Chapter 4

It had gone up again.

My life really was worth something.

I ran as hard as I could, one thought hammering in my head.

I couldn't let them take me back.

If they took me back, I'd never get out again.

I don't know how long I ran, but the footsteps behind me finally faded.

I slumped to the ground, gasping for air.

The sun beat down until my head spun.

The water in my bag had spilled earlier, and my lips were cracked and dry.

I looked down at my hands.

These hands. Mom used to rub lotion into them for me when I was little.

She said a girl's hands should be soft and smooth to look pretty.

Now they were caked with dirt, cut in a few places.

I laughed all at once.

And somewhere in the laughing, the tears came.

Eighteen years.

A full eighteen years.

I thought I was the luckiest orphan alive, adopted by parents who were like angels.

So it turned out I was just a data sample, chosen the moment I was born.

They fed me the best, dressed me in the best, gave me the best education.

Not because they loved me.

Because they had to protect the quality of the sample.

All those late nights helping me with my homework.

All those nights sitting by my bed when I was sick.

None of it was real.

How could they act it out so perfectly?

How could they look at a sample with eyes that gentle?

I couldn't understand it.

I stayed out in the wastelands until the sun went down.

Once I figured the others had gone, I followed the ridge between the fields toward the village ahead.

It was a tiny village, only a few dozen households.

There was a little shop at the entrance.

I dug out five dollars and bought a bottle of water and two rolls.

The owner was an old man. He looked up at me.

"You're not from around here?"

"No. I'm visiting relatives and got lost."

"It's already dark. Why don't you stay at my place tonight? Fifty a night."

I hesitated.

But there was nothing around but wild country, and walking on would get me nowhere.

"Okay."

The old man's house was right behind the shop.

A mud-brick house, chickens still out in the yard, a bit of a smell to it.

He fixed up a side room for me.

The bed was made with old bedding that smelled of sun.

"You rest, miss. I'll go cook you a bowl of noodles."

"Don't go to any trouble, sir."

"Hah, it's no trouble."

He turned and went out.

I sat on the edge of the bed, chewing on the hard, dry roll.

In all my life I'd never had it this rough.

At home, I wouldn't touch food if it was even a little too firm.

Now I felt lucky just to have a roll to eat.

I was still thinking that when the sound of a motorcycle came from the yard.

The old man asked, "Huh? Looking for a girl? How old is she?"

The roll dropped out of my hand onto the bed.

Again.

They wouldn't let go.

I rushed to the window and pulled back a sliver to look out.

The one on the motorcycle was a young man, holding up his phone to show the old man a photo.

I didn't have to think about whose photo it was.

The old man pointed toward my room and opened his mouth to speak.

I stepped back.

There was no time.

The back wall wasn't high. I climbed onto the windowsill and went over it.

I didn't land right and fell, scraping the skin off my palm.

I scrambled up and ran for the hills behind the village.

A shout came from behind me.

"She's running! She's headed up the hill!"

Dark came fast in the hills, and before long I couldn't see the path.

I pushed deeper on instinct, branches whipping my face until the pain went numb.

They wouldn't dare follow too far.

No signal in the hills, the ground hard to walk, and after dark they were afraid of getting hurt too.

They didn't chase long before the voices fell away behind me.

I found a big tree and slid down against the trunk.

My feet hurt, my hands hurt, my face hurt.

Everything hurt.

But it hurt worse inside.

I hugged my knees.

Afraid I'd draw someone, I didn't dare cry out loud, and I sat like that all night.

Only at daybreak could I see where I was.

A wild, empty hill, trees everywhere.

At least it was a clear day, with the sun to tell direction by.

I headed for the other side of the hill.

After most of a day, I finally reached the foot of it.

Ahead was a town, quite a bit bigger than yesterday's village.

I found a corner with no one around.

Brushed the dust off myself, straightened my hair.

I didn't have much money left in my pocket. I couldn't keep hiding like this.

You can hide for a while. You can't hide forever.

They had money, they had connections. Finding one person was too easy for them.

I had to figure out what exactly they wanted to do with me.

Eighteen years of setup couldn't have been for some ordinary research.

I thought of the computer in Dad's study.

All his research files were on it.

When I used to go in with fruit, he always shut the page the moment I stepped inside.

There was a bookstore in town.

Inside was a row of old computers, five dollars an hour.

I went in, paid, and took the seat all the way at the back.

I opened the computer and searched my dad's name.

Glen Fox. A leading authority in biomedicine, focused on gene therapy for rare diseases.

Scrolling down, there were the papers he'd published these past few years.

I opened the most recent one.

The title was long. I couldn't make sense of the technical terms, only the last few lines.

"Optimal drug sample requires a long-term, stable growth environment and developmental observation free of external interference. Recommended observation period of fifteen to twenty years; clinical study may proceed once physical development is complete."

My eighteen-year observation period.

Just right.

The hand on the mouse started to shake.

I kept scrolling.

The acknowledgments read:

"Special thanks to my wife, Winifred Pruitt, and to my daughter, Zoe Fox, for providing valuable sample support for this research."

Valuable sample.

In his paper, I didn't even deserve a name.

Just a sample.

I stared at that line, cold all over.

Eighteen years of being raised, and it was all one sample observation.

They gave me a comfortable life. They gave me all their tenderness.

Only so that I would grow up in the best environment into their most perfect paper data.

Once I turned eighteen and my development was complete, it was time to pull in the net.

If it worked, they'd be the angels who conquered a rare disease.

If it failed, they'd say I'd gone missing abroad.

Either way, no loss to them.

What a fine plan.

I was staring blankly at the screen when a familiar voice came from behind me.

A voice I'd listened to for eighteen years.

"Zoe."

Every drop of blood in me froze at once.

I turned around slowly.

Mom was standing behind me.

She looked at me, her eyes rimmed red.

The same pained look she used to wear when I was sick.

She reached out a hand to me, her voice very soft.

"Come home with Mom."

"Whatever it is, we'll talk it through at home, sweetie."

At the door behind her stood two men in black.

And my dad.

Standing in the shadow, his face too dark to read.

I could only see the paper he was holding in his hand.

It was that plane ticket abroad.