Hidden (Book 3 of the Immune Series)

Convalescence

Sakir

I jump awake at the sound of Mya's voice, tensing against the restraints.

For the first time in three days, I feel fully awake. My thoughts aren't groggy and half formed. Instead, they ring clear like bells through my head. My vision stands straight, not swaying like it has been. I take a few greedy breaths, enjoying the fact that it doesn't hurt me.

I glance over at the fifteen year old, furrowing my brow at her appearance.

Heavy bags line her eyes, matching the bloodshot whites of them. Her swollen and flushed face shines with tears. Her matted and greasy hair hangs messily around her face. The shirt hangs off her shoulder, bearing the pale skin underneath. In the two days I've known her, she has never looked this disheveled.

"What's going on, Mya?" I ask, lifting my head off the table.

She sniffles, and her face twists with a clear effort not to cry.

"Nothing," she snaps, but it lacks the anger she aims to convey. "We just need to go."

I tug at the restraints.

"I can't go anywhere until you take these off."

She glares at me but nods, turning and digging through the cabinets. I inspect her wrinkled clothing, smeared with streaks of sweat and a mysterious chunky yellow fluid. Vomit, maybe?

The tools in the cabinets clink together as she fumbles to find what she's looking for. I expected her to be a little more together, considering she always seemed level headed and neat. My mind wanders to the list of questions she brought in yesterday.

Something's wrong. Dread fills my chest like a black balloon.

When Mya turns back around, she wields a pair of scissors. She kneels down on the ground beside the table, cutting through my left wrist and ankle restraints. I stretch my arm by bending the elbow in and out a few times, repeating the process with my stiff leg. The muscles tense up as they contract, and I wince.

Mya moves around the table, cutting the other leather straps in two swift motions. They clatter to the ground, and I push myself up into a sitting position.

"How long have you been off the virus?" she asks, hurrying to put the scissors back. She picks up a few of the other utensils that she dropped, but her hands shake.

"I'm not sure," I answer, testing various joints and stretching unused stiff muscles. "I don't remember pulling it out. The last thing I remember is your mom coming in and mumbling something to me before she ran upstairs." I rub the soft skin on the inside of my elbow.

"I think she intended to change the IV but got distracted. I was pretty high when it all happened," I say, glancing back up at her. Her eyes glaze over, and she looks away from me, knitting her hands together. "What's going on?"

"You were right," she whispers, kicking a tumbleweed of paper across the floor. As her next words form, she chases it across the floor, picking it up and throwing it away.

"About what?" I prod, feeling the gravity in the room grow stronger. I don't want to be right. Not this time.

"Mom made a third strand," she mumbles, staring down at her feet. "It worked."

My breath leaves my lungs in one long exhale.

Judging by the fact that she's still standing in front of me, I reason that it was her brother who fell victim.

"Mya, I'm so sorry," I say, pushing off the table. I stumble forward, and Mya runs to support me.

Unlucky for both of us, I'm almost two feet taller than her.