“Are you okay?” Ms. Iverson’s hands were extended, like she might touch him, though I knew she wouldn’t unless extreme measures were called for and Security came.
Gideon swung toward her. I’d never seen a Terminal move like that. He was so fast. “Am I okay? No!” His voice grew. I covered my ears.
Three Terminals at the front of the classroom—Camille, Ruth, and John—slid back in their chairs like they were afraid. Matthew dropped his book. It landed on the floor with a pop and half the classroom jumped, including me.
“You have reason to be upset, Gideon,” Ms. Iverson said. Her hands still out. Her voice soothing.
“This is wrong,” he said, and I uncovered my ears. His voice was quiet now—like what he would say was meant for only a few of us to hear, and not the whole class. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
No one replied.
“What’re you saying, Gideon?” Abraham asked. “This is the way and the life.”
“We’re Terminals,” Sarah said. She twisted her short hair around her finger, and whispered, “We’re Terminals.” Twist, twist, twist.
“I know that, Sarah,” Gideon said. He took a step and she flinched. “We all know that. But what we don’t know is why. Why does it have to be that way? Why us?”
Ms. Iverson checked the door, then the window.
“Why can’t there be a promise?” Gideon walked to the front of the classroom, walked back to his chair. He ran his hands through his hair. He moved so fast—his gestures, his steps, were like the silly movies we sometimes see on Terminal Television. “Why can’t there be cures? Why can’t we … the Terminals”—his words hovered in the air—“find answers?”
Ms. Iverson’s face turned red. “We need to get going on Harper Lee’s novel. I want to talk about how Atticus’s Terminal situation of seeing all people as equal caused trouble for his family.”
“No!” Gideon said. Although his voice was soft, it made me draw back. I looked at Abigail, who sits behind me. Her eyes were huge.
“What’s happening?” Sarah asked from across the room. “Is he sick? Is he having a breakdown?”
“Maybe we should call for help, Ms. Iverson,” Matthew said. “Maybe we need the doctor here. Gideon might be contagious.” Matthew tapped on his desktop.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” someone said.
I covered my eyes. My hands felt cool as water. Fingers spread, I watched as Gideon shoved his desk down the aisle toward the front of the room. It slid on its side. Pencils, books, and a calculator spilled on the wood floor. Outside, a few flakes of snow fell.
“No! I want to talk about this.”
Daniel rolled forward in his wheelchair. “Gideon,” he said. “Stop. Now.”
And Gideon stopped. He made a face at Daniel like nothing I had never seen, righted the chair where it had landed, and sat a foot and a half from Ms. Iverson’s desk. I would have been self-conscious with such close proximity to a Teacher. Sick, even.
“He wants a cure,” Daniel said to Ms. Iverson. He took off his glasses, then put them back on. “He wants a cure. I do. We all do, right?” He looked around the classroom.
No one moved.
“Yes.” Abigail’s voice was weak.
I squeezed my hands together. Something heavy sat in my chest.
Twice in one day. Too much excitement. Too much moving and yelling and calling Terminals out.
Calm down, Shiloh, I thought. Or you’ll follow Isaac to the hospital.
“We’ll wait a moment on To Kill a Mockingbird,” Ms. Iverson said. She pulled at her shirt a little, like she stretched out invisible wrinkles. Then she patted at her hair.
My whole Terminal world seemed to tilt, like I had tipped over and not Gideon’s chair.
“Terminal,” Ms. Iverson said. “We all know the definition.” She put her hands under her chin.
“Who can forget?” Camille asked, shifting in her seat.
Oh, they forgot. If enough time passed, Isaac would not be remembered at all—even if I brought him up to another Terminal.
Maybe my memory is part of my illness, part of my disease. It was a frightening thought.
“I know,” Ms. Iverson said. Her eyes grew watery. That’s one thing with the Whole. They leak. I saw Ms. Iverson’s face leak like right now (and heard her bark like a seal, wearing a horrible expression once while she read. Late one night when I should have been sleeping but had awakened from a nightmare and went to find her for Tonic).
