Chapter Seventeen

Before turning into my neighborhood, I toss Darian’s borrowed jacket into the trash. I can’t wear it home without getting a million questions. Questions I could never answer. My parents meet me at the door with troubled eyes. Mom runs to grab several towels and dry clothes while my dad makes me hot cocoa. I don’t tell them about the official or about Darian on the tram. I’m too tired. Too exhausted to answer the million questions that would definitely follow. I don’t have the energy to try to calm them down. I’m not sure how I could even do that when I myself don’t feel calm. The last thing I need to do is worry my parents. After mumbling a few words about how great my first date was, amazed at how easily I now lie, I head to my room to do the one thing that allows me a release—I paint.

I think of Mr. Williams, the sanitation worker at Mercy Hospital that I’ve grown close to, about how hard he works, and how much he loved his son, Henry. Placing a small canvas on my easel, I then pull out the paints Mr. Williams gave me and begin to paint Henry’s image.

Henry comes alive on the canvas in swirls of color. His brown eyes, with flecks of gold, shine out from beneath his dark brows, and his full lips turn up at the edges into a toothy smile.

The time ticks by and I eye my bed. The Syncro-Drifter, which links to the Dreamscape, both beckons and taunts me. I’ve never needed and despised something so much at the same time. If the Dreamscape is what somehow made me forget my sister, and is what keeps the citizens of Tower in line—brainwashed—then I want no part of it.

The hours tick by, until finally my body caves, but jolts of needles pierce my skin, zapping me alert the moment I start to drift off.

Unable to fight it any longer, I collapse onto my bed and activate the Syncro-Drifter, surrendering to the soothing, pulsing rhythm of the Dreamscape.

Its lilting voice beckons me under…“…Here to keep you safe…”

It seems like only seconds have gone by before it’s time to wake up and get ready for school. The blinds automatically open to an unusually bright sky. My heart rate is slow, even, and the remnants of a beautiful dream of a day at the beach still linger in my mind.

For a minute, I forget the drama surrounding my life—then my gaze falls on the portrait I painted of Henry last night, and it all comes rushing back.

I quickly shower and place the small portrait carefully in my backpack as a gift for Mr. Williams.

During the tram ride to the hospital, the newscaster speaks of a Darian sighting last night, and of how The Protectorate is closing in on him. Right, I think. They wish. But another part of me worries that it might be true and that it can really only be a matter of time before they find him. The thought makes my stomach flip and I gaze out the window, imagining Darian hiding behind every tree we pass.

At Mercy Hospital, I quickly find Mr. Williams. He’s sitting on a bench outside, shining an apple against his shirt.

“Hey, Desiree,” he says with a broad smile as I approach. He reaches into his lunch pail and pulls out another apple. “Apple?”

“Sure.” I take a seat beside him and bite into the juicy fruit. Then I smile and say, “I brought you something.”

“For me?” he says around a mouthful of apple, his brown eyes gleaming.

Using my free hand, I tug out Henry’s picture and hold it up. “It’s Henry!” I say with a giant smile. “And I used the paints you gave me that were his. I thought he would’ve liked that.”

Mr. Williams swallows a bite of apple and places what’s left of it into his lunch pail. He turns shining eyes on me and pulls me into a hug. “Thanks, Desiree,” he says, patting my back. “You’re really a sweet girl.”

He takes the portrait of Henry and stares at it, dazed. “Rayleen will love this, you know,” he says, referring to his wife. “I’ll make sure to frame it.”

“You’re welcome,” I say in-between bites of the red fruit, so happy to have made him smile. “Hey, where’s Diesel?”

“Oh, he’s inside powering up. I’m about to get to work right now, and you should go on into class.” He stands up and smiles again. “Thanks again, Desiree. I knew you were talented. Henry woulda been proud to know you drew him so well—with his paints no less.”

“My pleasure, honestly. Thanks again for the paints.” I stand up and dunk the core of the apple into the trash. “And thanks for the apple, too. See you tomorrow,” I say, before heading up to the third floor.

