Chapter 13 Amara
I lie on my bed, curled into myself. If I hold my knees close enough, maybe I can force out the cold that’s sunk into my bones.
My skin feels the gloves and the hands, the speculum and the hard table, remembers the parting of my knees and the press of eyes on what was supposed to be secret.
I want to scream. I want to claw off my own skin and scrub myself with steel wool until I’m clean.
Instead, I lie here, face buried in the scratchy fabric of the pillow, and count. One hundred and forty-two. One hundred and forty-three. One hundred and forty-four.
My phone lights up on the bedside table, casting a square onto the ceiling. I don’t want to look. I reach for it anyway.
There’s a text from Eve.
Are you okay?
I read it once, then again, as if repetition could make it less cruel. The words don’t fit in my head. Are you okay. The question is a trap. There is no way to answer it without lying.
I am not okay.
My thumb hovers. I want to write: No. I want to write: I am falling apart. I want to write: I am nothing, and that is worse than pain.
Instead I write: fine
I watch the little bubble pop up as Eve starts to reply. I don’t wait to read it. I toss the phone aside, ignoring the way it lands screen down on the floor.
My mind is a room with every window locked. My body is a house after a flood—empty, gutted, every surface warped with damage that will never come out. I am supposed to sleep, to let the hours pass, to pretend that the morning will bring relief.
But something inside me won’t let it go. Something dark, new, and sharp, something I barely recognize as mine. It is a small, hot anger, a curl of flame burning in my gut.
I get up.
I move slow, like a sleepwalker towards my room.
My limbs are heavy, my head light. I go to my bed, kneel down, and wedge my hand between the mattress and the frame.
My fingers brush steel, cold and familiar: the stolen keycard.
I took it from my father’s desk, slipped it into my pocket while I was snooping around.
It felt like a joke, then—a souvenir of a man who cared more about legacy than about his own blood.
Now, it feels like a weapon.
I change in the dark. Jeans, hoodie, hair back in a low knot. I tuck the keycard into my pocket and slide the door open an inch. The hallway outside is silent. Most girls are asleep, or pretending to be. I slip out, close the door, and walk fast, counting my steps to keep the nerves at bay.
My shoes make no sound on the floor, but every step is an explosion in my chest.
I take the back stairs down, careful to keep my head below the windows in the doors. At the landing, I wait. A security camera blinks above the exit, its red eye tracing back and forth. I watch it, timing the sweep. When it turns away, I push the door and slip into the night.
The air outside is cold and wet, the kind that sticks to your throat and makes you want to cough. I pull the hoodie tighter, hunch my shoulders, and cut across the quad. The grass is slick with fresh rain. It soaks into my shoes, chilling my feet until I can’t feel my toes.
The admin building awaits at the end of the quad, windows black except for a few on the third floor where someone forgot to turn off the lights. The gothic arches over the entrance look less like an invitation and more like a threat. I keep to the shadows, moving quick, until I make it to the door.
The keycard slides in with a mechanical whine. For a second, nothing happens. Then, a green light winks on, and the lock clicks open. I duck inside, exhaling for what feels like the first time since I left my room.
The hall is chilly, but I keep moving, finding the elevator and jab at the call button. It opens with a groan, the smell of bleach and steel mixing with the odor of my sweat. I step in, let the doors close, then press the button for the basement.
Records.
The doors open onto a world of concrete and echo. The only light is from flickering bulbs in the ceiling. The floor is a mess of shadows and stains. To my left, a locked cage with metal shelves; to the right, an office with the glass wall papered in sticky notes and crumpled memos.
At the far end is the records room. A steel door with a code lock.
I take out the keycard, swipe it, hoping it works. The lock clicks.
Inside, the air is thick and dry, full of the scent of paper and old toner.
The room is bigger than I first thought—rows of cabinets, tall as I am, stretching in every direction.
There’s a desk in the center with a computer, a scanner, a metal bin labeled "SHRED.
" Above the desk, a sign: "Access by Authorization Only. "
I start at the first row, searching for my name. MARCUS, AMARA, B. The folders are color-coded. Mine is blue. I slide it out.
My hands tremble as I open it. The first page is a photo of me, taken the day I arrived at Westpoint.
My face looks younger, cheeks fuller, hair long and loose around my shoulders.
I look happy. Below the photo is a list of biographical data: date of birth, parentage, medical history.
Everything is correct. Everything is clinical.
