I scan the room. The clean, cushy bed smells like meadow flowers. The sheets are so white they hurt my eyes. The white walls have no cracking plaster, no clumps of black mold growing in the corners. Behind me something’s beeping. There’s a black screen with scrolling squiggly green and red lines that appears to be a working computer. My eyes shift up to the overhead lights, blazing bright with electricity.

A quiet panic grows in my chest. I rip the sheet down and search my abdomen for the gunshot wound. Last I saw, a bright red pool was spreading through my shirt. Now I’m wearing a clean white gown. I probe my stomach with my fingers and feel the dull soreness. I hike up the gown and find a clean white bandage. I’ve had medical attention. Good medical attention. There’s only one place I could’ve had medical attention like this.

With my breath hitching in my chest, I roll my palm up to reveal the skin of my forearm. Three inches from my wrist I find the brand, a cross with a head on it. The ankh. The Breeder’s mark.

My head buzzes. Oh god, no.

Before the terror can grip me, the door slides open and in waddles a girl. A girl? She’s got blonde curly hair done up in a pink bow at the top of her head. Her white hospital gown billows around her plump body and her red cheeks throw off a heated glow. She waddles over with a dimpled smile on her chubby cheeks. When she turns to lower herself into the chair by my bed, I see why she waddles. She’s eight months pregnant.

This is all wrong.

“Well, it’s about time you woke up, puddinhead. I’ve been waiting for days.” The girl smiles at me like we’re long lost friends. “They had you on some whopper drugs while they fixed you up. How did you get shot, by the way?” She cocks her head and blinks at me in a way that reminds me of a curious pup.

I sit up, ignoring the flare of pain from my wound. “Where are we?”

“Oh dear. Got the brain wipe, eh? Too bad. Well, at least you won’t know what you’re missing.” She leans over and snags the bread roll on the tray by my bed. “You gonna eat this?” She stuffs it in her mouth.

The electric lights. The pregnant girl. The Breeder’s mark. Terror floods my brain until I’m choking on it. I yank off the sticky pads connected to wires on my chest. The monitors next to my bed go wild.

“You shouldn’t do that!” the girl says. “Dr. Rayburn’s not going to like that!”