused. When I finally pull myself together, I realize Anderson is watching me.
Slowly, he takes a step forward, his eyes narrowed in my direction. He says nothing, but I feel, without knowing why, exactly, that I’m not allowed to look away. I’m supposed to maintain eye contact for as long as he wants. It’s brutal.
“You felt something when you walked in here,” he says.
It’s not a question. I’m not sure it requires an answer. Still—
“Nothing of consequence, sir.”
“Consequence,” he says, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. He takes a few steps toward one of the massive windows, clasps his hands behind his back. For a while, he’s silent.
“So interesting,” he says finally. “That we never did discuss consequences.”
Fear slithers, creeps up my spine.
He’s still staring out the window when he says softly, “You will not withhold anything from me. Everything you feel, every emotion you experience—it belongs to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You felt something when you walked in here,” he says again. This time, his voice is heavy with something, something dark and terrifying.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what was it?”
“I felt anger, sir.”
He turns around at that. Raises his eyebrows.
“After anger, I felt confusion.”
“But anger,” he says, stepping toward me. “Why anger?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
