Mortal - Chapter 14

Premise: In this young-adult dystopian novel, people can no longer die. But they still feel pain, and suffer--and it's maddening. Because of the chaos that ensued, the US Government created a program to figure out how to kill people. When Garrett, a teenager, falls into a coma for weeks as a result of an experiment, the Program sets its malicious sights on him.

This is the fourteenth chapter of the novel, Mortal. Click here for the beginning of the story. Or, click here for Chapter 13.

I move towards the train station with a heavy ache in my chest. After I left Abel, I asked a kind-looking woman sitting on the steps to a building where the train station was, and she pointed me in the right direction. I haven’t seen any guards since Abel got shot, and I can only hope that it will stay that way.

As the morning ages, I notice a decrease of people and cars on the streets, most people gone to work by now. Work. My jaw knots at the thought. Would I have to go to school? Project Eden was kind enough to allow me to finish high school, but with the unstable population, it’s difficult to come by a job without a college degree. I lower my gaze to the ground as I wait at a crosswalk. There is black gum and filth stuck to the cracked sidewalk. Right now, I feel just as mutilated.

I brush past the slow walkers and through the crossing, feeling the guilt gnaw at me. I wonder if Abel’s been found by the guards yet. I wonder if they’ll ever find me. I jerk my head up and look around warily. I owe it to Abel and Therese to stay hidden…and get to Chicago. I feel the urge more than ever now to reveal the truth about Project Eden, and I know I can’t without Gild.

The train station is built completely from a teal glass. As I descend the stairs to get to the pavilion, I look at it, puzzled by its lack of practicality. But the interesting form of architecture works out, for it oddly seems strong enough with the steel poles holding it up like a giant tent, and the glass is as thick as the length of my hand.

The pathway gets slightly darker once I enter the canopy of glass. Cold air swarms me from the fans above and below me, the air sliding out from the slits in the ground and ceiling. The buzz of the people around me keeps me on edge, wondering who will single me out and perhaps play a part in my capture. A couple gives me suspicious glances as they order snow cones. A man with a briefcase slams into me as he races to catch his train. Everyone is dressed so…normal. I stick out like a cloud passing through a neon rainbow.

Slowly, I take a seat on the rim of the fountain at the station’s center, its surface splattered with different colors of glass. Flecks of water splash into my back as I glance up to the computerized screen that shows the time of departure and arrival for trains. I exhale slightly, seeing a Chicago train set to depart in an hour. But then I bite my lip, not sure. Should I really go straight to Chicago? Or should I go to another city for a couple of days and then to Chicago? I grimace, wiping my hands on my pants in repeated strokes. I shake my head slowly— no, I need to go to Chicago. After leaving Abel behind, I am more determined than ever to tell it all to Edward Gild as soon as possible. And besides, who’s to say they won’t be able to track my travels to a different city…and with the harsh way I talked to Gild on the phone in front of the Secretary…I’m confident this is the best decision.

I get up and order the ticket for the 10:30am train to Chicago at a brick kiosk. I am shaky when I hand the ticket man my money. I press my right hand to my side, not wanting the man to see my number engraved in my skin, and lower my gaze away from the video camera in the upper corner of the kiosk.

Once my ticket is secured, I sit on a bench on the platform to the train, tapping my foot as I stare at the giant, glass clock. I hunch my back over my knees as I pick at my fingernails anxiously. A man sits next to me, and I flinch into stone, my whole body tingling with wariness.

A dull pain slithers through my chest, and I clutch my hand to my heart, feeling its quickening beat. I should have brought some of my medication with me, but I then shake my head at the thought. It’s not like I can die…

I exhale deeply once I see the metallic train pull into the platform, gray smoke, almost like steam, pluming from its top. I rise from my seat and casually walk to one of the opening doors, holding out my ticket to the conductor that waits. He accepts the ticket with a smirk and lets me step onto the train. I take a seat by a window and watch the clusters of people entering, making sure none of them particularly want me dead.

There’s a magazine in the pocket of the seat in front of me, a monthly edition of The Gilded Age, and I flip through it, breathing through my nose, trying to distract myself from the fear and the guilt.

Therese. Abel.

My trembling hands tear through a page as I turn it, trying to find something to catch my eye…most of everything is just advertisements…

Abel and I are the only two people to ever escape Eden.

An elderly woman sits next to me. She smells like rosemary and musk. She pulls out a book from her bag and begins to read.

