The Immune

32. Recovery

"When can I see him?" I stutter through my sobs and stand up as quickly as I can. The world tilts under me, but I grip the edge of the chair to keep myself up. Halfway to the door, Mandy grabs for me.

"Not now," Dad blurts. I've reached the door, though. Mandy missed me by a small margin, and her hand dangles mid-air. One of my hands is poised in the doorknob, just waiting to turn it. "Seriously, Jay. Stop."

With one foot out the door, I hesitate. Stephen moves fast towards me, making me think twice about sprinting out the door. I wouldn't know where to look. Dad could have hidden Isaac anywhere; it's a big world out there.

When Stephen grabs me by the arm and yanks me back inside the room, I fall limp in his grasp. He pulls me back to the chair and sits me down again.

"When?" My hands grip the arms of the chair to keep themselves from trembling.

"Soon. He's almost recovered." Dad pushes himself to his feet, walks around the desk, and takes a seat in the chair. His body relaxes, only slightly. The way he slumps makes me think he's been here before. I scan the desk, only then noticing the name plate sitting crooked between two mugs of pencils. This is Dad's office.

"How is he?" I ask.

"Much better than he was." Dad's frown deepens. "You have to understand, honey; he's not the same person. Isaac went through some serious trauma. The damage to his leg was significant. I operated numerous times, and physical therapy hasn't been easy either." He sighs. "I didn't know him very well at all, and even I can tell he's not the same person."

The gunshots echo in my head again. All three of them. His screams deafen me. All I see is his face, empty and white, framed with black hair and red blood.

"Of course he isn't, but neither am I, Dad." I wipe at my eyes and sit up.

Dad cups my face. "I know this doesn't make things right between us. It's a start, though, right?"

I close my eyes and let the moment sink in. For a moment, I'm eight again, and none of this ever happened. "Thanks," I say, voice barely above a whisper.

Ollie claps her hands together, simultaneously ruining the moment and scaring me. "Alright. Let's talk about what we're going to do to fix things here."

The statement is vague, but apparently, everyone else expected the conversation to turn this way. Who's going to be in charge? What's going to change? How will we protect ourselves once the other compounds hear about us?

"I want Compound 4 to feel like the Alma," Ollie says, running a hand through her hair. "I want to rebuild this place from the ground up."

"Don't change things too much, or you'll make the people scared," I say. Her words make me worry, though. The virus started with someone wanting to change things. Does Ollie truly want what's best for the people? Or is all this leading to something else?

Don't worry. It'll be slow. Just a few things here and there." She starts to pace. "I'll take requests about new rules and procedures. We can make this a democracy instead of a monarchy. I really don't want to rule these people."

"Can I make a few suggestions?"

"Of course."

"Well..." I stand up. "You should start by lifting curfew. That way people can at least do whatever they want at night without worrying about being punished. Oh, and get the power plant running again, twenty-four hours a day."

Ollie lunges for Dad's desk, rummaging around for a piece of paper. After a minute, Dad hands her a blank one and a pencil.

"Anything else?" she asks, scribbling away.