Page 37 of Speak of the Devil (New Hope 3)

“How would you say your reprogramming is going?”

“Good.” My voice comes out mild. Weak. I clear my throat. “Good.”

“So you understand that New Hope can not allow for this kind of—” She glances down at her desk and then back at me. “For this kind of mediocrity.”

“I understand.”

“And what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing.”

“What would you like the leaders to know?”

“That I wish it had gone differently.”

“We wish it had gone differently, too. But the good news is the rejuvenation center is here for times like these. We’re here to help. You’re in the right place, Vanessa.”

“I’m thirsty,” I say. “May I have some water?”

“Not yet. We need to get a few things squared away first…”

My throat is so dry. It burns.

“How would you rate your sexual prowess with women?”

“My prowess?”

“How experienced are you?”

“I’ve completed several assignments in the past,” I tell her, pointing to my file. “I’m sure it’s in there.”

“Sometimes it’s nice to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

I sit up straighter. Arch my back. “I would say…I’m very good.”

“So you understand women? You understand their wants and their desires?”

“For the most part.”

“That doesn’t instill much confidence in me, Mrs. Bolton.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say.

Mrs. Ann Banks cocks her head. “I think what the panel…what the leaders are going to want to see…is proof.”

Two aides wheel me down a long corridor when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I do a double-take because at first, I don’t recognize the woman as myself. Her hair is too matted, her eyes too sunken, her face too gaunt. They don’t tell me where they are taking me. I do not have the strength to ask.

I have survived on lettuce and three ounces of water for at least three days. I count the days by counting the meals. Three trays a day.

I’ve received nine. It’s possible they are messing with me. They do that sometimes, to keep us on our toes. Particularly the Sirens.

We come to an abrupt stop. A door is buzzed open. One of the aides pushes me through.

“So glad you could join us, Mrs. Bolton.”

All eyes are on me. I count the women. Twelve in total, not including the staff.

“Welcome to circle time,” the aide says.