Page 55 of Juniper Unraveling

“When you decide to wake up, go look for that file.”

He hobbles off down the hall, leaving me standing there, and my mind battles over which of my two evils I can face—keep swimming in what could be a lie, or drown myself in what might be the truth.

* * *

Everything about this is wrong.

Through the dark halls, I tiptoe toward Doctor Davis’s office. The advantage of not being cooped up in the bunks with the other boys is complete access to the hospital wings at night, when the power shuts down and the majority of the medical staff have left. A few of the rooms still function on backup generators, powered by solar-batteries, but there’s not enough to feed the entire hospital.

Over the soft patter of my feet against the cold tiles, the sounds of suffering echo down the hall, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Their agonized wails remind me of ghosts that call out to me, as I slip past laboratories and surgical wards, keeping my gaze forward to avoid seeing inside of them. Each of the blocks is connected by a hallway that bridges the buildings—a harrowing stretch that offers nowhere to hide, in the event guards are patrolling at night.

Scampering down the hall, I reach the double doors to the next cell block and slip inside. A new set of doors opens up to a whole new surgical ward, where I do glance into the rooms, only to be sure Abel isn’t tucked away in one of them. The knots in my stomach untwist a bit to find them completely empty, and I continue on toward the offices.

Reaching Doctor Davis’s office, evident in the name plastered to the door, I set my ear to the panel and listen. At the lack of sound on the other side, I twist the knob and enter the dark room. Nabbing the flashlight I brought along with me from my pocket, I shuffle toward the filing cabinet. It’s when I open the first drawer that I see that they’re in numerical order, based on the patients given serial number.

“Shit,” I mutter, lifting a file from the tight collection of them. Thankfully, a picture is stapled to the front of each—a normal picture of the child that must’ve been taken when he first arrived, judging by the fullness of his face and hair. Not recognizing him, I stuff it back and go for the next.

Another face I don’t recognize.

I continue to lift files in search of Abel’s, but there must be at least a hundred of them in this drawer alone.

A thump from outside the door steels my muscles, and I click off the flashlight, eyes scanning for a place to hide. I take shelter underneath Davis’s desk only seconds before the door opens, and a beam of light trails across the wall in front of me as a flashlight sweeps through. Seconds later, it flicks off, and I peer around the corner of the desk to see one of the guards, dressed in black, closing the door behind him.

Blowing out an exasperated breath, I crawl out of hiding and return to the file, picking up where I left off.

Thirty minutes pass. I’ve seen at least six dozen faces before a familiar one pops up. One of the small boys from my hive. The next is another boy I know. Two more files, and I finally lift Abel’s.

In the picture, he wears a half smile through a shine of tears, holding Sarai’s rabbit in the crook of his arm. I choke back my own tears and tug the file from the drawer. I flip it open to papers, dated notes that detail things like how much he weighed, how long he slept, and numbers I’ve come to recognize as vital signs, from working in the lab. A picture shows an isolated shot of a large red sore on some part of his body. The attached note reads inoculation #1, followed by the date. Another shows him lying on his side, with a doctor knelt beside the bed, sticking a needle into the base of his spine, while a second doctor holds him down.

The sight of it sends pangs of nausea to my stomach, and thankfully I can’t see Abels face to know if he’s awake, or sleeping, during the procedure. The deeper I venture into his file, though, the more my heart pounds in my chest and a slight tremble hums beneath my skin.

I flip to a note and pick up on specific words scrawled across the page.

Child cries incessantly. Suffers from night terrors. Placed subject in sleep observation room. No change in behavior. Non-carrier status. Transfer out of cell block. Terminate.

I anxiously thumb to the next page. A picture sits atop another set of notes. In it, my brother lies on a stainless steel table, eyes closed, as if he’s sleeping. The irritating shield of tears keeps me from seeing his face clearly, as I study it. I need to know if he’s sleeping.

I lift the picture to see Autopsy Report stamped on the page below it, and I drop the file, falling to a slump. Clutching the back of my skull, I open my mouth to a silent scream, but nothing comes out. A numb sensation crawls across my skin, at the same time a tight fist clamps around my lungs.

I can’t breathe.

Lifting a trembling hand to my mouth, I capture the first break of a sob into my palm.

He died alone, on a cold, metal table. No warm embrace, like my mother and Sarai. No one to tell him not to be afraid. He was surrounded by strangers, prodding him until his last breath. Without a hand to hold onto.

The pain drags me deeper into tormenting memories.

Abel lies beside me in my bed, as we stare up through the window above us at the stars that glitter the night sky. Mother says, when she was younger, the stars didn’t shine near as bright, with all the light in the cities. I point to them, smiling when Abel follows the path of my finger, as if he hopes to pinpoint the very star I’m looking at. “There’s grandma, and Aunt Jess. And there’s Emilia and Garrett.”

“And Daddy?” he asks.

“Yep. Daddy’s a star, too.”

“Someday, I wan’ fly to da moon an’ see him.”

Hands clasped together, I curl my fingers into my brother’s small, baby hands and squeeze. “Maybe you will.”

I stare down at the picture of him, distorted by my tears, and brush my finger over his innocent face. “Say hello to them for me, Abel,” I whisper, and close my eyes to weep.