“Have you seen anything like this before?” I demand as I point at the crib’s headboard. His eyes grow wide with understanding.
“Yeah, I saw similar globes during quarantine—on my hospital bed. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time.” He runs his fingers along the circles.
I lean on the opposite end of the crib. “Hazel called it a halo, but they’re projection nodules; basically it’s a pod minus the shell.”
Without looking up Ryan asks, “Did you have a halo during quarantine?”
“No, I didn’t. Have you been sleeping upside down in your pod?”
Ryan holds the side of the crib as if he needs it for support. “No, I tried the first night back, but my nightmares returned… Then you dumped me, so I figured there was no point in trying again. Why does it matter?”
I don’t know what to say. I’m relieved, guilt ridden, and embarrassed. I never gave Ryan a chance to explain himself and I never shared my pod theory. If I had done either one I could have spared us both some heartache.
“I remember how bad your nightmares can be, but I need you to sleep upside down in the pods, just for a week. Maybe some warm milk or sleeping pills would help with the nightmares.” I lightly bounce my fist on the edge of the crib and wait for his answer.
“Warm milk? Seriously?” he scoffs. “Why should I try? It’s not like where really even friends you barely tolerate my presence, unless you need my help for something.”
“You’re right,” I admit. “I haven’t been very nice to you, but that’s because I saw you with Kelly the night we returned to the base. Please, it’s important. I can explain why after you’ve slept upside down.”
“That explains a lot.” Ryan rests a hand on my cheek. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know. Just sleep upside down in the pods. We can talk about everything else later.” I close my eyes and turn my face away before tears start to form.
We return to the party. I act as if nothing happened, but Ryan’s touch lingers on my skin, calling me back to him. Knowing the pods caused his feelings after all changes things. I push my feelings aside for now, and the first chance I get, I corner Jeremy and tell him about the halos. He walks me outside and explains that he hasn’t made any progress in reprogramming the pods. He’s located the programming software, but he’s never seen its level of encryption. He doubts he can decode it without Andi’s help, but he at least offers an alternative plan which will be difficult to pull off. He’s studied the physical connections to the pods, and he thinks we can disconnect Andi’s pod without alerting the system. Because boys aren’t allowed inside the girls’ dorm, I’ll have to disconnect the pod. Jeremy reaches into his pocket and hands me a diagram he’s made of the wiring. I can’t make heads or tails of it. He decides if he shows me the corresponding parts on a field lab pod I’ll understand. We’ll need to coordinate the disconnection for when Elliot’s team is absent. But even if I disconnect Andi’s pod correctly, we still have a major problem—getting Andi to sleep. If she complains about problems sleeping, someone might check her pod and discover our tampering. We’re both stumped for ideas and agree to focus on the wiring, and then worry about getting her to sleep.
By the time we go back inside, dinner is being served. All of the guests can’t fit around the dining room table, so we split up into groups. Some of us wind up at the kitchen table while others settle in the living room. We spend the rest of the night talking, dancing, and listening to each other sing karaoke, some of us really, really badly. I haven’t had this much fun since before the flood.
Getting time alone in the field lab is a difficult task. Gabriella and Jennifer are so excited to finally have their own workspace that they never leave the lab. Finally, after several days, I enlist Molly’s help. She drags them to lunch while Jeremy walks me through disconnecting one of the spare pods in our room. There’s very little space around the head of the pods, and to see what Jeremy is doing, I have to stand right behind him, lean in and watch from over his shoulder. Our awkward positions and our close proximity soon have us both sweating. I obtain a couple of cold facecloths and hand one to Jeremy. He pauses his work just long enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck, and I glimpse several raised lines on his neck that are a little shinier and lighter than the rest of his skin. Without looking, he hands me back the cloth. I toss it into the bathroom and continue to watch, but my eyes keep wandering to the skin under the collar of his shirt. The lines are now covered, but one small tendril stretches up and intermingles with the soft, short hairs on the back of his neck. The scar seems old, and if I wasn’t specifically looking for it, I would never notice it. I can’t help but wonder about its cause.
“Whatever you do, don’t cut this wire. It’ll immediately send out an alert that the pod has malfunctioned.” I quickly refocus my attention on the blue wire in his hand. My curiosity will have to wait until later.
