Hidden (Book 3 of the Immune Series)

You Are My Sunshine

(The effect of the chapter is best felt if you listen to the song WHILE reading. Trust me.)

Mya

In my room, I kick my shoes off, kneel down, pick them up, and chuck them across the room.

They clatter against the closet door, landing in a jumbled lump on the floor.

I fight the scream building up in my throat and collapse onto the floor, pulling my knees up to my chest. The emotions press against my sternum, threatening to make me implode.

Sakir's words run laps around my head, little sprinters wearing clothes made of the same glittering blue of the vaccine. They trip over one another and jar themselves around until I can't tell which thought is which and which truth is true.

Mom was part of a team tasked with creating the vaccine.

No, she wasn't. She was a technology specialist. Even I know that.

The vaccine already exists.

Well, it did but then it was destroyed, and now, it exists again.

That doesn't even make any sense.

I knot my hands in my hair, tugging at the auburn locks in an attempt to distract myself. I need to gather my thoughts and think about this logically.

First, there's the files. Sakir said there were six immunes. He even matched the two profiles with the two I found. He's the third, and Finn and I are the fourth and fifth. I'm not sure who the last one would be, but it doesn't seem important.

Mom knew there were other immunes, and she didn't tell us.

Second, there's the accusation that Mom's making a new strand of the virus that could affect immunes. That alone uproots everything.

The pieces jam together like a poorly made puzzle, crinkling at the edges. I squeeze them in to fit and bring the bigger picture into view.

The sickness. The tests. The list. The chemicals. The percentages.

It makes perfect sense.

Mom's trying to kill us.

One at a time by making us take turns on Mondays.

I push myself up off the floor, sprinting to the bathroom. Clutching the edges of the toilet, I empty my stomach, leaving a nasty citric acid coating on my throat. My hands shake; sweat builds on the back of my neck.

We messed with her experiment.

Finn's up there.

What if she succeeds?

I push up off the floor and flush the toilet, dropping the lid with a loud bang. The sound bounces around the room long after I've left.

First, I kneel down, straighten up my shoes, and place them side by side in the closet floor. Then, I make up both of our beds, folding down Finn's blanket the way he likes it. I fluff the pillows and arrange them against the headboard. Then, I sit in the floor by his bed, clutching one of his gray sweatshirts against my body.

I'm half asleep when the upstairs door beeps, but my body kicks itself into hyperdrive at the sound. Tripping over my feet, I scramble to the door, pulling it open as soon as Mom reaches for the handle.

Finn slumps against her shoulder, pale and ashen. One arm drapes around her shoulders, and his head tilts unnaturally forward.

"Grab the other side of him, Mya," Mom urges, and I swoop in to help her.

His skin is tight to the touch, as if filled with liquid and swollen. When we walk, his feet drag behind him. We work together to lower him down into the bed, flat on his back. At the slight movement, his eyelids flutter, and he begins to breathe heavily, panting almost. He wheezes with every terrifying breath, and his chest quivers.

He's never been this sick.

Not this soon.

Mom leans down and pushes his hair out of his face. She kisses him between the eyes before standing back up.

"Take care of him, Mya," she whispers, hurrying out the room without looking at me.

She exudes guilt. How could I have not seen it before?

I hurry to the bathroom, wetting a rag and bringing it back. Sitting beside him on the bed, I lay the rag across his forehead.

"No," he mumbles, scrunching his nose up without opening his eyes.

"No what, Finn?" I whisper, stroking his gray cheek.

"Too cold."

I pull the rag away, throwing it across the room.

"There. It's gone."

I pull the covers up, laying down and wrapping my arms around him. He leans into me, and he shivers uncontrollably, shaking the entire bed. I feel his tears before I hear them, soaking through my thin shirt.

Finn never cries. Even when he's sick and at his lowest, Finn is the rock in our relationship. He's never given in.

I press him up against me, but the sobbing continues, even as I try to calm him down.

"What's wrong? What hurts?" I whisper desperately, pulling him away from me slightly to look down at him.

He shakes his head, lips pinching together. One swollen hand comes up to his chest and grabs a handful of his shirt.

"Fire," he mumbles, coughing. The cough builds, rattling through his lungs and chest. When he's done, he struggles to catch his breath, gasping and shuddering.

"Heart's on fire," he whispers, burying his face in my chest.

"What can I do? I want to help you."

He shakes his head and reaches down to grab my hand. I allow him to bring it up to the soft area under his chin. With expert hands, he presses my fingertips to his neck, where I feel his heartbeat flutter.

"Sing," he says, and his throat vibrates with the word.

With his hand gripping my wrist, I feel the unnaturally slow heartbeat beneath his skin. It beats a few times, stops, and then beats once more. It's uneven, arrhythmic.

At first, I don't know what to do. The image of me curled up in his bed two nights before flashes through my mind. It hadn't been the first time Finn sang me to sleep. I move my hand away from his neck, placing it instead on the back of his head. Pushing him against me, I find the words of the song that always comforts me, the song he always sings. Where he learned it, I'll never know, but it's melodic and sweet, bitter and calming.

"You are my sunshine," I begin to sing, tuning into the fading butterfly in his chest, "my only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are gray."

He starts coughing again, and the drumbeat stops. I catch my breath, feeling my own hot tears tip over the edge of my eyes. The fit passes, and his heart beats again. Yet, he still cries, whimpering in low minor tones.

"You'll never know dear," I continue, throat full of cotton and knots, "how much I love you. So, please don't take my sunshine away."

His breathing slows, and his body falls still against my own. I can feel his warm bursts of breath run down my neck, feel his eyelashes brush against the bare skin of my sternum.

"Please," I repeat, breathing in the sandalwood scent of his hair and the hint of iodine on his skin. "Don't take my sunshine away."

I feel the moment he breathes his last breath like a hurricane in my chest. The butterfly's wings come to a shaky stop, and he looks up at me. I watch the spark leave his golden eyes, feel his hand on my wrist go limp.

"Please," I repeat, choked on the word. "Don't leave me."

But it's too late, I know. My brother is dead.