“No!” The word is barely a whisper as I claw myself out of the sticky, thick void and I blink away nightmares of my mother’s and Isaac’s bloody, broken bodies.
My head throbs. Bright white lights beat down from above. I grit my teeth and struggle to push to my elbows. Swallowing does nothing to chase the bitter horror of the dreams or the barren dryness from my mouth.
The windowless room is empty save for the two lines of cots—none of them dressed with any kind of bedding. The walls are painted a jaunty lemon color that someone must have believed would come across as cheerful, but instead is strangely ominous.
I can’t help wondering if Isaac died looking at these walls.
He died and I’m alive.
I squeeze my eyes tight against the unfairness of it—of everything—of the soreness that sings in my muscles with every movement, of the fear that I might never get out of this place.
“Stop,” I scold as I shove to a seated position. Sitting here feeling sorry for myself only wastes time. And I doubt that is a commodity that I can afford to waste.
I take a deep, painful breath, swipe useless tears from my face, and notice that my hands are clean. So are the shirt and pants I’m now wearing.
I look down at my feet and let out a relieved burst of air. My shoes are the same old sneakers, my socks are stained with blood and dirt, and I can feel the GPS recorder pressing against the skin beneath both.
Slowly, I ease my stiff legs over the bed and lift my shirt to examine the bandage that someone wrapped around my chest. The fabric looks impossibly white next to the splotches of purple, sickly green, and yellow bruises that have spread over my stomach.
And that’s when I remember.
The hands on my shirt. Fingers on my neck and face. Words whispered in a low voice too far away in the drugged darkness for me to understand.
Someone touched me. Undressed me. Washed me and . . . what else?
What else did the man do to me when I was drugged? What else happened to me?
I close my eyes only to snap them open again because when they are closed I can feel the path of the finger on my arm. Feel the cool water on my legs.
Hints of memories hover out of reach. Taunting. Terrifying.
Who touched me while I was unaware? Did I tell him no? I don’t know.
I don’t know.
What else don’t I know?
Nothing happened, I tell myself. I want to believe that. I need to and yet . . .
A door slams. I hold my breath.
Heavy footsteps sound in the outer office. There is the distinctive jangle of keys.
They’re coming.
That first thought makes my soul go cold with fear.
The next—I won’t let anyone touch me this time—gets me moving.
Ignoring the aches, I shove to my feet and cross the white-and-gray-swirled tile. I stand next to a video screen that I can’t pull off the wall. It’s mounted in a heavy steel case beside the thick white door. There is nothing else that I can see that can be used as a weapon, but I don’t intend to be a victim again.
A key slides into the lock. The handle turns.
I ball my hands into fists, and when the door swings open and a man in a uniform appears, I launch myself forward. I’m not as fast as I would like to be, but the man is holding a tray. He’s unable to defend himself when I hit him from the side, pivot, and kick him square in the crotch.
The tray crashes to the ground. The man doubles over and wheezes for air as plastic cups and medical supplies roll across the floor. I skid on a patch of water. race toward him and shove him into the wall. When he lets out a satisfying “oof,” I make a break for the door.
But not quick enough.
A hand grabs the back of my shirt. Desperate, I throw myself forward. The shift of my weight catches him off guard long enough for me to cock my fist, turn, and aim for his stomach.
“Damn it.”
He twists to the side so my strike doesn’t land as hard as I intended.
“Let go!” I stomp my heel down on his foot and grab at the other hand that has latched on to my arm. “Don’t touch me.”
“Meri! Stop!”
It takes several seconds for me to understand he’s saying my real name. To place the voice. To stop fighting and turn. When I do, he takes off the hat pulled low on his forehead to give me a clear view of an impossibly familiar face.
“Isaac?”
There’s a scar on his chin that wasn’t there the last time I saw him. His eyes are rimmed with fatigue, and there is the horrible barcode cuff embedded in his ear. But otherwise he’s the same Isaac who I remember.
I shake my head. “You can’t be here. You’re dead.”
“I’m not, and I’d like to keep it that way.” He glances at the door. “If someone sees us like this they’re going to ask questions neither of us want to answer. Can I let go or are you going to do something—you know—stupid?”
It’s the edge in his voice that convinces me he’s real—the same tone he always used on Rose and me when he thought we were acting immature or doing something that would embarrass him. Slowly, I lower my hands to my side.
My stomach lurches as he closes the door. The latch clicks into place, once again trapping me inside this room.
“Are you okay?” he asks, then shakes his head. “Sorry. Stupid question. We don’t have time for stupid questions or for almost any questions at all. In under an hour the Instructors are due to take you to Recruiting. Which means we have to get you out of here, now. If Davis gets ahold of you . . .”
“Who is Davis? Why does he want me?”
