“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, you idiot?” the daughter whispered. She jumped off the bed and propped her hands on her hips. “You can’t be in my room. My dad will call the cops. Do you have a death wish?”
Martyr fell to the soft floor and curled into a ball. His heart thudded in his chest. Certainly he had done something very bad and would be punished. Did daughters give marks?
“What are you …? Get up.” The daughter nudged him in the back.
He would not get up so she could strike him. Martyr knew that trick—it was one of Rolo’s favorites. Besides, he liked this floor with the soft, warm fibers that cushioned his body. It was safer to stay in a ball and see what she decided to do next.
A moment of silence passed, and he slowly peeked out between his elbows to see her puzzled expression. Her hair practically glowed; the reddish orange color was so vibrant. He had never seen anything so beautiful.
“What are you wearing?” she asked. “And what did you do to your hair? JD! Your hair is your best feature.”
Something sang on the daughter, a noisy, metallic rhythm. Martyr scrambled to a sitting position and backed against the wall, afraid of the strange sound. Was it some kind of alarm?
The daughter stood up and removed a small, red device from her pocket. She held it to her ear. “Hello?”
Martyr frowned as he watched her, puzzled by the strange device and her reaction to it.
“Don’t be stupid. Who is this?” Her thin eyebrows sank low over her pea-green eyes. “It is not … Because I’m looking at you right now … You shaved your head. Is it a wig?” She leaned closer, peering at Martyr’s head. “How are you doing this?”
The daughter reached a hand towards Martyr, but a loud honk outside caused her to jerk her hand back. She went to the wall, peeked through the strips of metal that hung there, and looked out a window. “What in the world?”
She tossed the device onto the bed. “Stay here.” She pointed a finger at Martyr, who pressed back into the corner again. The daughter opened the door and went out, slamming the door behind her.
Maybe I should leave. This might be his only chance to get away. But it was so warm and colorful inside the daughter’s cell. He was thankful Dr. Goyer had left the door open when he had yelled at his daughter. Martyr rubbed his cold feet, which had finally started to thaw. It was so much warmer inside the facility than out in the icy darkness.
Martyr did not want to go back to Jason Farms. He did not want to expire. He did not want Dr. Kane to take his kidneys. It was selfish to run away—and he hadn’t intended to. If he never went back to the Farm, how many people who lived outside would not get an antidote? Would he still expire when he became eighteen? What would happen to Baby?
Martyr crawled to the bed and tapped the red device with one finger. It was hard and smooth and did not make noise for him. He looked around the daughter’s cell. He couldn’t name the color, but almost everything was the same shade, similar to gray but more pleasant. A huge picture hung on the door of a man with frizzy white hair and a thick mustache. Martyr stepped closer to read the words.
E=MC2
The door burst open, and the daughter closed it quickly behind her. Martyr scurried back to the corner and crouched low. The daughter leaned against the picture of the man for a long moment before turning to look at Martyr. She stepped toward him and squatted down to his level. She was holding something in her arms. A white and hairy animal. A dog?
“Who are you?” Her intense eyes trained on his.
Martyr suddenly grew very hot, saliva filling his mouth. The dog squirmed. Its round eyes met his and he noticed they were the same color as the daughter’s: green. Martyr swallowed and said in a near whisper, “I am Martyr. J:3:3.”
Her sculpted eyebrows sank over her eyes. Martyr focused on the sprinkle of tiny dots on the top of her cheeks and nose, dots the same color as her hair.
“What kind of name is that?” she asked.
Her question knotted his thoughts. His identification was not acceptable? “It’s what I’m called.”
“Where do you live?”
“The Farm.”
“What farm?”
“Jason Farms.”
The daughter sucked in a sharp breath. “No. That’s not possible. How did you get in this house?”
“I rode in the pocket of Dr. Goyer’s car.”
“Doctor? In the back of the Silverado?”
What was a Silverado? “I-I do not know.”
“Just how do you know my dad?”
“Dr. Goyer works at the Farm. I met him the day he wore his orange necktie. I touched it.”
The daughter wrinkled her lips. Martyr must have said something incorrect. Perhaps neckties were forbidden in this facility too.
She took a deep breath and exhaled. “How did you get to the Farm?”
Martyr cocked his head to the side. He did not understand the question.
She asked another. “When did you first go there?”
“I have always lived on the Farm.”
“No!” The daughter jumped up and strode across the room. The dog leapt from her arms, arched its back in the air, then hopped onto the bed. When the daughter reached the door, she turned and strode back to face him.
Martyr shrank back into the corner. He had somehow upset her again. He did not want her to be upset. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I angered you. I shouldn’t have ridden in the pocket of Dr. Goyer’s car and come into his facility, but the snow was freezing my feet. The door was open, and I wanted to get warm.”
