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I can only hope that he still shows up and doesn’t send guards after me to haul me away to the processing center. It’s a fear that stays with me through the night, keeping sleep at bay as I conspire against Terrence, the Echelon Society, and wonder how I can get Laurence on my side again.
***
I dozed off at some point in the early morning, because a gentle knock at the door startles me awake. Pulling myself into a sitting position, I rub away the sleep that plagues my eyes and slowly rise to my feet. It’s a struggle to move in a straight line, towake my brain up. When another, more aggressive knock rattles the door, I freeze, suddenly aware that it could be the guards I feared would show up.
But they wouldn’t knock,I think, reassuring myself as I pad silently to the door, stopping right before it.They would just come in, taking me away against my will, right?
Deciding to face my fate, I slowly open the door and come face-to-face with the woman who broke down yesterday at the gala.
“Good morning,” she says, mustering a very fake smile. She appears to be in her late twenties. She’s beautiful in a very conventional way beneath the exhaustion that weighs on her face, beneath the dark circles under her eyes and the redness that rims them, the paleness of her lips. She has straight dark hair, silky smooth and up in a ponytail. Her lashes are long and dark, making the warm brown of her eyes more vibrant.
“Hi,” I say groggily, confused as to why, or how, she’s here.
“I’m here to help you prepare for the next game. May I come in? I have your breakfast sent by your Advocate.”
My Advocate. So he hasn’t given up on me yet.
Relief settles heavily in my chest as I step aside to let her in.
She wheels a cart inside from the hall with a cloched plate atop it and a carafe of coffee. I can already smell its rich aroma and reach for it desperately. She watches me grapple with the lid of the carafe to twist it off, struggling, and takes it from me wordlessly. She pours the liquid into a mug for me. I’m not normally a coffee drinker, but today I am. Laurence must have known I would need caffeine. The thought warms me along with the coffee that pours over my tongue.
“There is a light breakfast of scrambled egg whites and fruit. Your Advocate explicitly said you need to eat all of it.”
That sounds like Laurence. “And what if I don’t?” I lift the lid off the plate and am met with the smell of eggs, peppers, and seasoning. Immediately, my mouth waters.
“He said you would say something like that, and told me to tell you if you don’t, he’ll be sure to sit you down for dinner and not let you leave until you eat it all.”
That also sounds like Laurence.
“Got it,” I say, picking up the plate and moving to the couch, tempted to leave it unfinished so that we could have that dinner together. But I remind myself that we’re supposed to be mad at each other.
As I eat, she stands idly by, hands clasped in front of her. She doesn’t look nearly as manic as she did last night. In fact, her eyes look a little glazed, and I wonder if the Echelon Society goes as far as medicating the women under contract.
I offer my plate up to her.
“Does it not meet your standards?” She steps forward, reaching for it.
“I’m seeing if you want any. It’s pretty good.”
She stills, moving back into position. “That is your breakfast. I’ll wait until you finish and then help you get dressed.”
As I eat, many questions arise, some of which are not for her, but for Laurence. But there is one that I deem the most important that she could answer for me.
“What’s your name?”
“Four seventy-one.” The number spills out without hesitation.
The response confuses me, and then I realize that must be the number they’d assigned her in the processing center, further disgusted by the dehumanization that goes on here. I can hardly fathom the idea that four hundred and ninety-eight Players have gone through this.
“Your real name,” I say quietly.
She blinks, as if she has to give it some thought as to what that might be. “Aurelia.” She visibly swallows. It pains her to say it.
“Aurelia is a beautiful name.”
“What,” the word comes out strangled, and she clears her throat, “what’s yours?”
“Eve.”
