by

Jade Timms

Bad things happen at the Silagree.

The words float around the void until the emptiness fills with the understanding that I am waking up. Another thought chases the first one: They’re always watching. I open my eyes to find that I am, in fact, being watched. Two women, middle-aged, stand over me. I’m in a bed in an unfamiliar hospital.

“Hello, Willow,” one of the women says. She has deep wrinkles around her mouth and her steel-grey hair is pulled into a tidy bun.

My synapses fire, trying to connect, to make sense of what’s happening, but it’s as if sea fog has rolled into my head. My mind is heavy, sticky, and slow.

“What—” I try to sit up, but my wrists and ankles are strapped to the bed.

A dark mass, buried deep within me, awakes.

Terror.

Alive and unrelenting.

I thrash against my restraints as the panic tries to break free. I scream and scream and scream. Despite the noise, despite the chaos, despite the cloud of disorientation and the terror choking me, a single word slices through the mess.

Serenity.

Everything stills.

“That’s better,” the woman with the bun says. She’s the one who said the word—serenity—I’m sure. “You need to be calm, Willow, or you’ll have to be sedated. If you can stay calm, I will remove your restraints.”

I nod frantically. I try to think of anything other than the fact that I am trapped. Helpless.

Imprisoned.

“What’s going on? I don’t know—”

She holds up her hands, and I force myself to appear calm.

“My name is Mrs Landon, and this is Dr Red.” The other woman—the doctor—stares intently at me. She has a severe bob and skin so pale it looks as if she never sees the sun. Do I know her?

Know. I think back to yesterday, last week, last year, but my mind closes around nothing but the heavy fog. I keep searching until I find something solid. Memories from when I was younger. They’re not recent, but it’s something.

It’s coming back.

My name is Willow Jones. My birthday is the fourteenth of June. My mother’s name is Beth, but I haven’t seen her since I was six. I don’t remember my father, but I know his name is Dave. My mother told me he was a loser. I attract losers like rotten fruit attracts flies. Don’t be like me, Willow. Be like someone else.

More memories are dredged up. Foster homes. Different schools. Women and men whose faces have blurred with time. An ache fills my chest as I remember the truth.

I’m alone.

Unwanted.

“My mind,” I begin, but Landon shakes her head, so I let her talk.

“You are at Everclear, which is a juvenile rehabilitation centre. We specialise in children with physical, mental, or social…problems.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “That’s why you are here. You are suffering from serious brain trauma, which is why you probably have some memory loss.”

Rehabilitation. Brain trauma. Memory loss. The panic is cold and unfettered, rushing through my veins like liquid ice.

“Do you remember anything?” Dr Red leans forward as if the prospect of remembering excites her, but the fear has me in its claws. I cannot speak.

“We will get to that,” Landon interrupts. “For now, I just need you to listen. Can you do that, Willow?”

I swallow. And then nod.

They smile at me. It’s meant to be reassuring, I can see that, but the terror doesn’t fade at the sight of it. If anything, it grows, building and building until an entire city of fear fills me.

#

Two burly men in blue scrubs escort me to my room. Landon walks beside me, and my gift from her—a thick, grey journal—is clutched to my chest.

The girls’ dorm is linked to the building that contains the hospital by a covered walkway. Stepping outside is what I imagine climbing into an oven might feel like: the heat is a physical thing that knocks into me and dries up my breath. The sky burns a shocking blue and the ground is red-brown, like blood mixed with dirt. A giant razor-wire fence glitters in the distance.

Escorts, high-security fence, electronic locks on the dormitory. It seems a little…extreme. What did I do to end up here?

Inside the dormitory, Landon unlocks a door. 11G. “I want you to think about everything I said, Willow, and then you need to rest. I will be back in the morning.”

Questions crowd my head, making it hard to think. Waking up was confusing enough, but all the information they unloaded on me is too much to process. “What about the bathroom?” I ask, needing to focus on something simple.

