Free Echoes of Us by Kat Zhang Page B
Authors: Kat Zhang
work here a couple weeks.” She wiped her fingers on the side of her mattress. “New system. The higher-ups stay the same, I think. We don’t really see them much anyway. But the caretakers come and go all the time.”
I said.
Addie replied softly.
So they didn’t end up with another Dr. Lyanne on their hands.
The caretaker lingered by the doorway. But he wasn’t watching us, the way the nurses had at Nornand. He hardly seemed to care what we did.
The girls were subdued anyway. Glassy-eyed. A few spoke, but only in murmurs. The girl drifting around the perimeter of the room ignored her tray for too long, and another girl stole it. The man didn’t notice. The girl in the corner who kept coughing sat up long enough to sip at her cup of water, then sank back against her pillow. No one touched her tray, even when it became obvious she wasn’t going to eat it.
I turned back to Bridget. “What do you do all day?”
“Nothing.” She poked at her food, then let her fork drop. “You know, after I got here, I realized why they gave us all those board games and piles of schoolwork at Nornand. It’s a distraction. It keeps you focused, holds you together. Sitting here, day after day . . . it makes you go insane.” She grinned wryly. “Not that we had much hope otherwise.”
I thought of the pamphlets from our childhood, warning about a hybrid’s unstable mind, our propensity for insanity.
“Bridget,” I said, “hybrids don’t just go crazy. That’s a lie.”
She gave us a small, pitying smile. “Stick around here long enough, you’ll start wondering.”
ELEVEN
I t was frightening, how quickly we fell into the rhythm of life at Hahns. It was easy, because the rhythm was so simple.
We did nothing.
The lights snapped on early, with a clank that worked as well as any alarm clock. Time dripped by until breakfast. Then lunch. Then dinner. Then lights out, with another clank.
C lank . Monotony. Clank.
There were no clocks, and only one tiny, high-up window in the bathroom. It made it almost impossible to tell the time. The days warped.
Addie and I recorded everything we could. The caretakers bringing in the trays of food. The girls eating. The way the bathrooms looked. The groups of children flocked together like spindly white birds, perched on their beds. The short-haired girl.
Her name was Viola, and she was actually fifteen, though she looked younger. Every day, she walked around the room. She never spoke to anyone except herself, her lips moving as if in prayer or just in conversation with some unseen ghost.
She was also the only one who ever went anywhere near Hannah, the sick girl. And then only because Hannah’s bed hugged the wall, and Viola couldn’t complete a pass around the room without drifting by Hannah’s huddled form.
“How long has she been sick?” Addie asked Bridget, who shrugged.
“She was already kind of sick during the last rotation. But it got worse quickly.”
Bridget had mentioned Hahns’s rotation system earlier, then explained when Addie feigned confusion. We were in Class 6—the girls were always in the even-numbered classes, the boys in the odd-numbered ones. Bridget figured there were about twenty total, though it depended on how many kids were here.
Every few weeks, caretakers came to each ward to randomly assign new class numbers. The endless surprise rotations kept everyone tilted. A new friend might disappear the next rotation, not to be seen again for months—if ever. Girls disappeared all the time. A few during rotation, siphoned off as the rest were sorted into new classes. Others in the weeks following, to illness or God knew what else.
We stared at Hannah, sick and suffering alone.
“Doesn’t anyone care?” Addie said. Hannah barely ate. Never spoke. Crawled out of bed to the bathroom, and crawled back. No one helped her.
“What good does
So they didn’t end up with another Dr. Lyanne on their hands.
The caretaker lingered by the doorway. But he wasn’t watching us, the way the nurses had at Nornand. He hardly seemed to care what we did.
The girls were subdued anyway. Glassy-eyed. A few spoke, but only in murmurs. The girl drifting around the perimeter of the room ignored her tray for too long, and another girl stole it. The man didn’t notice. The girl in the corner who kept coughing sat up long enough to sip at her cup of water, then sank back against her pillow. No one touched her tray, even when it became obvious she wasn’t going to eat it.
I turned back to Bridget. “What do you do all day?”
“Nothing.” She poked at her food, then let her fork drop. “You know, after I got here, I realized why they gave us all those board games and piles of schoolwork at Nornand. It’s a distraction. It keeps you focused, holds you together. Sitting here, day after day . . . it makes you go insane.” She grinned wryly. “Not that we had much hope otherwise.”
I thought of the pamphlets from our childhood, warning about a hybrid’s unstable mind, our propensity for insanity.
“Bridget,” I said, “hybrids don’t just go crazy. That’s a lie.”
She gave us a small, pitying smile. “Stick around here long enough, you’ll start wondering.”
ELEVEN
I t was frightening, how quickly we fell into the rhythm of life at Hahns. It was easy, because the rhythm was so simple.
We did nothing.
The lights snapped on early, with a clank that worked as well as any alarm clock. Time dripped by until breakfast. Then lunch. Then dinner. Then lights out, with another clank.
C lank . Monotony. Clank.
There were no clocks, and only one tiny, high-up window in the bathroom. It made it almost impossible to tell the time. The days warped.
Addie and I recorded everything we could. The caretakers bringing in the trays of food. The girls eating. The way the bathrooms looked. The groups of children flocked together like spindly white birds, perched on their beds. The short-haired girl.
Her name was Viola, and she was actually fifteen, though she looked younger. Every day, she walked around the room. She never spoke to anyone except herself, her lips moving as if in prayer or just in conversation with some unseen ghost.
She was also the only one who ever went anywhere near Hannah, the sick girl. And then only because Hannah’s bed hugged the wall, and Viola couldn’t complete a pass around the room without drifting by Hannah’s huddled form.
“How long has she been sick?” Addie asked Bridget, who shrugged.
“She was already kind of sick during the last rotation. But it got worse quickly.”
Bridget had mentioned Hahns’s rotation system earlier, then explained when Addie feigned confusion. We were in Class 6—the girls were always in the even-numbered classes, the boys in the odd-numbered ones. Bridget figured there were about twenty total, though it depended on how many kids were here.
Every few weeks, caretakers came to each ward to randomly assign new class numbers. The endless surprise rotations kept everyone tilted. A new friend might disappear the next rotation, not to be seen again for months—if ever. Girls disappeared all the time. A few during rotation, siphoned off as the rest were sorted into new classes. Others in the weeks following, to illness or God knew what else.
We stared at Hannah, sick and suffering alone.
“Doesn’t anyone care?” Addie said. Hannah barely ate. Never spoke. Crawled out of bed to the bathroom, and crawled back. No one helped her.
“What good does
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