“He’s powerful.” Isaac flips his hat onto the closest cot, then heads to another on the far side of the room. “Recruiters aren’t just looking for people to work the farm. They’re in charge of motivating the Instructors and administrators. Money works well. Competition and money combined work better.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know much about it. Just what I’ve overheard.” He flips the cot onto its side and feels around the metal frame. “Stuff for Instructors to bet on, I think. I guess whatever you did last night got someone’s attention.” He turns. “The Meri I know wouldn’t have survived a four-against-one fight.”
“I’m not who I used to be.” I shrug and wince at the flash of pain from my shoulder.
“I get that. Funny how learning your entire life is a lie can change a person.”
Yeah, funny.
“Well, the Instructors who brought you here are interested in this new you.” He turns back to the cot. “They get rewarded for finding good competition recruits. Even the Instructor who runs this place will get some kind of reward for getting you back on your feet and making you look presentable. Got it.” He slides something free from the metal frame as I take a step back from the cots.
“Is he the one?” I ask.
“What?” Isaac fiddles with something else, then flips the cot back into its original position and turns. “Meri?” When I don’t answer, he takes a slow step forward. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Someone was left here with me. He . . .” I look down and twist the fabric of my clean shirt. How do I ask? “My clothes . . . He was told . . .”
Have fun.
I shake my head. “It’s not important.”
The answer won’t change anything.
“Meri.”
His fingers brush the top of my arm—just the barest of whispers—like the wings of a butterfly—but I jerk as if burned.
“Meri.”
I force myself to look up into his eyes and cringe at the pity I find there.
“There wasn’t some guy. It was me. I had to get you cleaned up—wrap your rib cage. You were a serious mess. I almost didn’t realize who I was looking at. You’re scanned in under a different name.”
I take a breath. Two.
“You’re the one that saw me? Without my clothes?” I look down at the shape of his hands. The size of them. The lack of calluses on the fingers that are currently holding a small, thin black box.
“Well, it’s not like that was the first time,” he jokes. “Remember when we all went camping and your tent collapsed?” He’s trying to put me at ease. He’s trying really hard.
“Rose still thinks you’re the one that made it fall down,” I say carefully.
“My sister isn’t stupid.” Then the joking disappears. “Do you know . . . is Rose okay? Is my mom? Do they know where I am? How I got here?”
“Your father told them you were taken by some criminal gang that targets government families. I told them the truth—about everything.” His eyes go hard and flat at the mention of his father. I don’t know what he has learned about the missing words and all the government has done in the name of “law and order” and “security,” but Isaac clearly understands that his father helps the government do the terrible things they have done.
But according to Isaac there isn’t time to talk about all those things. There isn’t time for almost anything, but there has to be time for this. “I’m sorry.” They’re words I never believed I’d get the chance to say to him. “It was my fault the Marshals came for you. I took your badge and used it to get into the City Pride Department Archives. I’m the reason you’re here. You should never have been pulled into this. It’s my fault.”
“You’re right. It’s your fault.” Isaac stalks away. “If it wasn’t for you, I would be home. I wouldn’t have this crap in my ear or been treated like an animal.”
I lift my chin and repeat, “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care,” he shoots back. “‘Sorry’ changes jack, but neither does you getting stuck here for the rest of your life. So you can either have a pity party, in which case I leave, or you suck it up and do what I tell you to in order to get out of here. I’m assuming you want to escape this place, right?” He glances down at my shoe, then back up at me.
He knows about the GPS recorder. He’s the reason I still have it.
I have so many questions. Instead, I say, “Yeah. I want to get out of here. Do you know how we can do that?”
“We won’t be leaving,” he says bitterly. “You will. For this to work, no one here at the farm can suspect I’m involved.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No way. I’m not leaving you here.” Not when I’m the reason he was sent here in the first place. How can I live with that?
“If I go with you now and they catch us, it will be bad for me, but worse for you. I was never supposed to be sent here in the first place. Someone screwed up by taking me to the Unity Center.” Sarcasm drips from the words. “When the Marshals ran my address, they only looked at who lived there. It wasn’t until after I was scanned and in a holding cell that they realized my father works for the mayor. By then it was too late for them to change their mind about holding me. I’d seen too much.”
“Did you ever see a man our dads’ age named Atticus?” I ask. “He would have been put into the cages a few days before you.” If Isaac is alive, maybe Atticus made it, too. Maybe he is here somewhere.
Isaac frowns. “I don’t remember that name. He wasn’t in my transport and once I got to the farm there wasn’t much time to meet people before I landed here. Is this Atticus the one who put you up to taking my identification?”
I shake my head. “No. My mother knew Atticus. I never met him. I was hoping—”
“I’ll do my best to find him,” Isaac offers.
Which makes me feel even worse. “I still don’t understand why you think you can’t leave with me.”
“Because you’re not important,” he says matter-of-factly. “No offense.”
“I—”
“Look, they know my father works for the mayor. The government can use me as an example of what can happen to anyone’s families—even those working for the system—if they aren’t careful. If you do deactivate the tag and escape, eventually they might give up looking for you, but they won’t stop looking for me.”
