225.05.12 | 7:44 p.m.
The next day passed in agony for Thomas. He could barely wait to see Teresa in the flesh—for just ten minutes. Five minutes. All he needed was enough time to look her in the eyes and ask her. Was it you? He’d know in an instant, and he needed the confirmation desperately. As he ate breakfast, had a checkup, went from class to class, the same question ran through his mind.
Am I crazy?
He’d even tried to ask Dr. Paige about his fears when she’d first retrieved him that morning.
“So how do you know I’m immune?” he’d asked her, watching her expression carefully as she answered.
“It’s fairly straightforward,” she replied easily, walking next to him down the hallway. “There are very specific markers in your blood makeup, DNA, and cerebrospinal fluid that are consistent among all those who are immune. The markers are missing in those who are not immune. It took a lot of study to get to that point, but it’s solid now.”
He considered that. It certainly sounded like she was telling the truth.
“Also,” she added, “it’s doubly confirmed in someone like you and the other immune subjects we’ve gathered.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we can verify with brain scans that the virus itself has taken hold inside you, that it’s made a home for itself. And yet it has no effect whatsoever on your physical matter, your mental capacity, your bodily functions. And you’ve had the virus for years, with no change. Unless it’s some sort of massive mutation of the virus—which our studies have shown no evidence of—then we can say with almost certain scientific and medical accuracy that you’re immune.”
He nodded, fairly confident she was being honest with him. “So if I started showing symptoms of the Flare, say, tomorrow, how shocked would you be? On a scale of one to ten?”
She looked over at him. “Ten, Thomas. I’d be beyond shocked. As shocked as if you sprouted a third ear. What’s all this about?”
He stopped in the hallway and faced her. “Dr. Paige. Do you swear, swear on your own life, that I’m immune? That this isn’t some kind of…I don’t know, some kind of test? I know you guys are really fond of tests. How do I know I’m not like Newt? Not immune?”
Dr. Paige gave him that smile—that smile that always made him feel a little better. “I swear to you, Thomas. I swear on the graves of the countless loved ones who have died…I swear that I’ve never lied to you. You’re as immune as science and medicine can possibly conclude. And if there was any chance of anything endangering your life, I wouldn’t allow it.”
He stared into her eyes. He found that he truly believed her, and that made him feel warm inside—as if a little piece of the wall he’d built up to protect himself had crumbled away.
“Why are you asking me these things?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
He almost told her the truth. That he’d heard a voice inside his head. He almost told her.
“Dreams,” he answered. “I keep having these dreams that I go crazy. And the worst part is that I’m not even aware it’s happened. Do any of the Cranks actually know that they’ve lost their minds? How do we know we’re not Cranks?”
She nodded, as if that was a completely valid question. “That sounds like something for your philosophy class. Next month, I believe.”
She’d started walking again, and the conversation was over.
Thomas sat in his room thinking over the morning’s conversation with Dr. Paige once more. Ever since the wake-up, he’d hoped that Teresa would talk to him again, while at the same time hoping she didn’t. Maybe that in itself was another sign he’d lost his mind to infection.
But the more he thought about it, the more he believed Dr. Paige. She was either sincere or the best actress the world had ever known. Finally Thomas was too tired to worry anymore, and he turned off his lights and hoped sleep would beat the odds and take him away.
It was only an hour or so later, just when he’d begun dozing off, that Teresa spoke to him again.
Thomas, are you there?
It didn’t shock him like it had the first time. This time there was no buzzing, and on some level he’d been expecting it, so it wasn’t as disorienting. Even so, any trace of sleep vanished at her words and he sat up, got out of bed, went over to sit at his desk.
“I’m here,” he said aloud, once again feeling like an idiot for doing so. He had absolutely no idea how to respond to her with his mind.
I can feel you trying to answer, she said. The implants they put in our heads—I’ve been trying to figure out what’s felt different since they did it, and as soon as I pressed through to make contact to you, it all clicked.
Thomas sat there, nodding to himself like a dummy. It didn’t escape him how strange it was that it already felt somewhat normal to have a girl speaking to him telepathically.
You have to focus, Teresa continued. Probe your mind to find the foreign object, then focus on it. Press through it. You won’t know what I’m talking about until you try.
Her words came in a rush now, no longer painful but still disorienting.
“Okay,” he said, knowing she couldn’t hear him.
Try it as you go to sleep tonight, she said. I’ll contact you every night until I hear back. Don’t give up!
He could sense the weight she put on the last three words. The importance of what she was telling him.
“Okay,” he said again. Then, confident he’d heard the last from her, he lay back down in bed and started tinkering with his own mind.
For several days and nights he worked at it, and it was the most frustrating thing he’d ever done. All he had at his disposal were mental tools, nothing physical. Maybe if he could take a scalpel and open his own head up, it would’ve been easier to pick and probe until he found something like a huge old-school light switch that needed flipping. But no, he had to close his eyes and search with fingers that only existed in his own imagination.
Once he let go of thinking about things in such a black-and-white manner, he was able to start seeing his own thoughts and conscience as things he could mentally manipulate. That was when he started making progress. He let his thoughts disappear and focused on nothing, until suddenly it was clear—there was an area that didn’t seem to belong. And then he pressed on, working against it and thinking the one word he wanted to send: Teresa.
Then finally one night he felt more than heard Teresa receive his message. It was as if he’d poked her with a cattle prod.
He whooped, lying in bed, knowing he was close. Hoping he hadn’t hurt her too much.
Keep going, she’d said in his mind. You’re almost there. And next time, try not to electrocute my eyeballs.
He had no idea what that meant, but he smiled all the same.
And kept trying.
