Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(67)

Just what I was trying to do.

Sean’s gaze locks on me. He’s slightly winded, but as far as I can see there’s not a scratch anywhere on him. His eyes are bright, alive, and alert in a way they never are when he’s his usual stoic self. Which makes me wonder if this isn’t the real him. More beast than man, reveling in breaking someone else down.

The instructor is at my side now. Something in his voice heightens my sense of failure. “C’mon, Hamilton. Let’s get you to the infirmary so they can clean up your face.”

The infirmary. Where no one has managed to come back from yet.

“I don’t need to go—”

“Your face is bleeding. C’mon.” He grasps my arm. There’s no refusing him.

I look away from Sean, who stares at me searchingly. As I’m marched out of the gym, I keep my eyes straight ahead, determined to meet no one’s gaze. To give no one the slightest clue of what’s going on inside me. That I’m not screaming inside, panicked that I’m not strong enough for this place, that I’m stuck with this imprint on my neck forever. That I just put myself one step closer to a detention camp.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers ..................................................................



* * *





Dear Davy,


They said we could write to you. I don’t know if you can write back, if you have the time, but I’ll keep sending you letters. It’s enough to know that you’re getting them and you know that we’re thinking about you. We’re so very proud of you. They’ve quarantined San Antonio like so many other cities now. Things are bad. Since the mandatory testing, more and more carriers are being identified and they’re running. Not that there’s anywhere to run. They’re trying to get to Mexico, but anyone caught crossing the border is shot on sight by patrols in Mexico. They might not be screening and testing over there yet, but they don’t want our carriers, either. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re safe, that you’ve been spared. That you’re safe. You’re going to be great at whatever it is they’re training you to be. . . . You have to be. . . .


Letter sent from Mitchell Hamilton Never opened Destroyed upon receipt at Mount Haven





TWENTY-FIVE




AFTER AN HOUR IN THE INFIRMARY, ONE OF THE nurses releases me. My heart pounds with elation as I hurry down the building’s steps. I walk quickly, as if I’m escaping . . . as if they might change their minds and pull me back and throw me into a vehicle and drag me out of here to the detention camp I saw on TV.

I leave Tully behind in the infirmary, too. I heard him several curtains down from me, moaning as they treated him. One of the senior instructors entered, walked right past me where I sat on a cot, and whispered for several moments with the nurse, their voices too low for me to understand. Maybe Sean hurt Tully badly enough that he needed a hospital. Even if Sean beat him, I can’t imagine they would kick a guy like Tully out of here. And thanks to Sean, he’ll probably keep his distance.

I know Sean was trying to help me, but this isn’t a game where I get a second chance. I have to prove myself. Nobody can doubt that I belong here for even one second.

I pass the dining hall. Through the glass windows, I can see dark shapes moving around. Dinner must have started.

I keep going, deciding I’d rather skip a meal than walk in there with a bandage on my face advertising my weakness. I can imagine the smirks. They probably all think I’m a wimp who can’t cut it on my own without Sean.

A golf cart approaches, its engine a low, bug-like buzz. The cart slows. The driver squints at me in the fading daylight.

“Just coming from the infirmary.” I motion behind me. “The nurse told me to rest.” I risk the lie.

He nods. I watch as the guard drives off to continue his surveillance. Aside from the perimeter wall and guarded gate, it’s the extent of security and only heightens my need to stay here where I have a semblance of independence. I don’t kid myself that I’m totally free, but if I left here I’d be trading that in for barbed wire and guards with guns herding us around the clock, ready to shoot. Here, I have the hope of a future.

The building is tomb quiet as I enter. Once dinner is over, the halls will fill with footsteps and voices. The pipes will creak in the walls as the showers start running.

I take the stairs instead of an elevator, ignoring the way my body aches like it just got stomped all over. My face throbs, and I start to fantasize about a warm shower with none of the other girls in the bathroom, watching, sizing me up. Always watching. Judging.

I gather my things from my room and enter the girls’ showers. As soon as the water meets my body, I close my eyes and use the cucumber shower gel I brought from home. For a moment, I can pretend I’m still in my shower. That when I step out it will be onto a rug so plush you actually sink an inch. And when I look up it’s going to be my bathroom with its familiar gilded mirror.

Shutting off the shower, I wring out my hair and wrap myself in my towel waiting on the hook. Stepping out onto the tiled floor, my plastic flip-flops squelch under me. I wipe the fog off the glass and proceed to brush out my hair, examining my reflection.

I want to look away but can’t. The left side of my face is swollen so much my eye is slightly squinty. Two butterfly bandages cover where the skin is torn open in an ugly, crescent-shaped cut.