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The pink cup sits between my hands, cold.
Doctor Zhao's hands are steady and clasped, unlike mine. I can't stop shaking. Even my nose is trembling.
"If it goes wrong?" I clear my hoarse throat.
There's no deceit in Doctor Zhao's eyes. And maybe Mom notices it, because her tight grip on Dad's arm loosens.
"As I said, there is a three percent chance of failure. We have done our research and testing, and the chance of failure is even lower for you," the doctor says.
"What makes me so special that the risk is lower?" My words are bitter but my tone is soft.
Doctor Zhao pauses. "I am sure you have read the information in the paperwork. But your case is almost identical to other females your age. The typical anxiety and stress from school - from that confining environment - is what we want. It is what the drug is looking for, and that is what makes it work."
I flinch at the word drug. He continues, "You have been through a significant amount of stress, and that is completely normal. But what is even more special about you is that even still, your body is healthy."
We are looking for healthy bodies and troubled minds. It was the first thing the doctors had mentioned at the conference. I suppose what was even more shocking than this experiment they're deciding to run is my willingness to cooperate as a volunteer.
My thoughts are a mess as I interrupt Doctor Zhao. "I'm ready." My voice sounds stronger than I really am.
"Are you sure?" Mom asks, every emotion etched into the tight lines around her lips. I nod. I just hope they don't see my shaky hands, or hear my rapid heartbeat.
I feel a sense of urgency; that if I don't agree to it now, my mind will change and I'll cower. It's not even an obligation. It's a choice, but I feel like I need to do this. Find yourself, is what the simple information brochure said. Those two words stuck to me more than anything. I want to find myself.
I'm not really paying attention as Doctor Zhao goes over how the procedure will work and the dangers involved. I've read it and heard it all before. I could recite the information backwards if he wanted me to.
I'm propped up in a hospital bed, the pink cup in my hand. Doctor Zhao's eyes are possibly the kindest that I've ever seen. "You have 24 hours, Faith. Don't forget. When you go into the space, you won't be yourself."
"I know," I whisper. My parents hold hands, and Dad reaches for mine. The pale liquid almost splashes out of the cup. "What does it taste like?"
"It tastes like anything you want it to taste like," the doctor replies. I want it to taste like fruit and freedom.
I don't doubt him. My parents are on the verge of crying, overcome by worry. I want to tell them not to, but my voice has drifted away. I have ninety seven percent of luck and science on my side. There's no trouble. No worries. Breathe, Faith.
"You can still back out if you're unsure," Mom mumbles. Her eyes are begging me not to do it, but she knows this will be a life-changer. Not just mine, but everyone else's. It will change the world as we know it.
For humankind, I humor myself before I swallow the strawberry-flavoured drink of freedom.
