UnBound - Neal Shusterman Page 0,32
or trophies or even friends to speak of. He’s exactly the sort of son Dad didn’t want, a nonachiever with no hobbies or interests or extramural activities. He should have seen this coming.
When Jobe gets the order and the Juvey-cops show up at his doorstep, he doesn’t even try to resist them. All he feels is tired and hopeless and all used up.
“Verbally confirm that you are Jobe Andrew Marin,” says one of the Juvies. The one with the eyebrow twitch.
Jobe nods.
“I said verbally.”
“Yeah, I’m him.”
Eyebrow Twitch pulls out a card and reads from it. “Jobe Andrew Marin, by the signing of this order, your parents and/or legal guardians have retroactively terminated your tenure, backdated to six days postconception, leaving you . . .” He drones on, reading the standard litany, but Jobe isn’t listening. He looks at his parents standing awkwardly in the foyer of their modest home, his dad self-righteous and his mom uncertain. With his sister off at college and his brother at a basketball tournament, it’s just his parents here to witness this. He’s glad his brother and sister aren’t here to have to see this sorry spectacle.
At last, Eyebrow Twitch comes to the end. “. . . all rights as a citizen thereof are now officially and permanently revoked.”
An awkward silence falls. Jobe’s mom starts forward as if to embrace him, but Dad grips her elbow, shaking his head. The Juvey’s eyebrow twitches.
“Well, if there’s nothing further, we’ll be going. Thanks for your cooperation.”
“Yeah,” says his dad.
Jobe is bundled into a van, which takes him to a bus loaded with dozens of other kids like himself, all numb and listless, hardly knowing how they got here. They’re driven to the Woodland Bounty Harvest Camp in northeast Pennsylvania, outside Wilkes-Barre—a sprawling estate smelling of rose and juniper, surrounded by cyclone fencing. Topiary hedges show an assortment of woodland animals. They’re taken to a holding area and seated alphabetically at long tables, like it’s some sort of standardized test.
“Jobe Marin,” someone calls after a short while. He’s escorted down a carpeted hallway and ushered through a door marked EXAMINING ROOM.
“Good morning, Jobe,” says a man in a lab coat, smiling, but not offering his hand to shake. His name tag reads DR. FRIENDL. Jobe imagines penciling in a Y to make his name Dr. Friendly.
Jobe is seated on an examining table covered with sterile white paper that crinkles when he sits. It’s like going to the doctor, if the doctor was planning to extract your internal organs and give them out like lollipops to the kiddies.
“This won’t hurt,” says Dr. Friendly, wrapping a rubber strip around Jobe’s bicep and extracting a blood sample. He sticks the vial in his pocket, says “Wait here,” and is gone for an annoyingly long time.
Jobe looks around nervously. A window shows the camp’s exercise yard, where teens are playing softball, lifting weights, doing forced calisthenics. Upbeat music blasts from pole-mounted speakers, audible even through the double-paned window. Jobe wonders how he’ll ever measure up, because he doesn’t feel well enough for exercise.
Finally, Dr. Friendly returns with a burly orderly and a nurse carrying a tray of medical instruments. Most notably two syringes—one small and one unpleasantly large. “Standard biopsy,” he says. “Just to confirm the results of the blood work.” He prepares the first needle. “Anesthetic,” he says. “This will only sting a little.”
It stings more than a little—but that’s not what troubles Jobe. What troubles him is that Dr. Friendly doesn’t say anything when he approaches with the larger needle. Perhaps because this one will hurt. A lot.
The orderly holds him firmly to keep him from flinching. “It’ll be quick,” he says.
The needle goes in. Jobe grimaces, refusing to scream, although the pain is excruciating. He wonders how much more it would have hurt without the anesthetic.
At least the orderly was telling the truth. The needle is extracted. The pain begins to subside. They let him go. “You’re a trouper,” says the orderly. The doctor excuses himself and departs, carrying a sample jar labeled MARIN, J. His team follows him out, leaving Jobe alone.
When Dr. Friendly returns, twenty minutes later, he’s smiling, but it seems forced.
“I’m afraid you can’t be unwound,” he says with genuine regret. “A certain number of applicants simply don’t qualify. Please don’t consider this a reflection on your worth.”
“Why?” Jobe asks. “What did you find?”
Dr. Friendly offers an apologetic grin. “It’s not my place to say. Someone will be along to collect you shortly.”
The door closes,