I finish the test early and have to sit staring out the window, listening to the clock behind me. Pulling at the threads of my uniform shirt, I draw pictures on the black screen of my tablet with my finger and the smears it leaves behind.

Maybe I should go back and check my answers. Tapping the screen, I log back into my tablet, but there's no fingerprint scanner anymore.

Test Complete.

I couldn't correct it if I wanted to. So, instead, I put my head on my arms, smelling the lemon cleaner than Binns uses on the desks. My eyelids slip, and I snap them back open more than once.

"Head up, Quinn," Binns whispers at me, and I sit back up with as little speed as I can. He goes back to walking around the room, tapping on other desks occasionally to wake people up.

When we have thirty minutes remaining, he writes it on the white board up front in blue marker, ending the statement with an exclamation point.

Beside me, Lexi is still working on her test. I can't see her tablet through her hair, but her hands move over the screen. Her fingernails tapping against the glass is another sound in the quiet. Maybe she was smart enough to go back and check her answers.

"Please, stop," Professor Binns says in a hoarse voice. Clearing his throat, he continues, "This completes the first portion of your Intelligence Exam. Please leave your tablet on your desk and line up in alphabetical order."

On a normal day, the moment our chairs scoot back, the entire classroom would have erupted into noise, talking about the lesson, their plans, or what's for lunch. Today, though, the quiet continues. I find my place in the front of the line, with a very pale Lexi behind me. She's gnawing at her fingernails like a beaver, pieces of the white material scattered on the front of her shirt.

"Follow me," the professor says, leading us towards the elevators. How we all fit in is a mystery, but I'm pressed up against the back wall, thankful it's not too cold.

Binns waves the front out, and now we are in opposite order, walking like soldiers out into the school's front yard.

We drag ourselves all the way to the Ag District, where there are twenty-five white tents set up at different intervals. On the grass in front of us, white, green, and yellow lines have been painted, like mock trails. Each one must be a different length for the three different miles.

"Okay, we will do this alphabetically as well. Vann, you'll be in tent twenty five, down all the way on the right," Binns says, pointing on down the field. Nurses are beginning to come out of the tents, dressed in the navy blue scrub uniforms, their nametags rolling in the wind. Binns continues on down the line, directing each student on where to go.

"Stewart, you'll be in nineteen," he says, patting Naomi on the shoulder. She nods and gives me a smile before walking away.

"Peterson, you're eighteen," he continues, and it goes on and on until only Lexi and I are left standing. "I think you two are smart enough to figure out where you are," he says, smirking.

"Let me guess," Lexi says, tapping her chin, "I'm number two?"

Binns chuckles, nodding and shoving her towards the tent.

"Our number one," Binns says, crossing his hands over his chest, "You'll be in tent number one, of course. Feeling pretty good so far, Austin?"

I nod, feeling my pulse rise. This is the part of the test I won't do so well on. I've never been very athletic. I can run, if someone is chasing me, and normally Lexi is actually doing just that. When physical education hour comes at the end of the day, I barely make it through.

"Alright, go on, then. Get it done," he said, giving me a firm clap on the back.

That's the second clap I've gotten. Maybe I can get another by the end. Third time's the charm, I've heard.

I walk across the field towards the first white tent where a kind looking young woman is waiting on me. Her black hair is in a high ponytail, tied with a huge blue bow. She wears quite a bit of make-up, giving her eyes a very harsh look. Her lips are glossy, reflecting the bright sunlight.

"Quinn Austin?" she says, holding the clipboard with one hand and twirling her ponytail with the other.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me that," she scolds, "I'm not old enough for that, kid."

I bite my lip, nodding. Clearly, she's older than I am, which means I'm supposed to refer to her as ma'am or sir. It's in the rules of etiquette, which I've already memorized. Yet, it's impolite to argue; so, I just keep my mouth shut.

"Birthday?"

"March 5th, 2023," I say in a low, shaky voice.

"Gender?"

"Um, what?"

She looks up, twisting her mouth at me in amusement.

"Gotta ask," she mumbles, "Gender?"

"Um, male?"

"I don't think that's a question you should be answering with another question," she says, not looking up from her paperwork.

