A/N: Hello everyone! I am so pleased to be able to share this story with you! If you aren't aware, this book is a sequel to my novel The First. If you haven't read The First, I would highly recommend checking it out first! ;) Then come back here to continue the story!

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08 - 13 - 2084

C A D E

The heavy downpour is strangely comforting. Despite the cold that seeps through the cracks in my uniform shirt, I embrace it. The steady patter against the shuttered windows is a sound I've come to associate with peace and quiet. And since I don't often get that around here, I cherish it. 

Unfortunately, today it doesn't mean privacy or peace and quiet. I hunch down further in my seat, my elbows propped against my desk, unable to help the feelings of dread that wrap around my stomach. The voice of Mister Solgard drones on about the history of the Federal Reservation of America, and other boring topics. By now, I've completely zoned out of his lecture due to the impending bell. One glance at the clock tells me I've got two minutes left before the man in the suit will be here: 1558.

Students scramble out of their seats the moment the bell screeches, all except for myself. I watch them frantically race out the door to freedom. Then I'm alone except for Mister Solgard, who ignores me as he cleans up. 

A single knock on the classroom door has me straightening. I swallow, unable to keep my hands from balling into fists. The man in the suit stands there, silent, waiting for me to get my butt off the chair.

I take my time gathering up my books, notebook, and pencil before piling the supplies into my bag. For a moment, I contemplate the likelihood of success should I try to jump out the window instead. I glance longingly at the shuttered glass, wishing to be anywhere but here. 

A low clearing of the throat tells me my time is up. I shoulder my bag and trudge behind the man in the suit, down the halls and to the front door of the Anchorage Harbor Boy School. The wood paneling tries so hard to make it feel old and safe, but the feeling is lost with the multitude of cameras and locks on every door. 

The man in the suit turns expectantly, standing by the door with his arms crossed. I give him a look that conveys all my annoyance before grabbing the filtered fabric mask from my pocket and securing it over my face. He nods in approval.

We hurry down the steps of the school to the waiting vehicle, the rain pelting our backs. The fog is so thick that the man in the suit is forced to drive slower to avoid causing an accident. Which is fine by me. I slump down in the backseat of the vehicle, yanking the mask off my face. I pull out my buds and A-book. Music flows through the buds as I situate them in my ears and shut my eyes. The steady beat of the music drowns out the pounding of my heart. 

Over six hours to prepare for the impending weekend at home. Six hours before we leave Anchorage behind and enter Fairbanks.

The man in the suit wakes me up when we arrive. The rain has stopped, but everything is a big, mucky mess. I follow the man in the suit up the front walk towards my house, although I don't really feel like it's mine. I've never felt that way, thanks to my mother.

She isn't waiting at the door to greet me, so I slide past the man in the suit and run upstairs to my old bedroom, where I'll stay for the next forty-eight hours. Hooray! 

...Not.

The door handle to my room jiggles when she knocks, almost an hour later. "Come out of your room." The order is formal, as everything she does is.

Despite how much I want to stay right where I am, I don't want to risk the next few days being even more miserable than I know they will undoubtedly be. I unlatch the lock I made when I was eight and slide the door sideways, into the wall. 

Mom crosses her arms, a frown situated on her face. "Mister Solgard informed me you have not been paying attention in his class. And Principal Ames explained that you were caught fighting with another student. Again." Disapproval is written all over her face. 

"His class is boring," I say, shrugging. "And the other kid was asking for it. It's not my fault." Actually, he didn't really deserve it, but I'm not about to tell her that.

Besides, her face tells me she doesn't care what I say. "Take off your shirt," she orders.

I open my mouth to argue, but realize there's no point in hiding it anymore. I yank the vest off my shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Then I unbutton the shirt beneath, my fingers fumbling. The shirt follows the vest. I attempt to cross my arms, but the mottled bruise on my collarbone tells me otherwise.

We stare at each other for two long seconds. The silence grows unbearable, but then Mom turns and heads down the hallway. I follow, knowing she expects silence and well aware of the consequences should I break it. 

The doors to the testing room slide open, and the sterile scent of chemicals hits me. I sit down on the freezing exam table while Mom prepares the weekly supplies. I see more needles and test tubes than usual, which I also expected. Fighting or injuries equal more tests and exams to make sure I'm not infected. I'm no longer confused about why. I used to wonder if she did it all because she's worried about me, but now I know better. All these tests are done because she doesn't want to have to deal with the bills that would come from me being sick. 

Part of me recoils at the needles Mom sets down on a silver tray next to me, but another part, a secret part, looks forward to it. The pain is the only attention I get from her, and the traitorous part of my mind that wants her love longs for it. 

