Savage Drift

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX} JOSIE

Dr. Cutlass comes to me in the late afternoon.

Every time I see him I’m struck by his hair. It’s always perfect. Wavy and brown, gray at the temples, and the soft curls combed or gelled into place.

He has his minitab and a thick manila folder.

“Josie Miller!” he says, beaming. “I heard you went for a walk.”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He wheels over my tray table and takes a sheaf of paperwork from the folder.

“I’ve been in contact with Dr. Quarropas and he’s gathering the information on those kids you mentioned. He said he’d had… was it Hannah?”

He takes a silver pen from his pocket and places it on the tray. Then he shuffles past the first few pages of the form, coming to a page with a “sign here” flag pointing to a line.

“No, Heather. It was Heather. Heather’s in the clinic there and she’s fine. She suffered a concussion and some lacerations, but she’s recovering nicely. I was asking him about the possibility of transferring the kids to a better facility, one closer to here. He’s looking into it.”

The doctor smiles at me, his head bobbing softly. He points to the line.

“Sign right here.”

I look into his eyes.

He can’t hold my gaze and his eyebrow twitches before he looks away.

“I’m not going to sign it,” I say.

“Really?” he says. “Huh. Why’s that?”

“I don’t think it’s safe.”

“A spinal tap? It’s a common, routine procedure. Here, look, I’ll show you.”

He taps an address into his minitab, shows me a Wikipedia article on spinal taps.

I read, dutifully. The article says they are a low-risk procedure.

But Sandy wouldn’t warn me for nothing. She wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble for nothing.

I hand back the minitab and shrug.

“You know what, we haven’t talked about your release,” he says, changing tactics.

I don’t bite.

“I’ve saved the best news for last. I’ve been given clearance to award you a grant of twenty thousand dollars for your participation in this research.”

Wow. Now I know what my signature’s worth. I bet I could drive it up to fifty.

“I’m not signing those forms,” I tell him.

“You will sign them. Because you are the key! You have, inside you, the information we need. Heck, Josie Miller, you’re going to be famous. Think of that. They’re going to study you in the history books!”

“I don’t want to be famous in history.”

“What do you want?”

I look away from Dr. Cutlass.

What do I want?

I want to go back in time.

I want my mom. Or my dad. Or anyone who knew me from before and who can remind me of how to live.

I want some magic butter or fat or oil to go into my body and fill out each cell, so I don’t feel sharp inside—every atom of me grating against the others.

I want to be a girl again.

To un-know what I know.

I want someone to hold me. Someone who doesn’t want something from me.

“Tell me what you want, Josie.”

“For my life?” I spit.

“Not for your life! For ten milliliters of spinal fluid.”

“That operation will kill me!”

“Who said that? Sandy?”

“No!” I cry. “She didn’t say anything. I just…”

“You just what?” he asks, contempt edging through his voice.

“I just have a feeling.”

Dr. Cutlass exhales. He’s pissed.

“Listen,” he says. “I understand why you’re angry. If I were in your position, I probably wouldn’t want to help, either.”

He’s reaching now, for a way to connect. He’s trying to be a human. And even though I know it’s just a gambit, I do see regret in his eyes. And pain. It looks sincere.

“What happened at Mizzou, it must have been horrible. I’ve read the reports. You mentioned a boy,” he said. “Nicko?”

“Niko,” I correct. “He came all the way to Mizzou for me. And then the drift hit and Dr. Quarropas drugged me before I could even talk to Niko. He went all that way for nothing.”

Despite me telling myself, yelling at myself not to cry, tears well up in my eyes.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe we can locate him.”

He pats me on the arm. Rises. Then stops.

“If we were able to find him, would you sign?”

I turn my head away. He only cares about the consent forms. I had forgotten for one brief moment. I’d let him find his leverage.

I nod yes and press my face into the pillow, as best I can. The pillowcase smells like bleach and slightly burned. I cry into it for a while.

After I get myself together, I press the call button.

A Latina nurse comes in. Tall and angular. Her mouth turned down at the corners.

“Yes? You need something?”

“Where’s Sandy?” I ask her.

“Sandy’s working on a different floor, now. What do you need?”

I turn my head away.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Where are your restraints?” she asks.

“Sandy said I didn’t need them.”

“Oh, she did, did she? Well, we do things a little differently on my watch.” She crosses to the door and calls out: “Hector, restraints, please.”

“I don’t need them. I promise. I won’t hurt anyone.”

“You’ve been labeled ‘uncooperative’ on your file. Until you start to cooperate, you wear restraints.”

“Does Dr. Cutlass know about this? Where’s Sandy?” I cry.

I can’t help it—I curl up in a little ball. As if I think by keeping my hands and feet close to me, she won’t get them.

She comes over to my bedside and I think she’s going to talk to me, but no, she uncaps a small syringe and taps out an air bubble.

A large man guy in scrubs enters with leather cuffs.

“No!” I shout. “Please! I promise, I’ll be good!”

The nurse injects something into my drip and I fall fast.