"Are you going to take point off for that?" I ask, nervous again. She laughs.

"No," she says, opening the tent flap for me, "Loosen up, Austin. You're almost done."

Inside the tent is a chin bar that's just above my height. There's a padded mat, spread over the thick grass. Some hand weights are piled up in the corner, along with what looks like a step stool. Judging by these things, I might have to do some pull ups, maybe some ground exercises. I assume I'm going to have to lift weights, which is going to suck, considering I have noodles for arms.

"Strip down," she says, breaking me out of my own thoughts. I turn quickly to face her, feeling my face turn bright red.

"What?"

"I have to do a physical assessment for any visible defects and imperfections," she says, in a monotone voice, as if she is reciting a script. "I can't do that through your clothes."

I take a deep shaky breath, unbuttoning my shirt and taking it off slowly.  She turns around, thank God, fiddling with her paperwork as I fold the shirt and kick off my shoes. Nearly tripping from my nerves, I use the stepstool to hold myself up, tugging my socks off quickly. I put them in my shoes and rest the shirt on the top. Lastly, I pull my pants off, leaving them in a neat pile with my shirt.

"Underwear, too?" I ask her. She glances over her shoulder.

"No, you can leave those on for right now."

I wrap myself in my arms, covering up my scrawny chest. At least it's not ghastly white; being on the beach means we all seem to keep year round tans.

"Okay, first I'm going to hook you up to this machine," she explains, sticking these small white circles on my chest.

"It's a heart rate monitor," I interject, playing with the tiny wires.

"Yeah, it will-"

"It will monitor the rate at which my heart pumps blood through my veins depending on the given circumstances. You're going to make my heart work harder, see how much pressure you can put on it while it maintains a healthy pace."

She raises her eyebrows, nodding.

"Okay, smarty pants. Why would I want to do that?"

"To ensure that I can handle the everyday stress of work or the military. If my heart doesn't handle an adequate amount of stress, I'm not fit for the compound. Plus, a healthy heart is normally a good indicator of a healthy individual."

She snaps the last circle on, nodding.

"Bingo," she says, pressing a button on the machine. It comes to life, a bright green line jumping across the screen. After a moment, several different numbers appear on the screen. I recognize most of them.

"Well, your pulse is good. Seventy-one is about right. Do you know what this number is?"

She points at an improper fraction on the screen.

"That's my blood pressure, and it's also good."

She smiles, writing the numbers down.

"Okay, now hold still while I check your muscles and bones."

She circles around me, squatting and standing in repetition, poking at my legs and bending my knees. She lifts both my arms, the pencil moving across the paper wildly. I'm told to bend over and touch my toes, and she runs a cold hand down my spine, checking to see if it's straight. With a tap to my back, I stand up again, blinking at the head rush.

"Okay, done," she says, putting the pencil behind her ear, "Now, for the actual physical tasks."

We start with crunches and sit ups. She sits on the stool, timing and counting me. Each tasks lasts about a minute, and I get thirty seconds of rest between intervals. When I finish each one, she writes down a number, face never changing. While I'm sure she knows what is good and bad, I have no idea. There's no reading her.

After crunches and sit ups, she asks me to do as many pushups as I can in two minutes, and then chin ups. By the end of the fourth task, I'm breathing much heavier. My back is sweaty, and the nurse keeps wiping my hands to improve my grip. My curls are plastered against my forehead, and I wipe at them constantly, pushing them back. The action only makes my hands sweatier, though, which aggravates the nurse.

"You should slow down," she finally says, as I'm picking up the weights. "Stick with the lighter ones."

I risk a glance at the monitor, watching the green line pulse up and down. The beeping is quicker, more obnoxious than it was to begin with.

I pick up the light weights and get to work, counting in my head to keep my breathing under control. Whatever muscles I have in my arms burn, spreading like wildfire up into my shoulders.

"Okay, stop," she says, after another six minutes worth of intervals. She hands me a bottle of water and the towel, flipping the paper over on her clipboard. This is what ambrosia must've tasted like; I down the bottle in seconds, gasping for air as I hand it back.

"You're going to regret that," she mumbles, snapping the wires off of me. She peels the sticky circles off, slowly, but I still wince in pain.

"Why?"

