Chapter Five

Marco Aldana was a military brat. Not that I knew that from talking to him myself, but I overheard him talking to Ken on the plane as we flew to get our last group member. He shared that he'd grown up on military bases because his dad had been in the Marines since before he was born. He had no idea why he was chosen to be part of our group when there were two other kids in the hospital on base with him who had also tried to kill themselves that week. His best guess was because their attempts hadn't been as serious as his or maybe because they still had a father at home. The last part got my attention, but he didn't elaborate and Ken didn't ask any more questions about it.

I could see his face through the space between the seats in front of me and I watched him as he spoke. Marco's olive skin was smooth and his dark brown eyes were serious as he talked to Ken in the seat next to him. Every once in a while I could hear a little bit of an accent slip in and I wondered where it came from, and if it only showed up from time to time because he never got to stay anywhere long enough for one to really stick. He turned for a second and caught my eye and I looked down, not wanting to have to join their conversation.

The last flight was quick, and we pulled up outside a hospital somewhere in Florida while it was still before noon there. Dr. Crimm let us know that we could have something good to eat when we got to our final stop. We'd been offered food each time we'd gotten on the plane, but I hadn't seen anyone eat anything. The five of us followed Dr. Crimm up to a small waiting room on the third floor. "Wait in here for me. I'll be right out." She slipped her coat on and transformed herself into a doctor again.

Marco waited for her to leave and then moved to the door to watch as she made her way down the hall to the patient rooms. "Come on," he told us. He waved his hand in front of the sensor and opened the door. Damien took a seat in an open chair.

"And then what?" he asked.

"We'll figure it out." Marco said confidently.

Damien shook his head, staring down at his feet. "I'm tired. I don't have friends here and my parents won't want me to come home. You guys go on ahead. I'll take my chances with the crazy doctor. At least I'm out of my town." He folded his arms over his chest and slouched into his seat, closing his eyes and slowly rocking himself forward and back. Marco looked to Ken.

"I'm just going to slow you down. Where the fuck can I go with a broken leg?" He looked pointedly down at his cast. Marco moved his eyes to Shima and I. Shima looked away but remained planted in her seat. I just shrugged. I certainly wasn't going to run away with a boy in a state I knew practically nothing about.

"None of you are the least bit suspicious of this lady? She made a few calls and suddenly the military is handing me over, practically pushing me out the front gates they've been trying their hardest to keep me in for the last seventeen years. None of that seems odd to you? You're just going to sit here and wait for her to get another one of us to fly to God only knows where?" He looked around the room but none of us made any move to answer his questions. Damien didn't even open his eyes. "Fine." His tone was sharp and it was the first time I felt a small hint of the anger I'd learn he had brewing beneath that calm exterior. He moved to an open seat and huffed as he sat down, his leg bouncing with pent-up energy.

Marco reached for the old TV remote on the chair beside him. The screen lit up and a menu displayed our viewing options. He deftly chose the news and the sound of a large crowd could be heard behind a newscaster on scene outside a courthouse.

"This is Phil Chen on location. A crowd has gathered here in support of young Braden Ertz. Many believe he was wrongfully convicted of the murder of his fifteen-year-old high school sweetheart, Elsa Petran. Earlier today we were shocked to hear that Ertz has asked that all legal counsel be dismissed, as he does not desire to fight his execution, and in fact would like to be prescribed the controversial suicide pill, Repose7." Phil stepped back so the camera could show the large group of protestors.

"This of course would be a very controversial ruling by Judge Coates. In this country, there has been only a handful of condemned prisoners who have requested their cases not move forward with the mandatory appeals. It is very unlikely that Ertz's request will be granted. However, many of you may remember that Texas was at one time the state that issued the most death sentences per year. It was also the first to allow its condemned prisoners to end their lives with Repose7 after a long court battle fought on behalf of prisoners' rights. Many legal analysts believe that Judge Coates might grant Ertz the right to end his own life, which could potentially lay the groundwork for lowering the age of consent in the Right to Die laws."

Marco leaned forward in his chair, studying the images of Braden and Elsa displayed on the screen. "Do you think he did it?" he asked us.

"A jury found him guilty so he must have, right?" Ken answered.

"Innocent people are wrongfully incarcerated all the time. Haven't you heard of the Innocence Project?" Marco asked. He didn't wait for a response. "Everything was circumstantial evidence. For the life of me I can't see how a jury could give him the death penalty. How could they be that sure?"

