Altered(7)

I might never have gone back down there if it hadn’t been for Sam.

The sight of him there, the inquisitive tilt of his head, as if he were reading me from the inside out, was enough to ensnare me even then. I’d never felt so interesting, so special, as I did at that moment.

“What’s your name?” he’d asked, ignoring Nick.

“Anna. Anna Mason.”

“Anna, I’m Sam.”

In the next room over, Nick growled. I could sense the others on my periphery. Trev paced in his cell. Cas leaned into the glass, the pads of his fingers turning white.

And then Nick slammed a fist into the wall and I flinched.

“Nicholas,” Sam said, his voice razor-edged.

I didn’t see how that would help any, but within seconds Nick retreated. He disappeared into the bathroom at the back of his room, slamming the door shut behind him.

The boys didn’t look much older than sixteen. I didn’t find out until later that their alterations slowed the rate at which they aged. They were closer to eighteen at the time, and over the course of the following years, they would age very little.

I wanted to know what they were doing down there, how long they’d been in those rooms. I wanted to know who they were, and if they were okay, because they weren’t acting okay. But those thoughts tangled in my head, and not one rational question made it past my lips.

“You should go, Anna,” Sam said. “Nick isn’t well.”

“Cookies make me feel better when I’m sick.”

It was such a stupid thing to say, but it was the only thing I managed to get out.

The cookies would give me an excuse, later, to return. Not even Nick could have kept me from Sam, the boy who looked at me as more than just a little girl. And he’d tried. Nick had been the one to tell Dad I’d broken into the lab that first time, the whole reason I’d been grounded after, the whole reason it took me a few months to sneak back in without getting caught.

Nick never told on me again, though, and part of me had wondered if Sam had been the one to keep him quiet. And if he had, did that mean Sam wanted me to visit?

Every morning—and almost every night—it was that hope that propelled me from my bed and pushed me down the stairs.




The next morning, while Dad took care of some phone calls upstairs, I started on my to-do list. Lots of filing. Some paper-shredding. Running Sam through his mental tests. I decided to do the latter first; everything else could wait.

“So what is it this week?” Sam asked as I grabbed his folder from my desk.

I looked over at him. I always fought for his attention, but when I got it, I found it hard to concentrate beneath his gaze.

I opened the folder. “Foreign language.”

Sam pulled his desk chair up to the front of his room, and I did the same. I set the folder on my lap and opened it to a fresh chart. Next to the Branch’s logo—two interlocking circles with a double helix inside—I wrote Sam’s name. Then: October 11, 11:26 AM.

This week’s packet was a series of flash cards with Italian phrases on one side, the English translations on the other. Since the boys suffered from amnesia, the Branch wanted to know what they were capable of, and what skills from their old lives they still possessed.

Apparently, Sam had been a languages genius before entering the program. When it came to skills, I was only good at sketching and solving sudoku puzzles.

I held up the first card and Sam’s eyes moved over the words. “I am searching for the train station.”

Correct.

I held up the next card.

“What time is it?”

We went over fifty cards total. I marked Sam’s responses on the log. He scored a hundred percent, as usual.

Casually, after sliding my materials into the folder, I said, “Do you remember anything about that scar? The one on your chest?”

He didn’t allow a second’s worth of hesitation before answering. “No. But then, I have a lot of scars.”

“None of them look as purposeful as the one on your chest.”

He went still. I’d caught him in a secret; I could see it on his face. The scars meant something. “Does Cas have a scar like that?”

“Anna.” My name came out a warning, but it served as fuel.

“What do they mean?”

He turned away from me. His back was hunched, the blades of his shoulders rising beneath his shirt. I could see the sharp points of the tattooed tree branches peeking out from his sleeves.

Tell me, Sam.

I sensed the boys shifting, moving toward us.

“Not now,” Sam muttered.

“Excuse me?”

The others slunk away, and the edginess I’d felt slipped away with them.

“I think we’re done, Anna,” Sam said.