THE NEXT TIME, Ian brings me cherry lip gloss.
“Do you want me to put it on for you?” he asks.
I’m filled with rage. This stupid, meaningless token is nothing but a tease from the real life I’m missing. I can barely force myself to smile.
“I can do it myself,” I say. “Do you have a mirror?”
“I forgot.” And then, “Is something wrong?”
I bring my voice light. “No, not at all,” I say.
I unscrew the plastic lid and press my pinkie into the waxy color. I’m like his doll now, and he likes to watch my tricks, so I don’t hurry. I dab the balm on my dry lower lip first, then my upper. I press my lips together to feel the slight smear, and the taste of cherry pops along my tongue.
He shakes the bangs out of his eyes and slides a hand along the rim of my sleep shell. I can see his nubby fingernails.
“You look nice like this,” he says. “It’s a good color on you. You didn’t smudge at all.”
“Thanks.”
He presses against my sleep shell. “Say my name,” he says.
“Thanks, Ian John Cowles.”
He nods. He likes that. He’s gross.
“You seem different today,” I say. “More confident.”
“Really? Funny you should say that. My grandmother said the same thing. She said I’m not mumbling as much. I think you’re good for me.”
“Maybe because you’re good for me,” I say. No brainer there. “Are you going to clean my port?”
“Lindsay did earlier. We can’t talk long today,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Dr. Ash will be here tonight. We’re supposed to clean all the dreamers before she comes.”
“Won’t she see my lip balm?” I ask.
“She won’t mind,” he says. “She lets me put a little color on the females. Nothing too much. It was my own idea.”
I’m surprised that he puts makeup on dreamers who are all but dead. I get the sense that he thinks he’s doing us a favor.
“That’s nice,” I say. “How many dreamers are here right now?”
He turns, and I watch him scan the room, counting. “Eighteen.”
“How often does Dr. Ash come?” I ask.
“Every week or so. It’s hard for her to get away from Forge during the semester. She has to make the round trip in twelve hours.”
“She still works there?” I ask, surprised.
He frowns. “Sure. Why wouldn’t she?”
“Does Dean Berg still work at Forge, too?” I ask.
“Of course,” Ian says. “That’s his job. He’s here more in the summer when school’s not in session.”
This boggles my mind. I guess I’ve assumed there was an investigation into Berg after I disappeared. Then again, if someone found enough dream mining evidence to arrest him, they would have come to rescue me, too, and I’m still here.
“Who actually mines me, then?” I ask.
“It’s Dr. Ash, with Mr. Berg consulting long distance,” Ian says. “Nobody else is allowed to touch your mind. You’ve got warnings all over your chart.”
A trickling noise comes from one of the lines above, and Ian glances up. Then he looks over his shoulder.
“You’d better give me the lip gloss,” he says. “I’ll keep it for you.”
I hand it over, but slowly. “The taste makes me hungry.”
“You shouldn’t be hungry,” he says. “Your weight’s stabilizing. That’s a good sign.”
“It is? I feel pretty skinny.” My wrists are bonier than before, and I’m definitely weaker. When I shift to look at my knees, they’re narrow wedges under the blanket.
“No, you’re good,” he says. “Dreamers usually lose a lot at the beginning. We expect that, but then they stabilize when they hit the right nutrient balance.” He taps my IV. “One of the reasons I was worried about you before was the way you kept losing all along. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure, but for the last two weeks, you’ve been steady at one-oh-eight. That’s really good.”
No wonder my hand looks so frail. I haven’t been this thin since I was twelve. I smooth a hand over my hip bone. “That’s crazy skinny,” I say.
“No, for a dreamer of your height, it’s good,” he says. “It means you’re settling in like.” He smiles modestly. “You haven’t had a breakdown this time, either, did you notice? That’s very good.”
A distant clank sounds from the hallway, and Ian glances over his shoulder again.
“Sorry,” he says, and reaches for my IV. “I have to put you out. Lindsay’s back from her break. This was kind of risky today, but I didn’t want you to miss the lip balm.”
My heart beats quickly. For an instant, I consider calling out to the other attendant to see if she would help me more than Ian, but already the meds are trickling into my veins, bringing the cool heaviness.
“When can I see you again, Ian John Cowles?” I ask.
“You’ll just have to wait and see, Miss Sinclair Fifteen,” he says.
It’s downright saucy, for him. He settles my hands at my sides and smoothes my nightie and blanket. He doesn’t kiss me, but he strokes a finger gently down my cheek.
“Let it be soon,” I say.
He closes my lid, and I see his palm pressed on the glass for a moment before he steps away.
I’m dying here. I feel like I’d make more progress begging a slug to throw me a life preserver, but I need Ian’s help to get free. I bite my lower lip, tasting cherry misery, and I can barely stop from crying in despair.