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DOCTOR SIMON POURED herself a fresh cup of coffee, deep in thought.
She’d left the guards in the exercise room. One to watch the door, and the other to walk alongside Tracy, in case she stumbled.
The guards were nonplussed by the meager exercise room, exchanging amused glances with each other when they thought she couldn’t see them.
The room’s most notable feature was the unfinished wall at the opposite end. A myriad of round, dark smudges marred the dull cinderblocks.
Aubrey had spent many hours here, throwing a ball against the concrete blocks in her obsessive drive to recover from her burns. Doc briefly considered enlightening the immature guards, but decided it would be a waste of time.
Doc Simon considered herself a patient person—she was a physician, after all—but she found the guards’ juvenile antics an increasing annoyance.
Tracy showed great enthusiasm in her first few laps as the reluctant guard kept pace. Doc watched for a few minutes, until she was satisfied the guards understood what she expected of them. Then she’d made a beeline to the mess hall for a much-needed break.
Doc drained the last of her coffee, setting her empty mug on the table. Her headache receded slightly, and she wished for a mug of real espresso. She picked up a lantern, carrying it with her to the exercise room.
The door hung ajar, and the room was strangely silent. Doc quickened her pace, listening intently.
She pushed the door open with her foot, trembling with sudden anxiety. Heart pounding, she stepped into the room.
She almost tripped over the guard just inside the door. She held the lantern higher, spying his partner, perhaps a meter or two further in. Both guards sprawled in awkward poses, face down on the rough floor—alive, but unconscious.
Doc raced down the corridor, fearing the worst. The lights in the infirmary were still on, illuminating the stark interior with precise clarity. There was no sign of Tracy.
Doc crossed to her workbench, extinguishing the lantern as she took a quick inventory of her instruments. She needed less than a minute to discover what Tracy had done.
The Implant—the one Amos had cut out of his own body—was missing.
Doc pivoted to face the vacant gurney. She sagged against her workbench, overcome by sudden weariness. Her headache returned with a vengeance.
“What could Tracy possibly want with Amos’s Implant?” Doc asked the empty room. She felt a hollow sensation in her stomach as the answer came.
“The Givers,” Doc said, louder this time, her words raising a faint echo. She stared at the gurney’s empty restraints. The sinking feeling morphed into a numbing dread.
“It’s her ticket back in.”