Page 92 of The Order

“The water over here is much colder,” a boy's voice says, almost making me spit up my mouthful of water.

I turn around, locking eyes with a dirtied, Unfortunate boy sporting the same black hair and blue eyes as the woman from the waiting room. He looks frail, patiently waiting behind me for a drink. I wipe my mouth as I step aside, observing the gauze wrapped around his pointer finger like the last child I saw exit the testing area. Mom says never to ask about people's wounds after the tests. She says if I ask, I'll get more marks on my scorecard.

“I'm not supposed to talk to you,” I say, shifting on my feet while watching him take several sips from the fountain.

“I know,” he says, “Doesn't mean you can't listen," he finishes, giving me a brief smile. I can't help but return the gesture, watching him wince each time he moves.

His hands, I now see, are not just cut in one place. They are cut everywhere, jagged red lines marking several of his knuckles on both hands.

“How did that happen? I thought hospitals were supposed to fix stuff like that?” I question, watching him glance down at his hands.

“I came here for my test. They don't give us much else,” he says sadly, running his worn hands under the cool stream of the fountain.

I fumble in the small bag I brought, filled with a few colored pencils and papers meant to keep me entertained. My hands make contact with the bottle of medicine my mother makes me and Kai carry around. Stealing a glance around the space, I see no one, and I hold up the bottle with an enormous grin.

“How did you get one of those?” the boy questions, smiling gently as he showcases his many missing teeth. I can’t help but giggle at his excitement, unsure why he could be thrilled by such an everyday item.

“My mom made it, so in return, she makes me and my older brother carry it around with us,” I say, nudging it closer to his hands.

“I-I can’t take that from you,” he says, lowering his hands to his sides like they are glued there.

“You’re not taking it,” I say, grabbing his hands, spraying them generously with the light mist as the wounds begin to close. “I just felt like letting you use it,” I say, smiling ear to ear at the look of relief on his face as his wounds dissipate into nothing. Unlike my hands, his are worn and dirtied. Still, I let them stay within my own, holding them close to my eyes for observation until each cut is gone. He raises his hands from my own with flushed cheeks, rocking back and forth on his feet.

“You look like the lady who did my test,” he says after a few moments.

“That lady was probably my mom,” I say, touching his finger gently.

“She says I'm not supposed to ask you how you got that,” I whisper, watching his eyes grow wide.

“My mom said I’m supposed to pretend like it never even happened,” he says, watching my frown consume my face.

“Did it hurt?” I question, watching his shoulders shrug.

“It helps if you close your eyes,” he says, inching closer as he cups his hand around my ear. “Between you and me,” he whispers. “They make you cut yourself. My mom says to just go along with it and say nothing, and you get the best score card,” he finishes, pulling away with a large grin.

“You cut yourself? With what?” I question, watching him glance around.

“There is a tool on the counter. Use it when they tell you to and give your finger a small cut,” he begins, pressing his finger to my lips. “But don't say anything about it. Just be quiet and do what your mom says. That's how you get the best score,” he says, lowering his hand as quickly as he brought it up—looking embarrassed by his sudden movements.

“I don’t have many friends in my sector willing to give up Cure-All like that,” he continues.

“I don’t have any friends my parents didn’t force on me,” I say, looking at my shoes angrily.

“What's in your bag?” he questions, pointing to the drawing I had made in the lobby.

It is nothing special. Just a few flowers, all in a big meadow, expanding to the edges of the paper on both sides.

“Hopefully, a picture of what the future will look like,” I say, pulling out the paper to show him.

He carefully takes the paper in his hands, running his fingers along the front, tracing each tiny detail.

“Can I keep it?” he questions, looking to me hopefully for an answer.

“You want my drawing?” I question, half expecting him to tell me he is joking.

“Makes me have hope I’ll have a future,” he says with a grin. I slowly nod my head, yes, watching him fold the paper, concealing it in one of his many pockets.

“I thought Unfortunates were supposed to be mean,” I say, watching his head tilt at my statement.

---