“No. It was some time after they brought me in, though. I didn’t have it as a kid. Lydia, what does that have to do with this list?”
The half-formed idea is still taking shape in my brain, and I’m afraid to say it out loud, afraid that it will sound ridiculous. Or, even worse, that it might be true.
But it’s not in my nature to hide from the truth, and I square my shoulders and face Wes. “I have a theory about what the first date means.”
He’s working his jaw back and forth, so tightly that I’m worried he’ll grind his teeth down into nothing. “Tell me.”
I pry my hands out of his and then grab his wrist. “Remember what my grandfather said? About ‘the mark of the traveler’? It was after he saw this.” I lift Wes’s wrist and place his hand just below my shoulder. “We have the same scar, Wes.” I look at the monitor, at the mysterious list, a never-ending litany of names.
Wes frowns. “You think the first date has to do with this scar? How?”
I let go of Wes’s hand and it falls limply to his side. “I think it’s the date the person was scarred. Mine must have happened on my birthday; I’ve had this scar my whole life. Chris and LJ probably got it when they were born too. You got yours when you were taken in. It’s why the two dates on your entry are the same.”
Wes suddenly turns to LJ, who’s watching us with wide eyes. “Let me see your arm.”
LJ steps forward. He’s clearly scared, but he pulls up his sleeve anyway. There, on his upper arm, is a slightly raised, circular scar. “He has it.” My stomach falls. “This has to be ‘the mark of the traveler’ my grandfather was ranting about. We’ve been tagged, or something. Like animals. And this is some kind of master list, keeping track of when they . . . pick us, and when they actually bring us in.”
“Lydia.” Wes’s voice is low. “If you’re right, that means you’ll be a recruit. You’ll be brought into the Project.”
But it’s more than that. If I was tagged when I was a baby, then I was always destined to become a recruit. Everything we did to keep my involvement a secret was pointless; all of the sacrifices that Wes made for me meant nothing. Becoming a recruit is my fate.
I suddenly feel faint, like all the blood has rushed from my head, and I bend over, putting my hands on the edge of the desk. I sense rather than see Wes move closer to me. “I won’t let them take you.” He growls the words. “You won’t become like me.”
“Wes.” I straighten and then fall into him. His hands curl around my back, and he holds me so tight it’s as though he’s trying to fuse my body into his.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” LJ’s voice still has that confused, panicked quality to is. “But can you please tell me what’s going on?”
I pull away from Wes and we share a long glance. Finally, he nods slightly. I know we’re both thinking the same thing: LJ has a right to know what’s coming for him.
“You might want to sit down,” I say, and he sinks into his desk chair. When I finish telling him about the Montauk Project and the recruits, he is white and shaking.
“Are you okay?” I kneel down in front of his chair.
He nods slowly. “It’s almost a relief, I guess, to know what finally happened to Chris. To know that he’s still alive, even if . . .”
I squeeze LJ’s knee. “We have an advantage,” I say quietly. “Because we know when they’re coming. It means we can protect ourselves.”
He nods slowly. I watch as his face changes, his eyes getting brighter. “We’re forgetting something.”
“What is it?” I stand up again.
He spins around to face the desk and picks up the sheet of paper he scribbled on earlier. “This. The serum. How does it fit in?”
“You said it was like a medicine,” Wes says.
“Yeah, and the Resister sent us the same exact formula. It must be connected.” Most people would have fallen apart at the news that a secret government conspiracy was after them, but LJ just hunches over the numbers, staring down at his paper with wide eyes.
I look over his shoulder. The letters and numbers blur together. “He sent it to me. He wanted me to put it together. The serum has to be a part of the mark of the traveler.”
LJ looks up at the computer and rereads the entry on himself, his voice only slightly faltering. “You said the D could stand for ‘detained.’ But what does the I stand for?”
I turn to Wes. “You have no memory of getting the scar?”
“No.” His voice has changed; it sounds deeper than normal. “But that first day was a haze. I spent most of it drugged or unconscious.”
LJ starts popping his knuckles again. A low, hollow sound.
“So we have a scar, and a serum that looks like a medicine.” I push my bangs away from my forehead. The room is hot, stifling almost, and sweat gathers on my skin in tiny beads. “What if it’s related? What if we were injected with the serum for some reason and that created that scar?”
LJ nods. “The I could stand for ‘injection.’”
“Or ‘inoculation,’” I say. “Like against a virus.”
I look at Wes to see his reaction. He is staring down at the rough surface of the desk. I realize it has been several minutes since he last moved.
“What do you think?” I ask him gently.
No response. I step toward him but stop when his hand spasms against his side. He immediately balls his fingers into a fist.
“Wes? Are you okay?” I touch his arm lightly.
He turns to me, and I take a step back at the look on his face. “How can you