Abel’s was a failure. The success of my escape is still in question.

I stare at the back cover of the magazine. I ignore the monotone voice resonating from the intercom throughout the train.

The Secretary. Would he honestly let me go after what I’ve done to his program, the good and the bad?

Air sifts through my mouth when I hear the sound of an artificial bell, and the train rolls out of the station at a slow and steady pace. I look to the window and my stomach squeezes its insides. A guard. Jogging towards the train. Looking for me. His eyes widen, and I can tell he’s found my frightened gaze. My heart pounds, wondering if he’ll stop the train, or race to get on and take me into his custody.

He stops.

The guard’s head turns as his eyes follow me, the train exiting the station and starts to pick up speed. He is now just a black dot in the mass of speckles in the kaleidoscope of the station. I finally turn my head forward when I can no longer see him. This is much worse.

He’s found me, he knows where I’m headed—that’s all he needs to know. He doesn’t need to stop the train, or get on, he can just take a helicopter to Chicago and intercept me, just like child’s play. His confidence was obvious. Mine is…not so much.

My gut twitches when skyscrapers begin to poke through the rubble of empty land. I couldn’t sleep on the way to Chicago, no matter how long I kept my eyes shut, or how many times I leaned my head into the window. The woman beside me seemed to notice as well, and offered me some mild, sleeping medication which I declined. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get my mind away from Abel and Therese, and I’m not sure I wanted to, for they keep me focused on my task.

I pull out Edward Gild’s business card, and begin to memorize the address. I don’t think there will be time once I leave this train. The old woman leans into me to peer out the window, gasping and awing and murmuring things I don’t care to listen to.

Chicago has the same smog in the air like Denver but without the large, monstrous, mountains in view. And by the looks of it, Chicago has twice as many buildings. Like in Denver, the train station is also made from glass, but the whole mass of it is built as a dome with a second floor, near the top. I look around the large structure, and see no helicopters. However, my stomach is still not settled.

The train’s breaks screech as we descend into one of the underground tunnels attaching to the station. I blink my eyes quickly as I adjust to the sudden darkness. Every fifty feet along the tunnel there is a bright blue light, showcasing the dank brick walls and the dreary concrete floorings.

I jerk forward when the train comes to a halt.

The lights in the train turn on and the monotone voice speaks again, telling us the time of day and the temperature in Chicago, and of course, to have a nice day. Well, so far it was completely miserable, but maybe my luck would change.

I rise from my seat, and wait for the abnormally slow woman to get up from her seat and enter the aisle. She sits there, thumbing the last page of her book, and eventually shuts it with a slight smile.

“Ma’am,” I begin uneasily, shifting in my seat, if they caught me in the tunnel… “Can you please…move?”

“Certainly, dear,” she says as she drops her bag on her lap and returns her book to it.

I watch her frail wrists move, and I see what looks to be a tattoo on her right wrist: a three-digit number. I swallow hard as my chest tightens. This woman works for VitCorp, or used to, anyway-- it’s been disbanded for about three years-- and I know she’s here to stop me from reaching my freedom.

“Oh my god,” I mutter numbly, shock blazing through me. That must be why the guard didn’t care. He knew I would be watched on my way to Chicago…in fact…my thoughts go to the medication she offered me, and I start to doubt that those pills were just mild sleep meds.

The old lady finally rises from her seat, fully blocking my way. “Don’t do anything stupid, Garrett,” she orders shrilly. The wrinkles in her throat tremble as she speaks. “You’ll need to come with me.”

Without the circumstances, I probably did the most stupid thing anyone could think of, and shove this sickly woman to the floor, kicking away her grabs at my ankles and run towards the exit, zig-zagging through the groups of people pulling suitcases from the storage bins above them.

“Hey, you!” someone yells, and I turn to see a man crouching with angry eyes beside the former VitCorp worker, the Corpse. “What kind of kid pushes a poor, old woman to the ground?!”

I look at him, “Me,” I say quickly before turning back around and quickening my pace. I jump to the damp floor, out of the train car, and head back through the tunnel the way we entered from. I press my palm to the rough wall, guiding myself up the slight slope. If I can get out this way, I won’t have to go through the trouble of going into the crowded station. But maybe blending with crowds would be a good idea…but maybe they’d expect me to think that.

