been taught to assume, though—face down on the floor, hands on the back of their heads. Drip, drip, drip goes the rain through the holes in the roof, splattering over them, into their plastic bins. The room smells like damp animal and urine and cigarette smoke. The lights flicker as the wind picks up.
“Fine, then put her in isolation. Two weeks,” O’Ryan finally interrupts.
“Isolation,” Tildon sneers. “She attacked me! The little bitch deserves at least twenty-five strikes! And I want her in the cages, not the Infirmary.”
It’s the first time Sam shows any reaction since the Calm Control. Her hands claw at the ground at that word cages. Where the hell is that? The blood is draining out of my head. They said they sometimes tie them to the fences outside of the Garden, but isolation is the upper level of the Infirmary. Little padded, lightless cells. The kids there are broken, or need to be broken. Every hair on my body seems to prick and stand at attention.
“Fine. A night in the cages and ten strikes.” I don’t know if he saw Tildon’s face light up, but O’Ryan quickly adds, “Delivered by Olsen.”
Her posture relaxes as she swings around, away from Tildon’s sputtering.
One last look from O’Ryan silences him for good. “Go clean yourself up,” he says quietly, layering his voice with just enough of a threat to make Tildon straighten, “and report to my office immediately after.”
He let a kid get the best of him—there’ll be some kind of disciplinary action, at least. He deserves to be smeared against the ground like the shit stain he is. It won’t be enough to balance out what he did to Sam, but it’ll be something.
Olsen flicks her hand toward Sam, staring at me. These PSFs are all the same, aren’t they? They resent the fact they brought us in to fill in the gaps in their security, but they love the power they wield in outranking us. We aren’t human to them, even now that we’re supposedly on the same side. We don’t get eye contact or words. It makes me feel like a damn dog, staring at a master shouting a command in a language I don’t understand.
It takes me a moment to translate what she wants, and, just as quickly, the horror slams right back into me. They’re going to do it right here—they’re going to hit her right here, and they want me to hold her up while they do it.
Fuck.
Them.
Olsen stares at me expectantly. The moment crashes down around me, and I feel something inside of me strain to its ultimate limit. I want to cry—I want to sob like a baby, Don’t make me do this, not to her, not to Sammy. Why did I have to volunteer for this place? Why did I have to come here and find her? I wanted Thurmond because that’s where they were supposed to take Mia. All I want is to find her. Mom and Dad are gone now. I’m all Mia has left. I’m her only chance to get out. I can’t blow this and show them I’m not what I’m supposed to be. But I can’t do this to Sammy. I would rather cut out my own heart.
My left arm twitches so hard, it’s actually painful. I grab Sam under the armpits like she’s one of Mia’s dolls and try to prop her onto her feet, turning her around to face me when Olsen gives a little twirl of a finger. Her knees won’t lock, and with her hands tied behind her, I can’t hold her up as gently as I would have liked. I can’t turn my back on the black uniforms and shield her from this, take the hits meant for her. There’s a voice at the back of my head telling me to take her and run, to set the building on fire and just go, but I can’t—I can’t—my need to live, to find Mia, is a rope around my neck. I’m hanging us both with it.
Her lashes flutter and I know she’s coming back to herself, which makes it that much more horrifying. She’s going to think I want this. She’s going to hate me. The thoughts are there, even as the more rational part of me thinks, She doesn’t even recognize you. I feel sick enough supporting her full weight, watching her head loll to the side. I don’t know how it’s possible to feel worse when Olsen shakes her