If it weren’t for the tracker in my shoe and the rescue Atlas and Dewey have planned, I’m not sure I could keep walking. Why would they bring someone like MaryAnn here? It doesn’t make sense.
“Move,” the Marshal barks, and yanks me away from the faces in the cages. I have to go with her or fall. Heart pounding—stomach churning from the smell and the fear that is growing colder with every passing second—I put one foot in front of the other.
From the shadows of the cages, eyes—hollow—hot—hopeless—follow me as I pass several darkly uniformed guards to a wide opening in the concrete wall on the far side of the damp garage. Metal rattles. A man screams for help. But as we round the corner, it’s the chilling shriek of pain immediately followed by a wail of tears that strips me of my remaining courage.
Behind a concrete wall partition are curtained areas—all lined up in a row. There is a desk in the first with a computer and several glowing screens. An official in a navy-blue uniform with silver embellishments on the collar and the cuffs sits behind the computer. A restrained man in a bulky, dark coat sits hunched on the other side of the desk. A curtain halfway down the aisle shifts to the side and a Marshal leads a weeping woman out of that space. The crying woman is holding the side of her head and screaming for a lawyer who she has to know will never come.
A tall, broad-shouldered official at the end of the row turns our way. “Melissa, bring your subject to area two.”
The red-lipped Marshal next to me grabs my arm. She pulls me down the blue runner that is spread out along the row of stations and I remind myself that Atlas will use the signal from the tracker in my shoe to find this place—to free me. The Marshal yanks the second curtain to the side and shoves me toward a chair facing a desk like the one I just passed.
My foot catches on the stained rug. I crack my knee against the front of the desk, but grab the top to catch myself before I fall. I stand there, hands flat on the edge, looking across the expanse of the hard, smooth black surface at a man with a narrow, perfectly trimmed white mustache who is studying a handheld screen as if I am not even here.
“Sit,” the man instructs.
Marshal Melissa grabs my shoulders and pushes me into the chair. My knee throbs in tempo with my pounding heart as I wait.
The man looks up and gives a tight smile. “This will go easier if you do as you are told.”
I swallow down my panic and force myself to stick to the script. Be confused. Non threatening. Scared. The last is the easiest since I am terrified. “I don’t understand. Where am I? What happened to me? Was I drugged? Are you the police?”
“The police deal with crimes,” the man replies. “We deal with problems.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, hoping the truth—that I do understand all too well—isn’t visible in my eyes. “If this is about the paint, I can explain. It wasn’t anything bad. I wasn’t hurting anyone. They could have asked me about it and I would have told them whatever they wanted to know.”
“Sadly, that isn’t good enough.” He picks up my government student ID that Dewey had created through the Steward network for just this moment. “MaryAnn Jefferson. You should have stayed in Wisconsin when your parents died. If you had, then this all wouldn’t be necessary.”
“I don’t understand what this is. Please!”
“The city worked hard to create an environment where everyone can feel safe and takes great pains to instruct those who do things that disrupt those efforts. This is the first step in that instruction.”
“But—”
“Miss Jefferson, you were caught with spray paint. The paint matches the colors that have been illegally used to deface public spaces throughout the city. While you are sure to have your reasons, discussing it with me won’t do you any good. I’m simply here to start your processing.”
He’s not interested in learning why I was caught with the paint or whether I knew more about the logos throughout the city? But, I—MaryAnn—don’t have anything to do with all those logos. She hasn’t even spray-painted one yet! She shouldn’t be here! Does he simply not care?
He places the screen down on the desk in front of him and says, “Have you made friends at the hotel you have been staying in or with anyone in the city who should be contacted as your instruction continues? Maybe someone who knew what you were doing tonight?”
“What? No.” I shake my head. “I don’t know anyone in the city, yet. I . . .”
“Good,” he says, pushing a button on the screen he lays flat on the desk in front of him. “That makes things easier and it completes this step.” He looks over my shoulder at Marshal Melissa. “Get the rest done quickly or she’ll miss today’s transport and have to wait until next week.”
‘Transport?” My heart skips. Transport tonight? No. “Where are you taking me? I didn’t do anything wrong. Please. If you just talk to me, you’ll see that.”
“I told you, I am only here to start your processing,” the man says with a sigh. “You will be transported to a place where you can receive the instruction necessary to keep you from greater disruptive acts. I promise, it will all go easier if you do what Melissa tells you. The goal is for us to help you learn. The last thing we want is for you to get hurt.”
“If I could only . . .”
“Get up,” Melissa snaps, and pulls me from my seat as I look back at the white-mustached man and say, “Please. Let me stay. At least until I talk to someone else.”
We had counted on me being here for more than a few hours. I need to buy Dewey and Atlas more time to find me and for me to have the chance to take images of what is happening here. People need to see this for themselves.
The man looks into my eyes and there is no malice whatsoever in his expression when he says, “You may not believe it now, but this is for the best.”
The Marshal marches me down the aisle, stops in front of a light gray curtain marked with the number four, and tugs it back.
“Have a seat,” a female official at a workbench at the back of the space says, and she waves her hand at a padded chair in the center, which is flanked by two other uniformed officials. The chair reminds me of one a dentist would use—only my dentist’s chair was never equipped with leather straps.
Oh God. No.
I take a step back, and am blocked by Melissa the Marshal, who shoves me down into the gray padded seat and holds me in place. Someone—I don’t know who—grabs my arm and everything happens so fast.
I try to sit up and pull free, but there are too many people fastening the straps. Still I try to fight. My foot connects hard with a leg. There is a yelp, but there is no satisfaction from that as a strap loops around my left wrist and is pulled tight. Strong hands hold down my legs. Their grip is like a vise. None of the training Atlas and Dewey put me through helps. I fight back the scream clawing up, desperate to break free as another strap fastens my legs, then my ankles.
“This will hurt,” a uniformed officer says clinically. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell she is holding a heavy metal tool. “If you promise to stay completely still, I can make it hurt less. It’s your choice.”
My choice?
I ball my hands into fists. My heart pounds loud in my ears. I flinch as the uniformed woman beside me gathers my hair and shoves it under my head. There is a prick in my arm. I yelp from the sharp stab of the needle.