see. I remember the sound, a grinding buzz—like getting a tooth drilled. I remember crying. “A little,” I say.
“Well, that tattoo was given to the kids who were lucky enough to get the bee flu vaccine,” he says, looking at me. “Only problem was, they didn’t know about the vaccine’s long-term effect. So everyone who got it, even one dose, is infected. If they haven’t turned into a beast, like the Fec you came here with, they will before long. But the Fec was a Level Three. You are a Ten.”
I stare at the tattoo. “So what does Level Ten mean?”
“It means you were one of the special kids, one of the very first to get the vaccine. Our nation’s hope for the future.” He says this last part with bitter sarcasm. “Probably because of your father’s military connections and your musical talent, you qualified for the earliest possible dose. And because of that, you got ten months of the vaccine. The highest dose given.” Bowen points to my tattoo. “Each of those marks,” he says, motioning to the legs coming out of the circle, “represents a dose of vaccine. Ten months was the longest anyone took it. Because after ten months, every kid who’d been lucky enough to qualify for the shots started showing signs of insanity.”
My brother’s animal-crazed face flashes into my mind. “What do you mean, insanity?” I whisper.
He takes a small step away from me, hand on the remote, eyes wary. “You know the thing that attacked you last night?”
I nod. My body still hurts.
“That was a Level Eight. Totally insane.”
Anger flares in my chest. My brother can’t be insane. “He didn’t look insane to me. He looked like a wild animal,” I snap.
“Yeah. Insane wild animals that massacred their own families and neighbors and friends. And then ate them if they couldn’t find anything else to eat!” Bowen glares at me, and his jaw muscles pulse.
I think of my brother trying to catch me as I slid through the bathroom window. Did he catch the rest of my family? My stomach starts to hurt, and I can hardly hold the paintbrush in my trembling fingers. “Dreyden—”
“Don’t call me that,” he growls, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one’s around.
I look at my feet. “Sorry. Bowen. What happened to my family?” Did my brother eat them or kill them? That is what I’m really asking. I stare at the scuffed toes of his brown army boots. When he doesn’t answer, I look at him.
He studies me for a long minute, searching my face with his wary, uncertain eyes—eyes that know more than a seventeen-year-old’s should. “Lissa lives inside the wall. I saw her a couple of years ago. She looked good. Your mom …”
I hold my breath, my entire body tingling with hope. “Is she alive?”
He frowns and looks away. “I saw her once inside the wall. At least I think it was her. She was old, right? She had you and your brother when she was, what, forty?”
She couldn’t get pregnant after she had Lis. After trying to have a baby for seven years, Jonah and I were her in vitro miracles. “She was thirty-nine.”
“She’d be over the government-enforced age limit. Most likely she’s—” His mouth snaps shut, and he begins furiously painting flowers.
“Can you take me to her? On Sunday?” My voice is desperate. I know that if I find her, she’ll be able to fix everything. I ache for my mother.
He shakes his head, glaring at the paintbrush in his fingers. “No. She’s gone by now. The Sunday after she turned fifty-five, they—can we not talk about this?” he snaps, scowling at me.
I shake my head. “I need to know. What happened to my mom?” I whisper, sick with dread. Already I can tell what he knows isn’t good.
“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks.
I nod.
“Life inside the wall has rules.” His mouth puckers, as if the word rules leaves a bad taste on his tongue. “No one with physical disabilities is allowed inside the wall. No one’s allowed inside who suffers from any type of mental illness—even depression. If you are an unmarried male age fifteen or older, you are assigned to work in the militia unless you have an invaluable skill, like farming, engineering, or medical expertise. The inner-wall age limit is fifty-five. After that people are too old to be much worth, so they …” He sweeps his hand through his hair, moving it from his