As soon as he finishes, he wants me to rewire the other spare pod in the room, but I insist on taking a quick break to get a drink. He doesn’t argue. I pour us both an ice water and lean on the kitchen island across from him.
“How’d you get the scars on your neck?” I ask, but once the words are out of my mouth, I know I’ve asked too much.
“Oh that? It’s nothing. I got it when I was a kid.” His words tells me it’s no big deal, but his eyes refuse to meet mine while his neck and ears turn a deep shade of pink.
Whatever happened was a big deal, it’s just not something he’s willing to share. “Well just let me know if you ever feel like talking about it.” I say and take his empty glass, leaving it in the sink with mine. Jeremy and I return to the sleeping quarter. I pick up a wrench, and start removing the outer casing.
Jeremy holds his hand out to collect the nuts and bolts as I remove them. “My dad liked to drink, a lot,” he says quietly. “He was a mean drunk.”
I plunk the first pair of nuts and bolts into his hand. “So, he took his anger out on you.”
“Only when I got in between him and my mom.” His voice quivers. “He saved his fists for her and his belt for me. Sometimes he got the ends mixed up and I’d get the buckle end.”
I stifle a gasp. “How did you get away?”
“A teacher at school noticed I was walking funny one day and sent me to the nurse’s office. Then the state got involved.” He draws in a deep breath, but falls silent. I drop another bolt into his hand. “My mom was too scared to speak out against him,” he blurts. “The social worker suspected the truth, but as long as my mom claimed my dad was innocent, the social worker’s hands were tied.” The bolts in his hand clink together and I see he’s visibly shaking. “She never said anything. She let the state take me away.”
He drops the bolts on the floor. I stand and hold him as he silently sobs. “I always planned to go back for her. When I was old enough, I’d go back and force her to leave. I’d take her far enough away that he could never find us.”
I hold him tighter, as if that could somehow shield him from the pain. “You never got the chance to go back,” I murmur.
He swallows hard. “No. Shortly after my twelfth birthday, one of my dad’s late night benders killed her.”
“I’m so sorry. No child should ever have to go through that.” My words feel woefully inadequate.
Jeremy straightens up, walks in the bathroom, and washes his face. When he returns he’s smiling. I wonder how many times I’ve seen that smile which I now know only covers his pain.
“Don’t look at me that way. I survived, and my story’s hardly the worst one around. Sometimes I wonder if they pulled us all from the island of misfit kids.”
Despite his oddly placed referral to Christmas, he’s right. Everyone here has some kind of story, some reason that left them unwanted and alone in the world. All those reasons are what led us here. We’re not the best and brightest kids the Center for Technological Advancement could have selected to settle the planet—we’re the most disposable. In some people’s eyes we have the least value, making it that much easier for them to feel free to run their twisted pod experiments on us.
“Do you want to see them?” Jeremy’s unexpected question pulls me from my thoughts. Just a few minutes ago, he didn’t even want to talk about his scars. “Now that you know about them,” he explains, “you’ll keep thinking about them until you see them.”
I shake my head. “That’s my problem to deal with. You’ve shared more than enough with me already.”
Jeremy winks, turns around, and pulls up his shirt. I don’t know whether I should scream in anger, cry for him, or vomit in disgust. His back is layered with crisscrossed ragged lines of varying heights and colors. Years of repeated abuse are etched on his back. My hands and jaw clench as my blood boils. I know his father and mother have been dead and buried for hundreds of years, but every ounce of my being wants to hunt down his father and make him feel the helplessness and pain he made Jeremy endure.
“Don’t waste your time hating him,” Jeremy says. “I have enough hate for both of us even though he’s not worth the energy.” He straightens his shirt and hands me the wrench. I wordlessly finish the pod as I blink back angry tears.
When I’m finished, Jeremy congratulates me on a job well done and sends me off to the dorms so I can disconnect Andi’s pod while I still remember how. The rewiring is much easier the second time around. I finish the job in record time. I’m tempted to disconnect more, but Jeremy warned me that too many disconnected pods might trigger an alert.
Once I finish Andi’s pod, I visit the hospital for the second half of our plan and complain to one of the nurses that I’m having trouble sleeping.
I wonder if it’s only coincidence that Chad’s the doctor on duty. From the expression on his face, I think I’m in trouble.
