THE DOZEN

THE WEIGHT.

Parker didn't respond. He couldn't bring himself to voice the word he already had in mind: "Okay." It was just two syllables, but clearly, it was too many for him to handle in that moment. Fear rose within him without relent. Who these people were, what they planned to do with him– there were too many unanswered questions for him to feel comfortable.

The man stood, muttering something unintelligible. Parker heard the same swishing throughout the carpet and then his distant voice as he called out, "Henry! He's ready!"

The door closed. Parker let out a small sigh of relief, his tensed body relaxing in the isolation he'd been granted again. His eyes softened, heavy eyelids drooping slightly as he ran a hand down his face.

"Morning," an upbeat voice spoke, alerting Parker to the presence of a lanky man to his left. The voice alone was enough to make Parker flinch, let alone how close he'd gotten without making a single noise. "How are you today?" Parker's eyes gave the man a quick, fearful glimpse, but no response slipped from his tongue. "Not a big talker, huh?" the man continued. "That's fine. I just need you to stand up for me, please. To put it short, I just have to make sure you're not dying, that way you won't come back and try to kill all of us. Hopefully, you get that."

Parker would've corrected the man and promptly told him that he's not infected like the rest of American citizens, had such a coherent thought crossed his mind. Instead, his head consisted of cluttered, panicked thoughts. Yet, on the outside, he kept his composure and stood to his feet without objection. He kept his head hung low, eyes focused on the clean carpet beneath his dirty sneakers. "Thank you," the man, whom he presumed to be Henry, said. "Okay," he sighed, "we can avoid this entire thing if you just be honest with me for a second. Are you bit?"

As if it would matter, Parker thought. Regardless, he shook his head and then confirmed his response with a hesitant, "No."

"I still have to check," the nurse warned. "Can you take your shirt off?" Following the furrowing of Parker's eyebrows, he exasperatedly assured, "I just need to see."

Parker gulped. A sigh flowed past his chapped lips as he shook his head in disbelief, fingers working the buttons of his own shirt. Henry respectfully averted his stare as Parker slowly began to peel off the shirt he'd borrowed from Scarlett's house. It was pretty baggy on him, but he thought it was better than whatever the government had expected him to wear.

When Henry finally directed his attention back to Parker, the younger of the two stood top-naked and absolutely miserable. It was almost pitiful, the look of suffering that washed over him. Nonetheless, Henry kept it professional, and lifted and turned Parker as he pleased, hands clad in blue latex gloves as he practically treated the younger like a marionette.

The nurse's eyes landed upon Parker's blood-stained, crimson hands. "Is the blood yours?" he asked.

Parker took a breath. He would rather it be his own blood than a child's, but he vowed not to get emotional about it in front of someone. "No."

"May I ask who it belongs to?" the nurse professionally asked. "If it's from one of the infected, it could've gotten in an open wound, even something as small as a hangnail. We're meant to keep an eye on those things."

"It's not from one of the dead ones."

Henry noticed the younger's solemn expression, his strained voice and forced words. Simple social interaction was draining him, that was clear. Sympathy for the newcomer was unstoppable, as he reluctantly asked, "Are you allergic to peanuts, almonds, or pecans?"