I agreed with Camille. We all know the definition. As soon as we can learn, we’re taught the meaning. I watched Gideon, who glowered out the window, like maybe none of us were here. Did he see the snow the same way I had? My insides twisted. Or did he look at those trees that held no promise of spring yet?
Ruth said, “Terminal: of or forming a limit, boundary, or end. Concluding; final. Ending in death; fatal.”
I glanced back at Ms. Iverson. “Our lives here will end in death,” I said.
Or worse.
“Not if there’s a cure.” The words one-at-a-time slow. Gideon again.
Could Terminals be cured? It didn’t seem possible.
Ms. Iverson’s mouth hung open, then, “Good, Ruth,” she said. It was as if Gideon hadn’t spoken. “And you, too, Shiloh.”
“No,” Gideon said, the word coming out with a long breath of air. “No, it’s not good. ‘Ending in death; fatal.’ That is not good.” Gideon did something strange then. Looked around the room, like he wanted to catch our eyes with his. I let my gaze shift to just over his ear.
Then he left the room without permission!
Ms. Iverson’s eyebrows went up and she pursed her lips. She said, “Go ahead and start reading, class. I’ll be right back.” She followed Gideon, closing the door.
The room calmed. Outside, the storm moved closer, the afternoon sky became dark. Dark as Gideon’s face had been. Snowflakes fell harder. Changed their minds. Stopped. Fell again.
“What was that?” Abraham asked. He sounded uncomfortable.
“Gideon had a mental malfunction,” Camille said.
“No,” Daniel said. He swung his wheelchair around to face us. He whispered, his eyes wide. “Gideon’s right. We never expect anything here except to die.”
I pulled in a deep breath of air. “That’s the truth of our world, Daniel. We’ve seen it on Terminal Television. We saw it”—I gestured toward the dining room—“just this morning. We all die.”
“This is our lives,” Ruth said. She shrugged. Her dark, shoulder-length hair swung a bit around her face. “We live away from everyone to keep us alive longer.”
“But we don’t have to,” Daniel said. He still whispered, resting his hands where his legs should have been. “We could look for a cure. A way out.”
“We could try,” Abigail said. Her voice was hesitant, like maybe she tasted these words for the first time.
The need to do what was right stirred in me. We must do the right thing. Must be obedient. Obedience kept us safe.
“No,” I said, “even thinking that kind of thing is wrong.”
The classroom door swung open and all talking ceased. Ms. Iverson went to her desk. “No one is to speak of what happened today. Do you understand? Do not speak of this.”
A few Terminals nodded.
“Today is our little secret.”
Another surprise. Too many for one day. I put my head on my desk, wondering if Ms. Iverson would send Gideon to Isolation and why he and Daniel might think we could do anything, anything at all, to save ourselves.
HAVEN
HOSPITAL&HALLS
Where You Matter
Established 2020
Note to all Staff
Behavior to Look For:
Uncommon socialization
Touching
Fraternizing with the opposite sex
Too much speaking
Open talk of rebellion
Any and all of these (and similar) behaviors MUST be repor
ted to school officials.
3
“One minute to lights out” sounded over the intercom and the music of Brahms was piped into the building. I yawned. A creature of habit, I guess.
I swallowed the plastic cup of Tonic that sat on my bedside table, my prepared bag an arm’s length away. Then I climbed into bed. The room grew quiet.
I share this room with three other girls, including Abigail. We’re a Dorm unit and as the Disease progresses it takes more and more from some.
Settling under my comforter, I lay still as a shadow, letting the music sweep over me. From my bed I could see out the huge window. Snow fell. Fat flakes that came down like feathers, like they took their time leaving the sky, twisting and turning. Moonlight turned the darkness blue. I shivered and yawned again, then lay on my side.
“I heard Gideon disrupted studies today,” Mary said.
“Yes,” I said, the word muffled in my pillow. “It happened in my class. He went berserk. Changed into a maniac in front of everyone.”