There’s a sharp crack and all the blue lights vanish, followed by startled screams. I curse under my breath and begin to sprint. Once I can see the light from outside, I should be fine. I should be.

My calves burn as the slope of the tunnel increases. Almost there. Almost there. My heart skips a beat when I see the glow of bright light, and I lean forward, trying to move faster.

Shadowed figures pass into the light, and I yelp, skidding to a stop. I know that they are guards, even in the dim of light, because of their black clothing…and the guns pointed at me.

My chest strains, and my head throbs as I watch them with horrified eyes, petrified. Inside my head, I scream at myself, telling me with harsh words that this is an irrational fear, that guns are just another, countless thing that brings pain. But there’s only so much pain a person can bear.

And this irrational fear put me into a coma. Ripped my heart to pieces. Forced me into this current situation.

And nearly killed me.

“It’s over. We’re taking you back to Project Eden now, Garrett. This has been fun, but it’s gone on long enough,” one of the guards says.

Before I can stop myself, I breathe, “Abel…?”

“We got him,” the other guard replies.

I swallow hard. I risk getting shot a couple of times if I try to get past them. That alone sends shivers down my spine, as I feel my sense of reality already slipping…but if I surrender? The Secretary won’t stop until I’m dead and thinks the only way to do it is by shooting me.

I take a step backwards.

“Garrett,” the first guard says calmly, “Let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be…”

I move without another thought, diving to the right, into the railroad tracks. I land on my side. I wheeze, the wind knocked out of me, and pull myself to my feet, and take off running down the tracks before the guards start firing off bullets. I can hear them whizz by my ears, and my eyes water. There’s something inside me that doesn’t want to do anything more than drop to the ground and cower. But I run.

Pain splinters through my left side, and I scream out. I clamp a hand on the now wet shirt and continue moving. My whole body trembles, and my vision gets cloudy. Run. Run. Run. Keep running. Keep running towards that light…

I’m out. I can see. I’m not in the tunnel anymore. I jerk my legs and turn myself away from the tracks and towards the streets where I can hide and be safe. I don’t hear anyone behind me, so I look back and see no one. I notice there’s a gate that stops the walkway from continuing out of the tunnel, and I’m forced to assume that’s the reason.

I trudge over to the fence surrounding the train station storage facility and lace my fingers through the chain-link. I grit my teeth and gasp out, hot tears running down my face. I slide to my knees as I cradle my right hand which is smeared in my blood. The bullet is still in me. Someone’s going to have to remove it. I cry out before biting my lip hard. I grip the fence again and pull myself up. My legs are wobbly and I’m dizzy, but I know I have to keep moving and get to Gild before I pass out.

I walk down the sidewalks, clutching at my side as I search for the street his building is on. My head is buzzing and I’m sweating. I need to find Edward Gild before I can no longer protect myself. As I head into deep Down Town, I finally see the street and limp towards it when the lit sign allows me. Blood now slips through my fingers and I grow sick to my stomach. I have to find it, I have to. I scan the several buildings that line the street, looking for the correct address.

My knees buckle beneath me and I fall into the side of the street. My breathing is heavy as I try to lift my face off the hot asphalt. Where…where is The Gilded Age? My eyes droop and I press my chin against the street.

I hear footsteps and my whole body tenses. They found me. But then out of the corner of my eye, I see a bright flash and hear a soft beep. A camera. I struggle to turn my head, so that I can see the person lingering beside me.

She’s pressing her lips together as she stares at the screen over her camera, her green eyes narrowing. She’s young, maybe even my age, or close to it. I stare at her with shock, anger boiling inside me. I’m in the street with a bullet wound, and she…takes a picture of me?

The strap around her neck catches the camera as she releases it. She stares at me like I just popped out of nowhere, her large eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “Are you…all right?” she asks awkwardly.

I inhale through my nose, “Can you help me up?” I ask as calm as I can be. The last thing I want to do is scare off the one person that pays an interest in me…that doesn’t want me dead. Hopefully.

She twists her lip like it’s a hard decision. Are all people like this? “Sure,” she finally says and grabs my arm and yanks me upward.

I take a staggered step, and she steadies me with her palms to my shoulders. She grabs my hand and leads me to the steps of a building and helps me sit down.

She watches me while she stands in front me. She crosses her arms. She tucks a lock of dirty blonde hair behind her ear then crosses her arms again. “How’d you get shot?” she asks tersely.