Damien didn't open his eyes; he just shook his head. "It's Texas. Their laws about capital punishment have always been convoluted. Two of the twelve jurors have already come forward with complaints that they misunderstood the judge's directions for deliberation. The rules that restrict what the judge is allowed to instruct may have caused confusion with the jurors, which lead them to believe they had to vote in favor of Ertz getting the death penalty instead of a life sentence without the possibility of parole."

Those of us who had only been passively listening were now captivated by the story. Shima softly added, "But he isn't fighting it. Maybe he's lying about not being able to remember. Maybe he just feels guilty for doing it."

"He's passed every test they've given him," Marco said. "He threw up on the day they went over the autopsy in court. He is suffering from major depression and they are forcing him to take medication for it. When they asked his lawyer why he wants to stop fighting his execution his lawyer said he told him he couldn't live with the answer either way. All the evidence points to him being there when it happened, so either he couldn't stop the girl he loved from being killed by a horrible monster, or he was the horrible monster."

A silence fell over our group as we contemplated the words of a condemned peer. His internal struggle wasn't unfamiliar. I'd been battling my own monster. Sometimes she would be outside me in the taunts of my classmates and the slurs written on the walls of the hallways I had to walk. But maybe she was the fiercest when she came from within, dripping with my insecurities and self-loathing, rising up from the dark places where I tried to keep my secrets. I think if we look back at our lives we'll all find times when we don't recognize ourselves, those moments when we were at our weakest and the monster overshadowed us.

***

Aideen Delany's parents must have been the hardest to convince. It took the doctor at least thirty minutes before she returned to the waiting room with a pale girl with the brightest and most beautiful red hair I'd ever seen. She had the perfect splattering of freckles across her cheeks and delicate pale pink lips. Her eyes were blue—wasn't that supposed to be rare for a redheaded person? That in itself made her special. Those blue eyes, however, were having a hard time staying open. She was very thin, and even though she had a sheen of sweat on her forehead, she was holding tightly to a sweater wrapped around her middle.

"Let's get going," Dr. Crimm said to us. "This is Aideen Delany and you can all get to know her a little better tonight when she's more present." Aideen rolled her eyes and laughed without humor. The rest of us stood from our seats and made our way out of the small room and back down the hall. I already knew the SUV would be waiting.

Shima and Aideen slept the entire flight to New York. I watched them, somewhat envious of their ability to sleep so freely. I hadn't had a restful night's sleep in a long time. Aideen was the only one of us to come with medication. Maybe the others had something they were taking, too, but it must not have been as urgent as what she was on. Dr. Crimm set a timer on her phone and tucked the pill containers into her pocket. I wondered if it was the medicine that made her that sleepy.

When we finally landed at the busy airport, I felt a sense of dread. I didn't want to do any more "work" on getting better. I wanted either to be better right now or be dead. I didn't think there was anything anyone could say that would make everything all right in my head. I'd already made up my mind that I couldn't go on living this way so the thought of being stuck in a group having to have information extracted from me—and that's exactly what it would be because I wasn't going to let it spill freely—was like considering torture. No thank you.

As the SUV rounded the corner we could see the crowd of protestors lining both sides of the long laneway. The R2L building stood out, sleek and modern in a landscape of old but noble buildings. I'd seen it on the news many times over the past few years. There wasn't a person alive that didn't know about its owners and the story of their son. Some people raise awareness and funds in their time of grief, others—like the Wilkinsons—raise skyscrapers and beacons that call to the world's most educated scientists. The R2L building was like a lighthouse, calling out to those who still believed in suicide prevention like a signal over the churning and rising sea of adamant Right to Die advocates.

The SUV slowly approached the building, the driver honking to warn the crowd spilling over into the narrow drive that lead to the gated parking lot. It didn't happen often, but a few times a year there would be a story of a protester who sacrificed themselves for their cause. In 2032 a law was passed exonerating driver from responsibility if a protester was struck while blocking the road. I held my breath as we inched closer to the tall beacon and through the roaring crowd.

Angry fists pounded the windows and the loud thud of rocks could be heard as they bounced off the metal exterior. I took in as many signs as I could, noting the contempt the protesters had for the work being done at the site and the rights they felt were being violated just by the existence of a company seeking to prolong the life of an individual who had expressed a desire to die. One sign in particular caught my eye. The sign had old back and white photos of women burned at the stake, then patients strapped with straightjackets, slouched in their seats, and many more of pills spilled out from canisters.

