There’s little else here but a single bed and the figure strapped into it. The beeping is coming not from three machines, but seven, all of which seem to be affixed to the unconscious body of a boy. I don’t know him, but he can’t be much older than I am. His hair is cropped close to his scalp, a soft buzz of brown interrupted only by the wires drilled into his skull. There’s a sheet pulled up to his neck, so I can’t see much more than his resting face, but the sight of him there, strapped down like that, reminds me of something.

A flash of memory flares through me.

It’s vague, distorted. I try to peel back the hazy layers, but when I manage a glimpse of something—a cave, a tall black man, a tank full of water—I feel a sharp, electrifying sting of rage that leaves my hands shaking. It unmoors me.

I take a jerky step back and shake my head a fraction of an inch, trying to compose myself, but my mind feels foggy, confused. When I finally pull myself together, I realize Anderson is watching me.

Slowly, he takes a step forward, his eyes narrowed in my direction. He says nothing, but I feel, without knowing why, exactly, that I’m not allowed to look away. I’m supposed to maintain eye contact for as long as he wants. It’s brutal.

“You felt something when you walked in here,” he says.

It’s not a question. I’m not sure it requires an answer. Still—

“Nothing of consequence, sir.”

“Consequence,” he says, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. He takes a few steps toward one of the massive windows, clasps his hands behind his back. For a while, he’s silent.

“So interesting,” he says finally. “That we never did discuss consequences.”

Fear slithers, creeps up my spine.

He’s still staring out the window when he says softly, “You will not withhold anything from me. Everything you feel, every emotion you experience—it belongs to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You felt something when you walked in here,” he says again. This time, his voice is heavy with something, something dark and terrifying.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what was it?”

“I felt anger, sir.”

He turns around at that. Raises his eyebrows.

“After anger, I felt confusion.”

“But anger,” he says, stepping toward me. “Why anger?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Do you recognize this boy?” he says, pointing at the prone body without even looking at it.

“No, sir.”

“No.” His jaw clenches. “But he reminds you of someone.”

I hesitate. Tremors threaten, and I will them away. Anderson’s gaze is so intense I can hardly meet his eyes.

I glance again at the boy’s sleeping face.

“Yes, sir.”

Anderson’s eyes narrow. He waits for more.

“Sir,” I say quietly. “He reminds me of you.”

Unexpectedly, Anderson goes still. Surprise rearranges his expression and suddenly, startlingly—

He laughs.

It’s a laugh so genuine it seems to shock him even more than it shocks me. Eventually, the laughter settles into a smile. Anderson shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the window frame. He stares at me with something resembling fascination, and it’s such a pure moment, a moment so untainted by malice that he strikes me, suddenly, as beautiful.

More than that.

The sight of him—something about his eyes, something about the way he moves, the way he smiles— The sight of him suddenly stirs something in my heart. Ancient heat. A kaleidoscope of dead butterflies kicked up by a brief, dry gust of wind.

It leaves me feeling sick.

The stony look returns to his face. “That. Right there.” He draws a circle in the air with his index finger. “That look on your face. What was that?”

My eyes widen. Unease floods through me, heating my cheeks.

For the first time, I falter.

He moves swiftly, charging toward me so angrily I wonder at my ability to remain steady. Roughly, he takes my chin in his hand, tilts up my face. There are no secrets here, this close to him. I can hide nothing.

“Now,” he says, his voice low. Angry. “Tell me now.”

I break eye contact, trying desperately to gather my thoughts, and he barks at me to look at him.

I force myself to meet his eyes. And then I hate myself, hate my mouth for betraying my mind. Hate my mind for thinking at all.

“You— You are extremely handsome, sir.”

Anderson drops his hand like he’s been burned. He backs away, looking, for the first time—

Uncomfortable.

“Are you—” He stops, frowns. And then, too soon, anger clouds his expression. His voice is practically a growl when he says, “You are lying to me.”

“No, sir.” I hate the sound of my voice, the breathy panic.

His eyes sharpen. He must see something in my expression that gives him pause, because the anger evaporates from his face.

He blinks at me.

Then, carefully, he says: “In the middle of all of this”— he waves around the room, at the sleeping figure hooked up to the machines—“of all the things that could be going through your mind, you were thinking . . . that you find me attractive.”

A traitorous heat floods my face. “Yes, sir.”

Anderson frowns.

He seems about to say something, and then hesitates. For the first time, he seems unmoored.

A few seconds of tortured silence stretch between us, and I’m not sure how best to proceed.

“This is unsettling,” Anderson finally says, and mostly to himself. He presses two fingers to the inside of his wrist, and lifts his wrist to his mouth.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Tell Max there’s been an unusual development. I need to see him at once.”

Anderson spares me a brief glance before dismissing, with a single shake of his head, the entire mortifying exchange.

He stalks toward the boy strapped down on the bed and says, “This young man is part of an ongoing experiment.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing.

Anderson bends over the boy, toying with various wires, and then stiffens, suddenly. Looks up at me out of the corner of his eye. “Can you imagine why this boy is part of an experiment?”

“No sir.”

“He has a gift,” Anderson says, straightening. “He came to me voluntarily and offered to share it with me.”

I blink, still uncertain how to respond.

“But there are many of you—Unnaturals—running wild on this planet,” Anderson says. “So many powers. So many different abilities. Our asylums are teeming with them, overrun with power. I have access to nearly anything I want. So what makes him special, hmm?” He tilts his head at me. “What power could he possibly have that would be greater than yours? More useful?”

Again, I say nothing.

“Do you want to know?” he asks, a hint of a smile touching his lips.

This feels like a trick. I consider my options.

Finally, I say, “I want to know only if you want to tell me, sir.”

Anderson’s smile blooms. White teeth. Genuine pleasure.

I feel my chest warm at his quiet praise. Pride straightens my shoulders. I avert my eyes, staring quietly at the wall.