Part 17 (1/2)

”Fifteen,” she mumbles. She pulls a hospital pillow up to her chest and rests her chin on it. ”I hope they let me stay with Esmeralda longer than Susanna. They pulled me at nine months with her. Said I was getting too attached.”

”Esmeralda?”

”It's what I'm going to name her,” she says, rubbing her belly. ”Isn't it pretty?”

”Yeah,” I sit up as much as my wrist restraints will allow. ”But, why can't you keep your kids with you? Are they sick?”

She shakes her head, her curls bouncing around her head like springs. ”No, they just want the mothers to focus on staying healthy for the next child. We can't be running around after toddlers all day and be ready for the next baby.”

Her words are something they've fed her. Her eyes tell me she doesn't believe it.

”Who raises them?”

She looks down and picks at a string on the pillowcase. ”The nannies. When I'm too old to breed anymore, I'll be a nanny and then I'll raise other girls' babies for them. It'll be my time to see them grow up.” She throws on a fake smile.

I frown. ”But they won't be yours.”

Her smile falls. ”In a way they will.”

I shake my head. ”In what way? They take your kids away and they make you take other people's kids later? That's not right.”

Betsy jumps up from the bed, fresh tears wetting her eyes. ”You don't know anything! You're cruel and cranky and your boyfriend left you, so you can't talk about what I do!” She huffs to the door and pushes the call b.u.t.ton. Then she turns to me. Her eyes are darker and harder than I've ever seen them. ”No wonder they're going to plan B with you.”

A chill falls over me. ”What's plan B?”

She says nothing and clomps out the door.

When the door slides shut, I curl into a ball on my bed as best I can. I've hurt Betsy and that's not okay. But my mind traces back over what she said. Plan B? Whatever it is, it can't be good.

When the door to my room slides open the next morning, I have my apology ready for Betsy, but it isn't her. It's the short, pudgy doctor in the long white coat, the one who stabbed me with a needle my first day-Dr. Rayburn. He slips in the door, his eyes tracing my every move like I'm a rabid racc.o.o.n.

”Ahem. Good, uh, morning, Miss ...” He looks down at my chart, realize there's no name there and then blinks up at me. ”Good morning. How are you, uh, feeling?”

I stare at him, this strange little man. His oversized lab coat trails down to the knees of his faded black pants. His hair is sticking up like he just woke. There's a yellow stain on his sleeve. I remember the images I had in my head of what Breeders looked like-cloaked monsters with yellow eyes and sharp teeth. He doesn't even look like an adult, let alone a monster.

He scratches at the pimply skin on his cheeks and then takes a wary step toward my bed. He squints up at the camera and then fumbles keys from his pocket. When he unlocks one cuff, his fingers tremble. Then he hands me the gla.s.s of juice from my bed tray.

I take the juice and grip it in my fist. ”You're not a doctor.”

He blinks at me bug-eyed. One of the burst pimples under his chin has dotted blood onto the color of his lab coat. ”Yes, uh, I am. I'm Dr. Rayburn.”

I shake my head. ”Where's Betsy?”

Rayburn glances at his clipboard and then to the black dome of a camera in the corner. ”Betsy chose, uh, not to see you this morning. It seems you've, uh, had a disagreement.”

I narrow my eyes. ”I want to see her.”

He cringes at my tone, but continues. ”You see, Miss ... We never got your name.”

”No, you didn't.”

He clears his throat and starts again. ”Betsy is a ...” He clears his throat again like there's some phlegm lodged there. ”A delicate girl. She's never left this, uh, hospital.” He looks up at the camera. ”Her choice, of course.”

”Of course, my a.s.s,” I mumble.

Rayburn clears his throat and looks up at the camera. I wonder who's watching this. ”What you don't understand, uh, is how safe it is here. Once you've proven you aren't ...” he pauses and looks at me, ”a danger to yourself and others, you can begin to enjoy all the, uh, the benefits this hospital has to offer.”

I meet his squinty brown eyes. ”This isn't a hospital,” I say deliberately. ”It's a prison.”