Mary and Abigail sat up.
“And?” Elizabeth said.
“Ms. Iverson got water in her eyes.”
“Water?” Mary asked.
I sat, too, so my whispers would cover the distance of the room. “Water poured from her eyes.” I told them everything, even how Gideon pushed the desk over.
Elizabeth said, “Oh no.”
Abigail rested against her pillow in the pale light. “I think he wants out of here,” she said.
No one answered.
“Like we all do,” I said. The words made me cringe. I didn’t quite believe what I spoke. Even with Abigail’s questioning, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to leave. I know what happens to Terminals in the real world.
“I want to stay where I’m safe,” Mary said, echoing my thoughts like she could read my mind.
“But if you didn’t have to be here,” Abigail said. She was going down that road again? “If you could be Whole, you would be, wouldn’t you?”
There was a long pause. Brahms grew softer. The hall lights dimmed.
“Yes,” Mary said.
“We shouldn’t talk that way,” Elizabeth said.
“No one is supposed to know about the incident,” I said.
“All the Terminals do,” Elizabeth said. “I heard groups talking about it. But no Teachers. At least not yet.”
If anyone found out—any Teacher, I mean—that could mean trouble for Gideon. And even though I wasn’t sure if I agreed with what he said, I didn’t want him in trouble.
Still, his behavior demanded Isolation.
Isolation is just what it says on the outside of the door: PENITENCE AND REFORM ROOM. A few hours alone, where the white of the walls blinds you, and you’re ready to promise anything. At least I had been. I don’t ever want to go again. Twice is enough for me.
“I hope no one finds out,” Mary said.
“Gideon’s tough,” Elizabeth said. “I heard Principal Harrison talking to Dr. King.”
“What did Principal Harrison say?” This was Abigail.
Elizabeth thought for a long second. “Something about how Gideon is stronger than other Terminals. That he needs to be supervised.”
A weight descended on my shoulders just as it always does when anyone speaks of something contrary. “I want to sleep.”
We all settled down, but I lay in bed wide-eyed.
The thoughts wouldn’t stop.
If I peered out the window, I could see Hall Four. There’s a plaza between us, the stilled fountain, a gazebo at the edge of things, and a small courtyard. In the spring it’s full of flowers.
If I checked outside now, I’d see the old brick of that arm of the rooms, the wide windows, each with a small balcony. At the west end of the structure, I would see the chimney rising from the building like a finger pointing to the sky.
The males reside in Hall Four. Gideon’s room is there.
And Isaac’s.
Or it had been.
“Don’t think about him,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
Abigail moved in bed. “Do you need something, Shiloh?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
Lies!
“No more talking tonight,” she whispered. “I heard the hall monitors will be out in force to make sure we get our eight hours.”
“They always do, every time one of us goes,” I said.
“They want to see if we’re going to lose it,” Abigail said. She paused. “It’s all about control, you know.”
“Control?”
“I don’t understand,” Elizabeth said.
The lights went out and the music softened to nothingness. I yawned again. Mary’s breathing became heavy and deep. I swear, she can sleep anywhere. One morning, early, I found her snoozing on one of the toilets, her head against the stall wall, pajama bottoms around her ankles.
Abigail lowered her voice. “It’s about keeping us calm. So they can do to us what they’ll do to Isaac.”
Neither Elizabeth nor I spoke.
“Terminals live this way,” I said, that same useless reminder. “We live this way.”
“I know,” Abigail said.
The dimmed light from the hall seeped into the room. I could see the outline shadow of her.
“I know.” She lay back.
4
Control? Why would Abigail think that word? Didn’t it make her ill to say it?
I should go to Abigail.
Tiptoe across the room and crawl into bed with her, lying on top of her comforter, my own blanket covering me so we didn’t touch skin to skin. We could wait until Elizabeth was sound asleep. Talk about Isaac. His pale face. About Gideon. His outburst. Daniel’s suggestion that Gideon wanted us to have cures for our kind.