Tears flooded the daughter’s eyes. She walked back to the door, leaned against it, and slid down against the picture of the frizzy-haired man until she sat on the floor, staring at Martyr, her eyes out of focus like Hummer’s.
“JD forgot his books and he had some homework due tomorrow, so he called …”
Martyr could not look away from the daughter’s face. It made his heart race. Round cheeks, creamy skin peppered with dots, glossy lips, and her hair—bright and wild, it swung soft and long and curly around her face when she moved. He wanted very badly to touch it.
Something pounded softly outside the door. The daughter scrambled to her knees and poked a button on the doorknob. She stood and whispered, “Get over here. It’s my dad.” She lunged forward, grabbed his hand, and pulled. “Come on.”
Her touch inflicted a pleasant nausea. He was much taller than she was. The top of her head reached his chin. How was it she had such power over his senses?
“Abby, honey? Can I come in?” Dr. Goyer’s voice came from the other side of the door.
The daughter herded Martyr into a tiny closet filled with clothing. He stood in awe of so many colors and textures. She pushed the door shut, closing him in darkness, but the door swung slowly back open, letting in a stripe of light. Martyr could see the daughter scramble to her bed and find the noisy red device. She opened it and began to push on it with her thumbs.
Something pounded on the door again, the doorknob rattled, and Dr. Goyer said, “Honey, open the door. We need to talk.”
The daughter opened her mouth like she was about to respond, but instead started pushing buttons on her red device again.
Dr. Goyer’s voice carried from outside the room. “Because I said so.”
She pushed more buttons.
“That wasn’t a fortune cookie answer! Listen, I know I’m gone a lot, but that doesn’t mean you can do whatever you like.”
The daughter rolled her eyes, and began hitting buttons again.
“True,” Dr. Goyer said, even though the daughter hadn’t spoken, “but you’re not old enough to have a boyfriend over without supervision either.”
The daughter gasped. “He’s not my boyfriend!” she yelled. “We’re doing a project together. And he invited himself over!”
Dr. Goyer’s voice softened. “What’s the project?”
She heaved a sigh and began pushing buttons on the device again.
“I do care,” Dr. Goyer said. “Tell me more about it.”
The daughter ignored him and kept on hitting buttons. Martyr was amazed. Clearly she was communicating to Dr. Goyer through that thing in her hands. He wanted to see how it worked.
“Sounds interesting,” Dr. Goyer said slowly, “but why lupus? And is there any way for you to get a different partner? Perhaps a female? I would feel better about it.”
The daughter looked like she had just received an injection of EEZ. “I chose lupus, Dad!” She threw the device on the bed and flopped down. “If you care that much about keeping me away from boys, maybe you should go down to the school and talk to the principal.” She snorted. “But guess what, Dad? The principal is JD’s mom. So that should go over really well.”
It was quiet for a moment, and Martyr wondered if Dr. Goyer had left. But then he heard Dr. Goyer clear his throat and say, “Abby, honey, I’m sure JD is not a bad kid. I just—his being in the house surprised me.”
The daughter sighed and grabbed the device off the bed, causing the dog to dart out of the way and settle near the wall. She communicated one more time, and Dr. Goyer said, “Okay, honey. Come downstairs when you’re ready.”
The daughter sank onto the edge of her bed and dropped the device beside her. She sat quiet and still, pet her dog, then turned her head slowly toward where Martyr stood in the closet. The angry expression on her face sent Martyr stepping back until colorful fabrics fell over his head. He crouched onto the floor to escape them, and when he looked back out the door, the daughter stood right above him.
She held out her hand. He leaned forward to look, but there was nothing in it. Her fingernails were long and glossy red except for one jagged thumbnail. He reached a finger out to touch one and found it smooth. Her lips twisted a bit. She took his hand in her small, warm one, and drew him back into her cell.
Again her touch wiped away all reasonable thought. Martyr’s hand began to shake. He dragged in a long, deep breath and stumbled after her.
“Sit there.” She pointed to the edge of her bed, climbed onto the other end, took the pillow in her lap, and sat against the white wooden bars by the wall.
The dog got up and moved to her side—settling into a ball of white fluff beside her. It closed its eyes and a gentle noise came from it, like the hum of a furnace.
For a while the daughter did nothing but watch Martyr, so he stared back. A strange tension bound them somehow, like an invisible string from her eyes to his. Like when she had touched him, her attention mesmerized him, spinning his stomach like a ceiling fan.
“My name is Abby.”
“Abby.” He felt taller just knowing her name.
“How old are you?” she asked, so calm and confident, like she spoke to Jasons every day.
She probably did.
“I am seventeen years, eleven months, and twelve days old.”
One of her eyebrows arched up, wrinkling part of her forehead. He grinned and tried to mimic her expression.
