In the After

with one hand and reach under my sweatshirt with the other. I feel for the gun, pulling it from its harness. I don’t want to harm him but I point it at the boy. There’s no way he’s taking Baby anywhere. His mouth drops open. With his hand still to his ear he makes a squeaking noise.
    He closes his mouth and swallows. “Yeah,” he says, eyeing us. “You need to get Dr. Reynolds up here, now.” I realize he is still speaking to the person on the other end of his earpiece. “I don’t care,” he tells them between clenched teeth. “Then get the director. They have a gun .”
    He moves his hand from his ear and puts both arms above his shoulders. “Look, there’s no need for that. I’m just trying to help you.” His voice trembles. “I promise.”
    I lick my lips. It is a safe place here, from Them anyway. I don’t have to be quiet. I can ask him questions, get answers. But still, I can’t bring myself to speak. I have lost my voice and am so very exhausted.
    I hear the door unlock once again and see it begin to swing open. I point the gun at the opening.
    “It’s just the director,” the boy assures me. “She won’t hurt you.”
    A woman steps through the door. She is tall with long, brown hair, and I instantly picture her with bright purple flowers in her hair. The kind you wear in Hawaii when you are on your honeymoon. I lower the gun and freeze.
    Then, for the first time in three years, I find my real voice.
    “Mom?”

PART TWO
     
    NEW HOPE
    FOUR MONTHS LATER

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    “Are you feeling better?” A woman’s voice wakes me and I sit upright in bed. She is standing by the door, a meal tray in hand. I don’t recognize her, but she looks commanding, her gray-blond hair tied back into a tight bun .
    “Who are you?” I ask groggily. “What day is it?”
    “I’m Dr. Thorpe. Do you know where you are, Amy?” She sets the food down, retrieving a small paper cup from the tray .
    “I’m . . . I’m in the Ward, aren’t I?” I ask tentatively, my brain in a fog .
    “Yes, very good. You were brought here after your breakdown. Do you remember?”
    I shake my head no. I know who I am. I can recall blurred faces, me being taken from someone. Who are they all? While I struggle to think, Dr. Thorpe hands me the cup, which contains three pills. “What are these?” I ask .
    “They’ll help you.” She takes a larger plastic cup from the tray, walks to the sink, and fills it with water. She sits next to me on the bed and offers me the cup of water. I hesitate, then take it .
    “I’m not sure I should take anything without talking to my mother first,” I tell her, uncertain .
    “Your mother is well aware of your course of treatment.”
    “Where is she? When can I see her?” I ask, unsettled. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself .
    “I will have to consult with Dr. Reynolds.” She sounds kind, but something in her voice just isn’t right .
    “Is he the one who prescribed me these?” I shake the cup of pills. She nods, smiling reassuringly. “What are they?” I ask again, confusion clouding my head .
    “Medication to help you get better.”
    Get better? What exactly is wrong with me? “And if I refuse?”
    “I’m sorry, but that’s not an option, Amy. I’d prefer you take the pills now. Otherwise I’ll have to call an orderly in here. I know you don’t want that.” The doctor’s kind manner has turned cool .
    I hold the cup to my mouth and shake the pills in, trying to conceal them under my tongue as I swallow all the water. I give the empty cup back to the doctor, but she just walks to the sink and refills it .
    “Let’s try again, shall we?” she asks, handing the cup back to me. I frown, considering an alternative. There is none. Eventually I give in and swallow the pills. After the doctor checks my mouth to be certain I’m not hiding them, she brings me the tray of food .
    “Now, you must eat all of this,” she tells me firmly. “And if you refuse, you’ll be force-fed, and I know you don’t want that either.” She gives me a pointed look before she leaves, the door clicking shut loudly behind her .
    I pause for a moment, looking around. My room is sterile—white walls, a small sink and toilet in the corner, and the bed I’m sitting on. I’m still trying to figure out what is going on—to remember what brought me here. I look down at my food and, unwillingly, I make myself eat it, my stomach already queasy. Either the drugs aren’t