Mya

I hear Mom sweep into the room before I see her, given away by the telltale sound of her medical bag rustling. She kneels down beside me, lifting my head off the floor with one hand and shining a light into my eyes with the other.

Finn stands off to the side, covering his eyes with both hands.

"Tell me your name," Mom says, moving the light from side to side. My eyes run away from it, darting from side to side.

"You know her name, Mom!" Finn groans, dry heaving as he glances between his fingers at me. "Stop asking dumb questions."

Mom points at him with the pen-like flashlight, raising her eyebrows in warning.

"Pull yourself together, or leave the room."

He takes a deep breath, mumbling something before he flops down on the floor beside me, reaching for my hand. His eyes don't meet mine, though, instead straying down to the floor.

"Thanks," I whisper, squeezing his hand. He grimaced, still not looking at me.

"No sap," he mumbles. "You're my sister. I would be a terrible person to leave now."

"Focus on me first," Mom says, pushing my cheek so that I'm looking up at her. "What's your name, and how old are you?"

"Mya Julien, and I'm fifteen."

"What were you doing right before you hit your head?"

"Playing a game of basketball."

"Correction, losing a game of basketball," Finn says, and Mom clicks her tongue at him.

"Do you feel like you might throw up?"

I shake my head, blinking several times. The pain is subsiding, turning instead into a dull ache.

"Good. Let's go upstairs so I can check how deep that head wound is."

Finn helps me to my feet, wrapping one of my arms around his waist and holding my waist with a gentle hand. He follows Mom towards the staircase door, taking much smaller steps than he normally would as I shuffle behind.

Once we reach the heavy, metal door, he hands me over to Mom, and she leads me in, pushing him back with a firm hand.

"What-?"

"You can't come up here. You know that."

Finn glares at her, eyes darting between the two of us. I give him a small smile, squeezing his arm.

"I'll be fine, Finny, and when I get back, I'm going to stomp you in the second half of our game."

A smile spreads over his face, lifting the corners of his eyes. With a snort, he replies.

"I'll hold you to that, Yaya."

I cringe at the use of my nickname, turning away from him and pushing the door shut. At least his nickname is cute. Mine sounds like someone stubbed their pinky toe on the way to the bathroom and couldn't form words in their late night stupor.

With Mom's help, I walk up the stairs to her lap, taking a seat on one of the two examination chairs which look like stiff plastic couches. The backs elevate up and down depending on what procedure Mom's performing. They smell like lemons and alcohol and are cold to the touch.

Mom rolls a stool over to sit behind me, ruffling through my hair with careful fingers, pressing on the tender spot near the crown of my head. She dabs at it with a disinfectant wipe, making me shiver even more.

For some reason, her lab's always cold.

While she works, I look around, never fully relaxing. When I was little, the lab served as a setting for my nightmares. Syringes with googley eyes and spider's legs chased me through the woods outside. I suppose images of the infected should haunt me, instead, but I can't remember what they look like.

The image of needles, tourniquets, and IV bags, though, sits in the front of my mind, always freshened up every Monday.

Beakers and cylinders scattered across the counters catch my eye first, filled with a rainbow of colors. I recognize two- the purple, chunky liquid that gave Finn raging diarrhea for two days, the orange solution that made my legs go numb for several hours. The others I've blocked out of my head.

Along with the chemicals, Mom has spread out different manilla folders and papers, black pens, half-eaten carrot sticks and empty coffee mugs. I smirk, feeling that familiar urge to clean up building in my chest.

"Well, it's pretty shallow," Mom says, "which means, I don't need to stitch you up. Still feeling alright?"

"I feel fine, Mom."

"Alright. Stay up here for a while and rest. I don't want you running around and passing out on Finn. He'd probably have a heart attack."

We laugh together for a moment. Her face drops suddenly and she looks away., as if she's remembered something depressing.

I know better than to ask. Mom doesn't open up to us. Not anymore.

"I've got work to do," she says, rolling away from me towards her desk. "Rest."

No more than five minutes have passed when a new voice enters the room, a emotionless female.

"Incoming video call," the woman says, and her computer screen comes to life, blinking the three words. Mom startles, hands coming up to straighten her gray jacket.

"Who's calling you?" I ask, scooting up in the chair.

Mom swivels around to face me, eyes wide. She panics for a moment, standing up and picking up her portable tablet.

"N-no one," she stutters, walking quickly towards the stairwell. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

With that, she slams the door behind her, leaving me alone with her mess.

Which is perfect, because I'm aching to clean it.

I test both legs before standing up, nodding to myself when they don't shake. I walk over to the chaotic counter, tsking to myself as I get to work. I throw away the food, set the coffee cups in the sink, and gather the pens into a neat pile. Reaching for the papers, I search for some sort of distinguishing feature to organize them.

Their labeled with black numbers at the top of each page- 1 through 6. Surprisingly, Mom has them somewhat together. All the 1's are scattered in the top left corner; all the 3's are right below them.

Another label catches my eye, though.

In bright red marker, across the number itself, is a word that takes my breath away.

Dead.

I grab the paper on top of the 3 pile, scanning the page quickly. No name, just a date of birth and identifying features. This person is a female, blond, average height and weight, with a birthmark on her left shoulder blade. According to my quick subtraction, she would be thirty-nine years old.

Holding this paper with my right hand, I grab the closest from the 1 pile with my other hand. It also details a female, same age, but with dark hair and a less-than-average height. Her ethnicity is marked as Indian instead of Caucasian. She's marked as dead, too.

Who are these people?

I look for person number 2, but it's not here. Instead, my eyes fall on numbers 4 and 5, placed close to one another at the top section of Mom's mess.

Number 4 is my age, female, and short with auburn hair. She's got scars on her legs. Number 5 shares her birthday but is male. His distinguishing feature is a series of scars on his back.

These files are on Finn and I.

Mom's voice drifts towards the door, making me jump. I grab the top paper off the last pile, person number 6, and a yellow paper that's stuck to the top of it. Quickly, I fold it and stuff it inside the waistband of my pants, after digging around for my pocket several times.

Note to self: throw all of my pocketless pants away.

I fling myself back into the exam chair, scooting it back several centimeters. Mom won't notice; so, I just cross my ankles and stare up at the ceiling.

"You can't bring him here."

Mom's voice pleads with whoever is on the other end of the call.

"It's not up to you, doctor," the voice says like sandpaper. "He's on his way, I'm told."

"What will I tell the twins?"

His voice cuts out, or he lowers it. Either way, his answer falls into oblivion.

"And the deadline. It's still the same?" Mom asks, voice shaking.

"Of course. If anything, I expect a product from you even sooner with an extra body to use. I want you to begin as soon as possible with him. Do not give him a moment to rest. Understood?"

There's a long pause, and then Mom says, "Yes, sir."

I take a deep breath, pressing a shaking hand to my chest.

Someone's coming, and it's someone that Mom can use to find the vaccine. That means he's immune. More importantly, it's someone Mom doesn't want here. I smile to myself, excitement coursing through me.

I can't wait to tell Finn.

Discussion Question: Who do you think those files are about? Number 1 is blonde, short, and dead. Number 3 is her opposite and also dead. Number 2's file is missing. Who do you think they are?