But now? I see it for what it is.
The place where lies are grown in agar.
And they spread like fungus.
Doling out the disease to the masses with a promise of safety.
Before selling them the cure.
The guy next to me, the one with a brown mullet and a stuffy nose, exits the back and waves me forward. “You going to cause us issues?”
“No,” I say honestly. If I can just get upstairs, I may be safer. At least I’d be away from these three.
My only concern now is that someone I know couldseeme. But fortunately, the Wellness Center elevator is at the back. Private and secluded.
As soon as the doors ding and we’re buzzed onto the unit, they guide me down a narrow hallway that smells like antiseptic and something faintly sweet underneath. Rotting fruit, almost. The lights flicker overhead before one gives out, and every surface gleams like it’s been scrubbed raw. And it still manages to feel stained.
In a small side area, they stop.
“Have a seat,” one of them says, pointing at a chair bolted to the floor.
I don’t sit. “I’m fine.”
They exchange a look. One of annoyance. As if I’m now aproblem.
“Of course you are,” the stuffy-nosed guy says. “We just need a baseline.”
Baseline. Like I’m an object to be measured and calibrated. I lower myself into the chair slowly, testing it. It doesn’t budge. Nothing in here moves unless they want it to.
A tablet on a rolling stand across from me clicks on. On the screen, a man with a big mole on his cheek appears—no, not appears. He’s already been there. Watching. His eyes flick up like he’s just noticed me, but the timing is too clean.
“Scout Griffin,” he says. Not a question.
“Yes.”
“You understand why you’re here tonight?” He’s bored. And going through a checklist.
My mouth opens. Closes. A dozen answers swim through my brain, but none of them feel safe.
“They think I’m—” I stop. Adjust. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
His stylus taps once against the screen. “They?” he repeats. One of his black eyebrows quirks. A beat too long passes. “You saidthey. Can you clarify who you’re referring to?”
My breath stutters. “I just meant—people. The administration. Whoever made the call.”
Tap. “Paranoid ideation,” he murmurs, but not to me. To the tablet. Logging it.
“No— That’s not what I meant.”
“Of course,” he says with a condescending grin.
The man to my left shifts. Close enough that I feel the heat of him. Close enough that if I run, I won’t make it past him.
“Have you experienced any hallucinations in the last forty-eight hours?”
“No.”
“Visual distortions? Auditory irregularities? Seeing cameras in vents or thinking you’re being recorded? Things like that.”
