Free The Benders by Katie French Page B

it.”
    Nessa takes a deep breath like a frustrated mother tryin’ to deal with her disobedient brat. Before she can discipline me, the door opens on its own.
    Light blinds me. Then, as my eyes adjust, a man in operating scrubs comes into focus. Inside the room sits an operating table, equipped with trays of instruments—sharp scalpels, scissors, pliers.
    “What’s this?” My heart’s beatin’ like a cow in a slaughter chute. I turn to run. To fight.
    Something pinches my neck. I lift my hands to the spot and see my mother pulling a goddamned needle back from my skin.
    “What’d you do?” I ask, my legs already numb. I turn to face her, to strangle her with my cuffed hands, or run, but it’s like someone pulled a drain at my feet and all my blood’s running out. My arms sag, my head droops. The landscape of the hallways goes fuzzy.
    God, I’m fading.
    “What’re… yougonna … do ta me?” I slur. Everything’s tilting. Blurrin’ all to hell.
    “Clay, honey, don’t you worry,” she says coyly as her assistant grabs under my armpits and drags me to the table. I try to fight, but my body’s just air. I’m floatin’.
    They lay me down. I wanna run. Wanna fight. My eyes lock on the scalpel blade, glistening in the light. “Don’t.”
    Above me, blurred into three shapes, my mother smiles. She raises the scalpel. “We’ve just got a few things to take care of.”

CHAPTER SIX
Riley
    I lie face down in the dirt, letting the pain from my back wash over me. Waves of agony roll up and down my body. The dirt is hot on my cheek and stones dig into my palms and knees, but it’s nothing compared to the howling skin on my back. Am I cut open? Bleeding? It feels like it. My shirt clings to my skin like wet paper. Something warm and wet runs down my ribs and pools under my stomach. Bile rises in my throat.
    A hand cinches my arm and pulls. Pain flares along the skin of my back, sharper than before. I stagger to my feet and look at the guard who’s beaten me; his face shows no mercy. He lifts one corner of his mouth and points to a twenty-by-twenty concrete building. When I stare at him, he jabs his finger at the building again.
    “Go wash up,” he says, frowning under his big bushy mustache. He’s got dark eyes covered with heavy eyebrows that match his moustache. The shapeless hat, button-down shirt and jeans are standard, but in his hip pocket he’s shoved a book of what? Puzzles? Sudoku . “Hurry up. Be in the warehouse in ten minutes.”
    I say nothing and stagger toward the washhouse with my arms wrapped around myself.
    The washhouse is cool and dark. Two-foot-tall windows run along the top of the white concrete walls. Three porcelain sinks with metal faucets come into focus, and, beyond that, five open stalls hold rusty toilets. On the other side of the room are concrete stalls. Showers? A shower would feel wonderful, but even if they work, I can’t afford to undress. Not when I told Doc I wanted to be a bender.
    Goddamn Doc. He acted like he would help me and instead ordered a beating. I shouldn’t have trusted him, but what choice did I have? He would’ve found out my secret anyway. And yet, as far as I know, he didn’t tell them my secret.
    I limp over to a metal mirror, grip one of the sinks and look at my reflection.
    My face is boney, my cheeks sunken. Dirt smudges one cheek and my clothes. My short black hair stands up in lop-sided spikes. Slowly, I tug up my sticky shirt and turn around to see the damage, but I can’t. I guess I haven’t been injured too bad or there’d be more blood.
    When I try the faucet, a small trickle of water dribbles out into my hands. The water is cool and tinged with brown, but it smells clean enough. I run handfuls over my face, neck, and hair. I scoop handfuls onto my back, which stings. Then I lean my face under the facet and gulp water. The cool water is so satisfying I could cry.
    Someone knocks hard on the entrance. “Time’s up.”
    When I walk out,