He rubs his hand nervously under his pimpled chin. His fingers graze over the popped pimple and knock away the clot that had formed there. A slow dribble of blood slides down his neck. He doesn't seem to notice. ”For you, uh, yes, it is. For now. To Betsy, it's her, uh, her home. Every time you, uh, you insult it, you stomp on everything Betsy loves.” His speech hiccups. His eyes keep flicking up to that black lens in the corner. ”I'm sure you, uh, you never saw it that way until I just, uh, clarified it for you.” The doctor straightens his shoulders, but his face is the color of tile grout. He gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing like a cork, and speeds through the rest of his speech. ”Now that you know, it is your job to, uh, do better for her.”

I wonder who prepped him on what to say. I wonder what they think of his performance.

”And then they'll impregnate me?” I can't keep the disdain out of my voice.

”It's our duty,” the doctor spreads his clammy hands, ”to, uh, do all we can to build up the population.”

I clench my jaw. ”So, that includes imprisoning women and experimenting on them without their permission?” I can feel my hands trembling as my anger builds.

The doctor clears his throat again, a sound I'm beginning to loath. ”Have you heard, uh, the story of what caused our current, um, predicament?”

My curiosity gets the best of me. I want to know. ”I heard the government poisoned the water and then no more girl babies were born.”

The doctor shakes his head, his jowls jiggling back and forth. The next words come out in a flat tone of rote rehearsal.

”Several decades ago our predecessors made a, um, a mistake. The petroleum we were using as fuel was perilously low. The public panicked. Then Dr. Borgen and the Hansen Center for Developmental Research created a, uh, a synthetic fuel. It was cheep, clean, efficient. Everyone in the, uh, modern world made the switch. The air was cleaner. There was less, uh, fighting in oil rich countries. It was a wonderful time for the world.” He stops and looks up at the camera. Is he making them proud?

”What we didn't, uh, know then was that this fuel was poison. Over the years our bodies became exposed to more of the synthetic compounds. It built up in our systems while we were, um, unaware. Only when the government census began did we, uh, find the birth irregularities. At first only a few more males than females were born, uh, each year. That doubled and quadrupled. Even hormone treatments for, uh, for fetuses stopped working. While the experts researched and tested, the countries warred. Human trafficking abounded. Civilized life as we, uh, knew it ground to a halt. By the time we had the answer, uh, well ...” He gestures out the window. ”Well, you see what's left.”

He pauses and takes a few loud breaths. ”With the advancements we've made here, we can, uh, fix it. Our bodies and our environment are still full of these dangerous compounds. With, uh, new hormone therapies to the fetus produced in an environment free of, uh, the compounds that mutate the fetus, we can produce as many girls as we have, uh, women to bear them. That's why we need Betsy.” He pauses and meets my eyes for the first time in several minutes. ”That's why we need you. What you, uh, will do this generation may save the next.”

”How n.o.ble,” I murmur.

But his eyes say it is. Even with the scripted answer, I can tell Dr. Rayburn believes in what he's saying. He thinks he's part of mankind's salvation. But the look in his brown eyes somehow doesn't put a fire in my belly. Instead it leaves me cold. Who do these people think they are?

I try to cross my arms over my chest, but forget one's still strapped to the bed. I settle for clasping my hands around the bed rails. ”I don't care how much humanity needs us; it isn't right to use people like cattle.”

”I'm sorry you feel that way.” The doctor takes a step backwards. It's clear he's done his duty and wants to get the heck out of here. ”We must think of the, uh, greater good. If you can't learn to comply, we move to ... Well, we move to plan B.”

”What's plan B?” I ask, as he trundles to the door. He doesn't look at me. ”What's plan B?!” I tug at my one restrained arm.

He turns and glances at me once, and then slides out the door without a word.

This time when the door slides open, it's Betsy. Her face is puffy and sunken. She doesn't smile at me. She shuffles in and slumps in the chair next to my bed. She nearly folds in on herself, as if her bones could no longer support her frame.