The whole thing reminded me of what I was taught during my psych class in school. The small two-dimensional images of inpatient psychiatric hospitals, the rise of prescription antidepressants and then stimulants, grainy pictures of group homes for drug addicts and the separation of male and female bathrooms. I'm always shocked that my great-grandparents' generation could look at segregated water fountains and feel ashamed for our country's history of racism, but then turn around and fight against family restrooms based on the idea we were all born firmly and without any variance into only two genders.

I caught myself wondering what our children would fight for, but then realized as I stared out the dirty windows at the pulsing crowd that this, right here, was our fight. The battle to choose our own fate—to decide when enough was enough. I turned my head away when a particularly gruesome image of a hanged man appeared on poster of a young boy. Only the other side of this protest was just as passionate about their stance. A delicate palm slapped the window and the protestor shook their sign full of statistics, showing the rapid speed with which we were losing our youth.

I remember reading once that the connection between the frontal lobe and the rest of our brain is one of the last things to develop. We need that connection to make logical decisions and to slow down the impulsiveness of our youth, but it doesn't happen until we're near the end of our teenage years, and for some not until they are well into their twenties. Our laws looked at the number of years outside the womb instead of the moment when every connection had been made. That task would be impossible because we are always growing and creating new neuropathways. But because of that need to draw a line in the sand and call someone an adult versus calling them a child, one segment of our population was hit the hardest by Repose7 and the Right to Die laws. It was us—we were the ones who fell in between. So maybe I was asking myself the wrong question. At this rate it wouldn't be What will our children be fighting for? It was more a question of who would be left to fight at all.

The SUV rolled forward and the crowd swallowed up the woman. I glanced around at the others in the vehicle with me. We were all watching the protesters, each with a look of wonder and fear as messages played out in bright, vivid clarity just outside our reach. Outside, the chants and screams were deafening. There's a desperation that takes over when you can stare the resisters to your ideas in the eye as they stand across from you, equally as passionate about their views. We rocked as fists and palms slapped greedily against our windows and music blared from speakers on both sides.

I was starting to feel the world close in on me again. I hated attention, and being at the center of this impassioned storm made my thoughts race uncontrollably like earrings dropped accidentally into a sink. No matter how quick I was to try and snatch them back, I was powerless to do anything but watch them roll and accelerate around the bowl until they fell into the dark hole and were lost forever. I pinched my eyes shut and drew in a deep breath.

The chanting faded as we drove further down the narrow road and it became clear at some point we had reached the line in the property where public turned to private and protesters were no longer able to camp out. I waited until the vehicle stopped moving before I cracked open one eye to survey our new position. A high metal gate stretched across the road in front of us. Dr. Crimm's window rolled down and she pressed her hand against the screen outside our car until the gates began to part.

The SUV proceeded toward the main building and pulled up in front of the glass doors. Our close proximity to the entrance allowed us to see the Right to Life company logo in simple black print. We all got out and stretched our legs and backs while Ken pulled himself from his seat and lowered his body into his wheelchair. He'd been offered plenty of help, all of which he briskly turned down.

Dr. Crimm stepped away to stand beneath the tiny camera perched in the corner of the entryway. She reached out and pressed a small button beneath the camera and a soothing chime was heard as the doors buzzed open to reveal a stark white lobby. Once inside the building, a faint suction sound alerted us to the door closing behind us, shutting us in. The receptionist at the front desk greeted us with a warm smile, but the mood had already shifted now that we felt trapped again.

I looked around the stark entryway and noticed that there were cameras in every corner. To our left was a door with a screen, this one displaying happy images of people on the beach and strolling through the park. To the right was a matching door, its screen a constant feed of clouds floating across a beautiful blue sky. The R2L logo was inconspicuously placed in the bottom corner. A plate beneath the screen boldly labeled the door for staff only. There were no other ways out of the room. I turned my attention back to the shiny white podium and desk that spanned the length of the back wall.

"Hello Dr. Crimm," the woman behind the counter welcomed us. Her hair was pulled back off her face and twisted into a tight bun on top of her head. She looked only a few years older than me, but her neatly pressed uniform made her look professional and dignified as she slid her finger across the screen in front of her and then stood. "We have the rooms all set up." She turned her attention to us. "There are several changes of clothes, fresh sheets, and towels, of course." She checked her screen and then continued, "Lunch is being served in ten minutes." She smiled and pointed to the door as another chime rang out in the nearly empty room.

