She bites into the apple and her eyes close, and then she makes a tiny sound of pleasure in the back of her throat that messes me up so badly I have to put down my fork.
No. Never mind. I should definitely keep the fork, keep myself busy. I need to not be thinking about the look on her face or this deeply inappropriate, primal feeling of satisfaction in my chest. She’d seemed so overwhelmed going through the buffet line that I figured it was a bad idea to pressure her to eat more than she was ready to eat—especially after yesterday. I’m just so happy she’s eating something. I’m so happy she’s comfortable enough to eat something in front ofme. These are weird thoughts to be having about a serial killer.
“So, uh, things you should know,” I say, spearing another tomato. “The people who come through here have already served prison sentences. They’ve been judged and vetted and cleared for this program. This is the last phase of calibration before they’re allowed to reenter society. What else? Um, you have to attend all the meetings—”
“You give free food to people who went to prison?”
I look up, surprised at her sharp tone, my fork halfway to my mouth.I set down the fork. “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, we feed people in prison, too, obviously.”
“Oh.”
She puts down the apple and looks away from me, her eyes darting around. She clasps her hands, her thumb rubbing circles into the opposite palm as she searches the room. I wonder whether she realizes she’s self-soothing right in front of me.
“Why does that upset you?” I ask.
She jerks back to me, her eyes bright, stunned,pow, ow. “I didn’t say it upset me.”
“You didn’t have to,” I point out. “It makes you sad that we feed people in prison. You’ve got sad feelings about it.”
“How would you know that?”
“I mean.” I gesture at her face with my fork. “It’s obvious.”
“It’s not obvious. Why are you saying it’s obvious?”
“Okay,” I say, laughing a little. I spear my tomato again. “Now you’re mad.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Definitely mad.”
“Stop saying that.”
I’m picking through my salad, searching for another tomato when I say, “Now you’re scared.”
“Stop it,” she says, loudly this time. “Stop it right now.”
“Stop what?”
“I said stop,” she cries.
I look up, food half-chewed, and freeze. I’ve literally never heard her raise her voice before. Rosabelle looks genuinely terrified,and now I’m confused.
“Do you— Are you—” She’s flushed, still searching the room in sharp, erratic motions. “Are you—”
“Am I what?”
“Can you”—she swallows, stares at me—“can you see into my head?”
“What?” I laugh, relaxing. Stab a piece of lettuce. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you connected, too?” she says, and she sounds angry. “Are they watching me right now?”
Okay, fork goes down again.
“Rosabelle, I realize The Reestablishment has seriously messed with your mind, but I swear I’m not seeing into your head. I mean”—I shrug—“look, okay, I guess in some ways you can call itseeinginto someone’s head, but it’s not—”
“So it’s true.” She physically backs away from me, her chair screeching as she pushes away from the table. “They aren’t in my room because they’re inyou.”