The next page is a chart: Menstrual cycles, hormone levels, results from every physical I’ve ever taken. Notes in the margin, written in neat block letters: "Prime markers," "Excellent viability," "No familial defects." Next to those: "Mother: deceased (see notes)."
My hands shake harder.
The next page is a table, two columns. "Potential Matches," "Genetic Compatibility." At the top of the list: ROTH, JULIAN, E.
My stomach turns over. I grip the edge of the cabinet, fighting the urge to throw up.
There’s more. Pages of test results, blood panels, genetic screenings.
Notes about psychological resilience, compliance, likelihood of successful conception.
There are highlighted sentences: "Subject exhibits above-average emotional adaptability.
" "Subject is suitable for breeding under Board protocol. "
The word—breeding—leaps out, bigger than the font it’s written in. I press my fist to my mouth, biting down until I taste blood.
I flip to the last page. A signed order from my father: "Release all records to the Board upon request. Do not notify the subject."
I can’t breathe.
I sink to the floor, folder clutched to my chest. The cold of the tiles seeps through my jeans, numbing my skin. I press my forehead to my knees, trying to make myself smaller, trying to disappear.
I sit there until the feeling passes, until my breath comes back, until my hands stop shaking enough to grip the folder again.
I rifle through the pages, looking for anything that might be a mistake.
There is none. Every line is a confirmation of what I already know: I am not a person. I am a product.
A file.
A vessel.
I don’t cry. I am too angry for tears. The anger feels good, a fire in the ruins. I want to burn this place down, scatter the ashes, make them all breathe the smoke.
I take out my phone, open the camera, and start taking pictures.
Every page. Every chart. Every note in the margin.
If they want a record, I’ll give them one.
I photograph every inch of my own humiliation, storing it in the cloud, backing it up to my email, sending copies to Eve and to myself, so even if they try to erase me, I’ll still exist.
When I’m done, I stand. My legs are weak, but I make it to the bin labeled "SHRED." I take a handful of blank paper and run it through, just to hear the sound, to imagine what it would be like to destroy my own file.
I leave the folder on the desk, open, pages spilling out. I want them to know someone was here.
The folder. My file. My entire life. If there’s one, there are others.
Maybe there’s more to find.
This time, I go deeper into the cabinet.
The second row has files for every girl who’s ever run the Hunt. They’re arranged by year, by bloodline, by what matters to the Board. I start at the top: 2005, then 2010, 2015. The folders are different colors—red, blue, black. Some are thick, others razor thin.
I find my mother’s name. The folder is thin, barely a dozen pages. The photo is the same one from the mantle at home—her hair in a bun, eyes small and serious, lips flat. I remember thinking she looked mean in the picture, like she didn’t want to be there.
I read the summary page.
MARCUS, CECILIA, R.
DOB: 4-12-1976
ENROLLED: 1991
SELECTED FOR HUNT: 1993
ASSIGNED MATE: MARCUS, DEAN (ADMINISTRATIVE WAIVER)
OUTCOME: NONVIABLE OFFSPRING (STILLBORN, 1994; MISCARRIAGE, 1996, 1997)
NOTES: Recommend alternate strategy for bloodline preservation.
The next line is in all caps, a different pen.
"EMbrYO TRANSFER AUTHORIZED. IVF: SUBJECT AMARA B. MARCUS, DOB 7-19-2003."
My mouth goes dry. I read it again. "Embryo transfer"—like I’m cattle. Like I’m a fucking science project.
There’s more, tucked behind a medical chart. A handwritten note, torn from a notepad:
“Dalton is not to be considered heir. Mother was a substitute; consult with Board if any doubts arise. Maintain Amara as primary successor.”
I feel like my skull is filling with cement.
Everything is heavy. My mother never talked about the pregnancies.
Dalton was born to a different woman, a different mother, a scandal no one in my family ever admitted to.
I remember the way he used to look at me—like I was the favorite, and he was the shame.
I remember asking my father about it once, and him saying, "You’re the only one who matters. "
Now I know why.
I flick to the back of the folder. There’s a small envelope, sealed. I pry it open. Inside is a slip of paper, just one line:
“See file: RUNNER ERASURE 2016.”
I look up. The walls of the records room tilt for a second. My vision goes blurry, then sharp again.
I find the file, black folder, thick with paper. The label is in the same neat script.
INSIGNIA: WESTPOINT ACADEMY
SUBJECT: RUNNER ERASURE
YEAR: 2016