When I get to class, I’m surprised to see Sage there early. Even stranger is that he’s outside the classroom speaking to our teacher alone.

He glances at me as I walk by, his face pale. I wonder if he’s in trouble for all the times he’s been late, or if something else is wrong. My insides do a little flip and I hope nothing has happened to his patient, Mrs. Walsh—not only for her, but because I need to talk to her. She’s one glimmer of hope for me to find Sophia, if Sophia is even still alive.

I hardly hear anything Mrs. Vickers says during her lecture, wishing I could communicate with Sage telepathically to find out what’s going on. I’m dying to get to Mrs. Walsh, to see if there’s something…anything…she can tell me about her baby Jax—like who she thinks took him, and where she thinks he could be.

Once we’re outside the classroom and into the hallway, it’s me that’s pulling Sage aside this time. I stop a few doors down from Mrs. Walsh’s room. “Is everything okay?” I ask him, breathless.

He scrunches his nose like he smelled something bad. “Mrs. Vickers called me at home last night and asked me to come in early this morning to talk to her.” He pauses, frowns. “I’m being assigned a new patient in an hour or so. So, once Mrs. Walsh is done with breakfast, I need to set her up under the Dreamscape and go with you.” He makes a face. “Looks like we just have your patient until then.”

“What?” I say, panic filling me. “Why?” If he’s assigned a new patient, that restricts my access to Mrs. Walsh too. I need to talk to her.

“Apparently, she should never have been assigned to a student in the first place.” He rolls his eyes. “Mrs. Vickers will probably get her knuckles rapped for this one,” he says, flicking his hand through the air. “Whatever.”

“It’s not whatever, Sage. Aren’t you curious what she kno—” I clamp my mouth shut, then try again. “I mean, you know, aren’t you curious what it would be like to heal her? This is the Mrs. Walsh after all.” I play to the drama I know he loves. “And aren’t you the slightest bit curious about the special drug that’s coming today straight from The Empire?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Yes, and yes.” He tilts his head and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Please, Desiree, you know I am, but what do you want me to say? And besides, Mrs. Vickers said that Mrs. Walsh received her treatment early yesterday evening, shortly after we left, and that she’s been under the Dreamscape ever since. Apparently, they only shut it down this morning so that she can have a quick breakfast because the woman refused to eat since she came in. But after that, it’s bedtime for the news lady. Believe me, I’m pissed.” He runs a hand through his faux-hawk, shakes his head and snorts. “They’re actually treating her husband and daughter, too, in case they caught it from her.”

“Her family? Here?” I ask, shocked. “Sage, c’mon. Doesn’t that sound strange to you? I mean you can’t catch psychosis. Think about it.”

“Well, apparently whatever caused her psychosis, you can catch.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, Desiree, but you worry too much.”

I need to think fast. I swallow hard and force a smile. “Mrs. Vickers said you have to put her under the Dreamscape, right? Do you mind if I do it and you start with my patient instead?”

He eyes me funny and I laugh. “I want to sing to her as she falls asleep, you know? She’s been through a lot. And, well, I think you’ve heard enough of my choked chicken for one lifetime. I promise I’ll come right back as soon as I’m done.”

He shrugs. “Okay, fine. Shoot me your patient’s data, and I’ll get started.”

“Thanks, Sage,” I say and send the information. “I owe you.”

I suit up in the precautions gear and when I enter Mrs. Walsh’s room, she’s propped up in bed. The restraints have been removed and she’s already eating breakfast. I don’t know what kind of miracle drug they produced, but I’m hopeful the change in her is because they returned her baby. Something tells me that’s very wishful thinking.

“Good morning, Mrs. Walsh,” I say as I approach her bed. I’m surprised to see her makeup has been neatly applied, her telltale botched tattoo neatly penciled in, and her hair combed. “You’re looking good. You have any good news to share?”

She smiles. “Do I know you?”

“Oh, sorry. My name’s Desiree. I met you yesterday.”

She reaches for a packet of sugar that is just out of her reach. I pick it up and pass it to her. “I’m a nursing student here.”

She tilts her head and eyes me carefully. “Oh, really? Yes, right. You do look familiar, but I can’t quite place you.”