“That’s pretty accurate.” She scowled. “Stop that.”
He relaxed his face immediately and waited for her next words.
“You lived all those years on the Farm? Even as a baby?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you look like JD Kane?”
Dr. Kane? The question was so ridiculous, Martyr laughed. “Dr. Kane is in charge of the Farm. I don’t look like him.”
They sat silently again, looking into each other’s eyes. Martyr did not mind. He could look at Daughter Abby all day long.
She broke the silence. “What about your parents?”
“What are parents?”
She breathed out a laugh. “Are you for real?”
Martyr did not know what this question meant either.
“You know, a mom and a dad? Did they die? Are you an orphan?”
Ah. Mom and dad were slang for mother and father. Children who lived outside had these special adults to care for them. “Only children who live outside have mothers and fathers.”
“Everyone has a mother and a father—at some point, anyway.”
“We don’t.”
“We? How many, um … are there?”
“There are fifty-five of us.”
She sucked in a short breath. “Are you all boys?”
“Yes. There are no woman at the Farm.”
“Women.”
“Women.” Of course. Like man and men. Singular and plural. How obvious. Martyr’s face warmed at the simplicity of his mistake. She must think him ignorant.
But Daughter Abby only looked pale. Her next question came so softly, Martyr almost couldn’t hear it. “Then how were you born?”
He did not understand. “Born?”
“Produced. Made. Created.” Her voice rose with each word.
Martyr hoped she was not frightened. Did she think he would hurt her? He hoped his answers would bring her comfort. “We were created at the Gunnolf Lab and brought to Jason Farms as infants.”
She scowled again.
Martyr couldn’t help but copy her expression. This scowling look was by far his favorite Daughter Abby face, and mimicking her only made her scowl more.
“Why are you called Martyr?”
“Because I protect Baby and the other Brokens. My official identification is J:3:3.” He pushed up the right sleeve of the lab coat and turned his wrist over to show her the numbers inked into his skin.
Her eyes swelled. “What does that mean?”
“Product Jason: batch three: number three.”
Her eyebrows scrunched together like she was thinking very hard. “But you’re … normal. How could they have kept you hidden all this time? Why?”
“We’re created to save the world. That’s our purpose. The world is toxic and we are the cure.” According to Dr. Kane, the program at the Farm was famous, and the Jasons were worldwide heroes for their sacrifice. Why did Daughter Abby not know this already? “You haven’t heard of our sacrifice?”
“No, JD—Martyr. Is that what you want me to call you?”
“Martyr is my name, but you may call me whatever you like.”
She smirked and Martyr fought the urge to try this expression on his face as well. “Then I’ll call you Marty. It’s more of a normal name. Why do you think the world is toxic, Marty?”
Her words chilled him. “Your question implies the world is not toxic.”
“It’s not. A little polluted, maybe, but no one needs to be cured from simply breathing the air.”
“But …” Martyr’s chest burned, like the EEZ side effects had come upon him again. “If the world is not toxic …” He squeezed his knees. Dr. Kane’s words flashed over him like a bucket of water on grooming day. His deep, smooth chuckle followed by, Well, I don’t need anyone’s brain, just a pair of kidneys.
“Aaaaah …” Martyr clutched his temples and doubled forward, propping his elbows on his knees. There had to be a logical explanation.
He felt a pressure on his back—a hand—then Daughter Abby’s worried voice. “Are you okay?”
Martyr closed his eyes. “When I came outside to see the sky and didn’t die from breathing the air, I knew something was wrong.” Still hunched over, he turned his head toward Daughter Abby. “They lied to us. But if our purpose is not to save the world, why do we expire? For kidneys?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t understand. Expire? Who expires?”
“Me. In sixteen days. On April twenty-eight.”
“You said you were seventeen years and eleven …” She scoffed. “People don’t just die on their eighteenth birthday.”
Martyr’s throat was dry. He licked his lips and glanced at the soft fibers on the floor. “We do.”
Daughter Abby slid off the bed and stood in front of him. Her feet were bare and he saw her toenails were also red. The oddness of it flushed the confusion from his mind. He smirked and looked up to find her hands on her hips. The confident, in-control Daughter Abby had returned.
“Are you hungry?”
“We never eat at night. Only during meal times.”
“That’s not what I asked, Marty. Are. You. Hungry?”
“Yes.” Martyr was always hungry.
“I’ll get you something.” She walked to the door. “Lock this behind me—push the button.” She touched a tiny circle on the doorknob. “I’ll knock three times, like this.” She softly tapped her knuckles against the door, taking a long pause between each knock. “I don’t want my dad to know you’re here … yet.”
She slipped past the door and closed it behind her.
Martyr jumped up and pressed the little button with a click. He hoped she would not be gone long.