"Water belly," she says, grinning.

I gape at her, confused.

"Oh, so I finally stumped the child genius," she whispers dramatically, "Grab those shorts and pull them on. Unless you want to run in your boxers."

I flush pink, grabbing the athletic shorts and pulling them on. Kneeling to tie my shoes, I watch her watch me. She still seems to be analyzing me, which makes me uneasy. When I stand back up again, her eyes are still glued to me, but her lips are slightly separated. I hear her breathing lightly. Finally, breaking eye contact, she nods, opening the tent flap.

A rush of wind hits my sweaty body like concrete, making me shiver. Already, some of the other participants are lined up, standing on different lines. Lexi is stretching, now wearing a pair of shorts just like mine and a plain white t-shirt. She stands up, catching sight of me as I walk out.

"Guys, look at that," she says, waving at the other few students around her, "Here comes the living Eiffel Tower."

I roll my eyes.

"Glad to see you're back to normal," I whisper, waiting for the nurse to direct me to a line.

"Collins, you're not supposed to be talking," a male nurse snaps, making a note on his papers. Lexi withdraws, resembling a scolded puppy. It's a reaction I've never seen before.

"Okay, Austin," my nurse says, standing beside me again, "You're going to running the five mile track. That's the yellow line."

I nod, getting in line behind Lexi.

"If you feel like you might throw up, try not to do it on the track," the nurse continues, grabbing my wrist and checking my pulse. She shines a bright light in my eyes and then steps back. "Take it slow and easy, but remember you're being timed. When you make it back, I'll be here waiting."

I nod, feeling sick. Running is that last thing I want to be doing.

She steps away from me, standing with the other nurses. They all wear the same uniform, down to the spotless white shoes. The only difference between each of them is their face and hair. Mine seems to be the only one with any personality at all.

I look around the crowd for a minute, analyzing the stony faces of my fellow students. I catch Naomi's eyes from where she stands at the start of the two-mile line. She's patting the back of another girl, who is nearly doubled over, sweat pouring off her forehead. Naomi is holding a handful of the girl's hair away from her face, fanning her with the other hand. She smiles at me, winking before she goes back to giving the panicking girl her full attention.

I look away, feeling my cheeks burn pink.

"Okay, students," my nurse says, stepping forward, "On the sound of the horn."

Lexi takes a deep breath and gets into runner's position, like it's a no-brainer. I take note of the way one leg is folded under her while the other is fully stretched out. She's barely standing on her toes, both hands on the ground, fingertips only. Her red hair is pulled back, and she stares ahead, mouth moving as she counts her breathing.

A horn sounds, and I jump. Lexi, though, takes off, arms swinging as she disappears on the track.

"Let's go, Austin," my nurse says, waving at me. I fumble to get into position, eventually giving up and just taking off running. The nurses laugh behind me, but I ignore them.

In on my left foot through my nose.

Out on my right through my mouth.

One step, two steps.

Hands like their holding eggs.

Right arm, left leg, left arm, right leg.

Sweat beading down my face, clouding my vision, I force myself to concentrate on the finish line. There's a stitch in my side, a pain in my thighs and calves. My ankle throbs from the accident, slowing me down.

Pretend Lexi is chasing after you.

I stare emptily ahead, repeating these things in my head. I never pass another person, but no one passes me either. Jogging through the fields, up hills and down between fences, thoughts of following the yellow line fills my mind. It begins to rain sometime during my jog, and I shiver against the cold rain.

Then, there's the finish line, rising up in the distance. I can see the line of navy outfits, brown clipboards held against their chests. Taking a deep breath, I sprint the last distance, past the white line painted on the grass, my nurse, and Professor Binns. As I zoom past, the smile on his face catches my eye. He's talking to the nurse, who is showing him the clipboard she holds.

His expression tells me he is impressed.

"Good job, Austin," my nurse says, grabbing my wrist to check my pulse.

"My time," I mumble, trying to catch my breath.

"Your what?"

"What's my time?"

"Oh," she says, taking the clipboard back from Binns, "Thirty-two minutes."

"Is that good?" I ask, breathless as I take a water from her.

"Good?" she laughs, steering me towards our tent, "That's amazing, Quinn."