I figure she was pretty upset yesterday and her memories are probably jumbled. I need to say something to help her remember. “I—um sang a little to you yesterday because you were upset about…” I lower my voice to a whisper, “Jax?”

“Jax?” she says, raising both eyebrows. “Who’s that?”

Her question knocks the wind out of me and I twine my trembling fingers together behind my back. “Mrs. Walsh, do you remember Tiki?”

She laughs. “Of course I do, honey, that’s my daughter. And call me Ellery. Are you okay?”

I nod, even as my stomach churns. “And why do you think you’re in here?”

“I just caught a bad bug.” She takes a bite of toast and swallows. “I received some medication last night by the most handsome doctor.” She laughs. “And now I just need to rest. But I have to tell you, I feel great and I’m anxious to get back to my family and start working again.”

I’m desperate now, and fire creeps up my neck. “You told me they took your son Jax away, Ellery. Don’t you remember?”

She pinches her brows. “What? When did I say that nonsense?”

“Yesterday. You were very upset.”

She pats my hand. “I must have had a high fever, honey. I bet I was hallucinating. I’m Ellery Walsh, the newscaster. You’ve probably heard of me? I have a daughter named Tiki, not a son.” She pauses. “You look so upset. Why don’t you check me out on the net if you’re worried?” She smiles. “You can see for yourself that I have a daughter. Now, I really do need to get some sleep…Desiree, is it?”

I nod, stunned. Where is the woman from yesterday—the woman crying and screaming, insisting that her baby had been stolen from her? She seemed so convinced. Now I’m wondering if it really was all in her mind—just a bad virus like she said. But why is her medication so secretive that Sage couldn’t give it to her, or even Nurse Brown?

My head spins. Medication! I spin around and peer at the sharps container attached to the wall next to the door where they dispose of used depressors. I wonder if they deposited the depressor inside. Even though it would be used, it should still have an empty vial inside that would have the name of the drug written on it.

I take one last stab. “You sure you don’t know a baby named Jax?” She opens her mouth to respond, and I squeeze her hand. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

She closes her mouth, seems to think. “The name does sound familiar, but I think it’s just a name I might have mentioned that I liked one time—oh, wait!”

Hope ignites inside me. “Yes?”

“I think it was when my husband and I were choosing baby names.” She laughs and pushes her tray away. “He was sure we were having a boy, but then sweet little Tiki was born,” she says with a yawn.

I take a deep breath and release it slowly. So much for that. Either the drug she received messed with her memories, or I’m going crazy myself.

Memories…it hits me. Maybe that’s why I forget about Sophia—why my whole family forgot her.

Mrs. Walsh finishes her breakfast and I realize I won’t be getting anything more out of her today. I lift her hand and press it between my palms with a smile, then set her Dreamscape to twenty-four hours, as instructed. She quickly drifts off, her face lighting up into a gentle smile, as my hope of ever finding Sophia dims.

Sage will be looking for me soon or, worse, Mrs. Vickers, or Nurse Brown. I make my way across the room to the sharps container, knowing I’ll need to pry it open somehow and that if I’m caught, I’ll be in big trouble. But it’s a risk I have to take. I have a burning need to know what they gave Ellery to alter her memories. I wrap my arms around my elbows with a shiver, realizing it’s probably a drug that’s coursing through my veins, too.

After sticking my head outside the door to ensure nobody’s coming, I pull out the house key from my pocket and start prying it into the crease of the metal frame. Footsteps echo in the hallway outside the room, and my heart jumps. I take a deep breath and wait a moment until the footsteps fade away.

If I’m caught tampering with the sharps container, it would bring suspicion on me no matter who the patient was, but especially since it’s Mrs. Walsh.

Again I dig the end of my key into the crease and soon the container pops open. I’m careful not to spill the contents onto the floor, but panic fills me when I see at least ten depressors that I’ll need to open to get to the vial inside.