She reaches for my arm, and I lift it up, placing it in her gloved fingers. I watch as she tightens the tourniquet around my arm, then peers down at the crook of my arm, searching for a spot to draw blood. The skin is pock-marked with scars from needles, and lately Mom has had a hard time trying to get a vein that isn't completely ruined.

Seemingly satisfied with her search, Mom uncaps a needle and stabilizes my arm with her free hand. I continue to stare, unmoving as the needle slides in. The pain stings, and I soak it up. One after another, the needles go in, and then retract. One by one, I watch as my blood is drawn up and into tubes, made ready for testing. 

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02 - 01 - 2087

I shouldn't have swapped shifts with Ron. There's a reason I always work the night shift here, and it's not just because I want to avoid my mom. Being that I usually work overnight, I'm used to the lack of personnel roaming the halls as I make my rounds. It's always quiet and peaceful, and I don't mind it one bit. But today I'm surprised and somewhat annoyed at the amount activity buzzing along the corridors. Doctors and nurses in their typical white uniforms walk alone and in pairs down the halls, talking excitedly about something I don't bother to try and understand. 

I squish the mop into the dirty water again, watching as another group of medical personnel pass by, ignoring me completely.  The water always seems to get dirty, despite the constant, near-blinding whiteness of everything in this place. Whoever designed this place has a serious obsession with the most boring color in existence.  

Finished with this section of corridor, I push the rolling slush bucket further down and begin the process over. Not a minute later, I hear another group of people heading this way. I pause in my work, scooting the bucket against the wall to make room for them to pass.

The group is larger than average, and they all appear to be clustered around something or someone. I lean against the wall, trying to catch a glimpse of what's got them all in a frenzy. As they near, I catch a glimpse of dark hair through the mob of white clothing. For some reason, I find myself intrigued. Call it boredom or whatever you want, but I stand taller, trying to see through the groups of white-clothed people to who they've all drawn their attention to.

Then, as they pass me, I catch an opening and see the person's back. At first, all I see is black. Then I realize it's hair. Long, dark hair. Completely vibrant and stark against all this white. A girl? She's short, and from her demeanor appears young. Maybe around my age? It's hard to tell without getting a better look. But more importantly, what would my mom want with her?

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05 - 27 - 2089

I wake with a start, sitting up and forcing myself to take several steadying breaths. My heart pounds, and a cold sweat clings to my skin. The memories flash behind my eyelids, stark every time I blink. My body feels like it's near panic, but I force myself to sit in the dark as seconds pass.

Once my body calms, I peel off my shirt and swing my legs over the side of the cot. It creaks as I stand, and I hesitate, listening to be sure I didn't wake Gis who is asleep on the other side of the room. Her breathing remains steady, so I creep out of the room, shutting the door behind me. The hallway is illuminated by two floor lights, just bright enough that I don't run in to anything on my way to the bathroom.

I blink against the florescent lights in the bathroom as I lean against the sink and splash some water on my face. It's been almost a month since I was able to sleep without the help of pain medication. Ever since then, dreams have plagued me the moment I shut my eyes. 

I suck in a breath, letting it out slowly as I imagine it clearing my mind. The last thing I want to do is to get sucked back into the mess that is my childhood. The only one who has me beat is Gis, and that's saying something. 

I scrub my face with the towel hanging on the wall. My eyes drift to the mirror, taking in the disheveled hair and pallor that clings to my skin. The word ghost comes to mind. For the hundredth time I wonder what Gis sees in me. 

I blink, wiping the thoughts from my mind, only for them to be replaced by others. My eyes are drawn to the marks on my inner elbows. Permanent proof of what now only lives in my memory. If I'm lucky, I'll never have to see that woman again. 

The house is silent as I leave the bathroom and trek back to the bedroom Gis and I are sharing. Mr. and Mrs. Tate are asleep in the bedroom across the hall from ours. Gis has gotten along so well with them these past few weeks, and it's been a relief to see her thrive. I've only ever known her in two settings, and neither were good. 

Freedom looks lovely on her. 

The bedroom is pitch black, so I stand near the door for a moment to allow my eyes to adjust. Then I tread over to the bed where Gis sleeps, kneeling down next to her. Her face is peaceful and relaxed, her dark hair sprawled about her pillow. She is in a deep sleep, with no fear of monsters in the dark hunting her. I admire her ability to let the past remain in the past. 

So why can't I find that same sense of calm? Why does it feel like something is coming, and it's only a matter of time before it arrives? 

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