As I crumpled, I glimpsed the mouse scampering on the ground underneath me. Peterson clawed at my legs, piercing my skin as he tried to pull me out of the way. But I’d been smacked with such force in the head, my body hit the ground, and the mouse—small and warm and moist—crunched under my thigh. Peterson gasped in horror.
Dizzy, I couldn’t resist as the second guard rolled me onto my stomach and restrained me. He yanked my arms behind me painfully—he was far rougher than Peterson had ever been.
Kenmore loomed in the doorway, red-faced, hands on his hips. “What the hell happened here?”
Peterson shrank against the wall, his hands raised defensively. He stared at his claws as my blood dripped from them. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” His words came fast, and his voice trembled.
Kenmore faced him. “You idiot. Look what you’ve done. You could have damn well killed my patient.”
My leg stung like ten wasps had ripped open holes, burrowed inside, and unleashed their fury. I felt blood soaking through my clothes and dripping onto the floor.
Kenmore drew a syringe, looming over me. “Rule number one, don’t damage my property.” He curled his upper lip as he peered down. His eyes darted to the crumpled, lifeless mouse nearby. “Peterson!” He marched over to the wolfish guard and slapped his face. “I told you never to bring that wretched animal out of your room!” Despite his superior size, Peterson cowered.
Kenmore strode over and crouched. Lifting the dead mouse by its tail, he flung it away from him. It landed under my bed. “We’ve no time for this.” Then he stabbed my shoulder with the needle.
I blacked out.
Twelve
I woke to harsh fluorescence, blinked, then squeezed my eyes shut as I rolled over and buried my head under the pillow. Memory and reality mingled as I wondered whether I’d been dreaming a terrible, endless nightmare. Really, I was back at Woodlawn Improvement Center before the breakfast bell. All was normal, and I’d be pacing the yard soon while Reed shadowed me.
After my brain fog cleared, I groaned, and my stomach dropped. It wasn’t Woodlawn. This cell was real. All was not right, and it wasn’t a goddamn dream. Pushing the pillow from my face, I leaned against the wall.
“You’re in a mess this time, girl,” I muttered. Joanie used to say talking out loud to yourself was how you knew you were going bonkers. She always had a way with expressions—words like bonkers, jeepers, creepazoid. When I’d asked where she’d learned these words, she said she’d gotten around; her dad had sent her to private schools before her mom went to a loony bin. Before he’d gotten himself killed.
Was that where I was—an insane asylum? I scratched my head as I pondered the new idea. Maybe the fight in the yard had been the system’s last straw, and Kilpatrick had sent me away to a place I’d never return from.
No time to dwell on the past. Reality check: Kenmore had drugged me again. Bastard. Rolling over, I hoisted my legs over the side of the bed but yelped because it felt like the skin behind my left leg was on fire. Then I remembered Peterson’s bloody claws after he’d grazed me. It wasn’t his fault; it had been an accident.
I cradled my injured leg, lifting it gingerly over the side rail. Bandages covered both forearms. More gauze and tape crisscrossed my biceps and shoulders, too. Come to think of it, I ached all over and the skin on my arms itched.
Time to stand up and get the blood flowing, I told myself as I forced my wobbly legs to straighten. Woozy, I wondered how long I’d been under this time. Staring down at my bandages, I figured Kenmore had punished me for my escape attempt.
As I shuffled up and down the length of the room, the creeping sensation in my arms and shoulders intensified. I tried to scratch, but I’d worn my nails down from biting them.
I heard a clank in the hall and wandered to the door, peering through my tiny window. Peterson approached, rolling his food cart. “Move away from the door,” he grunted.
I obeyed, too weary to resist. I hadn’t even flipped off the camera yet—an act that had become part of my morning routine.
The door panel slid open, and he pushed my tray through before his heavy footsteps faded.
How long had I been a prisoner? Days, a week, longer? Outrage and hatred had been the emotions charging me. Now, I felt numb and defeated. I sunk to the floor beside the tray, not bothering to retreat to my hidden corner. I dug into my meal—dry, scrambled eggs, soggy toast, cold potatoes, and orange juice. As I gorged myself, some of my energy returned. I peered up at the camera and gave them the one-finger salute. Soon, I’d have my strength back. Calories helped.
I extended my cramped legs and accidentally kicked the now-empty plate, revealing a long and rectangular object underneath. I sensed it was contraband, so I hunched over the tray as if feasting, to shield the plate. The hidden object was a flat, wide candy bar in a brown and silver wrapping. My mouth watered. I’d rarely had chocolate in the last few years. The Youth Improvement Centers were notoriously cheap, and candy was a novelty given only to exemplar kids. Yeah, I was the opposite of them.
I tucked the bar into the waistband of my cotton pants, then slid the tray through the panel for pickup. After a few jumping jacks and more pacing to make the watchers think everything was normal, I strolled to my hidden corner.
I sniffed the candy and marveled at its sweet aroma. Milk chocolate. Carefully, I peeled it open and found a tiny, folded note