My heart thrums in my chest. I’m terrified I’ll be caught at any moment, but I twist the first depressor open. It releases a low hiss, and I’m careful not to touch the prickly edges at the bottom. I recognize the drug label as a simple sedative, and lay it aside with a groan. One after the other I pull them open and find nothing but sedatives.

Activity stirs outside in the hallway.

I check the remaining depressors. Two more to go. Just two more.

“Can I help you?”

I almost drop the depressor as my eyes dart up. Nobody is there, but I recognize the voice as Nurse Brown’s. She must be just outside the door.

“We’re here from the Empire to check on Mrs. Walsh’s progress,” a man’s stern voice replies as I forget how to breathe.

Somehow, I manage to move. I take the remaining two depressors and place them in my pocket.

I need to hide.

Sliding the sharps container closed with a low click that I’m sure will give me away, I bite my lip until I almost draw blood.

Voices still rumble outside and I release a breath. I know at any moment they’ll come in and find me. Me, the childhood friend of the escaped convict Darian. Me, the girl caught talking with said convict on the tram last night and, if I’m caught, me, the girl with a secret medication in my pocket.

It’s more attention than one person should ever bring on themselves and more than enough to send me straight to the Terrorscape. Maybe it’s only more sedatives in my pocket, but it’s proof that I’ve been snooping.

“She’s should be sleeping now,” I hear Nurse Brown say. “One of the nursing students was—”

“Nursing students?” the man growls. “There were to be no nursing students caring for Mrs. Walsh.”

Nurse Brown clears her throat. “I was going to say that one of the nursing students was mentioning to me how quiet she is today.”

Thank God for Nurse Brown’s self-preservation. But soon it won’t matter about her lies because the head officials are going to find me in Mrs. Walsh’s room.

My heart beats so hard it hurts. I search for a spot to hide, my eyes darting instantly to the bed. It’s too low for me to fit under. And the window isn’t an option. We’re on the psychiatric ward and bars line the windows for the patient’s protection.

Then I see it.

Above Mrs. Walsh’s bed is a grate. It looks wide enough for me to fit through. Not wasting another second, I jump up on her bed and carefully step onto her night stand. Stretching up, I ease the grill open. It takes all of my strength, but I manage to pull myself up into the dark, cramped space. A cool breeze flutters the thin fabric of the cap covering my hair.

When my knees meet the flexible metal, it heaves and moves under my weight with a crackling, thumping sound. Easing the grate closed, I then move away from the grate an inch and lie flat on my stomach as quickly and quietly as I can. The space is just big enough to accommodate my size. Now, all I can do is wait. Sweat beads on my lip as I clench and unclench my hands.

From my vantage point, I watch two men stalk into the room and flank Mrs. Walsh’s bed. Nurse Brown follows closely behind.

“I told you she’d be resting,” she says. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Can you excuse us, please.” It’s a statement, not a question, from the blond-haired guy. His short, spiky hair isn’t a natural color either. It’s ultra-blond in a neon yellow kind of way. Both men wear the uniform of The Protectorate. Five small gold stars stitched into their gray uniforms directly below the owl logo indicates they are high-standing officials. But all I can think of is why aren’t they wearing the precautions garb? Aren’t they afraid of catching whatever she has? I search Nurse Brown’s face for some kind of reaction, some indication that she’s thinking the same thing, but there’s nothing.

She nods and leaves the room in silence.

The blond official leans in, checking the time setting on the Syncro-Drifter. “It’s good,” he says.

The other official, tall and stocky with brown hair, jabs at his data port with the stylus wand. “Says here her husband and daughter have been treated as well. The little girl is at a hospital in James Town and the husband…” He taps the screen again. “He’s in Flannery.”

“And the neighbors? Friends?” asks the blond guy as he scans Mrs. Walsh’s wrist. His scanner beeps and he reads the scroll across the top. “Just making sure,” he says to the other guy. “No room for error on this one.”

“It’s good to see you’re thorough. Never get too comfortable on the job. You’re keen now because you’re new, but don’t ever lose that edge. And as for the friends and neighbors? They’ve all been questioned thoroughly. The Walshes thought they hid the baby well. Nobody seems to know anything. And now, neither does she,” he says with a laugh.

