On the way back to our floor, I’m still trying to process. Sydney doesn’t say a word.

We rush back to the other girls and find them waiting in my room, sitting on the bed. When we walk in, Brynn looks up hopefully.

“Did you talk to your parents?” she asks. “Did they believe you?”

I stare back at her, suddenly unable to speak. Sydney steps beside me, and we exchange a look, knowing we have to tell them.

“EVA answered,” I say. “But . . . our parents’ assistants aren’t real,” I say. “They’re part of a computer system. And they report directly to Anton. Pretty much right away.” Sydney nods to let them know it’s true.

Annalise laughs like I’m joking. But as she stares at me, her expression starts to sag. “They’re not . . . real?” she asks. “Stella?” I shake my head no. She considers it a moment, blood rushing to her cheeks. We sit in shock, absorbing the information. Feeling more isolated than ever. Sydney looks at the bars on the window again.

“I talked to Valentine,” I say.

“Good,” Marcella says. “Did she have any answers?”

“None that she would give me. She told me we have to behave. And that ‘we’d know’ when it was time to leave.”

“Leave?” Brynn repeats, seeming confused by the sentiment. It didn’t occur to her that we’d have to leave the school, just like it hadn’t occurred to me. What if we’ve been trained to ignore that option?

We sit with the thought for a moment, and then Annalise jumps up suddenly. She glances at the clock. “I have to go,” she says. “I was supposed to meet Professor Driscoll in the greenhouse five minutes ago.”

She grabs her jacket, and we all stand so the other girls can go back to their rooms. We promise to meet up at dinner, although we have no solid plan going forward. I think we all need to process. And I think they need to get clearer heads.

Sydney grips my hand before we part, and then we separate to our own spaces. Once everyone’s gone, I stand in my room.

Even though I’ve learned how alone I really am at this school, I feel stronger now that the girls and I are on the same page. Together, we’ll figure this out. I walk to my window and stare out, trying to see beyond the woods.

I think about Jackson’s questions: Who are your parents? Why would they send you here?

And now the question hurts even more. I’ve never had an ability to contact them. Who would allow that? What do they want this school to do to me?

I put my hand on the cold glass of the window. On Sundays, the afternoons can be used for leisure time, or in some cases, visits from family or custodians. That’s happened to me once. My mother came out to visit. The only time she’s done so since dropping me off.

“How do you like it here, Philomena?” she asked, sitting across from me in the reception hall. I’d been at the school for a month, and I liked it just fine. I told her so, and she nodded, studying my expression.

My mother is quite beautiful, although more reserved than some of the other adults I’ve seen come through here. She was wearing a white turtleneck, a sleek white coat, and no jewelry. Her dark hair was smoothed straight and long, her dark eyes fanned out with perfect makeup. She placed her hand over mine, and I was surprised by the warmth in her gesture.

“I hope you’ll enjoy your time at the academy,” she said, watching me. “These are important years in your life. Remember everything. It’ll go by fast.”

I nodded that I would, and thinking back on it now, I didn’t say much while she was here. I was sort of in a fog then—all of us were. We were a bit overwhelmed with our new lives, our classes, the monitoring. I was very compliant then, and less . . . me. I think my mother must have seen that, because her brow furrowed in concern.

“We’ll check in periodically,” she said. “And the analyst will give us updates monthly.” Her dark eyes swept over me once again, and then she stood. I followed her lead.

“I hope you’ll be successful,” she said. She reached out to grip my hand, squeezing it once—a little harder than I anticipated—and then she nodded goodbye and walked out. After that, both of my parents missed the next open house.

They don’t check in periodically. Not with me, at least.

How could they leave me here? Do they know what the academy is doing? How the men control us, shame us, harm us? Do my parents get reports from EVA, too?

Do they even love me?

I spin away from the window like I can turn away from the hurt. I push off the memory of my mother coming to school. It’s easier if I imagine she’s never been here at all. It’s easier to forget it than face it.

But . . . there’s still a part of me that thinks it must be a mistake. They wouldn’t leave their only daughter in a place like this. They’re being manipulated too. If I could just show them, prove what’s happening here—they’d understand. They’d bring us all home.

For a few peaceful moments, I let myself believe that.

• • •

At dinner, there is still a space left open where Lennon Rose used to sit. And now that Rebecca’s gone, there is another. I wonder how long it’ll be before she returns. And I wonder what exactly impulse control therapy will do to her.

I stay after dinner with Marcella, cleaning up the kitchen. I’m putting away one of the knives, distracted, and I accidentally open the wrong drawer. I pause a moment, surprised to see scattered keys. I stare at them a moment, wondering what they’re for.

“Can you hand me another rag?” Marcella asks, stirring me out of my thoughts. I pass it to her, and she smiles her thank-you. The idea that we can’t call our parents, even if it was always the case, is weighing on us.

Before bed, the girls all promise not to take their vitamins. We’re scared to part, more vulnerable than ever, but I tell them tomorrow will be better.

I wash my face and get into my pajamas, dreading the Guardian coming to my room with my vitamins. I fill up my glass of water in anticipation and wait for him. I haven’t talked to him since the ballroom, and I’m not sure if he’s angry with me.

To comfort myself, I think about the poem again. I think about taking over the school and teaching the men how to behave.

My door opens suddenly, startling me, and I sit up to see Guardian Bose. He walks over to my nightstand and sets down the white cup with my vitamins. I take them obediently, or at least pretend to. When he’s not looking I spit them into my hand and shove them under the blanket.

I’m setting the glass of water back on my nightstand when the Guardian steps forward to place a small white pill next to it. I don’t know what it is, and I look at him questioningly.

“Anton sent it,” he tells me. “He says it’ll help you sleep.”

A sedative? My heart begins to race.

“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m fine. I—”

“Take it, Mena,” Guardian Bose says impatiently. “After today’s events, the analyst wants you resting soundly.” His expression leaves no room for argument. But I don’t want to go to sleep. Guardian Bose sighs at my hesitation.

“Take it or I’ll shove it down your throat.”

His threat is simple. He doesn’t even raise his voice. It’s the simple fact that he is physically stronger than me. That he’ll use that physical strength, and there is nothing I can do about it.