9

My back presses against a row of lime-green lockers.

Two men in uniforms stride by, their tightly laced boots drumming the yellow-and-white checkerboard floor.

Mrs. Thompson squeezes my shoulder. Says soothing words, but I barely hear. What are they doing in our school? Why are all the teachers wearing those big, fake smiles that mean something’s wrong?

Principal Myers hobbles by, frowning at nothing. He’s not pretending like the others. I know that’s bad. Adults always pretend if they can.

Mrs. Thompson gathers the kindergarten class together. I stand next to Thomas and we lock our fingers. Noah edges close on my other side. He’s breathing hard, eyes round as dinner plates. I take his hand, too. I don’t want him to be scared either.

He seems surprised. We haven’t spoken since our class party yesterday, when he couldn’t blow out his half of the candles and I had to finish them. But he doesn’t let go.

“Remember what we talked about, children,” Mrs. Thompson says. “Some unhealthy chemicals were spilled nearby, on the other side of the valley. Things that would make us sick. And we don’t want that, do we?”

We shake our heads like tiny robots.

“That’s right. So some nice people are here from . . . from . . .” Her eyes tighten before she continues, “—from the government, and they’re going to give us very special medicine to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

A hand goes up. Toby. “My daddy said someone spilled pesticides over by Rock Creek,” he whispers, wide-eyed, “and we’re all gonna get cancer, and that it’s the president’s fault.”

Mrs. Thompson makes her patient face. “No one’s getting cancer, Toby, and the president has nothing to do with this.” She shifts to address the entire group. “Something called a pathogen was accidentally released into the environment. Now, does everyone remember talking about germs last week? Why we wash our hands before we eat?”

Solemn nods.

“Well, a pathogen is a really bad germ. This particular one is experimental, which means it’s still being tested to make sure it’s safe.”

“Safe for what?” Thomas asks, never one to raise his hand.

“To use on the crops we eat, to keep bugs away.” She runs a fluttery hand through her hair. “But it could be harmful to people, so we have to take extra-special care to make sure no one gets sick.”

Toby nods. “Cancer. Like my grandpap.”

Noah squeezes my hand tighter. His palm is sweaty, but I don’t let go.

Mrs. Thompson releases a sigh. “Not cancer, Toby. I really wish you’d stop saying that.”

Two women in white lab coats hurry past us. Both have surgical masks covering their faces. Mrs. Thompson watches them all the way down the hallway.

“Why don’t we get masks?” Thomas asks.

“We obviously don’t need them,” Mrs. Thompson replies cheerily, but sharper than before. Then a voice rings out, making everyone jump.

“Kindergarten!”

A man with a notebook is striding down the corridor. White coat. Mask. White paper cap on his head. “Follow me,” he orders. Not nice.

Mrs. Thompson glares at him, but he doesn’t react. She turns back to face us. “Everyone have a buddy? Okay, good. Stay in line and follow me, please.” She sets off down the hall without another glance at the man with the notebook.

Thomas gets caught in the shuffle and ends up stuck next to Jessica. Noah and I are still holding hands. “Be my buddy?” he asks in a shaky voice.

“Okay.” I don’t usually play with Noah, but I can tell he’s afraid. I won’t ditch him now. Thomas sulks at the back of the line. I mouth him a quick “Sorry.”

We troop down the hallway, heading for the double doors to the gymnasium. The man with the notebook asks us to stop and wait. As he slips inside, my eyes drift down the corridor. A door has been wedged open. I can see inside, all the way to the principal’s office.

People are gathered. Principal Myers, of course. And the big mustache-wearing man is Sheriff Watson—I recognize him from the sign on my neighbor’s lawn. Two other men in suits are standing beside the desk. They’re all looking at something rolled open on its surface, faces super-serious.

Principal Myers straightens, points directly at one of the unknown men.

“You don’t know, do you? About any of this! You don’t know a damn thing!”

I jump in surprise. The movement catches his eye. Seeing me watching, Myers growls like a grizzly bear. “For God’s sake!”

My eyes dart away, but it’s too late. Myers barks something else, and the door slams shut.

My stomach does a flip. I could get in trouble.

Noah is staring at me, his face pale. Did he see, too?

Before I can ask, a gym door swings open. “Enter, please,” Notebook Man instructs. It seems like the rest of the school is already in there. Older kids exit on the left, grumbling and rubbing their shoulders.

“Oh no, it’s a shot!” Toby moans. A spike of fear travels the group.

Noah squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

Mrs. Thompson doesn’t respond, which all but assures it’s true. We reluctantly follow her to a folding table, where a stern-faced woman with thick glasses sits. Eight white tents have been erected on the basketball court. First graders trickle out slowly from them, massaging their upper arms.

“Needles,” Mike and Chris hiss in unison, our worst nightmare confirmed.

Notebook Man stands at the front of the line. “Arrange yourselves in alphabetical order. When your name is called, come forward and answer Dr. Parker’s questions.”

This takes a few minutes, Mrs. Thompson grumbling the whole time. Knowing we won’t be close in line, I let go of Noah’s hand. He holds on a little longer, then releases me, wiping his slick fingers on his shirt. “Sorry.”

“S’okay.” I dry off my hand behind my back, so he doesn’t see.

“Albertsson, Tobias.”

Toby slinks forward, legs shaking. I can’t hear what the woman asks him. I’m a W, practically last in line. One by one, the others are called to the front, answer questions, and then disappear into one of the white tents. Finally, my name is called.

“Wilder, Melinda.”

