Chapter 30
DON’T CORRECT ME
Colt is waiting for me outside, leaning against the wall across from the classroom like he’s been there a while. He straightens when I step out, clipboard tucked precariously under his arm.
“Private instruction tonight,” he says, offering me a little thumbs-up.
I roll my eyes. “Oh good. Because that always goes swimmingly.”
He shrugs, falling into step beside me as we start down the corridor. “It’s better than drills.”
“Debatable.” I keep my eyes down, watching the way his boots hit the tile.
Normally, our walks are filled with random trivia, stupid jokes, or a vent about Ryder’s inability to keep his bunk clean.
Once, he even detailed a conspiracy about Doctor Rook secretly living in the vents and crawling around at night to spy on people.
Tonight? It’s quiet. I don’t know how much he heard of what went down with the girls, but he knows something’s off.
He tosses me a sidelong glance, face twisted with discomfort. “You okay?”
“Peachy.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Then stop looking.” It comes out harsher than I mean.
I’m not mad at him. I’m not mad at anyone, really.
Well—I’m kind of mad at Mister V. And Mister M.
And Doctor Noxen. And the board. Now that I think about it, I do have quite the laundry list of people to be angry with, but Colt isn’t one of them.
He sighs under his breath but doesn’t push. For a while, it’s just the two of us and the echo of our steps. The practice suites are on the other side of this floor, and he doesn’t seem to be in a particular hurry.
We pass the row of glassed-in display cases of shined plaques and trophies I’ll never touch. Proof of the girls who came before, their faces scrubbed from memory, but their obedience etched into the walls.
We span another stretch before I can’t take the quiet anymore. “Do you like your job?”
He falters like he wasn’t expecting that one. “Like’s a big word.”
“Okay. Do you hate it?”
“That’s a different big word.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Some days I’m glad I’m here.”
“And the other days?”
“The other days, I’m still here.” He shrugs. I don’t know what to do with that, so I don’t say anything. We stop outside the practice suite. Colt reaches for the handle, then hesitates.
“You want me to stall?” he asks quietly.
“Would it help?”
“Probably not.”
“Then don’t.”
He opens the door and ushers me in. Mister V, king of timeliness, is already inside, flimsy notebook in hand. He doesn’t look up, just flicks his fingers toward Colt in wordless dismissal. The door shuts with a muted click, leaving us alone.
I drop onto the bench harder than I mean to, hands flattening against the keys in a sour burst of sound.
“Rough day?” V asks mildly.
“What do you think?”
He studies me from across the room, still as ever, pen poised above the page. I can’t stand the silence, the way it feels like he’s waiting for me to reveal myself.
“You can’t keep doing it,” I snap.
“Doing what?”
“Covering for me. Fixing things.” I strike a single note, a loud G. “Every time you do, it just makes them hate me more.”
“They don’t hate you.”
“No?” I slam another note. “Then why are they treating me like this?”
His pen doesn’t move. “If you want answers, Maysie, ask me something I can actually give you.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Fine. What happened to the girl you flagged? The one from diagnostics.”
His gaze doesn’t falter, but his jaw ticks. “I can’t discuss other subjects’ information.”
“Of course you can’t.” I press another key, holding it until it sours. “How long have I been here?”
“In the advancement program?”
“Yes.”
He taps his pen like he’s counting. “Two hundred twenty days, give or take.”
The number rocks me. It feels like too many and not enough all at once. “It doesn’t feel like two hundred days.”
“It’s not supposed to.”
My mouth runs dry. “When will I get to leave?”
His expression doesn’t shift. “Ask me something I can answer.”
“That is something you can answer.”
“Not in the way you want.”
I grip the edge of the bench. “Fine. Do you ever regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“Becoming this…” I wave a hand at the room, the tablet, the cameras overhead. “Puppet.”
The pause is long enough to sting.
“Ask me something else.”
The only question that comes to mind feels silly as it escapes my lips. “How old am I?” It shouldn’t matter, but it does.
His gaze lifts to mine, startled. “You’re seventeen.”
“They said I was sixteen at intake,” I start, half-lying.
“But I guess I’m seventeen now.” It’s not that I don’t believe him; it just doesn’t feel possible.
“Funny how I know the number, but not the year. Not the day. Not a single piece of any of it besides ‘seventeen.’” I brush some non-existent dust off my skirt to keep my hands from shaking. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
The silence after my words is jagged. He shuts the notebook slowly, setting it aside and leveling me with a long look.
“You’re seventeen, Maysie. It isn’t fair, but I can’t give you back the time they’ve already taken.”
The brutal honesty makes my chest feel like it’s caving in. I want to beg him to tell me more—to ask why he won’t do anything about it if he honestly thinks it’s unfair. Instead, I press my hands back to the keys. The notes come out uneven, fingers weighed down by the awful truth.
“Then stop trying to protect me,” I whisper. “If you really want to help me, then stop making it worse.”
V leans back in his chair, resigned. His stormy blue eyes roam over my face, assessing me like he’s deciding if it’s worth the effort to argue.
“Please,” I add, faltering.
His face falls, and he sighs. “Fine.”
I offer a small nod, wishing away the pit in my stomach. I don’t need his help. I just need to stop making the kind of mistakes that need saving in the first place.