Here, they’d given me nothing. Was a lack of stimuli part of their warped experiments? Then, I remembered an old book I’d read, The Island of Dr. Moreau. Joanie had swiped it at a street market one day. In the story, a shipwrecked man ended up on a creepy island where the inhabitants, Dr. Moreau and his sidekick, experimented on animals. Moreau transformed them into animal-human hybrids. Was that what Peterson was?
Crouched in my hidden corner, I examined my body. This time, I found two small bandages on my stomach and one on my shoulder. Clenching my fists, I pounded the wall, choking back angry tears. Then I pulled myself together. I refused to let the watchers see me broken or suffering. Gulping air deep into my lungs, steadying my breath, I emerged into view.
Despite being sore, I did jumping jacks and high knee kicks. Screw this place. I vowed to keep up my physical strength. I would have to be ready to fight when the time came.
Peterson’s stun baton was the only weapon I’d seen so far. If I could grab it, maybe I could use it on him and other guards. But if a bunch attacked me all at once, they would overpower me. If only I could talk to the other prisoners, form a plan.
The lying couple that had adopted me were bad; Dr. Kenmore seemed even worse. Was he the one doing experiments on me while I was drugged? If so, I needed to be wary of him. What about Peterson? Had Kenmore experimented on him against his will too? Did that mean Peterson might help me?
Knowing he would bring a tray of food this morning, I lingered by the door, keeping watch on the hallway. Sure enough, a while later, Peterson shuffled along, head down, with a cart of trays. So, the other prisoners were nearby.
I banged my fist against the window. “Peterson,” I said, trying to hijack his attention.
He glanced at me with his unusual ochre eyes, then mumbled something I couldn’t hear.
“Help me. I’m being held against my will and operated on. Let me out or get help.”
After sliding my tray through, he pushed on.
“Peterson, I’m being tortured, experimented on like a rat. Help me.”
He walked out of sight and out of earshot. But I had spied a metallic card at his waist that must have been his badge. It must have allowed him access to my cell and through the hallways of this hellhole lab.
I knew my plan.
Get that card.
Ten
Days passed before I could take action on my newly formed plan. I’d fallen into a routine. Peterson, with his eerie, bestial demeanor, brought me food daily. Every other day, he escorted me from my cell to Dr. Kenmore’s office where he interviewed me and ran tests like blood work, urine samples, taking my height and weight. I guessed he was studying the effects of whatever surgeries he’d been performing on me. It had been a week since I’d discovered any new bandages, so I was relieved, but still nervous. I hoped to find an escape route before they put me under again.
Peterson was habitual. “Step into the center of the room, hands behind your back, palms open, feet spread,” he would say before opening the door to my cell.
I obeyed because I wanted to get on his good side. Could I win him over? And would he ultimately help me escape? Either way, I needed to steal his badge. It was my key out of this hell.
On our trips to Kenmore’s office, Peterson always handcuffed and blindfolded me. Tight security. They didn’t want me knowing my surroundings or seeing the other prisoners. What else were they hiding?
As he shuffled me down the hallways en route to Kenmore, I tried my best to engage him. “How did you end up here?”
Silence.
“Why do you help that creep?”
Nothing. He was good at ignoring me. “Know any good jokes?” I asked.
“Keep moving and stay quiet.”
“Two peanuts walk into an alley.” I paused for dramatic effect. “One was a salted.”
I swear he must’ve smiled. Too bad I was blindfolded.
The visits with Kenmore were monotonous. As well as the medical tests, he’d ask me routine questions about whether I’d experienced any pain or noticed anything unusual. I mumbled answers and avoided eye contact. I wanted to be dull and lead him into underestimating me.
It took all my strength of will not to dropkick him when Peterson uncuffed me, but I cooperated. I watched for any sign of weakness. When the time came, I would seize my chance to escape.
I wished I could talk with the other prisoners, or even know their whereabouts. But the isolation meant I would have to break free on my own, then summon help. I only hoped the outside would be friendly and English-speaking. Could they have taken me off of Earth into space? I supposed anything was possible. I could be in a submarine, for all I knew. But I couldn’t control that.
Focus on my escape. That was how I occupied my time.
Today, Dr. Kenmore seemed chipper. “You’ve been a good girl, Ida. Well-behaved lately.”
Fine. Let the bastard think that. I couldn’t wait to stomp on his face one day.
He glanced at Peterson. “There’ll be a reward in your room when you return.”
My room. It took all my self-control not to shout at him that it was a freaking prison chamber. I averted my gaze, pressed my lips together, and dug my nails into my palm to keep from screaming.
As Peterson accompanied me to my quarters, I stayed mute, mulling over the prospect of what I would find. I had learned to count the steps—1,160 between my cell and Dr. K’s office, give or take five steps. On step 980, Peterson whispered, “What