“Someone will come by later to take you.” She waves her hand towards the door, and I step inside. The room is so tiny I can almost touch both walls with my outstretched hands. It’s plain, too, and ugly. A single bed with hospital blankets, a desk with a pile of textbooks, a basin in the corner, and a chest of drawers. That’s it.

“Goodnight,” Landon says, and before I even think about responding, the door closes. I hear a click, but I test the handle anyway.

Locked.

I set down the journal and cross to the single window, which sits above the bed. It slides open, but a wire screen—firmly attached—confines me. Not that it matters, really. I saw the huge fence and I have a feeling it surrounds the whole place. If you’re going to have a giant fence, you’re not going to have a giant, partial fence.

There’s no denying that this treatment centre is very prison-like, which, I guess, makes me very prisoner-like.

Who am I?

I sit on the edge of the bed and replay everything Landon said, as if hidden in her words is the key that will unlock me from this room. Everclear—that was what she called it. She told me I was moved here yesterday from another of their facilities. That one is called Neversee.

Everclear. Neversee. Strange names for juvie rehab centres.

I’d been at Neversee for almost five years, according to Landon. She explained that I suffered a serious head trauma, but wouldn’t elaborate on what that actually means. “That’s why you’re struggling to recall certain events,” she said.

My memories exist until about twelve years old and then…nothing. That means there are five years missing—Landon informed me that I’m seventeen—which was about the time I came to Neversee. Not that I remember Neversee. I don’t remember any of it.

The journal Landon gave me is thick with the word Everclear embossed on the glossy cover. She told me to write everything in it: memories, dreams, anything strange. She said it would help with my recovery. “That’s why you were at Neversee,” she explained. “We’ve been treating your brain trauma, trying to recover your memories.”

“So I’ll get them back?” I asked.

“Hopefully.”

Dr Red went on to explain about the induced coma I’d been in for the last three days and how they hope the treatment I’d just gone through would work. “We’ll know tomorrow,” she said.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” the doctor had replied. “Hopefully when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll remember today.”

TWO

I’ve filled fifteen pages of the journal. My hand is cramped.

I’ve written about what I can remember of my early days: faded memories of my mother, various people from Child Protective Services—although they all seem to blend together—and some of the more memorable homes. I try not to write too much about my last foster mother, Laylah. Her voice rings through my head, as if I’d heard it yesterday. You don’t have to be scared anymore, Willow. I’ll fight for you. I can’t bring myself to tell them what it was like to find Laylah. That it felt like coming home.

A pressing ache burns in the back of my throat as I think our small apartment. I can still recall the smell of sugar and coconut as she baked cake after cake for the local cafes, and the sound of the radio, always tuned to the same country-rock channel. I can even see the patchwork quilt that covered my bed and remember how the edges felt like velvet, worn smooth from overuse.

The sheets here are stiff and the blanket is scratchy.

I glance at the door, wondering how long it will be until someone comes for me again. Apart from the guards who escorted me to the empty bathroom down the hall and brought me dinner last night, I haven’t seen anyone else. Landon didn’t specify what time I’d be released from my room, but sun came up a couple of hours ago.

I didn’t sleep much last night.

How could I?

But I take comfort in the fact that I remember yesterday.

The textbooks are still on my desk, stacked into a pyramid, the smallest on the top. It’s a thin paperback: Z for Zachariah by Robert C. O’Brien. Then there’s Standard Maths, Modern History, Geography, and Biology. They’re all brand new, their spines uncracked. They tell me that my education isn’t going to be ignored despite my peculiar surroundings.

At least that’s one thing I understand: school, doing well, keeping my foster parents and caseworkers happy.

I look away from the books and try to find something else to focus on. Landon said it was important to work out what my most recent memory is, but my brain is like a snow globe after it’s been given a good shake. As I try to catch hold of that specific memory, my mind retreats to the first thought I had right as I woke up. But like all the other times I’ve tried to write about it, something holds me back.

Bad things happen at the Silagree.