The door to our left opened and the chiming stopped. I looked back to the woman and she smiled at me reassuringly, gesturing in the direction of the open door. I made my way through with the rest of the group and we slowly walked the length of the hallway, taking in the shiny floor and bright lights glowing from the ceiling panels. Above us the screens seemed to bleed into each other, images of white fluffy clouds floating past the clear blue sky and the hint of sunshine just out of view. We stopped near the end of the hall and Dr. Crimm turned to us. "Girls, this is your room. We are going to have a short meeting and then you will have lunch. After that you will be free to get comfortable in your room." She turned and continued down the hall a few steps. "Boys, this room is yours."

Three neatly made beds were pushed up against the outermost wall. A small bookcase held paperback books and I immediately wanted to reach for one. How long had it been since I held one in my hand? Must have been in third grade. Now I read everything on my phone or tablet late into the night when my eyes felt too tired to focus on the brightly lit background of a screen. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to remember what it felt like to turn the pages of a book made of paper—one of life's simple pleasures that somehow we lost when we were racing to make things more convenient and available. My great-grandmother worked at a bookstore in high school, and her grandchild, my mother, was now in charge of marketing for one of the leading digital-only imprints of a large publisher.

The boys' room looked just like ours. I didn't like the idea of being so close to them, but then again I didn't like the whole idea of this place.

"We will respect your privacy here." Dr. Crimm moved over to the screen mounted on the wall beside what looked like a nurses' station just outside the boys' room. She entered a six digit code and then scrolled through a  menu she had unlocked. "I'll need you each to store your passcode. It will be the key to get into your room." She motioned for Damien to join her first. He was reluctant, but stepped up beside her and waited as she entered some information. Finally, he entered a code.

We each took a turn entering our secret codes into the system. I let my eyes wander around the hallway as I waited for the others. No one was asking questions; maybe they felt the same way I did, like all of this was too much to take in at once, and composing a question didn't seem like a significant enough move to make any dent in our deficit of information. I'd been trying to go unnoticed for so long, being contained in a small area made me feel anxious and uneasy.

I'd have to figure out a way to feel safe tonight after we ate. My stomach growled for the first time since it was pumped. We followed the doctor down the hall to the last room. She opened the door and the lights, which had been dimmed to save energy, were brought to life with our appearance and began to glow brightly. When we were all inside, Dr. Crimm allowed the door to shut behind us. 

There were chairs stacked in one corner and Dr. Crimm made her way over and began taking them down. We each took one and formed a circle. To me, the bare white walls seemed loud even in their silence, the ebony floor beneath our feet reminding me that everything white and pure would one day be met with darkness. A small fisheye-lens camera stared out at us, a reminder that we were being watched. Sweat drenched my palms. Would we have no privacy? Would our every move be tracked? My hunger was chased away by anxiety and my stomach rolled into a tight knot beneath my ribs.

Dr. Crimm took a seat in one of the empty chairs. All eyes had lifted to hers, but many of them had now fallen away and she took a moment to look at each of our faces whether we could look at her or not. It was as if she was trying to merge our physical images with the medical information she held in those files on her tablet. I watched her closely, trying to figure out exactly who she was and what her role in our treatment would be. She sure didn't act like a doctor when she was with us.

We shifted in our seats and tried not to look at each other. Dr. Crimm leaned forward and cleared her throat, setting the stage for an important announcement. "I'm going to give you an opportunity to change your lives. It's a gift that many do not receive. Suicide is the leading cause of death for Americans aged eighteen to twenty-one. Before Repose7, one in five young adults in that age group died by suicide each year. That number has now more than tripled, reaching three out of five in the last year. The six of you were lucky. Next time you probably won't be, and certainly not if you choose to take Repose7 once you are of legal age."

She didn't mention the ones who were lucky enough to get their hands on Repose7 before they reached the legal age. At one time, methamphetamines and heroine had been the drugs parents feared and lawmakers attempted to contain when it came to the distribution of illegal substances to minors. America had waged a "War on Drugs" to try and combat the rise of illicit drugs that found their way into the hands of teens because fear of accidental overdose or lifelong addiction were the worst things they could think of happening. Two years after Repose7 was cleared by the FDA, the number of medically assisted suicides was double that of accidental overdoses, and the rehabs that had once had waiting lists struggled to convince teens to enter treatment after relapse because looking at a lifelong addiction made choosing Repose7 seem like a better option.

