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I nod, then pick up another pile of books. For the next fifteen minutes we shelve in silence, our first conversation clearly over.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

There never was, and there never will be, another like you.

—Mary Orr

I start to
spend a lot of time with Brendan, volunteering for extra shifts at the library. By now I’ve figured out if you follow the rules and act pretty normal, the interventionists leave you alone, which means the Psychologists don’t even know you exist. Every other day I get a chance to talk with Brendan, who turns out to be the wisest person I’ve met, next to my brother James, Amy, and possibly Noah. The only problem is that Brendan will be leaving Harmony in less than a week and I’ll still be stuck here. Brendan promises someone else will arrive soon and that I’ll keep finding out more information about what the Group plans to do next. When I look at the bolted down furniture in my dorm room and hear the door lock each night after Lights Out, I’m not so sure.

I try to get closer to Jessie, but it’s hard. Unlike Meg, she doesn’t seem to want to be a big-sister substitute to me, and if anything, seems annoyed when I try to turn to her for advice.

“Do you know what happens next?” I ask one night, as we’re dumping trash cans into the bigger bins outside, one of the privilege jobs I’ve earned by following regulations.

“Next?”

“You know, with the Group. Is there any plan in place to like overtake The Association or anything?”

Jessie turns to me, a full trash can in her hands. “You think we’re planning to take over The Association at this point? Us? A group of kids?”

“Um, that’s kind of what I thought the point of all this was.”

“We, when we sow the seeds of doubt…we well know what we are about.”

“What?”

Jessie looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “Thomas Mann,” she says.

“Okay, but what do you mean? As I said before, what’s the point of all of this, anyway?”

“The
point
of all of this is to start to plant seeds in people, to make them begin to question what’s been going on, to wonder if Typology is all that it’s cracked up to be. That’s part of what the newspaper that Amy writes is all about. We want adults to start to question if having their children go through their Assessment at twelve and then move away from home for basically forever is the best thing.”

“Oh,” I say.

Jessie looks at me and sighs. “I know there’s good reason James wanted you back in here, but for the life of me I just can’t figure out why.” She looks at my stricken face and her voice becomes a bit more gentle. “Nothing against you, Sophie, but you’re still just such a kid. Such an innocent, bumbling, naïve little kid. I just don’t get it.” She shrugs, then moves away with her trash can.

I stay where I am, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Why does everyone have to keep bringing up my age, as if it’s something over which I have any control? Weren’t they all nearly thirteen once, too?

gh

The very next day Jessie is the one who seeks me out. This time it’s while we’re waiting in line for the Lunch Room. I find there’s a lot more waiting in Intermediate, and a lot less coaching on becoming empowered. Here it’s like they’re close to giving up, so why push it? As I wait for the line to move forward, Jessie shoves in front of the person behind me, a young girl who’s so pumped up with anti-psychotic medication that she almost falls over from the light shove.

“Meet me in the main washroom after lunch,” she says.

I nod, then take my tray to an empty table. I try to eat my lunch as quickly as possible without drawing attention to myself (“
Always assume someone might be watching
”). Once done, I stand up, put away my trash, and head towards the washrooms. When I walk in, it looks empty. I’m about to turn around and leave, when I hear a toilet flush. Jessie walks out of a stall and heads towards the sinks. She gestures at me to come over.

“So, I found out who’s on the Estimated End Date list,” she says quietly, not looking in my direction as she washes her hands.

“The Estimated End Date list?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, the list that states how long each of the doomed have left to live.” Jessie squirts more liquid soap on her hands and continues washing. “How did you get the list? Isn’t it locked up in Dr. Anders’ office?”

“Sophie, you need to learn to ask fewer questions and listen to more answers, okay?”

“Sorry,” I say. “So, who’s on it, anyway?”

“Are you sure you want to hear? I mean, knowing who they plan to End doesn’t really change anything, as long as we’re stuck in here.”

“Please tell me, Jess. Please!” An interventionist walks by the washroom, pokes her head in, then continues moving down the hall. Jessie moves towards the dryers and places her hands underneath one. I do the same. “The good news is most of the Dates aren’t for a couple of months. For those kids, maybe there is something we can do.”

