Kenmore inspected my arms, and I wanted to vomit. I glanced at Peterson and furrowed my eyebrows. His eyes met mine. Behind Kenmore’s back, he tapped his watch as if to signal, wait longer.
“Ow.” The bastard had pinched my bicep.
He made a note.
I wasn’t getting anywhere. So far, Kenmore hadn’t given me any new information. I gulped and said, “Something’s wrong with me. I saw things moving in my arm yesterday.”
“Most interesting.”
Peterson’s thick eyebrows curved.
Kenmore continued with his barrage of questions. “What did it feel like—the movement?”
“It tingled, I guess.”
“You’ve done well. I’ve made note of your cooperation. I’ll think about a reward if your behavior continues.”
I rolled my eyes. “Now what? What about the tingling? The things in my arms?”
“You may experience more tingling. That can’t be helped. Soon enough, there’ll be another… treatment. You’re making good progress.” He started for the door.
“What did you put inside me?”
He turned and sighed. “Implants.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
“We implanted nanobots. Tiny, artificially intelligent biological units that operate inside your body.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. “What do you mean, they operate inside?”
Kenmore smiled as he departed.
“It’s all part of the plan. No more questions.”
Sixteen
I wasn’t sure whether Kenmore had rewarded me, but I ended up with a dinner plate full of red meat, mashed potatoes, and even a small lemon cake. I’d been lying on the bed, stretched out on my side, because the welt on my shoulder from the stunner was so tender.
As the smell of the shredded steak wafted over, my mouth watered. I hurried over to swipe up the tray and hastened to my corner. I’m not sure why I still bothered eating there. It wasn’t hygienic to dine next to a toilet, but that half-wall was my last shred of privacy—a semblance of control.
I devoured the meat first, then tore into the potatoes. Extra butter this time. As I savored the starchy, creamy goodness, my plastic fork hit something solid. I burrowed in and discovered a dark, metal object inside. I dug it out. Peterson had come through. I smiled at the compact pocketknife with its green handle. I tested the blade with my finger. Fairly dull, but better than no weapon.
I stuck it in my bra, then finished my meal. I licked the plate clean—I would need all my energy to go after Kenmore.
After my food settled, I did jumping jacks, wall push-ups, and crunches. The whole time, I played a movie in my head. I pictured myself in Kenmore’s office, sticking the knife in his eye after he’d asked whether I’d been a good girl in his condescending way. I’d show him what a good girl really was.
But they always cuffed me behind my back. I had to get them to trust me and leave my hands free, so I could pull the knife. What would convince them?
Joanie had taught me how to fake a seizure when I lived in Hell’s Kitchen. She’d dreamed up with the idea one day. A group of us would enter a store—usually a grocery or pharmacy with a small staff. One of us would pretend to have an epileptic fit and cause a big scene. The staff and other nearby adults would run over in a panic while the rest of us filled our pockets with food and other essentials.
It had worked well until the day I got busted. My gang had sprinted away while the cops grabbed me. We had a rule—one of us got caught, everyone else ran. No sense in sticking around and getting in trouble too. Joanie had glanced behind as she fled, blinked at me, mouthed, Be careful. It had been the last time I saw her.
I decided I would fake a seizure in front of Kenmore. It would work here in my cell or in his office. Faking illness for a doctor would be tricky, but what other choice did I have?
The lights cut out, and darkness filled the room. I crept out of bed and into my private corner with the knife in my waistband. I practiced rolling around in an epileptic fit, pretended they uncuffed me, and then swung the blade up and into Kenmore.
If Peterson tried to stop me, I would stick him too, grab the baton, and run down the hall stunning any other guards I encountered.
Satisfied I had etched the moves into my muscle memory, I slunk into bed and passed out.
I woke to a blaring siren.
Upon opening my eyes, a strobe light blinded me. I blinked, tensed my muscles, and wondering what the hell was happening. A fire alarm?
My door crashed open and a tall figure barged in, wearing all black and a ski mask. He strode over and pointed a rifle in my face. “Up, prisoner one-one-nine!”
I raised my hands, gasping. The intruder backed off a step, then tossed a duffel bag on my bed. “Get up. Get dressed.”
I swallowed my fear and stood though my legs were wobbly, and my ears rang from the deafening alarm. The bag contained clothes—jacket, black fatigues and combat boots. I stripped off my cotton pants and shirt down to my bra and underwear, no time to care that he saw, and pulled on the new uniform. Falling onto my butt, I slid my feet into the boots—a perfect fit.
“Move, move, move,” the stranger shouted.
I jumped up, grateful that I’d snuck the pocketknife into my bra before I fell asleep. As long as there weren’t metal detectors, I was golden.
The man jogged behind, shouting commands. “Right. Left.” Security doors swung open as if someone watched our every step. He directed me through a maze of hallways lit by the flashing strobes. This was the first time I’d been out of my cell without a blindfold, but at the speed we ran, I couldn’t commit it to memory.
He led me into a cavernous room that resembled a garage or an airplane hangar.
