Hidden (Book 3 of the Immune Series)

Echoes

Mya

"I'm telling you, he's not much older than us."

"You can't judge how old someone is by looking at their shirtless body for ten minutes."

"You're right. If I look at you shirtless, I would think you're ten."

Finn glares at me from his seat in the library. The red leather chair cracks under his weight, groaning with every breath. Its tall back stands behind him, engulfing him in fiery wrinkles.

When Finn thought he heard Mom coming down the stairs, we bolted to the library. An open book sits in his lap, pages flipping on their own as his fingers scrape more leather from the chair. My tablet balances precariously on my knee as I sit cross legged on the carpet, looking up at him.

"Seriously, Mya, what makes you think he's our age?"

"I don't know! He just.... Looked young."

Finn rolls his eyes.

"Did you at least check for a birthmark?"

My blank stare prompts him to groan, running a hand through his hair. It stands up like a faux hawk, curling back towards his head at the tips, giving him the appearance of a rooster.

"You've got to be kidding me?" he whispers, pressed and angry. "Did you get anything out of your snooping other than he looks young?"

"He's attached to a virus drip," I mutter, poking at my tablet screen.

"So, she's testing him."

"Maybe not yet. He was still on the first bag. I'm sure she will be by the end of the day."

I look up at him from the circles I've been drawing on the black tablet screen. He stares back down at me, biting his lower lip. His wide eyes speak volumes, only matched by the water gathering on his bottom lashes.

"Was he hurting?" he asks, in a much quieter tone than before.

I nod, scooting towards my brother. The carpet burns my bare legs, pulling the edges of my shorts up.

"Why would she hurt him? That's not what she does," he continues, eyes drifting away from me. I reach up and touch his knee as it begins to quiver.

"Technically, she does, Finny."

"I don't want to talk about that," he snaps, shoving my hand off his knee. "Not when Monday is still far away."

"It's Saturday, meaning Monday's the day after tomorrow."

He shakes his head, slamming the book shut in his lap with one quick motion. The sound bounces around the room, trapped by the enclosed space.

With his monstrous spider legs, he steps over me, grabbing his tablet off the table and heading to the door.

"Where are you going?" I ask, scrambling to follow behind him. Just when I've gotten to my feet, he slams the door behind him. The wind from it brushes my face and blows my hair back.

I guess that means I shouldn't follow.

Sighing, I take his seat in the leather chair, sitting so that my legs dangle over one arm and my back leans against the other. The back serves as a headrest.

Every Monday, Mom hooks one of us to a drip. She lets the virus wreak its havoc, and then, she runs whatever test she's been working on. Sometimes, it's physical tests, and other times, it's different blends of medicines that she pumps into our bloodstream to see what it does to the virus inside.