Her words ignited a feeling of guilt in my gut and it churned like a stormy sea beneath my ribs. She said I was lucky, but I felt anything but. I would give anything to give my chair to some other teen. Maybe a girl who had a rough breakup with a boyfriend and thought her world was ending, or a boy who didn't make some sports team and couldn't bear to face his peers would appreciate a second chance. Maybe they would have woken up grateful for the opportunity to see life from recovered eyes, having passed their worst moment with only healing ahead. I was marked forever. I couldn't shed my shame like an old boyfriend or bury it like a list of names on a classroom door.

"I know that you don't want to be here, but I'm hoping this group can help you to start healing," Dr. Crimm continued, and Shima unconsciously reached for her wrist. Did she want this second chance? She couldn't even look at us so I doubted she was ready to jump back into the life she had tried to flee.

Dr. Crimm leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on her tablet. There was a feeling in the air that was almost suffocating. So much sadness in such a small space. There is always a delicate balance between life and death, but this group of misfits had tried to tip that balance and tumble into the unknown.

"You each had your reasons and as a psychiatrist I respect that. Death, after all, is an option. Years have taught me it isn't the only option, or even the best option, but I won't deny that it might be considered in an open exploration of a traumatic experience or a long duration of mental anguish." That got our attention. Even Shima raised her eyes to meet her gaze. I looked to the doctor's wrists with curiosity, wondering if it was years of practicing medicine that allowed for her open-mindedness in the matter or if it was a more personal experience.

"We don't have much time. While my colleagues might have the opportunity to draw out the treatment of their suicidal clients, I simply do not. This group is designed to complete treatment in only a week." I felt my eyes narrowing on her. What was the rush? Since the moment I'd met her as she stepped into my hospital room less than twenty-four hours ago, she'd been a stickler for time. The wristband was her keeper, as if she was the reincarnation of Alice's White Rabbit. "Your parents have all agreed to you being given an experimental medication." I shifted and pulled my feet up onto the chair, hugging my legs. My thin blonde hair was pressed to my head uncomfortably and was a reminder I hadn't washed it in days. I pulled my lower lip into my mouth and ran my tongue over the row of scabs, the result of my anxious habit of chewing until it bled.

"What if we don't want to?" Ken asked from his wheelchair next to me. He practically had a full beard. I didn't know it at the time, but it was against hospital policy to allow teens to have a razor. His curly hair was messy and his eyes were almost lost in the puffy, dark bags that rimmed them. I had chosen the least painful method possible after months of researching suicide on the Internet. Looking at Ken in his wheelchair, his leg casted and the fresh, angry scabs on his arms, I couldn't help but wonder how heavy his burden of despair must have been for him to make such a violent attempt at taking his own life.

"Unfortunately, your recent attempts have stripped you of your right to make your own medical decisions for a while. Your parents have been making them for you." The chairs groaned as we settled our weight, already defeated by her words before she could even finish explaining. "However, I won't force you to take the medication. I will just ask that you keep an open mind for the entirety of the week and if you choose to opt out of the medical intervention I will respect that choice."

A few eyes met hers, but even more interestingly, some of us stole glances at each other. Damien, however, seemed to be locked away in his own world. His hands tapped out a quick rhythm on his head as he rocked in his seat. I watched him for a second before moving my gaze away to look at the others. It was as if we were trying to size each other up, wondering who could really be trusted. "In all of my years leading this group, I've never had a teen decide against the medication. Perhaps this group will be my first."

"So we can just stay here doing nothing for a week, and our parents will think we're getting better?" Marco asked hopefully. He crossed his arms and waited for her answer. His olive skin stood out in contrast to the sterile white walls behind him. His jaw was strong, hinting that he was becoming a man even though the doubt in his eyes belied his boyhood insecurity.

"I never promised the medication would make anyone better. If you agree to participate and be open to sharing your thoughts and experiences, I'll let you communicate your progress to your parents. But you should know that you will not be here the entire time. Some of the treatment requires that you travel as a group outside the hospital." Dr. Crimm leaned back in her chair as if physically giving us the space we needed to think this through.

"What's the catch?" Shima asked, her fingers delicately tracing her wound.