I glare at her, seething.

Her eyebrows furrow and she leans backwards, cocking her head sassily, “What’s your problem?” she demands.

I want to say: there’s a bullet in my gut. But her face is so red, I decide to let her get on with speaking her mind.

“You know, I could have just walked away, laughed at you even, but no. I decide to be a Good Samaritan and help you. And what do I get? Well, not even a simple ‘thank you’!”

“Thank you?” I repeat, incredulous. I wince, and press my hand tighter against my side. “You’re right. Thank you. Thank you so much for taking a picture of me while I bleed myself dry in the middle of the road. Thank you. Why, I think you deserve a medal!”

The girl rolls her eyes, “That’s an exaggeration. You were not in the middle of the road.”

I stare at her dumbfounded for a long moment before letting out a sigh. “Whatever. What are you even doing taking pictures of dying people any—“

“It’s my job,” she interrupts, her face now a subdued pink. “I’m an intern at The Gilded Age. So sorry for doing my—“

My head snaps up and my stomach lurches, “I need to speak with Edward Gild.”

“And why exactly do you need to speak with my boss?” she growls.

“I’ve come all the way from Denver to see him about a story,” I say as my left hand reaches into my pocket and I pull out his business card.

The girl snatches it from my hand and looks it over with scrutinizing eyes, “And why would I think he’s still interested in your little story?” she demands harshly. She doesn’t return the card to me.

I move my jaw back and forth while I look at her bitterly, “Because. My story is Project Eden.”

Surprise trickles into her large eyes as she stares at me, her mouth slightly parted like she’s thinking really hard about something. Her face flushes, “You’re lying.”

I raise my eyebrows, “Right. ‘Cause I just happen to get a bullet in me by accident.”

She glares at me. She crumples Gild’s business card in her hand.

“I know how important Project Eden is to the magazine right now,” I say quietly, “And I know you know that too. Surely you wouldn’t risk your internship by ignoring this… opportunity.” I shift my gaze to my feet. If she refused regardless, I could probably still find the building, but it would be much more difficult by myself, especially given my current state.

Her eyes narrow and her lip pulls into a frown, “Fine,” she agrees reluctantly, “I’ll take you to Edward. But if you’re lying—“

“I’m not.”

“But if you are!” the girl raises a finger, “I swear...I’ll—“

“You’ll kill me?” I force a smile.

She purses her lips. Eventually she sighs and walks towards me, “Here,” she says as she holds out her hand, and I take it and pull myself to my feet. The girl wraps my arm around her shoulder and grips my side, just above my wound, and leads me down the street.

My gut twists as I remember just not a few hours ago, I was helping Abel in the same way. By the looks of the sun, it’s about late afternoon, and I know the roads will start to clutter again as the day comes to a close. We are the only two people on this side of the street, and I’m thankful for the absence of attention.

“The magazine is just a few buildings down,” the girl says with an irritated grimace.

My hand feels sticky against my wound. Sweat rolls down my back from the heat and the fever I undoubtedly have. How am I going to get the bullet out? Going to the hospital now seems highly unrealistic.

“So who shot you?” the girl pants, her head pressing against my chest as we limp down the sidewalk, “And where’d he get the gun?”

“Some man,” I say curtly, “And what does it matter where he got it?”

She is silent for a while except for her increasing breaths, “Guns practically don’t exist anymore. I was curious.”

I don’t respond. I don’t think now is the time to start revealing the lies of Project Eden, that it was their guards who shot at me. That I am now a refugee.

“I’m Lucy, by the way,” she mutters, “What’s your name?”

I ignore her, like I ignore the throbbing pain in my side which only grows when I put my weight on its leg.

I notice the curl of her lip and the anger glinting in her eyes, “Fine. Whatever,” she growls.

“This is it,” she says, and stops in front of a two-story building. I glance up at it, squinting because of the sun. The building looks older than most I’ve seen, but there are some obvious renovations like the large glass windows, and the automatic doors that slide open when she pushes me up the small steps.

Cold air swirls through the building, and I inhale deeply, closing my eyes, as I try to settle my stomach and erase the blotches of black and red from my vision. The building smells new, like it has no unique scent of its own, and the only smell you notice is the air you breathe. Lucy tugs me through the lobby and towards the elevator. In the other direction, the lobby breaks off into a larger room with several glass desks and black chairs. Most of the chairs are occupied by people, typing at computers or answering the constant ring of a telephone.