“What’s really going on?” he asks. “And please don’t tell me it’s insomnia. We both know that the instant you lie down in a pod you should fall immediately asleep.”
I have my rebuttal planned. “Well, my issue isn’t falling asleep as much as lying down. I get so restless before bedtime that I just don’t want to sleep. It’s not really an issue in the dorms, eventually boredom makes me want to sleep. But in the field lab there’s so much to do that I can easily work through the night without even thinking of the pod.”
He frowns. “And you think sleeping pills are the solution?”
I had planned to flirt a little with a doctor, if necessary, but Chad’s presence complicates things. “I don’t need anything strong, just something to help me feel sleepy.”
“I have just the thing to help you.” He disappears for a few minutes and reappears with a container of pills.
The label says Fluoxetine, but it doesn’t give any directions or dosage amounts. “Do I just take one right before bedtime?”
“Actually morning is better,” he says lightly, and I’m immediately confused and suspicious. “Your serotonin levels are lower when you first wake up. You really don’t need its benefits when you’re asleep,” he explains.
“Just what is Fluoxetine?”
Chad gives the answer I suspected. “It’s an antidepressant.”
I scowl at him. “You mean like Prozac? Uh-uh. No way. I’m stressed, not depressed. There’s no way in hell I’m taking this. I’m fine during the day. Getting to sleep is the issue. I’ve tried warm milk already. I need something stronger, that’s all.”
His face fills with pity. “Then tell me what kicking the bench was about? Crying, being easily agitated, and insomnia are all symptoms of depression.”
How dare he throw that night in my face? “You kissed me even though you thought I was depressed? Should you even be acting as my doctor?”
“I was serious when I said I wanted to remain friends,” he answers, “and I can keep my personal and professional feelings separate. However, if you prefer, I can get you another doctor. Just don’t expect them to say anything different.”
“I’m sorry. I was out of line, but so are you. Crying, agitation and insomnia are also normal responses to stress.”
“Sleeping pills will only mask your problem. An antidepressant combined with counseling is what you need.” His tone borders on condescending.
My tone matches his. “You think Prozac is the solution? Sorry, but no. I have no interest in turning myself into an emotional Zombie.”
Chad places a hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes. I’m sure it’s a move he learned in Bedside Manner 101. “It won’t do that, it’ll just help you feel better and deal with your issues more easily.”
I push away his hand. “You can save your textbook speech for someone else. A friend of my mom’s had postpartum. She said the day her doctor finally let her off Prozac was one of the best days of her life. Sure Prozac kept her from feeling sad, but it kept her from feeling happy. She felt like she was on autopilot.”
Chad softly sighs. “You can’t base your opinion on one person’s experience. She was probably given an incorrect dose. That’s part of the reason counseling is strongly recommended as a part of the treatment.”
“I don’t care. I’m not taking it.” How did this conversation get so off track? Chad probably thinks I’m a medication phobic. Yeah, antidepressants have their place, even my mom’s friend admitted they helped her, but they’re not what Andi needs. I consider coming clean and telling Chad about the pods and Andi’s insomnia, but if I fail to convince him, Andi could wind up married. That’s not a chance I can take.
“Okay, how about a compromise?” I ask. “Give me enough sleeping pills to last me a week, maybe two. If I can’t fall asleep on my own in two weeks, I’ll come back and get the Prozac and see a counselor or something. I won’t complain or give you any issues about taking it.”
Sounding exasperated Chad agrees, “Fine, but one week. And I want you to make an appointment with Dr. Dupree. She’s the base psychologist.”
“Deal.” I finally get to leave with my seven little pills. I hope one day Andi will appreciate everything I’m doing for her.
Fortunately, Andi tends to be a creature of habit and she’s in the habit of drinking a glass of warm cinnamon milk before bed every night. The very idea of warm milk turns my stomach, but for Andi’s sake, I ask to join her. I intentionally hide the cinnamon. When Andi disappears into the kitchen to find some more, I dump a ground-up sleeping pill into her drink and stir in the powder. She comes back with the cinnamon, sprinkles a generous amount onto her milk, and takes a sip. I take a sip of my drink to hide the anxiety that must be all over my face. I breathe a sigh of relief when Andi seems to taste nothing unusual in her drink.