I cover my mouth as a gasp seeps from my lips. Jax does exist! And I know that means Sophia does too! The medication obviously erases memories somehow.

“And the medication will engage more, adapting to her cells the longer she sleeps under the Dreamscape,” he continues. “The Dreamscape’s sonic pulses are the active ingredient that disperses the medication.” A sly smirk crosses his face.

Anger spikes in my bloodstream. I want to jump out, rip the Syncro-Drifter from the wall, and wrap it around their necks. I need to find Darian—and tell him he’s right about everything.

“I wish it didn’t have to be like this. It seems kind of cruel.” The stocky guy scowls at the blond man in a warning, and the blond guy quickly changes the topic. “So, who was the informant?”

Stocky Guy taps at his data port again. “You won’t believe it. It was a co-worker of hers. Davis Tate. And once somebody in the public is aware, we need to move in immediately.”

I can’t believe it. I know of Davis Tate from the news. He’s Ellery Walsh’s co-anchor. This is crazy.

Blond Guy rubs his fingers up and down his chin. “And you’re sure she won’t forget her life other than everything to do with Jax? If we have to do this, it has to be done right. We don’t want her to suspect something is up with Mr. Tate, either. You’re positive we’re good?” He inclines his head toward Stocky Guy. “Because Prime Minister Vega personally warned our class that he won’t take well to any mistakes. He said it might call for a run in the Terrorscape.”

Of course Prime Minister Vega is in on it, but it still makes me ill to hear that the man I’ve always looked up to and respected is really just evil.

Stocky Guy sticks the data port back into his jacket pocket. “Relax, Max. I checked it myself. The highest scientists at The Empire’s labs have gotten it right down to every axon, neuron, and delivery path throughout the body. It’s worked in with each person’s specific DNA to make it an exact science.”

This guy sounds anything but stupid. I can’t help but think that if they’re in here without wearing the required precautions garb, that Mrs. Walsh is not contagious. It hits me that it’s just another way The Protectorate instills their fear into us. They would want us to believe that someone spouting things the way Mrs. Walsh was talking about stolen babies is clearly ill—and infectious.

I roll my eyes as Stocky Guy lifts a shoulder. “The only thing that will be wiped from her memory will be everything and anything to do with the child.”

Just hearing them talking about Jax, as if he’s an inanimate object instead of a child, makes bile rise in my throat.

But where’s Jax? I will them to talk about it, wanting to rescue the boy and, with any luck, find Sophia, too.

Stocky Guy lowers his voice until it’s a whisper I can’t quite make out. I lean in closer to the grate and the metal buckles underneath me, accompanied by an odd thumping sound that echoes.

Their heads simultaneously snap up in my direction. I grit my teeth.

“Hello?” Stocky Guy says. He nods toward Max. “Check it out.”

“What the hell?” Max hops onto the nightstand so quickly, I have no time to gasp.

I twist around, teeth chattering. Now there’s no mistaking the loud bending and heaving of the metal beneath my knees as I race through the cramped space. I wish I could stand and run, but there’s no room. Darkness surrounds me. All I know is that I need to move.

I vaguely hear the grate open behind me, but I don’t look back.

“Get back here!” Max yells. His grunting tells me he’s having trouble fitting through, but I don’t look back.

After several feet, the space divides into a fork. Left or right. I try to think of where it could lead, but the heaving of the metal alerts me that Max has wedged in.

Quickly, I turn right. Panting for breath, hot air soon fills my mask, suffocating me. I tug up the end of my gown, freeing up my legs to move faster.

Hands, knees, hands, knees, moving swiftly, pounding into the darkness.

Max’s heavy breathing looms behind me. “Relax,” he says, “I just want to talk.” But I know that being caught in these circumstances will get me much more than a conversation.

I reach a dead end and peer through the grate that locks me in like a prison. The room below looks empty except for a bunch of bots plugged into receptacles on the wall. They’re stacked on shelves three stories high. Surveillance cameras are secured around the room, peering eyes at every corner. My heart leaps, but then I notice a trash can below the grate. It looks like it’s filled with parts for the bots and won’t make for a soft landing, but I have no choice.