I don’t know what stops me, but maybe it’s because those words sound crazy and I really don’t want to be crazy. Landon said to write everything, but surely she meant everything that’s important, not the ramblings of a teenage fruitcake. But it’s a strange thought to have, I can at least admit to that. Bad things happen at the Silagree. The words hiss through my head again and again, and the terror, which I’ve tried to keep gathered up, unravels with those words, unspooling and then re-wrapping itself around my chest tighter and tighter until every breath is a struggle.

My pyramid topples as I yank the Modern History textbook out, flipping it to the first page. An Introduction to Modern History, it begins. In 1770 the eastern side of Australia was claimed by Great Britain and was settled through penal transportation.

My breathing calms.

The terror retreats.

There’s a click, and then my door opens. This time it’s Landon, and with her is a girl about my age. She has the hair of an albino and the body of a girl who collects eating disorders. She is like a sliver of moonlight.

“This is Anastasia,” Landon informs me. “She’s going to show you the ropes.” To Anastasia she says, “Make sure you have her at Mr Gold’s office by ten.”

Anastasia nods.

“I’ll take that.” Landon points to my journal, which is still open on my desk. As I hand it over, all the muscles in my back clench as if they’re reluctant to let it go.

I’m confused. “I thought we were going to talk?”

“We will.” She gives Anastasia a curt nod and then walks off, leaving the door ajar.

“But when—” I stare at space Landon left behind. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“That’s a sensation you’ll get used to,” Anastasia says. “Call me Sass.”

“What is this place? What’s happening? I don’t—”

Anastasia’s eyes shift to the ceiling and then back to my face so quickly, that for a moment, I think I imagined it.

I look up.

A black dome sits on my ceiling, next to the light fixture. I’ve been wondering about it. All night. When I wasn’t sleeping.

“Is that a…?” I can’t bring myself to ask the question.

“There are cameras everywhere.” Her heavy emphasis on the last word is like a cold fingernail down my spine. “Don’t ever forget that.”

They’re always watching.

She steps out into the hallway, and I follow her. She smiles at me, but it’s a strained gesture. “Welcome to Everclear,” she says. “Welcome to hell.”

#

Anastasia gives me the grand tour.

Just as I thought, the razor-wire fence surrounds the whole complex. Guards patrol the fence and stand by all the doors. At first I think they’re wearing a uniform, like the Army, but when I get closer I see it’s just plain khaki. They have guns. And batons. Tasers, too. I still can’t get past the strangeness of it all. Why would a juvie rehab centre need such high security? I don’t ask about it, though. I don’t know what’s safe to say, what questions are dangerous. I decide it’s better to watch and listen.

For now.

Anastasia is right. The cameras are everywhere, even in the bathrooms.

The buildings are all connected by covered walkways, which Anastasia says comes in handy during the wet season.

“Where exactly is Everclear?”

She shrugs and says, “Up north,” but I could’ve worked that out from the scorching heat. She goes on to tell me that the precise location of Everclear is unknown.

“Although, most things about this place are pretty hush-hush,” she adds. “Landon claims it’s government-run, but no one believes that.”

“So who does run it?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions, Willow.” She taps a finger to her temple. “It’s not about the who, but the why.”

I risk another question. “And do you know? The why?”

“None of us do, but there are plenty of theories. I’m sure you’ll end up hearing them all.”

She explains the different buildings, and I try to keep them straight in my head. It feels important. I’ve already been to Block A: it houses the hospital and the offices of its staff, as well as Landon’s private office. Block G is the girls’ dorm, and Block B is for the boys. Block S is where all the classes are held and where the teaching staff has their offices. It also contains the dining hall, where all the meals are served.

“It’s like a school, then?” I ask.

“We have classes, yeah. Everyone has their own schedule based on their…issues.” She smiles with her mouth but not with her eyes, which are almost as pale as her hair. “There are counselling sessions and group therapy. Plus medical treatment, if that’s needed. Everything a troubled soul could want.”

