Surviving the Odds (Sequel to DTO)

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Layla

I spend the morning attached to electrodes and IVs.

Dad keeps a close eye on me, and each time I am prodded with another needle he places his hand on my arm. It comforts me minimally, but I know that without it I wouldn't be sane. I can see the fine lines sinking deeper into his eyes as the minutes pass by, and I know it is because he cannot bear to see me this tense and frightened.

The scent of the sterile hospital is so sickening that by the time they excuse us right before the result of the screenings, my head is throbbing again. It is not from the pulsing of the electrodes or the liquid seeping through my bloodstream, but rather the aching memory of being here right after the games. It is enough to drive me insane.

The IVs they kept me on gave me a steady stream of nutrients and fluids and when they place some platters in front of us I am still. I stare at the decadent crackers and cheese arranged formally and watch as they slowly harden.

"You should eat something, Layla," Dad says as he finishes off his last cracker. "It's not poisonous, you know."

A shiver runs through my body. Knowing all the games and tricks that I've had to deal with recently, I wouldn't put poisoned food past me.

"I'm not hungry, Dad," I say. "They fed me through the IV."

Another chilling thought occurs to me: what if they already poisoned me through the IV?

"Still, try to get something solid in your system."

I have delayed my eating so long that by the time I reach out and break a bit off one of the crackers, the door opens and a doctor walks in. He holds a stack of papers against his white lab coat.

"Hello, Miss Kimber," he says, without so much as a nod towards Dad. "We are pleased in the results of your lab testing and screenings."

"What are the results?" Dad asks. The doctor briefly looks at him but turns back to me as he takes a seat across the table from us.

"It seems that the doctors overseeing your examinations calculated much more damage than what had been actually received in your head."

"What?" I ask, fully comprehending but not understanding how such a moronic thing could happen. "How do you over calculate brain damage? Was I not initially screened to see what had been done?"

"With the swelling in your head they thought it would be necessary for more treatment than what you needed. Because of this, they overcompensated in your treatment and they now deem you more cognitively aware than you were before your injury."

"What?" It is now Dad's turn to ask. The doctor heaves a sigh and turns to my father.

"To put it plainly, Layla is now smarter than she was before."

"I understood that," Dad says. "I just don't understand how Capitol doctors could overcompensate on someone's brain."

"What else did you do to me?" I ask.

"Layla, this is not a bad thing. You will experience heightened awareness and your thought processing will be improved ten-fold."

"Why is that necessary?" I ask.

"It isn't, but it certainly isn't something to be sensitive to either. The improvements are certainly something that can be looked at in a positive manner."

I am quiet. Do I thank the doctor for fine-tuning my cognitive ability? I can't decide what to do. My lips press together tightly and I refuse to open them.