Chapter 3

                                    

                                          
I stare at the door knob, torn between exhaustion and dread. The house seems so big now that there's only me, but at the same time it feels crowded. Everywhere I turn there's a memory waiting to jab pointy little claws into my chest. The dance studio, once my safe haven, is no better. There, I'm surrounded by overbearingly compassionate parents and tiny ballerinas asking me repeatedly where Madame is and when she's coming back. 
                          
Ruthlessly forcing down tears, I turn the knob and step inside. Emily, the studio manager, waves me into the office just inside the front door. She sits surrounded by charts representing teacher availability, apparently scheduling classes for the next month. I walk in and drop onto the floor next to her, rubbing my eyes tiredly. Emily peers worriedly over her glasses at me with pursed lips, clearly trying to resist commenting.
                          
	"I was thinking you could try giving this a shot," she says instead, indicating the schedules. "Get some practice."
                          
	"Isn't that what we pay you for?" I ask wearily, then immediately feel terrible. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong. But seriously, you do a great job. Why mess with it?"
                          
	"Because I might not always be here to do it, sweetie," she says. "And may I remind you that I was also paid to change your diapers once upon a time. I did a great job at that, too. That didn't stop you from learning to wipe your own ass."
                          
	"Are you—you're not quitting, are you?" I sit up straighter in surprise.
                          
	"Of course not," Emily assures me, patting my knee. "But this is your business now, and you need to know how to run it."
                          
	"Okay," I sigh. "Let me just go take a shower and change. Can we eat while we work?"
                          
	"Girl, please. This is, like, my fourth plate of lasagna."
                          
	I smile in spite of myself. "Keep it up. There are two more mystery casseroles in the fridge."
                          
	 "Bring it on," Emily says cheerfully. "And hurry up. I gotta be out of here by six."
                          
***
                          
I stare dully at the creepy, gnarled forest, letting my eyes drift over the bare, twisted branches and bracken obscured by mist. Everything looks dead. Everything feels dead. There's no sound but that of the wagons rumbling along and the clop-clop of the horses' feet. There are no birds singing, no squirrels rustling in the brush. Even the guards are silent. 
                          
Everything is muted and empty and lonely. As far as I can remember, I'm not exactly a nature expert, but even I can tell it isn't right. Something should be alive and making noise. I wonder if it has something to do with the clearing where I woke up.
                          
	Maybe it's some kind of experiment, maybe something chemical, that's screwing with the ecology of the forest. I remember gruesome stories my grandmother told me of the medical experiments performed by Nazis and wonder if I've been kidnapped to be some kind of test subject. If that's the case, surely someone will come looking. The police, the FBI...someone. But if this is all some sick experiment, who are the experimenters and what are they hoping to accomplish? What do they want from me?
                          
			* 			 *			 *
                          
I lie curled on my side like a shrimp with the thin hospital sheets pulled over my head to keep out the light. It hurts my eyes. I can hear Emily arguing with the doctor. He tells her he wants to test for neurosyphilis. Emily says it's impossible, that there's no way I could have been exposed to it--I would have been a little kid, for God's sake.The doctor says that it would explain my symptoms. What symptoms? I don't understand. I'm confused. Now they're talking about abuse--Abuse, with a capital "A." Why? I wish the doctor would leave. I need to talk to Emily. I need to tell her that they're trying to hurt me.
                          
			*			 *			 *
                          
It seems like every time I close my eyes, I'm bombarded by memories. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason or pattern. Some are from childhood, most are more recent. Only a few are actually useful in terms of figuring out how I came to be here. 
                          
	I want so badly to ask the others if they're trying to piece their memories together, too. What if one of them knows what's happened? What if someone could tell me if only I had a voice to ask? The thought drives me wild. 
                          
I prod the woman next to me and mouth words, gesticulating as expressively as I can in the cramped quarters. She stares at me and shrugs helplessly. I try again. This time she rolls her eyes and looks away. Across the wagon, a girl catches my eye then looks away quickly, like she's embarrassed for me. Most just stare, some sympathetically, some pityingly. Many look annoyed, especially those within range of my flailing hands.
                          
	Exhausted by my efforts, I withdraw into myself, slipping back into the hazy half-consciousness that seems to be more the rule than the exception. I don't know how much time passes, but it's full night and the moon is up by the time I become aware again. We've stopped and the guards have started a fire. In the dim light I can see all the faces in the wagon turned longingly toward it. I'm sure it's nowhere near freezing, but without clothes and suffering from nausea and dehydration and hunger and whatever strange sickness has stolen my voice and memory, it certainly feels that way.
                          
	We huddle against each other, all sense of modesty long forgotten. It could be worse, I tell myself. Those up against the bars are exposed to the cold and probably in real danger of getting hypothermia. Not that I have any idea at all how cold you have to be to get hypothermia, child of suburbia that I am—or was, or imagine myself to be.
                          
	I picture myself burrowing into a small but comfortable bed with the patchwork blanket pulled up to my ears, and the image is so vivid, I think it might be a memory. I try to hold onto it, but all I get for my trouble is an even keener awareness of how cold I am. I shiver in short bursts: I shake violently, then stop, my muscles locked as if in protest against the cold, then start again. Every once in a while—usually just as I've convinced myself that it definitely can't get any worse—the wind kicks up and we all press closer together to escape its bite.
                          
	 I lose all sense of time as the night wears on. I'm eaten up by misery, completely unable to think of anything except how cold I am. It isn't until I find myself looking for patterns in the freckles on the shoulders of the lady in front of me that I realize the sun is coming up and the guards who aren't on duty are stirring. 
                          
Once awake, the guards move quickly, breaking down their camp and shoving pieces of bread and cheese into their mouths as they go. We all watch intently, eyes fastened on the food. I lick my lips, wondering if maybe today will be the day we're allowed to eat.
                          
	As the sun climbs higher in the sky, my muscles gradually loosen and, paradoxically, begin to cramp and twitch. I breathe slowly through clenched teeth until the muscle spasms pass. I'm no stranger to physical pain--no dancer is--but I hate not being able to do anything about it. 
                          
I slump against the person next to me. I don't care that one woman's elbow is poking me in the diaphragm or that another one is puffing her warm, stinking breath over my face or that both of them have the worst body odor I've ever encountered. Instead, I count myself lucky. I could be at the edge of the cage, crushed against the bars.
                          
	I want so badly to sleep, but physical discomfort and apprehension keep me awake. The crooked branches overhead cast eerie shadows on the road and serve as a constant reminder that I'm not where I'm supposed to be. I inspect the guards as they ride by, wondering at their primitive gear. They wear swords and knives and carry spears, none of which seems to suggest neo-Nazi medical experiments. 
                          
What is this, some kind of militant Renaissance Fair? The thought makes me snort in spite of myself, and suddenly the whole situation seems totally ridiculous. I have to be dreaming, or hallucinating. There's no way this is real. No way. I close my eyes.