Abigail and I could—leave, search the dark halls, sit in the shadows.
My heart kicked up a beat. We’ve snuck out lots. Got caught only the first time. The consequence was a private meeting with Principal Harrison.
And, Isolation.
Abigail and I had wandered the school, going to the kitchen, where we found all the food locked away.
In the corner bed, Mary snored—she always snores the first ten minutes she’s asleep. Elizabeth mumbled something.
If I closed my eyes, I would dream.
I’m tired of the nightmares, I thought. They come more often than not when another Terminal is taken away.
When everyone slept, I threw back the covers and tiptoed to our window, looking out at Hall Four. The windows there were dark and empty, like eyes made only of pupils. I shivered.
That’s when I saw the movement. The slightest shift. A dog maybe? But how could an animal get in here? The thing straightened up some and I saw the shape was much bigger than a dog. It was the size of a small bear. Or … a Terminal? Something surged up my throat. A Terminal dressed all in black?
A dot of a red light flickered near the shape. Went out. Flickered again.
“What in the world?” My breath made a circle of steam on the window and I wiped it away with the sleeve of my pajamas. Touched the cold glass with my fingertips.
Another flicker of light sparked across the courtyard, near the gazebo at the end of the green.
The figure hurried toward the light and then the moon slid behind a cloud and I couldn’t see anything more.
“Who is that?” Today, it seemed, my heart had spent way too much time beating way too hard.
We Terminals don’t get afraid. Only Then. Only when the door squeaks open does fear course through us. So why did my heart pound now?
I pressed my hand, cool from the windowpane, onto my side near my scar. Through the fabric of my nightshirt I felt the raised flesh.
“Shiloh,” said a whispered voice right next to my ear. “What do you see?”
I let out a yelp and swung, striking Abigail in the shoulder. “Don’t ever do that again.” I squeezed her elbow. My head swirled and I staggered back, falling against the windowsill. I kep
t my voice low. “Ever.” I moved toward her and gave her a small shake. My stomach roiled and I released her.
“You didn’t have to hit me.” Abigail peered out into the darkness. “I just wondered what you were looking at. You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“So are you,” I said.
We eyed each other then looked out the window together.
Nothing. Whatever was out there was gone. So were the red flashes.
It could have been an intruder. Sometimes people break onto the school grounds but Security always takes them away.
Two weeks ago. What? What had happened?
The memory of the Incident was almost not there. How the Whole male had run into the Dining Hall, grabbed at a young female Terminal, tried to run off with her. Disturbing, is what Principal Harrison said later, when the male was stopped by our uniformed guards and then dragged away by police from the outside.
“Our apologies,” Principal Harrison had said at the microphone. “It is our duty at Haven Hospital and Halls to keep you away from the lunatics.”
Was that the same lunatic out in the snow now?
“What did you see?” Abigail cupped her hand around her eyes and leaned against the pane.
The night was black. Only the shapes of the building were visible now. Blocks of darkness. I could see our reflections. I stood a head taller than Abigail, and her hair fell around her shoulders while I’d pulled mine back so it wouldn’t be a giant puff ball in the morning. I opened my mouth to tell her what I had seen. Then I hesitated. I should tell. It was my duty to answer when asked a question.
“Nothing,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep.” A truth.
She nodded. “The last of winter is so nice, isn’t it?” Abigail stood close to me. I could feel the heat of her body. Tension rolled up my throat.
Nice? “Yeah. Maybe,” I said.
“I love spring best,” she said, padding back to bed. “When everything is new and it seems like even we Terminals have a chance.”
A chance.
A promise.
I loved nothing. But I believed what Abigail said.
Spring did feel like a chance.
A promise was what Gideon said we should have. And at that moment, standing halfway between my bed and the window, I believed in that promise, or that chance, too. I wanted to be more than a Terminal. I wanted a life. To live outside the walls. While I wouldn’t say so to Abigail, I did want a chance to live elsewhere, as one of the Whole.