The Amanda Project: Book 4: Unraveled by Amanda Valentino, Cathleen Davitt Bell Page B

you?” I’d started to ask Nia, when suddenly, I saw something that pretty much blew my mind.
    I was expecting our contact to enhance Nia’s vision. What I wasn’t expecting was to be able to see Nia’s vision myself.
    As soon as the four of us were holding hands, I felt an incredible urge to close my eyes, and when Idid, I saw something that looked like I was watching TV on the insides of my eyelids.
    I snapped my eyes open. “Did you guys—” I started to ask, but Nia cut me off.
    “Don’t distract me,” she hissed. I squeezed my eyes shut again.
    I saw a kid sitting on the table. He was little—seven, maybe? Definitely in elementary school. “Criss-cross applesauce, Morton,” said a nurse in a brisk, businesslikevoice. I couldn’t get a fix on the woman’s face—her whole body was a blur of white nurse’s uniform—but I could see the boy clearly. He had a pointy chin and ears that stuck out beyond his short hair, and his cheeks were sunken in a way that told me he was afraid. “I’m extra scared of those things,” he said, lip trembling. “I’m more scarded-er than the other kids. I’m the most scarded-er.”
    “You’reall scared,” the nurse grumbled.
    The nurse peeled a foil top off a glass vial. I saw an extra-long needle and an empty glass vial on a tray.
    “I want my mommy,” the boy breathed. His eyes were wide, his breath was coming fast. I could see that he was about to cry. Or maybe pee in his pants.
    “You don’t have a mommy,” the nurse growled. “Your mommy didn’t want you. That’s why you’re here.”
    Suddenly,Nia let go of our hands. “I can’t look anymore,” she said. I saw that Callie had tears in her eyes.
    “I hate this,” Hal said.
    “Can you imagine—?” Nia asked. She shivered.
    I couldn’t even talk about it. How could anyone do that to little kids? To keep the others from seeing the tears that were forming in my own eyes, I looked away.
    I was going to bring up the subject of how we’d managed to seethe vision that Nia was having, but just then, I saw the file cabinet labeled “Subject Profiles.” These must have been the nurse’s, to look up the treatment protocol for each of the kids who’d come to see her.
    “Guys,” Hal said. “Look.”
    He slid open the drawer, and it was full.
    Jammed, actually, from front to back with folders, each labeled not with a child’s name, but with a number. Each numberbegan with C33.
    “Look up C33-2990,” I said. “That’s the kid who was fighting off the experiments.”
    Hal pulled it out of the file and passed it to Nia. She opened it up and gasped. “2990 is Max Beckendorf.”
    “Thornhill?” Callie breathed.
    “Look,” said Nia, turning so we could all read the file.
    At the front of the file was a summary paper, stapled to the folder’s inside left-hand cover. It read:C33-2990, indicated that the “Subject’s Name” was Max Beckendorf. There was a space for “Original Name,” but whatever name was written there had been covered over in thick black marker. There was a line for “Genetic Therapies,” another for “Surgical Enhancements,” and another for “Immuno-Tech.” We didn’t know what any of these things meant, which made them all the more grisly. And this kid hadendured a lot of them, too. I thought about that poor little guy in Nia’s vision.
    Following the list of therapies was something called “Talents.” Max Beckendorf, C33-2990, apparently had many, including: Leadership, Self-Discipline, Self-Sacrifice, Strength, Endurance, Ideological Commitment to Concepts such as “Honor” and “Service.” At the bottom of the summary sheet there was a write-up, whichread like the most messed-up report card in history:
    C33-2990 is an early and fine example of an enhanced warrior prototype. While possessing a keen intelligence and ability to think strategically, 2990 is capable of great personal sacrifice, endurance, and long-standing suffering in the pursuit of ideological