Taken (Erin Bowman)

on Emma.
    “Well hello, girly. Don’t you clean up nicely.” I watch his eyes linger on the low neckline of Emma’s top and have to stifle a strong desire to punch him in the face. Marco grabs me by the upper arm, carting me down the hall before Emma and I can say good-bye.
    “Where are we going?” I ask as he takes a turn and guides me down a flight of stairs.
    “The infirmary. You need to be Cleansed. Standard procedure for all Order members.”
    “Cleansed?”
    “Shots and pills and medicine. And we’ve got to shave that head of yours. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how we all sport the same clean look? We just want you to be part of the family.” He smiles at me viciously.
    My free hand instinctively feels for the wild strands against my neck. It’s only hair, nothing really, but I want to keep it. I want to look different from the Order, from Marco. I want to keep Claysoot with me.
    “No thanks,” I say. “I’m fine as is.”
    Marco slaps the back of my head. “Did I say you had a choice? This is not negotiable.” I rub my head, startled. “Hair is cut short to prevent lice. Pills and shots are given to ward off illness. It’s for your own good, and for the good of everyone in Taem. Now let’s move.”
    I’m dragged roughly in his wake. Marco was far nicer when he was trying to convince Emma and me to get into his car earlier. Now, inside Union Central, it’s as if something has changed, as if he hates me. I wonder if Frank reamed him out for putting me in that cell with Bozo.
    We pass a door marked Authorized Personnel Only and stop at a second one marked Cleansing Infirmary. Marco waves his wrist at the box beside the door and guides me down the now accessible hallway, his fingers pinching my elbow. When we finally enter a room, he pushes me into a cold, metal chair.
    The last thing I remember are two red pills being shoved down my throat, and the razor, waiting to strip me bald.

FIFTEEN
    WHEN I COME TO, I’M no longer in the infirmary. I wake in a bed in a private room, still wearing my muddy pants and hooded shirt from Claysoot. It’s dark outside. I’m not sure how much time has passed—a few hours, days. I roll over on my side. My head feels abrasive atop the pillow, as if it is clinging to the fabric. I reach up, and a brittle, coarse landscape greets my hands. It feels wrong. I’ve never had such little hair before, never in all the years I can remember.
    I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Every muscle in my body aches. My arms feel like cumbersome weights, and a dull throb radiates from the base of my neck. Someone has left bread and fruit on a table beside my pillow, and I scarf it down before stumbling into a small side room beyond the bed. There, I find an outhouse— inside .
    There is no tub, but when I twist a series of handles behind a panel of glass, water rains from a pipe mounted on the wall. It reminds me of the miraculous feature Emma and I had discovered back in the deserted building beyond Claysoot. I peel off my dirty clothes and step in. It’s much easier than bathing back home. I stand under the hot stream of water, scrubbing the dirt from my skin and watching the suds drip their way down the drain. The pain in my neck is finally beginning to subside when the water abruptly turns off. I jiggle the handle. Nothing. A small panel illuminates on the wall, flashing a message: Two-minute daily shower allotment used . I grab a towel and dry off, wiping away excess soap. Next time, I will have to be faster.
    A pile of clean clothes sits on the bathroom counter: an Order uniform. The material is heavy, extremely durable. I wonder how they’ve stitched it. The pants aren’t half bad, but the top fits oddly. The collar is too tight, softly choking me, and the sleeves and body are narrow, causing the material to cling to my skin. I feel absurdly rigid, as though my movements are restricted and my neck limited to look only ahead.
    In a mirror above the sink, I see my new haircut for the first time. My forehead now appears too large, and I look dull, my gray eyes no longer able to hide behind long bangs. My neck still hurts and the uniform isn’t helping. I tug the top off and leave it on the floor. Then I crawl back in bed and sleep easily, pressed into the bedsheets as if they could massage away the pain.
    The next time I wake, the sun is just rising. I sit up in bed, my limbs still tight and sore, and pull on my boots before retrieving the