The Secret Life of Inanimate Objects

Chapter Thirteen

Tuesday, May 22;

Time Unknown

It was dark when I woke up.

The sound of someone sobbing in their cell was what had dragged me from the clutches of an unfulfilling slumber, and I sat up in the poor excuse of a bed, rubbing my eyes groggily, listening harder.

"Hello?" I hissed, looking in the direction of the crying.

An abrupt silence met me.

I felt like crying myself, to be honest. And there was no Marco to comfort me.

Marco.

Stripped of my phone and accessories, I had no way of communicating with anyone. This was some sort of concentration camp for teenagers. Perhaps the torture would begin today. It felt surreal, like a dream. If I pinched myself, I might wake up.

Pulling my knees up under my chin, I leaned against the cold, hard wall and felt a lone tear slither down my cheek. What would happen to me? To the other teens?

When Tom had pulled up at the large, imposing grey building with the high fences and tight security, I had felt my heart thump painfully against my chest in fear. Buildings like this were things of horror movies. This was no cheerful summer camp and Tom was a deranged psycho.

When we were let in, Tom had apologised to me for his rude behaviour. I kept my mouth shut, staring out the window, confused.

"What is this place?" I'd asked, trying to keep my voice even, but failing to keep the panic out of it.

"Don't worry about that, Terra Martins. Don't worry about that."

Which only made me worry.

Once inside, my panic was escalated to stratosphere level: Everywhere I looked, men and women in lab coats bobbed about, smiling at me; greeting me; making me feel welcome.

The creepiest thing of all?

The other kids.

No one talked. During dinner in the cafeteria, the only sound to be heard was the light tapping of the plastic cutlery against the plastic plates. There was a man standing by the exit, and I had the insane feeling that he had his eye on each and every one of us - and that if we so much as breathed a word, he'd - what? - shoot us?

But now, as I sat in this tiny cell, I was more afraid of what the morning would bring. My parents probably thought I was at some kumbaya place gossiping with a bunch of airheads at this very moment. More silent tears trickled down my cheeks, splashing onto my exposed knees.

The sobbing girl started up again, and this time, I joined her, not caring if anyone else heard me.

*

"So... Sleep well?" the doctor asked, pressing her stethoscope against my bare chest.

I stared blankly at her.

Sighing, she picked up a chart and scanned through it, grabbing a pen and making her own notes. "Don't like talking, hmmm?"

"Why are we here?" I asked. The fact that I was completely naked during this "examination" didn't bother me at all. I didn't care. I just needed answers.

"You're helping us," the doctor replied vaguely, setting the clipboard on her desk. "You can put your clothes back on."

I hopped off the hospital bed and pulled my clothes on. "Helping you with what?" I said when I was done.

"Dr. Steinbeck will see you now. Tom is waiting outside to escort you." The woman blatantly ignored my question. "He's a psychiatrist and he'll assess you. OK?"

I squinted at her. "Steinbeck? I - I know a Steinbeck. But she - she's gone."

"Rita, hmmm? Well, Martin's her son." She paused, reddening, as if she'd said too much. "Run along now, Terra. Chop-chop."

I processed this information quickly. If this guy was Rita's son, maybe he'd be willing to help me.

Hadn't Rita warned me to leave Tobin's Bell? She'd known this would happen - but how?

Tom, in a black suit, was waiting outside for me. He grabbed my left arm and all but dragged me four doors down to the end of the corridor, knocking on the last door.

The door opened and I felt my heart beat when I saw Dr. Steinbeck. He had his mother's eyes.

"Thank you, Tom," he said in a deep, rumbling voice, stepping aside to let me in.

Tom nodded and shoved me through the door, turning on his heel.

Martin closed the door behind me.

"I knew your mother," I blurted out, turning to look at him, a plea in my eyes.

"I know," he said, running a hand through his thick, curly black hair. He stared at me. I felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "My God, you look so much like your father."

Caught of guard, I spluttered, "You know my dad?!"

Martin chuckled. "Of course." He gestured around him. "Who do you think helped build this place?"