“That’s what you said about the pill.”

He winces. “Yes, sorry. I was a bit dishonest there. But for the record, it’s easier to get you ready for therapy when you’re unconscious. This”—he motions to the juice—“will make you more . . . pliable.”

He brings the glass to my lips, and I lift my hands to knock it away. My limbs are heavy, clumsy, and he easily brushes them aside. Anton lifts the juice, splashing it over my top lip, and nods for me to go ahead.

I take a sip, hating the taste. Anton smiles and sets it back on the desk before turning to me again.

“Why did you misbehave in class?” he asks simply.

“Because I wanted to check on Lennon Rose,” I say, although it’s not the entire story. But I don’t want him to know about our plan. In fact, I push that memory away, as if I can erase it myself. He can’t know the other girls were involved.

“Why did you misbehave in class?” Anton repeats, louder. He rolls closer and places his hand on my knee, about to say something. His palm is warm on my skin and I flinch. He pauses.

“What did you just think?” he asks, glancing down at his hand before removing it.

“That I wanted to push your hand away,” I admit, lifting my eyes to his. He smiles.

“Good,” he replies. “Now you’re being honest.”

There is a sense of familiarity then, like this is choreography that we’ve practiced but forgotten. Somewhere, I still remember the routine.

“You don’t like when we touch you, do you, Mena?” he asks, standing and walking to his desk.

“No,” I say.

“But you allow it. Why?”

The question hits me hard, a sense of guilt mixed with disgust. I feel blamed and wronged at the same time.

“Because it feels rude to push you away,” I admit. “And I worry . . . I worry it’ll make you angry. Upset with me.”

“Wonderful,” he says proudly. “That’s an excellent deduction on your part. Learning what social norms are expected.”

“If you know I don’t like it,” I say, “then why do you continue to touch me?” My question seems to surprise him.

“We’re showing our affection,” he says, puzzled. “It’s a compliment. You’re a beautiful girl, Philomena. You should be gracious.”

I don’t like his answer, and he must read it in my expression because he sighs and picks up the glass of juice, walking it back over to me. He tells me to take another drink. I refuse, but he brings the glass to my lips anyway, tipping it so the liquid is against my mouth.

Green juice slides down my chin as Anton keeps the glass pressed to my lips. Then he pinches my nose closed, preventing me from breathing. I try to push him away, but I’m not strong enough. I’m weaker than ever.

My eyes well up, and finally I open my mouth and gulp. He lets me breathe, holding the glass until I finish the drink. Tears are wet on my cheeks as sickness swirls in my stomach.

Anton sets the empty glass on the desk and pulls a handkerchief from his coat to wipe my face. He begins talking again like nothing is wrong. But I can’t stop crying, feeling violated. Terrified.

“It’s not just you,” Anton says, removing the white towel from the metal tray. His body blocks it so that I can’t see what instruments are there.

“Your entire group is like this,” he continues. “The first girls rarely had problems with impulse control. They were very obedient. But at the same time . . .” He presses his lips together as if searching for the correct word. “Very bland,” he finishes. “We graduated few because of this.”

“So this time, when the academy sought out new girls,” he says, “we changed our criteria.” He turns to me, leaning against the desk. “You are among the smartest that have ever walked the halls here, did you know that? Not to mention you’re all highly charismatic, even spirited when you want to be. Curious. It added to the well-rounded features we offered our top investors. But these traits are only attributes if they’re controlled.”

I realize I can’t move my legs at all anymore. I can’t move my arms.

“What’s worrying me, Mena,” Anton says, “is how to know if we’ve lost control. There is such a fine line now. You certainly make my job harder.” He laughs softly like we’re in on this together.

And maybe we are. Maybe he’s told me this every time I’ve had this therapy. I try to grip the handles of the chair, wanting to get up. Wanting to run for it, even if I can’t get far.

I can no longer speak.

Anton watches me for a long second, and then he nods. “It’s the paralytic in the juice,” he says simply. “We grow it in the greenhouse. I know it’s uncomfortable.” He taps his temple. “Probably all scratchy in there. Frantic. It’ll be okay,” he adds, coming over. When he moves behind my chair, I get a view of the instruments on the desk. Fresh tears fall onto my cheeks.

There are several tools, but the most menacing is the long, sharp metal needle. No, not a needle. It’s more like an ice pick.

My chair moves suddenly, and I would yelp at the startle if I could talk. Anton reclines the chair farther until I’m lying back and a light above me is shining into my eyes. My feet hang off the edge of the chair, my shoe loose. I realize with absolute terror that although I can’t move, I can feel everything. I can feel when Anton brushes my hair back from my neck. I can feel his warm fingers on my cheek and then above my brow as he presses down painfully, circling my left eye.

But I can’t even tell him it hurts. I can’t tell him anything.

“So now it comes down to guesswork,” he say, admitting a shortcoming. “There’s only so much we can do through the medication, no matter how specialized.”

I’m not even sure that he’s really talking to me anymore. He’s just speaking out loud. “We’ve all made mistakes,” he adds, and pauses to smile down at me. “We’re only human, right?”

He leaves my side, and I’m left to stare up at the bright light angled above my head. I need help—help that isn’t coming. Help that has never saved me before. How many times? How many times have I been through this?

Anton appears again, and this time he’s wearing different glasses, ones with an extra lens magnifying his eyes. He stands near the top of my head, his image upside down as he leans above me. He smiles and holds up the sharp, ice-pick instrument.

“Now,” he says calmly. “I’m going to insert this behind your eye, Mena,” he says.

I scream internally and thrash around. I fight for my life. But here, in this chair, my body is motionless.

“Then I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” Anton continues, reaching down with gloved fingers to widen my left eye, pulling the lid open more. “Based on the answers you think, I’ll make subtle adjustments.” He brings the pick to my eye, stopping momentarily to look at me again. “It’ll only hurt for a moment,” he adds with a small note of sympathy to his voice.

Please, no. Please!

And then there is a cold touch on my inner eyelid, followed by the most excruciating pressure I could ever imagine. It is a sledgehammer to my head, a knife to my bone. But behind the pain is a discomfort I can’t describe, an unnaturalness to the way the pick manipulates my tissue. I lose sight in my left eye, and in my right, I see Anton’s blue gloves wrapped around the metal instrument, twisting it. He takes out some small wires and feeds them into the opening he’s made. I have no idea what they’re connected to.