Eleven
Rural Virginia
“We’re going to try something new today,” Professor Blanchard said.
There was an undercurrent of urgency to his voice that Giselle had not previously detected. During their previous session,
he had provided her with another detailed photograph, and Giselle had again re-created it with colored pencils. But, just
like the first time, he had hardly glanced at the drawing once she had finished it. He seemed to be focused only on his tablet
and whatever information it was feeding him via the nodes on her temples.
Giselle had been prepared to do the same thing again. She was sitting at her usual desk, nodes already attached. Now she frowned.
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
Professor Blanchard smiled in his gaunt way. “But you were so dismissive of our little art projects.”
“I’d still rather color than play a war simulation or fire a gun.”
The memory of Nadiya in the shooting range yesterday rose up in Giselle’s mind. The brush of her fingers against Giselle’s
cheek as she stroked the hair back from her face. The warmth of Nadiya’s body against her own, the light dancing in her dark
eyes. Giselle had to bite down on her lip to will the images away. The memory felt oddly sacred, and recalling it now in the
classroom seemed like a betrayal.
“Let’s leave that to the soldiers and the strategists,” Professor Blanchard said. “You have much more to offer. No one else
can do what you can do.”
“So you keep reminding me.”
Professor Blanchard took out his tablet and began tapping. As always, the screen was angled away, so Giselle couldn’t glimpse what he was doing. After a moment, he looked up and said, “Today I’d like to work with some of your own memories.”
“My memories?” Her skin prickled. “Why?”
“Because this is the next step,” Professor Blanchard replied. “Who doesn’t like a stroll down memory lane? Don’t you want
to think about your home, your family?”
She didn’t. Or rather, she had, and it brought her nothing but pain. Valeran did not allow them any access to the outside world except through letters,
which were collected weekly by a post truck. Since she’d arrived, Giselle had been trying to compose a letter in her mind;
once or twice she had even begun to put it to page.
Dear Mama, I’m all right. Don’t worry about me. I’m—
But what could she say to her mother? How could she explain what was happening? That she had been enrolled in a secret military
academy and was being put through cryptic training by a professor she was pretty sure met some clinical definition of insanity? Her mother waitressed at a biker bar on the
interstate. None of these words were in her vocabulary.
Tell Aleeah and Aubree I love them.
Giselle wondered how her mother had explained everything to her sisters. They had been there the night Giselle was kicked
out, and they had cried, more in confusion than anything else. At six and seven they were too little to understand. What were
they thinking now? That she had abandoned them?
And tell Meemaw . . .
Here, Giselle’s thoughts always halted. What was she supposed to say to her grandmother, who had cast her out into the cold
with nothing but a backpack and an armful of clothes? There was too much anger to articulate. It simmered in her stomach.
And it frightened her, in an odd way. She didn’t like being angry; it seemed almost dangerous.
“I have a feeling this isn’t going to be a peaceful stroll,” Giselle said, through gritted teeth.
“That depends on you, doesn’t it?” Professor Blanchard cocked his head. “Now, please recall a memory from your childhood.
Something prior to the age of five.”
Prior to the age of five? Giselle scowled. “How exactly is it going to help the war effort to have me remember playing with Barbies or learning how
to ride a bike?”
“Just do it,” Professor Blanchard said, and there was an edge of impatience to his voice.
Still scowling, Giselle leaned forward in her seat. Bracing her elbows on the desk, she allowed the memory to slip into the
forefront of her mind.
It was a happy one. Before her father had left for good, he had taught her to fish in the nearby river. His hand glided gently
over hers as he positioned her fingers around the pole. Mostly Giselle resembled her mother, but she had her father’s soft,
wide blue eyes. She remembered how they had looked down on her with a tender sort of pride.
Not a month later he was gone, without even a kiss goodbye. Sadness crept in, graying out the corners of the memory. Giselle
tried to push it out of her mind. Think of something else, anything else. . . .
“Stop,” Professor Blanchard said sharply.
Giselle flinched. “Stop what?”
“Keep your mind on the same memory. Don’t repress it.”
How did he even know what she was doing? The nodes on her temples had grown almost painfully warm. She squeezed her eyes shut,
summoning the memory again. Daddy, her own baby voice echoed. I want to try it myself, let me try.
The images rolled over her in waves. Her head slipped underwater as the moments passed agonizingly. And then, at last, Professor
Blanchard said, “That’s enough.”
Giselle surfaced from the memory with a gasp. “What’s the point of this?”
Professor Blanchard ignored the question, tapping his tablet. “An-other memory now, please. Something from between age five
to present.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“This is what you’re here for, Giselle. Another memory, please. Now.”
Her jaw clenched. She tried to think of something unequivocally happy, something light, but what kept returning to her was
that night. The sky a deep, glossy blue, without stars. The asphalt on the road slick and gleaming. Her white tennis shoes
streaked with mud.
“No,” she managed—though Giselle wasn’t sure if she had vocalized at all. “I’m not doing this. I can’t—”
But now the memory was playing on its own, against her will. Giselle covered her face with her hands and pressed her fists
against her forehead, hard. Almost hard enough to dislodge the nodes. She peeked through the gaps in her fingers and saw Professor Blanchard, staring
unblinkingly down at his tablet. There was the faintest flicker of pleasure in his eyes.
“That’s enough,” he said a moment later, lifting his gaze. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Giselle let her hands drop. “That’s it?”
“For now,” Professor Blanchard said. “You did well.”
Her throat felt raw. She blinked back tears.
“However,” he went on, “we have now reached the point in our work where we cannot continue alone.”
Immediately, Giselle tensed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, “that Dr. Iver has generously provided me with another test subject.” Before she could say a word, he set
his tablet down and strode toward the door. He flung it open in a theatrical way. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Karam.”
And Giselle’s heart skipped a beat as Nadiya stepped into the room.