eighteen deaths, food shortages, and riots. Similar conditions are found at almost every camp in the country.”
She paused, letting her words sink in.
“Thornhill is different. We are developing a pilot program that truly focuses on rehabilitation. You were sent here, instead of Van Horne, because you are young enough to make the most of this opportunity.”
Young enough? I guess that explained why they had separated everyone over eighteen.
The boy in front of me raised his hand and the warden nodded.
“I don’t understand how you can rehabilitate us.” His voice cracked and I realized it was the boy from the truck, the one who had almost lost control. “I mean, there’s no cure, is there?”
There was an oddly hopeful note in his voice. Next to me, Kyle inhaled sharply and leaned forward. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Not yet.”
I was watching Kyle, not the warden. Disappointment and pain flashed across his face. His hands rested on his knees and he stared down at them, studying them. When he glanced up and realized I was watching, he looked embarrassed, then a little angry, like I had spied on something private.
Sinclair was still speaking. “The best medical minds in the country are looking for a cure. There may someday be a breakthrough. If that happens, wolves at places like Van Horne won’t be released. The camps will have robbed them of any humanity LS left behind, and they will not be able to reintegrate into society. Thornhill will help prepare you for life in the event a cure is found. For rejoining the outside world and adjusting to a single physical form. The right physical form.”
I thought of Ben and shuddered. He’d gone into the camps a normal teenager. After getting out, he had willingly signed on for a killing spree.
Sinclair curled her fingers around the edge of the podium, clutching it so tightly that her knuckles stood out like sharp points. “You’ve been given this opportunity over hundreds of other werewolves, but be warned: If you do not treat Thornhill like the privilege it is—if you cause trouble or fall behind in your classes—the program coordinators behind me will hear about it. If they decide that you are not a suitable candidate for our program, you will be transferred—either to Van Horne or to work on one of the other camps currently under construction, all of which are being built using wolf labor. Neither option will improve the quality of your life.”
She flashed a small, empty smile. “I hope we’re all on the same page.”
10
A FTER AN HOUR OF SPEECHES AND LISTS OF DOS AND don’ts, we were ordered to stay in our seats while the warden and program coordinators left. Once the last white uniform disappeared through the doors, timetables were handed out and guards were assigned to each row of werewolves.
Group by group, we were led outside.
“Line up in twos and follow me,” snapped our escort, a grizzly of a man with acne-scarred cheeks. “And pay attention. After today, you’ll be responsible for finding your own way around this place. Guards and counselors have enough to do without walking you to and from every class and work detail.”
“Right,” muttered a female voice from somewhere behind Kyle and me, “because it would really be possible to get lost in this place.”
She had a point. Sooner or later you’d just hit the fence.
I glanced at Kyle’s timetable and compared it to my own. Every day of the week was scheduled, though evenings were considered “free time” until curfew. We had the same morning classes, but our afternoon work details—physical labor assignments to help us build character and the camp save money—were all different.
“Self-control,” said Kyle, reading off this morning’s class. “Sounds . . . cheery.”
I looked up, a reply on my lips, and caught a glimpse of white on the path ahead.
One of the male program coordinators had stopped to talk to a counselor. According to the
She paused, letting her words sink in.
“Thornhill is different. We are developing a pilot program that truly focuses on rehabilitation. You were sent here, instead of Van Horne, because you are young enough to make the most of this opportunity.”
Young enough? I guess that explained why they had separated everyone over eighteen.
The boy in front of me raised his hand and the warden nodded.
“I don’t understand how you can rehabilitate us.” His voice cracked and I realized it was the boy from the truck, the one who had almost lost control. “I mean, there’s no cure, is there?”
There was an oddly hopeful note in his voice. Next to me, Kyle inhaled sharply and leaned forward. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Not yet.”
I was watching Kyle, not the warden. Disappointment and pain flashed across his face. His hands rested on his knees and he stared down at them, studying them. When he glanced up and realized I was watching, he looked embarrassed, then a little angry, like I had spied on something private.
Sinclair was still speaking. “The best medical minds in the country are looking for a cure. There may someday be a breakthrough. If that happens, wolves at places like Van Horne won’t be released. The camps will have robbed them of any humanity LS left behind, and they will not be able to reintegrate into society. Thornhill will help prepare you for life in the event a cure is found. For rejoining the outside world and adjusting to a single physical form. The right physical form.”
I thought of Ben and shuddered. He’d gone into the camps a normal teenager. After getting out, he had willingly signed on for a killing spree.
Sinclair curled her fingers around the edge of the podium, clutching it so tightly that her knuckles stood out like sharp points. “You’ve been given this opportunity over hundreds of other werewolves, but be warned: If you do not treat Thornhill like the privilege it is—if you cause trouble or fall behind in your classes—the program coordinators behind me will hear about it. If they decide that you are not a suitable candidate for our program, you will be transferred—either to Van Horne or to work on one of the other camps currently under construction, all of which are being built using wolf labor. Neither option will improve the quality of your life.”
She flashed a small, empty smile. “I hope we’re all on the same page.”
10
A FTER AN HOUR OF SPEECHES AND LISTS OF DOS AND don’ts, we were ordered to stay in our seats while the warden and program coordinators left. Once the last white uniform disappeared through the doors, timetables were handed out and guards were assigned to each row of werewolves.
Group by group, we were led outside.
“Line up in twos and follow me,” snapped our escort, a grizzly of a man with acne-scarred cheeks. “And pay attention. After today, you’ll be responsible for finding your own way around this place. Guards and counselors have enough to do without walking you to and from every class and work detail.”
“Right,” muttered a female voice from somewhere behind Kyle and me, “because it would really be possible to get lost in this place.”
She had a point. Sooner or later you’d just hit the fence.
I glanced at Kyle’s timetable and compared it to my own. Every day of the week was scheduled, though evenings were considered “free time” until curfew. We had the same morning classes, but our afternoon work details—physical labor assignments to help us build character and the camp save money—were all different.
“Self-control,” said Kyle, reading off this morning’s class. “Sounds . . . cheery.”
I looked up, a reply on my lips, and caught a glimpse of white on the path ahead.
One of the male program coordinators had stopped to talk to a counselor. According to the
Similar Books
