on the carcass of Hannah’s stripped bed. But Addie said and that was enough for me to notice Bridget stiffen. Our eyes went to the door. The caretaker standing in the threshold had no cart of food.
“What’s going on?” I said.
Bridget didn’t look at me. Just stared down at her blanket and finished braiding her hair. Her voice was tight. “We’re being rotated.”
Our chest squeezed.
Rotation. This was what we’d been waiting for since the day we arrived. We’d promised ourselves to stay this long before signaling for rescue, and now our sentence was up.
But the rest of these girls—the ones Addie and I had just started getting to know—they had no such promise of freedom.
The caretaker called everyone out of bed. We gathered in a clump in the middle of the ward—all except Viola, who continued in her circling. No one went to grab her.
“Bridget,” I whispered, drawing up next to her. “If we get separated, I just wanted to say—”
She was suddenly impatient, shoving us away and warning us to keep our distance with a sharp look. I ended up next to Jeanie and Caitlin instead—until they hurried away from us, too.
Addie’s confusion mirrored mine.
I said.
“Stand still,” the caretaker barked, and started counting us off, pulling each girl aside as she assigned her a number—two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve . . .—and snapped a plastic bracelet around her wrist. Hospital bracelets, impossible to get out of without scissors or a knife.
The caretaker didn’t go in any particular order, but two girls standing next to each other never got the same number.
I said slowly.
It was a foreign concept. Addie and I had never been the one other people sought out. If anything, we’d been the one nobody wanted.
“Twelve,” the caretaker said when she got to Addie and me, and snapped the corresponding bracelet around our wrist. We went to stand with Ruth, the only other twelve so far.
I could practically see Bridget’s mind whirring. Trying to figure out where she should stand to get the same number, and if she could move without the caretaker noticing. The remaining group wasn’t large.
“Fourteen,” the caretaker said to the girl who’d stood next to me. Mayree. Then, “Sixteen” to the girl next to her. Claire. Then back to “Two . . . four . . . six . . . eight . . . ten . . .”
“Twelve,” she said to Bridget.
Bridget betrayed no emotion at all as she came to join us.
Viola was last to be sorted, labeled a number four. But there were still two girls remaining: Coreena and Iris. They did not get numbers. Or bracelets.
I remembered, suddenly, what Bridget had said about girls disappearing during rotation. Marion hadn’t told us about the possibility of being siphoned off—to where? For what purpose?
Coreena and Iris stared wide-eyed after us as the caretaker ushered them away from the group.
For the first time in weeks, we emerged beyond the confines of the ward into the hallways. We noticed everything. The pattern of cracks along the molding. The scuff marks and little indentations on the ground.
The caretakers weren’t releasing all the classes at once. There weren’t enough girls in the hall for that. But there were at least two other classes out here, being separated into new wards. The girls in our class stared at them. Some of them stared back, but most seemed too deadened to care. Their hands hung limply at their sides, the weak overhead light glinting off plastic bracelets.
The ring was hidden in our hand, though I let the gem peek through. I filmed as much as I could of this quiet, solemn migration of children. There were only ten doors on this floor. Were the boys’ wards mixed in with ours? It seemed more likely they were on the third floor, or the
“What’s going on?” I said.
Bridget didn’t look at me. Just stared down at her blanket and finished braiding her hair. Her voice was tight. “We’re being rotated.”
Our chest squeezed.
Rotation. This was what we’d been waiting for since the day we arrived. We’d promised ourselves to stay this long before signaling for rescue, and now our sentence was up.
But the rest of these girls—the ones Addie and I had just started getting to know—they had no such promise of freedom.
The caretaker called everyone out of bed. We gathered in a clump in the middle of the ward—all except Viola, who continued in her circling. No one went to grab her.
“Bridget,” I whispered, drawing up next to her. “If we get separated, I just wanted to say—”
She was suddenly impatient, shoving us away and warning us to keep our distance with a sharp look. I ended up next to Jeanie and Caitlin instead—until they hurried away from us, too.
“Stand still,” the caretaker barked, and started counting us off, pulling each girl aside as she assigned her a number—two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve . . .—and snapped a plastic bracelet around her wrist. Hospital bracelets, impossible to get out of without scissors or a knife.
The caretaker didn’t go in any particular order, but two girls standing next to each other never got the same number.
It was a foreign concept. Addie and I had never been the one other people sought out. If anything, we’d been the one nobody wanted.
“Twelve,” the caretaker said when she got to Addie and me, and snapped the corresponding bracelet around our wrist. We went to stand with Ruth, the only other twelve so far.
I could practically see Bridget’s mind whirring. Trying to figure out where she should stand to get the same number, and if she could move without the caretaker noticing. The remaining group wasn’t large.
“Fourteen,” the caretaker said to the girl who’d stood next to me. Mayree. Then, “Sixteen” to the girl next to her. Claire. Then back to “Two . . . four . . . six . . . eight . . . ten . . .”
“Twelve,” she said to Bridget.
Bridget betrayed no emotion at all as she came to join us.
Viola was last to be sorted, labeled a number four. But there were still two girls remaining: Coreena and Iris. They did not get numbers. Or bracelets.
I remembered, suddenly, what Bridget had said about girls disappearing during rotation. Marion hadn’t told us about the possibility of being siphoned off—to where? For what purpose?
Coreena and Iris stared wide-eyed after us as the caretaker ushered them away from the group.
For the first time in weeks, we emerged beyond the confines of the ward into the hallways. We noticed everything. The pattern of cracks along the molding. The scuff marks and little indentations on the ground.
The caretakers weren’t releasing all the classes at once. There weren’t enough girls in the hall for that. But there were at least two other classes out here, being separated into new wards. The girls in our class stared at them. Some of them stared back, but most seemed too deadened to care. Their hands hung limply at their sides, the weak overhead light glinting off plastic bracelets.
The ring was hidden in our hand, though I let the gem peek through. I filmed as much as I could of this quiet, solemn migration of children. There were only ten doors on this floor. Were the boys’ wards mixed in with ours? It seemed more likely they were on the third floor, or the
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