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MEGAN’S THOUGHTS WERE chaotic, jumbled. Pictures flashed through her mind at lightning speed, with no discernible connection from one to the next. She struggled to focus on the spinning images, desperate to catch one between her hands and force it to hold still—long enough for her to identify and understand.
She floated, weightless, flailing uselessly. She lurched for an image as it sailed past, only to feel the sudden return of gravity. Her stomach heaved as she plummeted like a rock.
No matter how hard she tried, she could neither capture the spiraling images nor slow her rapid descent.
This isn’t happening. It’s all just in my mind. She tried to impose control, to no avail. Mateo did something to me . . .
Mateo. The name became an anchor in her chaotic vision. A face attached itself to the name, and she clung to it. Yes—Mateo. He’s one of us—one like me—a Tracker.
I’m not a Tracker! Another part of her mind erupted in furious protest. No more voices, no more Givers. I am Megan.
Was her precipitous fall beginning to slow? Had that single, defiant assertion of her identity allowed her to recapture a semblance of control? Megan struggled to concentrate on a solitary image in the whirlwind around her. She was rewarded at last, but not as she’d expected.
She landed hard on an unyielding surface, a massive weight settling on her chest, pinning her down without mercy. She panicked, unable to draw a breath. Her limbs refused to obey, as if they were held fast in a giant’s iron grip.
Her ears popped loudly, as if she’d fallen down a steep mountainside. The thud-thud of her pounding heart rattled through her bones.
The whirlwind of images winked out of existence, with the exception of one. The solitary image refused to disappear—on the contrary, it expanded until it dominated her mind’s eye.
Then the image asserted control. She was inside it. This wasn’t a hallucination—it was a memory.
She saw again the two technological devices, cupped in the palm of an unknown hand. Once more, she heard her own cries of panic and despair.
Why are you doing this? We didn’t betray you—don’t turn me into one of Them!
“Will somebody please shut her up?”
Megan fastened eagerly on the exasperated voice. This was more than she’d remembered before. Another voice—female—responded to the first.
“As you wish, Councilor.”
The twin mechanical devices—they were processors, she realized, mental processors intended for her—flickered and vanished. The crushing pressure on her ribs lifted, and she felt almost weightless with its departure.
She gasped, gulping in great drafts of oxygen, and then she was in the infirmary again. Her vision cleared. Doctor Simon leaned over her, brow furrowed with worry.
“Megan? Can you hear me?” Doc repeated the question over and over, with as much calm as she could muster. Megan heard the anguish in her voice. “Don’t try to speak. Just nod if you understand me.”
Megan levered herself up on her elbows, grimacing at the pain in her joints. Everything hurts. It’s like I’ve run a marathon or something. She nodded at the doctor and managed a weary smile. “I hear you fine, Doc.”
Doc’s eyes widened, and Megan bolted upright. That was me. That was my voice. “Doc, you heard me, right—I’m not still hallucinating?”
Doc laughed, her anxious look melting into delighted relief. “Yes, Megan, I heard you. Loud and clear. And if you’re using words like ‘hallucinate,’ I’d say you’re just fine.”
Her laughter was contagious, and Megan’s grin stretched wider. “It worked. Mateo’s experiment, I mean. Listen to me—I can talk.”
Doc placed a hand on her shoulder, her eyes full of merriment. “Yes. That crazy Tracker’s idea worked, after all. Everyone’s been worried sick about you. We thought Mateo killed you—Don almost took a prod to him. Wait here. I’ll go tell the others you’re okay.”
She turned to leave, but paused at the door, looking over her shoulder with an impish grin. “I’ll just tell them you’re awake. You can surprise them when they get here.”
Megan nodded with a smile, and Doc was gone.
Megan sat cross-legged in the middle of the gurney, looking down at her hands. She flexed them over and over, grateful as the stiffness faded. She felt like she’d been run over by a truck.
A heavy lock of her hair fell forward, covering her good eye. She pushed it back with one hand, tucking it behind her ear. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, despite the still-receding stiffness.
She flexed her muscles. As she had feared, the enhancements no longer increased her strength. She remembered what the sensation felt like, and there was no evidence of it now.
Still, to be able to speak again—that was worth everything. Even the nightmarish visions she’d been forced to endure were a small price to pay.
She fastened on one specific memory. The final moments before the Givers had stolen her humanity and transformed her into a Tracker.
Megan smiled again, a much darker smile than before. That voice she’d heard in her memory/dream. The one they called the Councilor.
She knew him.