I’ve been awake for the last five minutes, but I'm not going to let anyone know that. Currently, there is at least one person in the room waiting for me to wake up--which I think is more than a little creepy. My plan is to pretend that I’m asleep for as long as I can so that I can possibly collect information on where I am by eavesdropping. They probably won’t directly tell me anything, so I might as well find out as much as I can now. The only problem? These guys are like mutes. So far, this is what I’ve heard:

1) Very soft flatulence.

2) Stomach-rumblings of a lunch-deprived person.

3) Tapping sounds of someone angry-texting on their phone.

I don’t think I can listen for much longer, though. Why? These geniuses decided to place me in the most uncomfortable position ever. They just sat me in a chair and tied up my hands with my head hanging like a sack of potatoes. Necks aren't made to withstand this amount of abuse.

You know what? Screw it. I lift my head. Oh, ow, ow, my neck . . . okay, ease into it. I reach up to massage my neck, but, of course, I’m tied up. I’m in what I would have to describe as the classic interrogation room. Why would they put a clueless, confuzzled teenager in a room like this? I have no idea. To my left is one of those classically unfair one-way windows. The surrounding walls are made of concrete blocks, and in front of me is—SHIT! My heart stops for a second and I have to force myself to not puke for the second time this morning. In front of me sits the body of a man who I swear was alive just one second ago. The body is slumped over in a chair. A phone lies softly clenched in cold, lifeless hands. No more stomach grumbles. No more flatulence. Just dead.

No, no, no, this is not happening. NO. Okay, I need to get myself out of here. Evaluate the situation. I twist around in the chair, but there's nothing behind me. What killed him? I slowly stand. Apparently, my captors weren’t smart enough to tie me to the chair, just dumb enough to tie my hands together with rope. I’ll bet he has a knife. I slowly approach the body, fighting nausea and terror. There, in his side pocket, I find keys. On the key ring, is a pocket knife.

After some painful twisting, I manage to saw the rope off with only a couple nicks on my wrist. I go for the gun next and pull it from the holster attached to the dead body’s belt. I have no idea how to use one. The only training I’ve ever had on gun handling is compliments to Chief Hopper from Stranger Things.

With shaking hands, I approach the door. The doorknob shines evilly in the harsh lighting of the room. I twist it slowly, only to find that it's locked—it needs one of those fancy key cards. Okay, it’s okay, I can deal with this. I turn back to the body. All I need is a key card. It’s all good. It’s fine, I can get it.

I stagger back towards the corpse and slip my hand into the suit's breast pocket just as the body falls out of the chair. It’s face bumps my shoulder and slides off to the side, and I realize that the shoulder of my hoodie is now wet. It’s blood. I know for sure that the body didn’t have any blood on it before. The blood definitely isn’t mine . . . which means . . . oh, God. Without touching anything, I kneel to look at the side of the corpse’s face that bumped into me.

Skin. The skin freaking peeled off his forehead! Like wet tissue paper. He’s diseased! I strip my hoodie off so that I’m just wearing just the shirt underneath and shove the key card I extracted from the suit pocket over the sensor. The sensor buzzes and blinks red. “Card deactivated.”

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Another idea forms.

The phone. The phone with the corpse. I’ll call the police. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I grab the phone and try to switch it on. All the comes up is an empty battery icon. NO! No, no, no. I can’t die. Not like this!

The room starts feels too small and all of a sudden, it's like I can’t breathe. I’m stuck here . . . .

The room starts to get fuzzy and dim. This is it.

***

Someone’s shaking me awake, rather impatiently I might add. Slowly, I open my eyes to see robot lady smiling down at me. Robot lady? What is she doing here?

“Congratulations,” she chirps, “You have passed the simulation test.”

What? Test? I suddenly remember the body and the interrogation room. “That was a test?”

She nods, almost smugly, and I feel an angry flush come to my cheeks. What the hell? She had no right to do that to me! I reach up to feel the contraption/simulator that put me through this so-called “test”. “Get me out of here!”

She slowly lifts the contraption off my head and I leap out of the chair. That little piece of shi--I spot a glass of water sitting next to the chair. Is she resistant to water? I grab the glass and fling it at her with all my might.

She staggers backward a little, before catching herself and muttering something like, “Just had my yearly dent removal servicing.” I guess she is water repellant. Damn.

She fixes her eyes on me and says, “Darling, you know, robots have feelings too.”

“Sure they do.”

“Alright, well, you’ve passed. So, you’re officially enrolled here.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“I’ll send someone to pick you up at 6 AM sharp tomorrow.” Wait, what! How early did that mean I would have to wake up!

“D-do you expect me to just walk back home now?”

“No, you might as well acquaint yourself with the person that will be driving you. Who will also, by the way, be your classmate. See? I can be nice when I want to. She will drive you home tonight, and you can make your first official friend!” She walks out the door and someone else—a girl about my age—walks in. I feel myself immediately relax. I’m not alone!

The girl faces me fully and looks at me with something resembling disgust. Maybe I am alone . . . .

“So you're the newbie?”

I nod mutely.

“Listen, just because I’m driving you around doesn’t mean we’re friends. In fact, it’s the opposite. I got saddled with the job of babysitting you without my consent.”

So much for making friends. She rolls her eyes walks out the door. It takes me a total of thirty seconds to realize that I’m supposed to have followed her. I run out of the room, only to find that she was waiting for me outside the room that whole time. Great. Now I looked like an idiot.

She starts walking again, curls bouncing. Her hair consists of the springiest, tightest, yet most tidy curls I have ever seen, and the ends of her hair are dyed blue. Wow, I have straight hair and I still have a hard time managing it. This is a girl that’s in control. Over everything. Including her hair. Damn, respect.

The car ride home is quiet, and neither of us makes a move to talk. I find myself taking advantage of the silence, just to try to absorb what’s happened within the last couple of hours. What have I been dragged into?

About fifteen minutes later, we reach my house, and I realize that they just allowed me to see how to get to and from their facility. A sign of trust.

“Get out. We’re here.”

Slowly, I step out of the car and I spot my brother hiding behind the bushes.

“You can’t tell anyone about us,” the girl says.

“I never said I’d join.”

Her eyes flick to the giggling form of my brother in the bushes, and her eyes soften just a bit, “You will.”

I slam the car door shut, and the car pulls away. My legs move on their own towards the door and the rest of me follows in a daze. A rustle in the bushes snaps me out of it. Right, I had a job to do as an older sister. “Hmm . . . I wonder, has Jemmy disappeared? Is he hiding? Where is he?” I turn exaggeratedly around in a circle. Another giggle rings out from the bushes and Jem jumps out, clad in his monster truck T-shirt, and screams, “Here I am!”

I gasp and clutch my heart, “Oh my goodness! Jemmy, you scared me!”

“I’m back from the field trip! Did you miss me?”

“What, miss you? Never!” I laugh and guide him inside.

It was then I knew that yes, I would join.