I approach the table.

“Age?” the woman asks in a dull monotone.

“Six,” I answer, eyes darting to Mrs. Thompson. My teacher has a weird expression on her face, but she smiles encouragingly.

“Date of birth?”

“September seventeenth.”

The questions go on for several minutes. I do my best, but I don’t know all the answers. The woman frowns each time I come up short. I catch one muttered comment from Mrs. Thompson—how would a six-year-old know her medical history?—before it finally ends. The doctor stamps some papers, closes a file, and then points to the last tent on the right. “Please report to Bay F.”

I trudge across the gym and slip through the white curtain. Inside is a chair like at the dentist’s office, and a small cabinet with medical stuff. I see a box of needles and an orange bin covered in loud printed warnings.

My heart drops into my shoes.

A white-coated man enters through the back. He’s thin and gray-haired, with twinkling blue eyes floating above a white mask. Dropping his clipboard onto the cabinet, he pulls the mask down and smiles. “Hello, there!”

“Hello.” Hugging my arms to my chest.

“Come, come!” The man squats down on his heels so we’re eye to eye. “There’s nothing to be afraid of”—popping up to glance at the clipboard—“Ms. Melinda. I’m Doctor Harris.”

“Min,” I mumble.

His smile grows. “What’s that?”

“Min.” A little louder. This one seems nicer than the others. “My name is Min. I hate being called Melinda.”

“Well then, we won’t make that mistake again.” With exaggerated strokes, he crosses something off on the clipboard and writes. “Name: Min, and definitely not Melinda. There we are! All better now.”

His grin is contagious. I smile back.

“Now, Min,” he begins, “would you mind climbing up into my whirly chair for a tick? I promise we’ll go through this step by step, okay?”

I tense, but do what he asks, clambering up onto the seat.

Dr. Harris plops down onto a tiny, wheeled stool. “I’m sure you’re a little worried about what we’re doing today.”

I nod slowly. He nods back.

“Well, don’t fret.” He taps the clipboard. “This examination is purely precautionary. We just need to make sure you stay safe and well. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.”

“I thank you, Min. Now let’s get these silly tests out of the way.”

Over the next twenty minutes, I am weighed, measured, poked, prodded, and generally inspected. Dr. Harris is very polite, explaining all the procedures beforehand and always asking for permission. He jots down notes after each one.

Finally, Dr. Harris hunches back on his stool. “Only two more things, then we’re done. Unfortunately, you’re not going to love either one.”

“What things?”

“I need to take a teeny-tiny blood sample, and then . . . I must give you . . .” His voice drops to a whisper, his eyes popping to a clownish degree, “—a SHOT.”

The doctor’s face is so funny, I giggle. I can’t help it.

“That’s the spirit!” Dr. Harris offers a high five, and I meet it. I’m not as scared as I was. He swivels, slides open the cabinet, and removes a tiny kit. “Let’s just get it over with. What do you say?”

I swallow. Nod.

He beams at me. “Good girl. I thank you.”

The first needle isn’t so bad. Dr. Harris tells me to look away—so that I don’t have to see my own blood—but I watch it fill up the tube instead. He tells me how brave I am.

The second needle stings. It’s larger and longer, and I feel it bite into my shoulder. I whimper slightly, but Dr. Harris pats my back, speaking soft encouragements as he presses the plunger. In moments it’s over. The doctor quickly applies a bandage, leaving nothing behind but a slight itch.

“Excellent, Min!” Dr. Harris puts my blood into his kit, then scribbles a few more notes onto his clipboard. “Only one moment more, and then you can go back to class.” He carries the kit out the back of the tent.

I notice his clipboard is still sitting on the cabinet.

Hopping down, I walk over for a look. The doctor’s handwriting is small and squiggly, but two words are stamped in red at the bottom of the page. Project Nemesis.

•   •   •

An hour later I’m back in Mrs. Thompson’s room, playing with the magnetic letters. Everyone is rubbing their shoulders. Jessica and a few others have been sniffling since we returned, but most are excited. They think we’ve had an adventure, like the adults keep saying.

The soldiers are gone, which clearly makes Mrs. Thompson happy. I wonder if the men in suits left with them. Is Principal Myers still mad? Did he have to get a shot, too?

A knock on the door.

I look over, then freeze.

Principal Myers has entered the room, but that’s not what surprised me. Standing beside him is Dr. Harris. Spotting me, he smiles and waves. Caught out, I wave back.

“This is not what was discussed,” Mrs. Thompson is saying, looking upset. “The permission slips only cover school-based physicals and inoculations. I can’t let you take students away from here simply because this man—”

Principal Myers cuts her off. “I’m aware of your objections, Agnes. But I don’t need to remind you who runs this school. I’ll be along to supervise.”

Mrs. Thompson’s shoulders droop. “Their parents, surely—”

“Will be informed, of course. Now please call the students forward.”

Mrs. Thompson stares at Myers as if seeing something for the first time, then looks over at me. Our eyes meet, and she flinches. Then puts on her big fake smile. “Min? And Noah? Could you both come to the front, please?”

I stand up slowly. Walk to her desk. I hear Noah following on my heels. If Dr. Harris wasn’t smiling so encouragingly, I’m not sure I’d do it.

Dr. Harris drops to a knee before the two of us. Noah’s legs tremble as we stand side by side. “Min, hello again. Noah, my name is Dr. Harris. I have something very special to tell you. We’re going on a trip!”

His eyes twinkle in the fluorescent light. “Won’t that be fun?”