Anastasia points out the gymnasium and the low building attached to it, which houses an indoor pool. “It’s kind of fancy,” I say carefully hoping it might lead to some of the theories about why this place exists.

She gives me a strange look. “Yeah. It’s your basic five-star resort.”

I’m not an idiot. I know this place would’ve cost a lot of money to build and even more to run. It’s peculiar, especially as Anastasia told me there are only ever fifty students: twenty-five girls and twenty-five boys.

I can’t help but wonder if Neversee is just as weird and full of high security.

“Do you know a place called Neversee?”

“Neversee? No.” Anastasia shakes her head. “Is that where you’ve come from?”

“Apparently.”

She gives me an odd look before resuming the tour, which takes us past the volleyball courts—which is basically more red-brown earth that’s marked out with white lines and nets—towards the orchard and vegetable gardens. The air is thick with the heavy scent of fertiliser.

“Everyone has Ag,” Anastasia says. “We have to look after the gardens because we eat all the food. It’s pretty horrendous this time of the year, with the humidity and all.”

“No doubt.” I can feel the sweat pooling on the small of my back already.

We pass through a small grove of eucalyptus trees and then stop on the other side. A large, squat building is in the furthermost corner of the complex, squeezed up against the fence. Four guards stand in front of the door, which has a pin-pad. Metal grills cover all the windows and cameras dot the walls.

“Whoa,” I say. “What’s that place?”

“Block Z. That’s where all the non-students live. Teachers, doctors, Landon.” She turns on her heel. “Come on or you’ll be late for Gold.”

I drag my eyes away from the heavily guarded building. “They really want to keep the teachers from escaping,” I joke.

Anastasia doesn’t smile. “Maybe it’s the other way around.”

“What do you mean?”

Her eyes shift towards the razor-wire fence. “Maybe it’s to keep us out.”

Anastasia walks off, but I’m a beat behind, my eyes lingering on Block Z. My heart thuds in my chest. Is she saying that the other kids are dangerous?

Am I dangerous?

I hurry to catch up, following her along the edge of the trees, but as I reach her, a guy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, steps out of the grove.

Anastasia comes to an abrupt stop. “Luca,” she says in a small voice.

“Sass. Fancy seeing you here.” His smile is weird, like they’re sharing a private joke.

“What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?”

“That’s why I asked.” Anastasia doesn’t sound annoyed exactly, but she also doesn’t sound pleased to see him either. Perhaps they have some history? Luca’s cute enough, with messy blonde hair and broad shoulders. A little generic, but he’s far from disgusting.

Anastasia glances at me as if she’s just remembered I exist. “This is Willow.”

“I know.” Luca focuses his smile on me. “That is, I was sent to escort Willow to see Gold.”

“But…but Landon asked me—”

“And then she asked me to take over. She needs you.” He raises his eyebrows at her.

“It’s fine,” I say in attempt to diffuse whatever weirdness is going on. “I appreciate everyone’s concern about me not getting lost.” I try to smile at Anastasia, but my face feels like it has seized up. “Thanks for the tour.”

“Gold’s office is this way,” Luca says to me.

“Wait—Willow.” I turn back to Anastasia. She opens her mouth, but then her eyes slide past me. There’s a definite pause before she says, “I’ll see you at lunch?”

“I guess.”

I wait for her to leave, but she just stands there, so I give her a lame wave and re-join Luca.

“This place is crazy, right?” Luca says once we’re past the trees and approaching one of the buildings. Block S, if I remember correctly.

“I don’t even…I don’t even know what to think.”

“It can be a bit strange when you first get here, but it’s not that bad.”

“Really?”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “What did Sass tell you about this place?”

“That it’s government funded.”

“It’s true.” He smiles with all of his teeth bared, so it looks more like a grimace. “The government cares so deeply that they set this place up to help a select few of society’s charity cases.”

I make my voice casual and disinterested. “So what’s the truth?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“Well, I’m asking you.”

