The Immune

1. The Wall

I wish it were possible to sleep, to shut off my brain for two seconds and be content with this room instead of dreading the hands on the clock crawling closer to six p.m.

Yet, I find myself sitting on the edge of my mattress with a cracked pink hairbrush clutched between my hands.

The house is empty. Dad left for work at the infirmary early this morning before I came home. We see each other mostly in passing nowadays. He leaves me fresh veggies on the kitchen table for breakfast; I brew him extra-strong black coffee so he can forget the things that haunt him. Occasionally our days off will sync by a wild streak of luck, but even then, we don't talk much.

My fingers run over the olive button-up uniform shirt in my lap. My name's embroidered on the breast pocket, and under it, in black thread, is my title: Wall Guard. It's hard to read it without laughing.

I belong in this position like a cat belongs in an aquarium. It's ridiculous and torturous.

Regardless, though, the alarm on my nightstand warns me that it's five-thirty, and I groan as I pull on the uniform. Moving by muscle memory alone, my fingers button it up as I walk through the silent house. I tug on my issued boots and tie the fraying strings together with reckless abandon. Why take the time to fix it when they're just going to come untied later?

On my way out of the house, I slip on the bottom stair--the one I've asked Dad to fix for months. Every time it rains, the wood turns to slime. It's a death-trap in waiting. But he always says the same thing:

"File a complaint with President Hartley."

"Hartley doesn't care if our step is broken, Dad."

"Watch your tongue, Jaelyn."

"Why? It's not like he can hear me."

"You'd be surprised." Dad always kisses me on the forehead on his way out the door, still smelling like lemon cleaning products and old cigarettes, even when he hasn't smoked in years.

I never filed that complaint. Instead, I accidently slip every single time. Who knows? Maybe I like the routine.

As I walk through the streets of Compound 4, I try to keep my head down. Nearly everyone that passes by me does the same, too. Men on their way home from their shifts with freshly tilled dirt clinging to pants riddled with holes. Women hold the hands of babbling children while they try to balance laundry or supplies in the other. Some teenagers throw a gray tennis ball against a building so derelict it looks as if the next hit might cause it to topple over.

Each person looks at me then quickly averts their eyes. I don't blame them.

I'm Jaelyn Price, the parrot in a cage full of pigeons. What I wouldn't give to be a pigeon and not stand out for once in my life. Due to a genetic abnormality that I have absolutely no control over, that'll never happen.

"You're on time."

I stomp in a nearby mud puddle as a low, friendly voice drifts towards me. His polished boots with taped together strings tell me right off the bat who it is. Howard. My partner in Wall Guarding.

"I'm not feeling well," I blurt out, grabbing my gear from a cabinet built into the side of The Wall.

"Obviously. If you were feeling normal, you'd be at least ten minutes late."

I grin up at the middle-aged man and nod.

"You know me all too well, Howie."

"That's what happens when you work with someone for twelve hours, six days a week, two years straight."