The Last Girl by Joe Hart Page A

wants to tell him no. She wants to say get out, to scream it at him. This is her place, her only sanctuary, the last space she has that she can call her own. Until now.
    “What’s going on?” she asks, casting her glance from Dellert to Simon, who still waits in the hall. Dellert takes several steps closer, examining the wall while he speaks.
    “We’ve gotten a report of contraband in this room,” Dellert says. “We’re searching it. Please stand aside.”
    “I don’t have anything,” Zoey says, beseeching Simon with a look. Do something. But he is stoic and solemn.
    “We’ll be the judge of that,” Dellert says, moving around the foot of her bed. He takes a flashlight from his pocket and shines it in the corners of the room while the other two guards begin their own searches along the floor and ceiling. The Redeye stands at the door, the lower part of his face not obscured by his thick goggles lineless and without expression. He’s staring at her through the red lenses. She can feel it.
    Dellert snaps the light on in the bathroom and curses, stepping back. “The hell is that smell?”
    “I got sick.”
    “And you couldn’t get to the toilet?”
    She doesn’t answer, only lowers herself to the bed, no longer trusting the strength of her legs. Dellert huffs another curse and returns to the bathroom. The other guards crawl over the floor, scuttling along like insects, fingers probing every seam of concrete. One of them leans under the desk, sliding his hand beneath its top. The sink runs in the bathroom, shuts off. The shower spurts to life. Off. The toilet flushes. The tank lid scraping open is like needles in her ears. After a long pause, Dellert comes back into the room, walking slowly. He stops by the calendar and presses on its sides, trying to shift it on the wall. He sniffs when it doesn’t move.
    “So where is it, Zoey?” Dellert asks. He doesn’t look at her.
    “I told you, I don’t have anything.”
    Dellert smiles but still keeps his gaze on the red numbers. “You’re lying. You should tell me and make it easy on yourself.”
    “I can’t tell you about anything I don’t have.”
    Dellert places his hand on the prod hanging from his belt. It sways in its loop. “You guys find anything?” The two guards shake their heads. “You check her bed?”
    “The bottom,” one guard offers.
    “Check the whole thing,” Dellert says.
    “Excuse me,” the closest guard says, not meeting her eyes as he drags down the covers on her bed. Zoey stands and moves to the farthest corner of the room. The Redeye’s goggles follow her. The guards strip her bed. They shake her blankets out, pull up the mattress, feel along the bottom and sides. Dellert watches them, his gaze flicking to her every few seconds, waiting for some kind of reaction. She gives him nothing.
    When they’re done, the guard that asked her to move begins to remake her bed.
    “What are you doing?” Dellert asks.
    “I’m putting it back.”
    “Are you a guard or a maid?” Dellert sneers. The other man opens his mouth, then shuts it and drops her blankets back to the floor. Dellert paces past her bed, stepping on the sheets, and touches the small light built into the wall. He tries turning it.
    “Big day coming soon,” Dellert says, running his hand along the wall when the light doesn’t budge. His fingertips rasp in a way that sets her teeth on edge. “Always so exciting. And two inductions this close together.” He shakes his head. “Just beautiful.” He stops near the window and raps once on the glass. Zoey’s entire body tenses but she keeps her face placid, unmoving, even as something flexes within her, threatening to break. “You must miss her already.”
    Zoey shifts from one foot to the other. Her soles are freezing on the cold concrete. “I miss all that have gone before me.”
    “So patriotic,” Dellert says. “You say all the right things, Zoey.” He steps away from the window, scanning the walls and