The next time I pried my heavy eyelids open, I was again met by blinding white light. I cringed, immediately snapping them shut again.

My next perceptions were all very conflicting.

Every muscle I moved triggered a sharp ache, while my skin was embraced by the softest material I'd felt in years. There was a chemical smell in the air that burned my nose, yet the temperature was warm and pleasant. I heard a soft whoosh of air that must have been from a heating vent—something I had been without for a long time—but overtop it was an irritating, incessant beeping.

At some point, my consciousness had lapsed. I'd either fallen deeply asleep or, as I was beginning to suspect, been drugged. My memory between being trapped in the constricting bonds and waking up in the room I now occupied was blank—devoid even of dreams—and I felt oddly groggy and nauseous.

There was also a looming uneasiness in the pit of my stomach, though that was almost a constant in my life since becoming a fugitive. Most of my muscles were sore, but I suspected that was from my intense, fruitless struggle against the bonds.

I opened my eyes more slowly this time, giving them time to adjust. But before I had time to take in my surroundings, there were three quick taps at the door.

I stiffened. The doorknob turned, and a man quietly entered.

"Hey, I was right, you're awake," he said casually. He swung the door shut behind him, then turned to me. I stared at him wordlessly, unblinking. "The monitor showed your heart rate jump about a hundred beats per minute," he explained with a soft, breathy chuckle.

I continued staring at him, unconcerned with breaking any social etiquette considering my circumstances. The man averted his gaze to the clipboard in his hands.

I took the opportunity to assess him.

I'd guess he was near but not over thirty. His pale skin tone stuck out against dark brown, verging-on-black hair. He wore a lab coat that didn't hide his lankiness; it hugged his slim shoulders, and there was a large gap between the sleeves and his bony wrists. He came off as more of a bookish type than physically capable.

I'd bet I could take him in a fight.

He looked up at me, and our eyes lingered on each other. Most of him was unremarkable, but his ice-blue, reflective eyes were different; they had a way of holding attention.

"We need to collect a few samples," he said, trying to sound assertive, but his voice faltered on the last word. I maintained my stare, but he looked away.

"What kind of samples?" I asked. My voice sounded high and slightly strangled—I wasn't sure I really wanted to know.

He eyed the chart in his hand as he settled into the office chair beside me. "Blood...bone marrow...cerebrospinal fluid...brain matter." The man glanced up at my horrified expression. "It's really not as bad as it sounds," he said in an almost comforting tone. "We take such a minuscule amount of tissue for a brain biopsy that you won't even miss it. Medicine has come a long—"

"You're going to take part of my brain, and I don't get any say—"

He held both hands up as if to show he was unarmed and innocent. "I'm just a lab tech. I don't have any say in the matter either." He wheeled his chair closer to me, and his tone got lower as he said, "You know how the government is—they have a way of getting what they want."

I heard clangs of metal. He fiddled with some items in a drawer, but I couldn't focus enough to pay attention to what he was doing. I was restless. My eyes constantly shifted from point to point in the room, never lingering in one place long. The panic I'd managed to keep at bay was finally starting to seep through the cracks.

"We'll start with the easiest one—a simple blood draw. You probably had this done at some point before you, well...left." He narrated his actions as he went. My thoughts moved in slow motion, and I felt too exhausted to resist. "First, I'll tie a tourniquet and clean the area with alcohol." His words barely registered, but I felt tension around my bicep and the cold swipe of an alcohol wipe. "Next, I'll—"

"Who else was captured?" I blurted out—stalling. His hands froze.

"I'm not authorized to tell you that." His voice was hard and final, but his eyes were soft with pity. I knew I might be able to draw more out of him.

"How many? Please tell me...just a number." I opened the floodgates to allow the real tears I'd been holding back to flow. My vision blurred, and wet hot streaks streamed down my face. "I only want to know what happened to my friends."

His face twisted. "Okay, okay. There are thirteen of you - at least, that's how many are housed in this building that I'm ordered to take samples from."

I exhaled forcibly, as if I'd been kicked in the chest.

Thirteen was about half of us. I felt relief—the soldier had told me they'd captured everyone—but also distress at the confirmation that any of my family had been taken prisoner.

The uncertainty of who had been captured and what our fates would be also weighed heavily on my mind. I reminded myself that I would get my answer to the latter in due time, whether I wanted to or not.

The beeping in the room quicked, and I realized it was coming from a heart monitor machine beside me. But there was no clip on my finger, nor any other wires connecting me to the machine.

I sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled a slow sigh. The beeps slowed in frequency just as I calmed myself down. They were definitely synchronized with my heart rate, but how was I being monitored?

My mind was ablaze, constantly seeking to gather more information and formulate a plan to escape—to survive. I gazed back toward the man at my side. He had readied a syringe, positioning it at the crook of my arm.

"What's your name?" I interrupted again.

He paused. "My friends call me Van."

"Why did they let you in here with me unguarded, Van?" I asked, my lips curling into a sly smile.

He quickly returned the smile. "Because you'll not want to be making any sudden movements."

I stared at him again, feeling my eyes unwillingly widen.

Then I regained composure, consciously painting on a neutral expression. I asked in an even voice, "What will happen?"

His smile dissipated, replaced with an expression of guilt. "Please, just don't try anything stupid," he said. "If you do, well...let's say, you'll be in for a shock."

_________

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