Warner sits up in his chair, his eyes flashing.
“You’re right,” I say, darting up the stairs. “I crossed a line. Won’t happen again—”
Rosabelle
Chapter 26
“No,” I say.
“Okay. Well, we’re about to conclude our morning session, and so far you’ve shared only your first name with the group. What about your full name? Do you feel ready to share your full name? First, middle, last?”
“No.”
“What about your age? Would you feel comfortable helping us understand how long you’ve been struggling?”
“No.”
“I see. Rosabelle, do you have anyI statementsyou’d like to share before we wrap up? How about anI feel? Can you complete that sentence? How are you feeling today?”
Heat coils inside my chest, brazing my lungs together, unfurling up my throat. This is worse than a high-security prison cell. Worse than physical torture. I’d prefer solitary confinement to this—this—therapy circle—
“That’s all right, you don’t have to share anything today if you’re not ready,” says the group leader, a wiry man who introduced himself to me as “Ian Sanchez, I don’t perform miracles, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
I close my eyes, unclench my fists, exhale steadily.
“It took me a long time to open up, too,” he’s saying now.“We’re in no hurry to force healing.” He keeps saying that.We’re in no hurry to force healing.
Inside, I scream for a full three seconds.
I imagine exploding out of my body, running straight for the wall and then straight through it. I haven’t decided yet whether this is an elaborate set piece, whether I’m a pawn being moved across a chessboard. If the rebels have done this to me on purpose, I have no choice but to acknowledge their skill. If, however—
A hand goes up in the group.
Ian nods at the large man in the small chair. “Jing. Yes. Did you have something you wanted to share this morning?”
“The Reestablishment killed my family.”
A murmur goes through the group, people nodding. Ian nods, too, as if this is brand-new information. “You’ve shared that with us before, Jing. Are you ready to talk about what happened?”
Jing shakes his head.
Jing is a liar. Jing claimed he was a soldier serving under the chief commander and regent of Sector 18. He’s claimed twice now that The Reestablishment murdered his entire family, and he further claims to have killed his CCR in an act of insurrection, in the interest of revenge and justice. He claims to have been reformed ever since.
I happen to know that the ex-CCR of 18 is comfortably situated on the Ark, alive and well. Jing thinks this is a joke. I saw him snickering with Aya, the two of them whispering in the hall outside this infernal session.
In my head, I’m making my own lists.
It’s possible that someone here, in this circle, might be the very operative I’m looking for. There might be eyes on me right now, watching my every move. It’s also possible that these idiots are entirely useless. It further occurs to me that there are other, more valuable opportunities in this ring of hell. The Reestablishment would potentially reward information on traitors—those who might be selling secrets to the enemy. I could buy clout back home, exchanging information for security. But when I remember how their family members will pay the price for their treason, the instinct in me goes cold.
Ian clears his throat.
Another hand goes up.
“Yes, Elias,” he says to an older, bearded man. “Do you have something you want to share?”
“I do,” he says with a thick accent. “There is a fungus on my foot. All of my foot is fungus, nails falling off.”
“I see. And is there a reason you wanted to share that with the group?”