"The medication will make you hallucinate. It will pull you into a world you might not like and there will be nothing anyone can do to get you out until it's run its course." Sounds began to fill the room as a few of us sat up higher in our chairs. I set my feet back on the ground and leaned forward, resting my head in my hands. The headache from earlier roared back to life. I didn't want to be given any choices to consider. Damien's body language contrasted with mine as he leaned back against his chair and widened the space between his legs. He shook his head slowly, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"You're giving us a hallucinogen? Isn't that illegal or something?" Aideen chuckled, pulling her legs up like a pretzel on her chair. Her hand shook as she twisted a hospital bracelet that had not been removed from her arm.

With a shrug, Dr. Crimm leaned forward into the group. "Look, it's completely up to you. I'm going to explain what I can about the study." She looked down at her wrist again quickly. "By now your parents have had sufficient time to review the informed consent paperwork and revoke their consent if they felt your participation was not in your best interest. We haven't heard from any of them." Her eyes found each of ours and the message was clear. Our parents had made their choice, and now she was leaving it up to us. "I'll tell you what is allowed and then I want you to think about it tonight. I'll answer any further questions you have tomorrow. It's Monday and we have this room all week. If you decide you want to give it a try, you just need to pick a partner—"

"What?" Damien leaned back in. "What do you mean a 'partner'?"

"You can't go in alone. You go in pairs or not at all," the doctor answered.

I slipped the tip of my thumb in my mouth and bit the skin around the nail. I didn't want to open up to anyone. I didn't want to be vulnerable. I knew that wild look in Damien's eyes that spoke volumes about how distrustful he was of doctors or other adults who wanted to help. We knew they couldn't, and I felt just as tired of their efforts as he must have. I tasted the salty metallic flavor of blood on my tongue as I tore away the skin from around my nail.

"This is crazy," I said on a sigh. "What does it even do? Why would we agree to hallucinating?"

"Good question," the doctor answered. "Because it might give you closure."

Aideen blew out a disbelieving huff. "Yeah, right. A pill that offers closure? Look," she said as her eyes traveled around the group. "I've tried every pill there is and there's never any closure."

"You haven't tried this one." Dr. Crimm set her tablet on the ground to the side of her chair and removed an orange bottle from her coat pocket. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and rolled it between her hands. "This has never been on the streets and is not prescribed anywhere by any doctor other than me at this time. I guarantee it won't be like anything you've ever tried before. You've all been referred by your ER doctors to participate in phase three of the clinical trial of this new medication. It's called Abraxas. We are testing its efficacy when paired with virtual reality software that has been programmed with consciousness coding.

"Abraxas is safe for human consumption and uses nanotechnology to dysregulate the neurotransmitters serotonin and glutamate in your brain, as well as to stimulate the temporal lobe directly. It gives us access to parts of our memory we've never been able to reach before, and the VR software helps us translate those memories using the consciousness code. You have been randomly placed in our experimental group. We also have an active control group, which means there is a group very similar to you that's being treated with the same therapeutic intervention, but using an already well-established medication for the treatment of depression and suicidal ideation in place of the Abraxas.

"This is the eleventh year of our research. All participants are evaluated for depression and suicide ideation at the beginning, end, and six months post-termination of the treatment using the United World's Mental Health Inventory for Depression Scale. You might remember the doctor asking you a series of questions when you came into the ER. We use the results of that scale along with data regarding any further suicidal gestures, attempts, or successes as the measure of efficacy of treatment."

Dr. Crimm held up the small container. "I create the medication here in the building using your DNA to regulate the dose. If you are serious about trying it," she said as she turned her attention to Aideen, "you just have to agree to take it and let me lead you into your trauma."

All eyes focused on Aideen. She seemed to be the only one in the group that was considering it.

"So if I agree, I can try it?" The rest of us looked away, presumably wanting nothing to do with it.

"Yes. Tomorrow we will meet back here. If you've decided that's what you want, then you will be the first in the group to go under."

"I'll do it if you will." Shima nodded to Aideen. "I'll do it, too." I let my thumb drop to my lap and turned my attention to Shima. She seemed shy and the most withdrawn of all of us. I never would have guessed she would be up for tripping out on some new drug. Maybe she was the most desperate. I could understand that angle. I could understand that desperation to be gone from this place and while I was paralyzed by my fear of losing my control, I understood her resoluteness in volunteering without hesitation. In fact, I was immediately envious.

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