again.
I’m running down the middle of a long, dark corridor, moving faster than I ever have before. There’s a man standing at the end, his body cloaked in shadow. I can’t see him clearly, but I know it’s my father. It always is.
Any moment, I tell myself, I’m going to wake up. I’ll be in our bed, with the blankets knotted at my feet and the mattress drenched in my sweat, Prakesh’s arm around me and his hushed voice in my ear.
But it’s different this time – the darkness isn’t the darkness of a dream. And the pain rippling up from my legs isn’t the dull, distant pain of exertion. It’s horrible, needle-sharp, bigger than life.
My father raises his head towards me. His eyes – angry, confused, terrified – lock onto my own. I see my name appear over his face, blinking bright orange. Riley. Riley. Riley.
I jerk awake, a strangled cry bursting out of my throat. The dream vanishes. The pain doesn’t.
This is all wrong. There’s too much light. The surface underneath me is hard, nothing like the soft warmth of our bed. I don’t have to reach my hand out to know that Prakesh isn’t with me. I’m lying face down, one arm tucked underneath me. My tongue is a dry, dead thing, and my throat screams for water. I can feel my heart pounding, pulsing in my chest and neck.
Slowly, my surroundings come into focus. I’m lying on a metal table, gleaming under a single harsh light. The light is focused, a tight circle on the table, and the rest of the room is in darkness.
The pain in my legs chooses that moment to really wake up. It’s in my knees, biting and tearing. Before I can stop myself, my hand is moving down towards my right knee.
My jumpsuit is gone. I’ve still got my tank top and my underwear, but the flesh on my bare legs has risen in heavy goose bumps. I push my fingers down my right leg, my movements jerky and shuddering. I have to find the source of that pain. If I do that, I tell myself, I can get through this. My fingers track across my skin. The pain isn’t in my kneecap, it’s deeper, somehow …
Then I touch the tough, spiky thread of a stitch, and I scream.
I twist myself around, my fingers exploring in horrified bursts. The stitches are on the back of my knees: tiny, thick lines buried just under the surface of the skin, as if a parasite has wormed its way into my flesh. The stitches run horizontally, tucked between the bones. They zigzag back and forth, and the thick ends jut out at awkward angles. The flesh is horribly tender, and even touching it lightly makes the pain spike.
Get them out. Get them out now.
My fingers snag the end of the stitch on my right knee. I grit my teeth, getting ready to pull.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
The voice is cold and businesslike, coming from the darkness at the edge of the room. I freeze, trying to squint past the light.
“Who’s there?” I say
No answer.
How did I get here? My memory is in fragments. I was on a run – what was I doing? Was I delivering cargo? No – that’s wrong. Then I remember the call, the empty corridor, the movement behind me.
Something flies out of the darkness, bouncing off my chest. I grab it just before it skitters away. It’s a small bottle, off-white plastic, the blue label faded and peeling. Whatever’s inside gives a dry rattle as I turn the bottle in my hands.
“You should take one,” the voice says. It’s a man’s voice, soft and precise – the same voice as the dispatcher who called me over SPOCS.
The hell with this. I swing my legs off the table, calculating how far away the voice is, already lining up the angle of attack. I’m going to get whoever’s out there and drag them into the light, make them take back whatever they—
The second I touch the floor, there’s a horrid, searing explosion in my legs. I collapse, howling in pain, the pill bottle locked in my hand.
I raise myself up on one elbow, sweat pouring down my face, staring in horror at the stitches. They’re already
I’m running down the middle of a long, dark corridor, moving faster than I ever have before. There’s a man standing at the end, his body cloaked in shadow. I can’t see him clearly, but I know it’s my father. It always is.
Any moment, I tell myself, I’m going to wake up. I’ll be in our bed, with the blankets knotted at my feet and the mattress drenched in my sweat, Prakesh’s arm around me and his hushed voice in my ear.
But it’s different this time – the darkness isn’t the darkness of a dream. And the pain rippling up from my legs isn’t the dull, distant pain of exertion. It’s horrible, needle-sharp, bigger than life.
My father raises his head towards me. His eyes – angry, confused, terrified – lock onto my own. I see my name appear over his face, blinking bright orange. Riley. Riley. Riley.
I jerk awake, a strangled cry bursting out of my throat. The dream vanishes. The pain doesn’t.
This is all wrong. There’s too much light. The surface underneath me is hard, nothing like the soft warmth of our bed. I don’t have to reach my hand out to know that Prakesh isn’t with me. I’m lying face down, one arm tucked underneath me. My tongue is a dry, dead thing, and my throat screams for water. I can feel my heart pounding, pulsing in my chest and neck.
Slowly, my surroundings come into focus. I’m lying on a metal table, gleaming under a single harsh light. The light is focused, a tight circle on the table, and the rest of the room is in darkness.
The pain in my legs chooses that moment to really wake up. It’s in my knees, biting and tearing. Before I can stop myself, my hand is moving down towards my right knee.
My jumpsuit is gone. I’ve still got my tank top and my underwear, but the flesh on my bare legs has risen in heavy goose bumps. I push my fingers down my right leg, my movements jerky and shuddering. I have to find the source of that pain. If I do that, I tell myself, I can get through this. My fingers track across my skin. The pain isn’t in my kneecap, it’s deeper, somehow …
Then I touch the tough, spiky thread of a stitch, and I scream.
I twist myself around, my fingers exploring in horrified bursts. The stitches are on the back of my knees: tiny, thick lines buried just under the surface of the skin, as if a parasite has wormed its way into my flesh. The stitches run horizontally, tucked between the bones. They zigzag back and forth, and the thick ends jut out at awkward angles. The flesh is horribly tender, and even touching it lightly makes the pain spike.
Get them out. Get them out now.
My fingers snag the end of the stitch on my right knee. I grit my teeth, getting ready to pull.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
The voice is cold and businesslike, coming from the darkness at the edge of the room. I freeze, trying to squint past the light.
“Who’s there?” I say
No answer.
How did I get here? My memory is in fragments. I was on a run – what was I doing? Was I delivering cargo? No – that’s wrong. Then I remember the call, the empty corridor, the movement behind me.
Something flies out of the darkness, bouncing off my chest. I grab it just before it skitters away. It’s a small bottle, off-white plastic, the blue label faded and peeling. Whatever’s inside gives a dry rattle as I turn the bottle in my hands.
“You should take one,” the voice says. It’s a man’s voice, soft and precise – the same voice as the dispatcher who called me over SPOCS.
The hell with this. I swing my legs off the table, calculating how far away the voice is, already lining up the angle of attack. I’m going to get whoever’s out there and drag them into the light, make them take back whatever they—
The second I touch the floor, there’s a horrid, searing explosion in my legs. I collapse, howling in pain, the pill bottle locked in my hand.
I raise myself up on one elbow, sweat pouring down my face, staring in horror at the stitches. They’re already
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