Within These Walls

Chapter 29

Thoughts of Sam, Willow, and Alec swirl in my head while I try to sleep. Three people who couldn't be less alike but are somehow connected to one another—and to Marcus. He hasn't said a word since we both settled into bed, but I know he's awake. He'll turn over in bed occasionally, and sometimes he'll let out this sigh like he has too much on his mind.

I search my memory for inconsistencies, but everything seems solid. Real. I remember small details, like the ice melting on the edges of the pavements as spring crept closer. The ice in Sam's eyes whenever he spoke to me. The way my classmates' laughter felt like bruises on my skin when Julie Kabisch accidentally squirted mustard all over the front of my white parka in sixth grade. Her final act of shedding the stigma of having once been my friend.

I remember the day my mom's best friend took me to the grocery store for cake when she found out it was my seventh birthday. I remember the disappointment when, after two months of my clinging to her every chance I got, she told me I was becoming a huge pain and had no interest in playing my mother.

I turn over and face the wall, my knees drawn into my stomach like that'll contain the ache. It's all too real to be fake. I don't have Marcus's memory problems, though that might not be such a bad thing.

I'm in an office, seated in one of two cream-white upholstered chairs positioned in front of a gleaming desk. The room is spacious and covered with a plush carpet. Wood-paneled walls, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind the desk, a conference table that easily seats a dozen people.

No windows.

The door to my left opens, and Sam enters. He looks nothing like the Sam I know at home. He has on a fitted, charcoal-gray suit that makes his shoulders appear wider and his chest broader. His shoes are as shiny as the oak desk. His hair is brushed back as usual, but combined with the outfit, he looks like a wealthy and influential man.

"We're done," he says as he goes over to the desk and sits behind it. "Reed is bringing around the truck. He'll be taking you home."

Reed is an aptly-named man: tall and so skinny he barely takes up any space when he enters a room. He's one of Sam's most trustworthy guards. The only one allowed near me.

In the year since Sam started bringing me here, I've been kept away from the others. I've spent most of my time in the east wing, going through tests and evaluations. Men and women in white lab coats have checked my vitals while I've lifted weights or run on treadmills. They've injected me with strange liquids and taken vials of my blood. They've attached electrodes to my head while making me do everything from watching a sitcom to confronting a giant Rottweiler frothing at the mouth to get to me, its leash the only thing keeping me alive.

They've treated me like a guinea pig. All because, according to Sam, I have some latent power that needs to be triggered.

I wouldn't have believed him if it weren't for this place. This research facility, a massive underground building run by Warden Sam Parker and designed for people like me.

People with extraordinary potential.

He showed me videos that first day to illustrate his point. I saw children who could do unimaginable things. Reading and controlling minds. Telekinetically moving objects. Creating shields capable of stopping bullets.

I don't understand how any of it is possible. That's not important, Sam said dismissively when I asked the first time. The second time I pressed him for answers, he ignored me. And the third time, he punished me by locking me inside a tiny dark room until Sunday evening.

I think about what he said just now. It's different from his usual script.

Go home and rest. We will resume next weekend.