Guilt stabs deep. “I can’t leave you. What will I tell Rose? Or your father? I saw him.” My desperate words tumble on top of each other. “He’s been trying to get you back. He was at the Unity Center demanding to know where they took you. Your dad saw me before they loaded me onto the transport. He could have revealed my real name and forced me to tell the Marshals about the people I’m working with. But he stayed quiet. He let me get on the truck because he wanted me to find you.”
Isaac’s eyes flash with anger, but his voice is cold and flat. “Tell my father if he wants to find me he can go to hell—because that’s what this place is.” He opens the black box. There is a thin silver scalpel resting inside. “I stashed it under that cot two days ago. Just in case . . .” He snaps the box closed and holds it out. “If you play this right, the Instructors will think they’re looking for a scared, injured girl who has no idea where she is or how to get out. They’ll underestimate you and you’ll make them pay.”
Slowly, I take the box. “I will get you out. People are going to know what’s happening here and we’re going to put a stop to it.”
“I’m going to hold you to that. When I leave, go back to your cot and pretend to be asleep. Another aide will check on you soon. Once they leave, you’re going to have to move fast.”
I shift my weight and wince. Moving fast might be easier said than done. As best as Isaac can guess, the closest boundary is a four-lane road about twenty miles to the east. The chances of me making it there aren’t great. But that’s what I have to do.
“If you let them track your barcode they’ll catch you long before you reach the boundary.” He looks at the scalpel I’m holding, then back at me. “Promise me that you’ll get rid of it at the first opportunity after you leave the infirmary.”
Things are moving too fast. I can’t think. He can’t mean for me to use the knife on myse—
“Promise!”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll try.”
He shakes his head and glances at the door. “You can’t just try, Meri. You owe me.”
“I know, but Isaac, how could you know all this?”
His smile is grim. “I’m not the only one working here who doesn’t belong.”
He puts on the hat, picks the tray up off the ground, and hurries for the door. “Wait to remove the tag until you get out of the building. They’ll send fewer officials to capture you if they believe they’re tracking your barcode. You don’t want your blood tipping them off.”
My blood. Oh God.
Isaac opens the door and presses something into the locking mechanism. “When you get back to Chicago, tell my mom and sister . . .” His deep brown eyes meet mine.
He has long, thick lashes—just like Rose. I never noticed before—how they have the same eyes.
“Wait,” I say, pulling off my shoe. I dig the GPS recorder out of my sock. Isaac doesn’t look surprised when he sees me point the device at him and press the side button. “For your mom and Rose.”
Isaac’s eyes swim with tears, but none fall as he gives a small nod, then turns and heads out the door.
I’ll pay him back, I think as the door closes. I’ll pay him all the way back.
Isaac guessed I would have five minutes, maybe ten before the Instructor came to check on me. I take several of those minutes putting my shoe back on. Once the device is safely stashed beside my heel, I stretch out on the cot with Isaac’s black box under my butt. Then with nothing else to do, I stare at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths as I wait.
My heart races at the rattle of keys. I close my eyes, will my muscles to relax, and let my mouth hang open just a little to make it appear as if I’m still unconscious. All the things I used to do to convince my mother I was asleep instead of sending late-night messages to Rose or sketching a new design.
The door closes. Footsteps shuffle. I shove the memory flashes of fingers on my arms—water dripping on my thigh—to the side and focus on my breathing. Slow. Controlled. But each breath I take feels shorter. Shallower. More painful than the last.
The footsteps stop.
Something kicks the cot, causing it to jiggle. I groan, but keep my eyes closed and relax my breathing again.
The footsteps move away. I wait for the door to open, but instead hear a series of beeps and a short buzzing.
“Yes?” a tinny female voice says.
“She’s still unconscious.”
“How long?”
“An hour? The drugs should be out of her system by then. If she doesn’t get up on her own, the technician can give her something to wake up.”
“Instructors will be here in thirty minutes. I trust she’ll be awake.”
There’s a beep. More footsteps. Finally, the door opens and closes. I wait for the man to notice there wasn’t the telltale click of the door latching shut and the lock being engaged.
I count to ten, then open my eyes. The man hasn’t return to check the lock. That means it’s time for me to move.
Small black case in hand, I get to my feet and cross to the exit. I wrap my fingers around the handle and take a deep, painful breath and open the door. The search for me will begin the minute the man returns to wake me up and realizes I’m gone. I have less than thirty minutes to get out of here. No time to waste, I think as I step into the windowless office area that Isaac promised would be unoccupied.
It is. I don’t have much time, but I allow myself to take precious seconds to check inside the desk drawers, hoping to find some kind of instrument that will remove the barcode from my ear without blood.
There isn’t one.
I shove aside the disappointment, grab a half-full bag of raisins, three loose Band-Aids, and a bright pink foundation compact.
No more stalling. I slip all my items into the raisin bag, walk to the door, and prepare to run for my life.