GENA SHOWALTER

chapter one
“You are better off Unsigned than a slave to Troikan law.”
—Myriad
I’ve been locked inside the Prynne Asylum—where happiness
comes to die—for three hundred and seventy-eight days.
(Or nine thousand and seventy-two hours.) I know the exact
time frame, not because I watched the sun rise and set in the
sky, but because I mark my walls in blood every time the
lights in the good-girls-gone-bad wing of the facility turn on.
There are no windows in the building. At least, none that
I’ve found. And I’ve never been allowed outside. None of the
inmates have. To be honest, I don’t even know what country
we’re in, or if we’re buried far underground. Before being
flown, driven, shipped or dropped here, we were heavily sedated.
Wherever we are, though, it’s bone-deep cold beyond
the walls. Every day, hour, second, our air is heated.
I’ve heard friends and enemies alike ask the staff for details,
but the response has always been the same. Answers
have to be earned.
No, thanks. For me, the price—cooperation—is simply
too high.