He smiles again. This close, I can see his eyes are blue-green and his nose has a smattering of freckles. “I think that when it comes to Everclear, there are more questions than answers.” He holds open the door to Block S. “But I know for a fact that the government doesn’t give a shit about kids like us.”

Kids like us. As I step into the deliciously air-conditioned hallway, I can’t shake those words. I know exactly what he means.

Kids with no families. No one to care for. Kids in State Protection.

Nobodies.

I’ve been one of those kids since I was six, when the Child Protective Services people turned up at my house and ripped me away from my old life.

“So everyone here is…?” I keep my voice low. I’m conscious of the black domes on the ceiling.

“From State care? Yeah, basically.” He scratches the back of his neck. “There are plenty of weirdos here—people you shouldn’t trust. But others can be trusted.”

“Like you?” Something about his wording strikes me as odd.

He grins. “And you can trust Sass, too. Just so you know.”

Luca stops outside a door with Mr Gold’s name written on a piece of masking tape. He knocks, and it opens almost instantly.

“You must be Willow—” Gold’s smile wavers as his gaze lands on my escort. “You can go, Luca.” Gold all but glares at him. “Willow, please come in.”

Luca gives me a nod and then the door closes between us.

“Take a seat.” Gold waves to a pair of red armchairs with slightly smudged-looking fabric. A desk is wedged in the corner next to a crammed bookshelf, and motivational posters cover the walls. The one directly opposite me is the generic HANG IN THERE with a picture of a kitten almost falling from a tree. The kitten has this adorable “oh shit!” face.

Kitten, you have no idea.

Gold removes a journal—mine, I assume—from a desk drawer and sits in the other chair.

“Let’s start at the beginning.” He flicks through a few pages, and something hot settles in my stomach. I want to tear it from his hands. I should have known my journal wasn’t for Landon’s eyes only. “From what I can gather, you have most of your memories up until around the age of twelve?”

“As far as I can tell.”

Gold strokes his moustache. It’s a big, bushy thing. It, along with his straining gut and piggy eyes, makes me think of a sea lion. No, a walrus. That’s what he is.

He smiles, and there’s unexpected warmth in it. “I know you’re probably frightened, Willow, but I’m here to help you.”

“Okay.” Perhaps I’m stupid, but I almost believe him. Or maybe it’s just that I want to believe him. Ever since I woke up yesterday, things have been spinning too fast. I’d happily grab onto something—anything—if I knew it would ground me.

“It’s a good sign that you remember what happened yesterday. That tells me that the treatment is working.”

“So I might get my missing memories back?”

He looks down at the journal. “It’s a definite possibility.” After a moment, he looks and up and adds, “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

Something deep inside me shrills like an alarm, warning me not to give too much away, but I need answers.

“Landon told me I was at Neversee for five years…”

The sound of Laylah laughing drifts through my head, quickly followed by my mother screaming abuse at the Child Protective Services people as someone leads me to a car. I squeeze my eyes closed, because I didn’t remember the shouting before, but I can hear it now. The anger in her voice is like acid on my skin—she’s so angry, so disappointed that it burns.

Someone else is talking, telling me to get in the car, but all I can hear is my mother.

Don’t you leave me, Willow. Don’t you dare leave me.

A gentle pressure on my back, urging me into the car.

If you leave me, don’t think you’re ever coming back. Do you hear me, Willow? WILLOW?

“Willow?” Gold’s voice jolts me to the present. “Did you have a question?”

“Right.” I push away the memory of my mother. “I’m trying to make sense of the order that things happened. Landon said I have some kind of brain trauma, so that must have occurred when I was twelve and that’s why my memories vanished. And then I was taken to Neversee? Is that what happened?”

Gold rubs his hand over his moustache. “You were in an accident. That’s when the brain trauma occurred.”

I swallow. “An accident? What kind of accident?”

“I’m not at liberty to reveal, not yet anyway,” he replies. “I’m sorry.”

