“Bose,” the doctor says after clicking the button. “I need you in the basement immediately.”

Brynn smiles, glancing sideways at me.

“Now, son,” the doctor says to Jackson. “When the Guardian gets here, we’re going to call the sheriff. I’m sure he’ll want to have a word or two with you. I bet you’ve already spoken to him. That was you, wasn’t it? I had my suspicions.”

When there’s no reply on the walkie-talkie from the Guardian, the doctor’s expression falters and he takes it out again.

“Bose,” he snaps. “Bose!”

“He’s not coming,” Marcella says.

Dr. Groger looks over all of us, taking in the amount of blood. “I see,” he says.

Marcella walks to the shelf, and I wonder if the doctor can see how her hand shakes when she picks up a sharp instrument. She turns to him, keeping her expression hard.

“Now,” she says. “We need you to save Annalise.”

The doctor takes a moment, his eyes trained on the saw blade, betraying a moment of fear. But then he must remember all the times he’s manipulated us before, and he smiles.

“Well, then,” he says, and motions toward Annalise. “Let’s get her on a gurney.”

He turns and starts toward a side office, and when I look at Marcella, she sways with relief and sets the instrument aside.

29

We wheel Annalise toward the office as the doctor watches us from inside the doorway. “Come on,” he calls. “Put her there.” He motions to a series of machines along the wall.

Jackson hangs back, giving me a look that asks if this is a good idea. But this is our best option. Besides, the doctor is outnumbered. He can’t hurt us now. We’re no longer his experiments.

The moment I’m inside his office, I’m horrified by what I find. Although there is a desk and a bookcase like a normal office, it’s more like a private lab. A greenhouse, of sorts. Only, instead of rows of plants growing strong, there are rows of organs and partially created bodies. There are beeping monitors and bright lights.

He’s growing girls back here.

Jackson steadies himself on the doorframe, disturbed, the color draining from his face. I expect him to turn around and run out. But instead, he looks at me, his fists at his sides. I bet he wishes he never followed my bus that day.

The doctor pulls out an oversized metal box marked MEDICAL KIT. He opens it on his desk and begins to take out the items he’ll need to fix Annalise. He cauterizes the wound in her neck, stopping the bleeding. He places several skin grafts on her cheeks, although he warns us of traumatic scarring. He replaces her punctured green eye with a brown one, connecting it to a wire he exposes.

It’s horrible, but . . . fascinating. I imagine those are the same wires Anton uses in impulse control therapy.

The doctor works efficiently, inserting a rubber tube into Annalise’s arm to give her a blood transfusion for all that she’s lost. But when he’s done, he frowns.

“It’s too bad,” he says, examining her face. “She used to be beautiful.”

“She’s still beautiful,” Marcella calls back fiercely. I smile.

The doctor goes to the sink to clean the blood off his hands. I watch him, knowing his nice act is just that—an act. He sees us the same way Guardian Bose did.

“What have you done to us?” I ask him.

“Done? I’ve given you life,” he announces grandly before grabbing several paper towels to dry his hands. “ ‘Life’ being a relative term, of course.” Dr. Groger goes to sit behind his desk and reclines in his leather chair.

“So you create girls?” Marcella asks. “Why? For money?”

“Not entirely,” he says as though we’re being petty. “It’s a better way,” he adds. “A better girl. One to be proud of. People are sick of . . . bullshit. We can give our clients the best of both words. Beauty and obedience. There are rules, of course. A corporation isn’t just allowed to create anything. Even metal works have standards.” He smiles and nods at Jackson.

Jackson looks at me wide-eyed, as if begging me not to lump him into this group of men.

“You may want to think that what we’re doing here is unethical,” the doctor continues. “But in fact, we’ve done this all very humanely, ironically enough.”

“And what are the rules?” Sydney demands. She’s different now, I can feel it rolling off her. She’s free of what they told her to be. She’s herself. She’s whatever she wants to be.

“The corporation operates under three major guidelines,” Dr. Groger says. “One, only females will be created. Two, all creations must be over the age of sixteen. And three, all creations must be sterile.”

The last rule causes all of the girls to look at Brynn, knowing this will hit her the hardest. She’s always talked about wanting children. The idea that a “rule” could take her choice away is heartbreaking. Then again . . . maybe she was programmed to want children. How would we know the difference?

“Why sterile?” Brynn asks with a hitch in her voice. And it’s there that I hear it—the true pain. The way she looks at Marcella. She wanted a family, but the scientists purposely made her unable to give birth.

The doctor scowls like the question itself is disgusting. “Because soulless creatures can’t be allowed to breed,” he replies. “What kind of world would that be?”

“We’re not soulless,” I tell him.

“You were created by men in a lab, Philomena. Your brain has a microchip telling you when to feel pain or admiration. You have no soul. Destroy your brain, and you’re nothing.”

“To be fair,” Sydney says, starting to pace. “The same can be said about you, Doctor. You can’t live without your brain either.”

He sniffs a laugh but doesn’t argue her point.

“Truth is,” the doctor says to Brynn, “you were programmed to be a caretaker—that was your investors’ request. They thought you’d be more valuable that way. They already have several offers for your placement.”

Brynn looks like she’s going to be sick—sick at the idea that she doesn’t know which thoughts are hers and which belong to her programming.

The doctor turns to the rest of us.

“You all have your purpose,” he says, “your roles to fill. We find it’s simpler that way—a tailor-made girl for each investor.”

“And why not boys?” I ask. “Why create just girls?”

“You’re young, beautiful girls. You’re a commodity—a product. You’re nothing more than cattle. But a strong young man . . . That would be dangerous. That was determined pretty early on. They would have been a threat, not just for the competition with other men, but for a potential uprising. They were too volatile.”

“You think only boys know how to fight back?” I ask.

“Then you’ve seriously underestimated us,” Sydney adds, coming to stand next to me.

“I realize that,” the doctor allows. “But we’ll be sure to write this defiance out of your program. We should have done it the last time.” He picks up a pen from his desk to fidget with it. “You see,” he says, “the first girls we created were well-behaved. Obedient. Vapid, if I’m honest.” He frowns. “And because of that . . . lack of spirit”—he flourishes his fingers—“investors were bored. You can’t show off a boring granddaughter. You wouldn’t hang a mediocre piece of art in a museum. You can’t break a tamed horse.”