“What kids?” I whisper, trying to be heard over the dryers.

“There are a lot listed for August, I’m not sure why. Most of them are kids who’ve been in and out of Temporary a few times but who haven’t learned their lesson yet, I guess. Let’s see, there was Patricia M., Alisa R., Christian F., and Jacob T., also Brendan.”

“Brendan? Really?”
Why would he be on the list
?

Jessie nods. “Don’t worry, he already knows. He’s the one who showed me the list, actually.” She pauses. “The weird thing is he’s supposed to be out of here next Friday. Maybe they just assume he’ll be back?”

“That’s so strange,” I say. The dryers stop and Jessie quickly presses them both on again.

“Brendan’s smart. He knows he’ll be out of here in less than a week and you’d better be sure he’ll figure a way out of this place before August if he gets shipped back again. Just wait and see.”

“Okay, so who else is there?”

“That’s all I remember for August. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah, but you said there were also a few kids who are going to be Ended sooner. Who are they?”

“The soonest one is Thomas,” she whispers. “His Estimated End Date is in three weeks.” She turns to look at me, the grief in mine reflected in hers. “I’m so sorry.”

Another girl walks into the washroom and Jessie moves away from me and out the door. I press my dryer one more time, trying to process what I’ve been told. Thomas, the boy who I still haven’t been able to find this time at Harmony. I practice the breathing exercises everyone was taught when still in Primary, but they don’t help. My heart begins to race, faster and faster. I bend over, trying to catch my breath. I hear a toilet flush and a girl walks over to me.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I try to speak, but my heart feels like it might explode. I start to shake uncontrollably, gasping for air. Tears begin streaming down my face.
I’m having a heart attack!
I lie down on the cold floor of the washroom and close my eyes. I try to force my body to slow down.
You’re fine, it’s Thomas who’s in trouble, not you. Breathe, just breathe
. I hear footsteps running into the washroom, but I can’t open my eyes. All I care about is trying to get my heart to slow down before it explodes.

“Sophie!” an interventionist calls out from above me. “Sophie, open your eyes!”

Knowing that my behaviour is getting me noticed makes my breathing get quicker and quicker. In the background I hear someone mention ‘panic attack’, but I don’t answer. The image of Thomas enters my mind and my heart races more.

Suddenly two people reach under my arms and pull me to standing. “I think we need to get a shot into her,” one of the voices says. Hearing the word ‘shot’ makes my heart race faster still. “No! No! Please not that!” I gasp. In fear, I start to thrash against the interventionists, who hold on tight.

“She’s clearly out of control,” one says. “Let’s get her to the Nursing Station ASAP.”

“No! Please!” I open my eyes and see several kids in the washroom, all of them staring at me. Jessie is near the doorway, her arms tightly crossed against her chest.
Calm down, Sophie, calm down. You can’t help anyone if you keep panicking like this
. Despite the fact what I’ve experienced is probably just a run-of-the-mill panic attack, I’m marched down the hall and to a small office, where a woman in a white coat plunges a needle into my arm. Before I have time to protest, I’m falling down a deep, black hole, into absolute darkness.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It is so nice when you can sit with someone and not have to talk.

—Nora Ephron

When I wake
up, I’m lying on a bare cot, my pants soaked with what smells like pee. I groan and roll over towards the wall. My head feels like it’s about to split in two and my wrists burn. I bring my right arm up to my face and see the skin around my hand has been torn away, leaving in its wake angry red flesh. The sight of my wrist makes me feel dizzy and I close my eyes again. Where am I and why am I here? Eventually I open my eyes again and attempt to sit up, my head bobbing heavily on my neck.

“Hello?” I call out to the cement cube I’m in. “Hello?”

A door that I hadn’t noticed before slowly opens and a woman in white enters. “You’re finally awake,” she says in a friendly voice. “Do you feel well rested?”

“How long have I been sleeping?” I ask. My throat feels dry and tight, as if I drank a cupful of sand.

“Oh, about two days now,” she answers, still friendly. “I accidentally gave you an injection dose meant for a much bigger person. You were thrashing about so much, I didn’t notice just how little you truly are!”