I bash the grate with the palm of my hand, but it doesn’t move. Shit, shit, shit. It takes a moment and I curse my long limbs, but somehow I twist around, using up valuable time, and kick out the grate with a gratifying thud.

More heavy breathing comes huffing behind me. Closer, so dangerously close, but his breaths are raspy like he has asthma, which I pray will slow him down.

There’s no room for me to sit up and jump. I’ll have to go feet first. I look at the hole. If I don’t go now, I’ll lose my chance. My stomach lurches, but I shove off from my hands, propelling myself forward. Down, down, down. Every muscle in my body tenses for impact.

Whatever I hit is hard, knocking the wind out of me. I’m trying to suck in air, in deep, hollow, raspy breaths. Surrounding me are bot limbs, old and used. They engulf me on all sides until I feel like I’m drowning. Still gasping for air, I drag myself to the top and push myself over the side of the large receptacle, keeping my head low, thankful, so thankful for the mask and cap concealing my identity.

I burst through the doorway, stumbling out, and realize I’m in the front entranceway of the hospital. I press my back against the wall beside the door, doubling over, panting. I need to keep moving, but I can’t breathe.

A firm hand grips my shoulder and I bolt upright, a small squeal escaping my lips before I clasp my hand over my mouth.

It takes a second, but then I realize it’s Mr. Williams. “What’s wrong, Desiree?” he asks, worry etching his face.

“Someone’s…someone’s,” I gasp, and point to the door I just ran through, unable to finish my sentence.

Mr. Walsh eyes a surveillance camera, then resumes mopping. He whispers without looking at me, “Is someone following you?”

I nod once, lower the mask just beneath my nose, and inhale cool, blessed air. I know I can’t just leave the hospital and run home. If I do, they’ll for sure know it was me. I need to get back up onto the floor and find Sage before he reports me missing. “I need to get back upstairs,” I breathe out. “And fast.”

Behind the door I just bolted from comes a loud crash. I imagine Max has found his way into the container of bot parts. He’s coming for me.

Mr. Williams spins around, spits on the floor just outside the door. Within seconds, Diesel spins into action. “Carcinoma,” Diesel drones out and wedges his strong, metal foot up against the door.

Carcinoma? I know that word from my studies. My stomach does a flip as I register that Mr. Williams has cancer, but before I have a chance to say anything, he grips my arm and gives me a gentle shove. He mops the floor where I just stood as though it was the reason he moved me and I know he’s trying to protect me from prying eyes. Coughing into his elbow, he then says in a barely distinguishable voice, “At the end of this hallway there’s an industrial elevator. Get on it and you go on and get back up to class, you hear?”

“But—”

“Now, go on,” he says. “Don’t you be worrying about an old man now,” he says in a soft, kind voice.

I race toward the elevator, Max’s voice booming from around the corner. “Out of my way.”

“Don’t move,” Mr. Williams says in a stern voice, “or you’ll need a trip to the CDC for a hose down.”

I find my way to the elevator, filled with a mixture of relief over my getaway and sadness, knowing Mr. Williams is sick. Mostly, I’m hysterical, trembling all over, still in shock over what I just did, adrenaline rushing through me.

I pull the two decompressors from my pocket, desperate for it to be something other than a sedative.

The first one I open reads: Falnesia.

I can’t help but pump my fist into the air as tears wet my lashes. Just to be sure, I check the second vial, and, as suspected, it’s nothing but a sedative. I slip the empty Falnesia vial back inside its depressor casing and tuck it into the side of my bra.

Of all the drugs I studied in pharmacology, Falnesia is definitely not one of them. This must be the empty vial of the mystery drug brought by the Empire. My one small victory lights me up, sending a buzz rocketing through my veins.

I may never find Sophia or the other Unwanted, but what I do have is proof. Proof that everything is not what it seems. And if The Protectorate is altering people’s memories and stealing children, I can’t help but wonder what other corruption is going on all around us—while we remain oblivious under the powerful effects of the Dreamscape.