Lucy presses a silver button next to the elevator before turning to me. I slouch against the wall, panting.

“Okay,” she says clearly, “Last time to confess about lying before I get mad.”

I look at her through my eyelashes and smirk weakly. I have a feeling she’d get mad either way. “I’m not lying,” I take a breath after each word to emphasize my irritation, but I, of course, couldn’t have helped it anyway. I can feel the weakness filling me up steadily like a bath tub.

Her mouth twists sourly as she cocks her head at me. The elevator door opens and she walks in without another look at me, and I follow after her, with no help from her, rubbing my back against the wall as I make my way in.

“You’re just a can of peaches, aren’t you?” I mutter. It’s like she doesn’t even care that I would have been dead by now, if not for not being able to.

“I’m not in the mood,” she snaps when she presses the second floor button, and the elevator begins to ascend.

The elevator opens, and this time, she grabs my hand and pulls me out. The top floor is a lot different from the bottom. Instead of sleek and modern, it’s traditional and sophisticated. The walls are painted a cream color, and the floor is planked with dark wood. We’re in a short hallway before we enter a small lobby.

“You, stay,” she says and she releases my hand. I sink into a leather chair with a sigh, blinking away the colored spots as I look up at the crystal chandelier traced with gold, “I’ll go get him.” Lucy heads towards the linking hallway, “Try not to get blood on the leather,” she says smoothly and disappears around the corner.

I groan to myself, and manage to shift in my seat, pulling my shirt closer to the wound as much as I can. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this much pain before. I try to think back to all my tests and can’t think of any worse. Most of the tests I’ve done focus more on the fear aspect, like the blood test, and the second gun test sent me into a coma a few seconds later. I shake my head grimly. There’s no way I could have survived Therese’s test— which was an emphasis in both fear and pain. No way.

“What is it?” I can hear Edward Gild’s voice, and my stomach jumps into my chest. That’s when I realize I’ve succeeded. I escaped Eden, got to Chicago, got to Gild. The world will soon know the lies I tried to protect.

“I think…” Lucy sounds embarrassed, “I think I have a story for you.”

“Really.” Edward’s voice is drenched in incredulity and sarcasm.

“Yes…he’s in the lobby,” Lucy replies. I can’t help but wonder why there’s a quiver in her voice. Is she afraid of him? Gild never seemed frightening, maybe a bit intimidating. But Lucy’s never lived through Eden. Or met Arthur Paracot.

They’re walking towards me now. I can hear their footfalls against the wood.

“Luce,” Edward begins warningly, “If you brought me a god damn hobo again, I swear, I’m going to—“ Edward Gild blinks when he sees me, “…Garrett.”

His penetrating blue eyes bear into me. I nod slightly in greeting. Lucy looks to me, then to her editor, and then back. There’s a slight color to her cheeks as she nervously asks, “So you know him, Edward?”

Gild blinks again, “Yes.” He clears his throat and starts toward me awkwardly, not seeming to know how to react to my presence.

“Well, who is he?” Lucy asks earnestly.

“Lucy, use your brain for once,” he says absently and he takes the seat at an angle from mine. “Garrett. From Project Eden.”

“Oh!” Lucy exclaims before her face turns red, “The coma guy…”

“Right-o,” Edward says, pointing his finger at her. He then returns his attention to me, “Garrett…what are you doing here?”

I grimace and lift my hand off my bloody side. “Do I have to explain now?” I ask weakly.

Edward looks at my side as he runs a hand down his face, “How’d that happen?” he asks exasperatedly.

“I got shot,” I say, “On my way here.” I try to blink back the dizziness I feel.

“Luce,” Edward says calmly, “Go get Bern.”

Lucy looks at me like she’s holding her breath, her cheeks puffed out and red, “Okay,” she agrees with a curt nod and moves towards the elevator, her long skirt kicking up.

“Who’s Bern?” I ask shakily.

Edward Gild watches me with unblinking eyes. “He’s a doctor,” he begins hesitantly. The look in his eye makes me feel that he thinks I could burst into flames at any moment. “He’s good for the magazine because we can get a medical opinion about the problem. Count yourself lucky, Garrett. I hired him only three days ago.”

I frown at that though I’m not sure why. Again, suspicions flicker at the back of my mind about his motives for everything. But it’s a fair trade. I’m using him as much as he is using me.