“That’s because I’m twelve,” I say sarcastically. The woman’s smile disappears and I realize I need to work at being nicer, smarter, from now on. “My sister’s pretty big, though,” I add. “So hopefully I’ll grow, too!”

The smile returns on the woman’s face and she puts the back of her hand against my forehead. “No fever, which is good. How do you feel?”

Like I was hit by a transport truck. Like I’ve been run through a blender and spit out. Like I was attacked by a pack of rabid dogs.
“I feel much better. I think I, um, was just missing my parents when I got so upset.”

The friendly woman nods. “I understand completely. Especially given your father is such an impressive individual. If I was related to him, I’d miss him, too!” She gives a little laugh, sounding more like the trilling of a bird than a full-grown person. She then looks at me, her face suddenly serious. “Am I to trust that all your silliness is over with then?”

“Most definitely,” I say.

“Good, good, Dr. Anders will be thrilled to hear that. Now why don’t you let me dress your wounds so they don’t get infected, then I’ll have you rest a bit longer so that any dizziness will have passed. If we’re lucky, you’ll be able to rejoin the other patients in time for Relaxation Training!”

I nod and try to smile, terrified of whatever may come next.

gh

Within a few days I realize I’m no longer on the oral medication regimen but instead on daily injections. Each morning whether I like it or not I have to bare my backside to Holly to get a sharp jab. This is followed by hours of feeling like I’m stuck in a vat of mud, my arms and legs dragged through it. Even my thoughts have slowed, which I guess is the point. Each word comes out as if baked brick, to be lifted carefully out of my mouth and set down before the next one can be uttered. I try to wrap my mind around what is happening to me, but find the mud filling up every bit that used to be me. After three days, James’s voice enters my mind. At first it’s like a whisper muffled by the wind, but eventually the words come closer and closer to me until I can’t help but hear them:
Figure out what time of day you’re the least drowsy and make your contacts then
. Slowly I notice the fog lifts, just bit, around supper-time, just like my brother had said. Knowing that, I become more aware of Brendan and Jessie again, as well as the fact Brendan will be leaving Harmony soon, to go back to his Home School. Even more importantly, the fact I haven’t seen Thomas yet and that his Estimated End Date is quickly approaching begins to penetrate and won’t leave me alone until I do something about it.

A day later, I find my moment. It’s just after supper, a beautiful summer day and all the Intermediates have been given a bit more freedom than normal. We’re allowed to walk around the grounds twice, without a monitor or interventionist at our heels. Instead, they’re sitting on the patio, watching our movements and socializing. As I head out for the walk, shuffling my feet as if they were made of cement, I notice the boy I’ve been searching everywhere for sitting on a lawn chair, holding a piece of string, his face turned up to the sun.

“Hi, Thomas,” I whisper, but my words come out warbled. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth, as if I’ve just had a cavity filled at the dentist. I lean in closer, and focus on speaking more clearly. “It’s me, Sophie.” I stop, trying to move my tongue normally around my mouth again. Thomas grunts and pulls away, clearly wanting more personal space.

I move a foot or two away and sit down on the ground. For a moment, it feels like the earth is tilting. I put my hands down on either side of me to brace myself and slowly regain my balance. “I like your string,” I say softly, each word coming out with effort. “The colours are pretty.”

Nothing from Thomas.

For about ten minutes I sit by his feet, watching him stare at the string in his hands and at his fingers as they gently run the thread through them as if it is a string of pearls. I find sitting with Thomas helps to relax me and lift the heavy mud feeling, at least a little. What must it to be like to have your all of your concerns focused on a piece of string? How wonderful would that be, at least for an hour or two?

The next several days are warm and a walk is always scheduled right after supper. I make a point to at least stop by Thomas’s chair and whisper hello during Evening Walk, my tongue still like a heavy slug in my mouth. Sometimes if I’m lucky, I’m able to sit for a few minutes by his feet, while other times I can only let him know I’m still here and then continue on my walk. No matter. Just knowing he is still a part of things, definitely here and not Ended, gives me hope.
Maybe Jessie was wrong about the list
?