092124-01-10mu

That wasn’t true. My mother had told me I was brilliant. She had said, “The world needs people who see what isn’t there.”

I wanted to argue. But arguing was what got me here. Three weeks ago, I stood up in a community meeting and said, “The sky is not a ceiling. It is a wound.” That was enough. In the old world, that was poetry. In the new world, it was a symptom. 092124-01-10mu

I looked down at my bracelet. . Four more days until the tenth. Day seven: I pretended to take the injection. Hid the vial in my sleeve. In the resonance chamber, I recited the official memories perfectly—flat, obedient, dead. Dr. Venn nodded. “Improvement,” she said. That wasn’t true

“Who is this?” I whispered.