It wasn’t my medical history.

It wasn’t my current injuries, or lack thereof.

It wasn’t my answers to Dr. Begbie’s questions.

It was a note, and it read: New CC was testing for undetected Ys, Os, Rs. Your bad reaction means that they know you aren’t G. Unless you do exactly as I say, they will kill you tomorrow.

My hands were shaking. I had to set the clipboard down in my lap to read the rest.

I can get you out. Take the two pills under this note before bed, but don’t let the PSFs see you. If you don’t, will keep your secret, but I can’t protect you while you’re in here. Destroy this.

It was signed, A friend, if you’d like.

I read the note one more time before I ripped it out from under the metal clip and shoved it in my mouth. It tasted like the bread they served us for lunch.

The pills were in a tiny clear bag clipped on top of my real medical chart. Scrawled in Dr. Begbie’s dismal handwriting was the note, Subject 3285 hit her head against the ground and lost consciousness. Nose was fractured when Subject 3286 elbowed her. Possible concussion.

My eyes were itching to look up, to peer into the black eye of the camera, but I didn’t let myself. I took the pills and shoved them into the standard-issue sports bra the camp controllers had bestowed on us when they realized fifteen hundred teenage girls weren’t going to stay twelve and flat forever. I didn’t know what I was doing; I really didn’t. My heart was racing so fast that for a moment I couldn’t get any air.

Why had Dr. Begbie done this to me? She knew I wasn’t Green, but she had covered it up, lied on the report—was this just a trick? To see if I would incriminate myself?

I pressed my face into my hands. The packet of pills burned against my skin.

…they will kill you tomorrow.

Why did they even bother to wait? Why not take me out to the buses and shoot me now? Isn’t that what they did with the others? The Yellows, Oranges, and Reds? They killed them, because they were too dangerous.

I am too dangerous.

I didn’t know how to use my abilities. I wasn’t like the other Oranges, who could spout off commands or slip nasty little thoughts into other people’s minds. I had all of the power, and none of the control—all of the pain, and none of the benefits.

From what I’d been able to figure out, I had to touch someone for my abilities to take hold, and even then…it was more like I was glimpsing their thoughts, rather than screwing with them. I’d never tried to push a thought into someone else’s head, and it wasn’t like I’d had the opportunity or the desire to try. Every slip of the mind, intentional or not, left my head a jumble of thoughts and images, words and pain. It took hours to feel like myself again.