The Lost Code Read Online Free Page A

her smooth, almond-colored fingers pressed against my arm, I thought of Mom. She would do things like that. The extra bit of fashion. Dr. Maria was maybe a little older. Then again, it was hard to remember. The mom in my head was from eight years ago, when she left. She’d look different now. Wherever she was. She’d never told us. For a while she’d sent letters, but they never had any kind of location or date information. And then, about three years ago, she’d stopped writing altogether.
    “Okay,” said Dr. Maria. “I think we’re good to go. If you promise to keep your hands off those neck wounds, I can release you to your cabin.”
    “I can’t stay?” I imagined my cabin mates leering at me from their bunks like waiting predators as I walked in, ready to harass their little drowned Turtle.
    Dr. Maria fixed her hair again and sighed. “Sorry, Owen. They’re a tough bunch, I take it.”
    “Sometimes.”
    “Well,” Dr. Maria continued, “the first few days of a session are always the hardest. A lot can change in a month. You’d be amazed the kids who end up as friends by the time a session’s all over.” She tapped on her computer pad. “Oh, once you’re dressed, the director would like you to stop by. End of the hall. See you tomorrow, okay?” She smiled and stepped out.
    “Okay.”
    Someone had brought over my shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers. I got out of bed and started taking off my hospital gown. My chest hurt, my ribs aching with each breath I took. My right side, the cramp side, was still sore. I ran a finger over the pink, four-centimeter scar from my hernia operation, just below my waist. Its warped skin was raised, smooth.
    There was a mirror in the corner, and there was my uninspiring self, skinny, a child of the rations, nothing like these Eden kids, but also nothing like the kids you saw camped out on the ACF border. I may not have had much muscle, with clavicles and ribs kinda showing, but you weren’t seeing shoulder sockets and hip edges. Having a father who worked for the Hub’s geothermal heat company meant there was enough food. His genes, not hunger, were more the reason I was skinny. That and the fact that the things that gave you real deltoids or pectorals were also the things I never seemed to be any good at.
    Dad would say to me, “You could always work out more at the school gym, or join the cave-diving team.” I knew he meant well, and he was probably right. I could probably get some better muscles if I tried, but it seemed like it would take forever—almost like, to get some sort of physique, you already had to have a good physique. And I never felt farther from having one than on that mandatory school day when everyone had to put on a skintight neoprene slick suit like the cave divers wore and try the sport. I hated being on display like that. Being in a bathing suit this morning had been just as bad. I might as well have been a different species from someone like CIT Evan, who got a single-syllable nickname from Lilly.
    I got my clothes on, being careful as I pulled my T-shirt over my neck. The bandages looked like a neck brace. I grazed my fingers across them, and just that slight attention seemed to ignite the itching underneath. My nails started scraping around the bottom edge, digging up under the soft fabric, desperate to scratch. No, stop. She told you not to. I pulled my fingers out. The tips were shiny with blood. I wiped them on my gown, leaving streaks. The itching increased, pulsing in waves. I tried to ignore it as I left the room.
    Outside, the hall was painted a cheery peach color. Framed black-and-white photos of pine-forested hills hung at regular intervals on the walls. There were five other clinic room doors, all open. I heard Dr. Maria speaking softly in one of the rooms, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. To the left, the hall ended at a solid red door with a keypad lock. It looked odd and modern compared to everything else around. Kind