The Season Trials

C H A P T E R E I G H T

C H A P T E R        E I G H T

My heart races so quickly I fear I might collapse.

With no other choice but to follow, I do. The reprieve on my ankle has only made the pain worse than before. Will it ever heal now? That I can't tell. Back home, there's no way to mend broken bones. All you can do is let them heal and hope it's done right. Staying off the injured limb is the only way that can happen.

But I haven't had that liberty. And I know I won't.

Especially not now.

The General wants to see me. The very man responsible for all of this. Why I've been sold. Why my mother is dead. Hundreds are dead.

And I'm going to see him. In the flesh.

That's worse than anything imaginable. But I can't avoid it.

As I follow him to the entry way of the house, my legs threaten to buckle underneath me. I want nothing more to just lie down and sleep. That won't happen. There's no rest.

"Hurry up."

Aware the Sergeant Holmes has no qualms about punishment—warranted or not—I limp faster. Meeting the General is worse than anything he can dole out.

My throat burns with unshed tears that want to fell—yet I refuse to let them. They already know I'm weak—it's impossible to miss my ankle and the fact that it's broken. They already have that, I refuse to give them anything else. Tears won't help the situation anyway—I'm stuck here until l can find a way to get out.

And the note . . . it's back in the room, hidden. Room A96—that's where she said to go. And I still don't know where that is—it can be anywhere. Miss Prestige is the key thing though. If I find her and where she lives, I can get closer to finding it.

It won't be easy.

I may not even be alive by tomorrow. It's terrifying but true. The General . . . I don't know what wants.

This isn't how I planned it to go—any of it.

What have I done to get their attention? I've been playing the role of a Gift—loyal, mindless and subservient. There's no reason for them to notice me. None at all.

Outside looks just as bright and clean as when I'd first arrived. I've gotten used to emotions playing havoc since Assortment Day. The anger threatens to override the fear. Other times it's the other way around.

"Why . . . why does he want to see me?" My voice comes out as little more than a croak.

When Sergeant Holmes turns, his blazing eyes meet mine. I shrink away, dropping my gaze. He doesn't respond, not even as he turns and marches to the car—as I've learned it's called—that's parked.

Don't be suicidal.

Despite the warnings, I've done just that. The scars of her back flash before my eyes. That will be me if I don't start to play this smart. Either that or let to drown in a lake.

The sickening thing? They don't even have any qualms about what they do. They see nothing wrong with it. In their eyes, we're beneath them—and it gives them the right to do what they want. Buy young children. Hurt them.