The elevator dings and Lucy and a man with raggedly long hair follows her into the lobby.

“What’s this about, Gild?” I can only assume this man is Bern, and I can only stare at him with shock because he is nothing like the doctors at the Project Eden with his low, gruff voice and his casual dressing.

Edward Gild rises from his seat and turns to them, “Garrett’s hurt. I need you to help him as best you can. We can’t take him to the hospital—we need to keep a low profile— so you’re going to have to make do with any supplies we have here.”

Bern looks at me with cold, brown eyes—that look I can recognize. The calculating and collective stare sends shivers down my spine. And I can tell that he recognizes me from somewhere, probably the news, by the way his eyes scan me over then flick to Edward. “Fine,” he snaps, “I’ll do what I can.”

Edward and Lucy help lower me onto the large wooden table in the conference room near Edward’s office. I swallow hard and try to relax my tense body. I’m afraid of the pain. My lip twitches. I would have thought I’d have gotten use to that by now.

Bern starts searching through this duffle bag, pulling out things like tweezers and thread and a needle. Lucy stands next to Edward with a disgusted curl in her lip, and Edward nudges her slightly, “Hey,” he murmurs, “Don’t you dare vomit on my carpet.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t look at him. And I wonder what their history is, if any at all. I can only think of Abel when Bern moves towards me with his selected supplies, pondering if he is going through the same thing right now, to get the bullet out. Bern looks down at me and taps my shoulder, “I’m going to let you know right now, I’ve been out of practice for thirteen years. Partly because no one thinks they need a doctor now. Partly because I’ve assisted many people in trying to kill themselves.”

I blink at him, not knowing how he wanted me to react. Did he think I would be afraid of his unorthodox practices? Well clearly, he doesn’t know a thing about Eden. “I don’t care as long as you get this bullet out of me.”

“Okay,” he says after a moment. He peels away my shirt to reveal the bullet wound.

Bern works in silence, and I try to imitate him though it is hard to keep my body relaxed when he pokes my wound with hard fingers and sticks tweezers into the hole, pulling out the dull bullet, and letting it clatter when he drops it onto the table. Sweat speckles my face, as I look up at the ceiling, watching the bright light that never wavers in intensity. I can’t help but scream when he drenches the wound in alcohol that he found in one of the cabinets of the room. I inhale deeply when the pain in my side becomes a dull, throbbing ache. Bern sits in one of the wheeled chairs and begins to stitch me up. I glance to the side, towards Edward and Lucy. They both have unreadable expressions, but Edward can’t stand still by any means, tapping his foot, or scratching his chin, or darting his eyes—I know he is eager to speak with me. Only when Bern pulls down my shirt, does Edward Gild speak, “Why don’t you go get us some coffee, Lucy.”

“No way,” Lucy says, crossing her arms, “I want to hear what he has to say.”

Edward looks up to the ceiling and groans, “It’s just a follow-up, Lucy.”

“He’s been shot,” Lucy glares at him.

“How observant of you,” Edward responds with a quick smile.

“Which means!” Lucy snaps, “There’s more to this. Like how he ended up with a bullet in him.”

“That is an interesting point,” Edward agrees, turning to me, “What happened?”

“I escaped,” I say flatly.

Lucy and Edward stare at me wide-eyed. Bern pivots slowly in his chair like what I said has no meaning at all.

“Escaped?” Lucy repeats, “But Project Eden is voluntary…” her voice trails with doubt when she sees Edward looking at me with a glint in his eyes and his lips pressed into a firm line.

I push myself up into a sitting position, and turn to face them, ignoring the pain in my stomach. “Project Eden guards shot at me while I fled trying to get to you…” I glance to the floor, and take a deep breath. For some reason, Lucy’s words come to mind. It’s the last time to turn back before Project Eden gets mad.

They’ll be mad either way.

“Gild,” I begin, “Everything the Secretary and I have ever told you about Eden is a lie. It’s all lies. I’m here to make things right.” My eyes wander to all of theirs. Lucy’s and Bern’s are empty, but Edward’s are giddy, like a kid who can’t fall asleep the night before Christmas. Like a kid who waits expectantly for his parents to return.

Like a kid who has been told lies his whole life.

“I’m going to tell the truth.”

Thank you so much for reading! I'll see you soon! xoxo, Liv