An accident he won’t talk about. Brain trauma. Missing memories. Everything feels as if it’s spinning again, because I’m certain that he’s avoiding my questions. Hiding things from me. He won’t ground me. But I should know that by now.

I should know that there’s no one to trust but myself.

Laylah’s voice is back in my head. Do you want to go to the pool today? It’s too hot in here with the oven going.

I feel a flash of excitement at this new memory, but it’s not from the missing five years. It’s from the summer that followed my last year of primary school, right before the amnesia kicks in.

The memory blurs once I get to the local pool, probably because I went there almost every day. Sometimes, when she wasn’t too busy baking, Laylah even came with me. But I can recall specific moments: Diving underwater with my eyes open. The pool crowded with an endless parade of legs. The way everything looked crisp and perfect through the blue tint of the water. Feeling free.

I force myself out of the memories, aware that Gold is watching me closely. “This place—Everclear—is government funded?” I ask, willing him to give me something real.

“It is,” he replies.

“What about Neversee? Is it funded as well?”

“Yes, yes.” He shifts in his chair. “But let’s talk about something else now.”

I pretend not to notice how he quickly changed the subject. Anastasia and Luca must be right—the government funding is a lie.

And I was right about not being able to trust anyone.

Gold asks me about my remaining memories for a while, what I remember from different foster homes, different schools. He explains about my schedule and my treatment and some “house rules” about Everclear. Meal times, curfews, mandatory participation in class. It’s all straightforward until he gets to the part about not fraternising with the auxiliary staff, which includes the staff for the hospital, the dining hall, the cleaners, and the guards.

“What’s with all the security, anyway?” I ask. The number of armed guards still seems excessive to me. Everything about Everclear’s security seems excessive.

“It’s to keep you safe.”

“From what?”

He sighs. “From harm, Willow.”

I stare past him through his window. In the distance, I can see the metallic glint of the fence. The place is a maximum-security prison in the middle of the desert, and it’s all to keep fifty damaged kids from harm.

I call bullshit.

“Are we criminals? Are we dangerous?” My pulse speeds up.

“Not that I’m aware of.” He smiles as if he’s joking, but none of this is funny.

I try again. “Can you tell me about my treatment?”

“Well, we did just go through it all. Was I not clear? If you—”

“I don’t mean the counselling sessions you have planned for me, I mean the stuff they did to me at Neversee. What was different this time? Why can I remember yesterday, but not the days before that?” Because no matter which way I approach it, something about it doesn’t add up.

“Mrs Landon has requested, at this stage, that we don’t discuss your treatment at Neversee.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t want us to discuss Neversee because she’s hopeful you will remember it on your own. How will we know the difference between you remembering what I tell you and real memories?”

“Right.” It makes sense, but something still feels…wrong. I don’t know. I feel more confused than when I first woke up here. “Is there anyone else like me? At Everclear?”

“Like you?”

“Someone with amnesia? Landon said this place specialises in kids with problems, so I was just wondering if there are any other people here suffering from brain trauma. Or whatever. I’m curious.”

“Technically, I’m not meant to talk about the other students, but…” Gold frowns. “I guess there’s no harm, since you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yes?”

He chews on the bottom of his moustache for a second and then says, “One other student has amnesia. His name is Jeremiah.”

My brain buzzes. “Jeremiah,” I repeat, just to feel his name in my mouth.

“I can’t go into detail,” he says. “Do you have any more questions?”

Of course he can’t. “Landon said I was in a coma?”

Gold nods. “You were put in an induced coma a couple of days before you were moved here.”

“Why?”

“Willow, I just told you I can’t talk—”

“I know, but it’s weird.” I regret those words instantly.

Gold can’t hide his interest. He leans forward as much as his gut will allow. “What’s weird?”

“If I was in a coma, shouldn’t I be under medical surveillance or something? They let me go straight back to my room…” It’s not like I’m an expert, but I would’ve thought I’d be hooked up to some machines, at the very least. But I wasn’t. I was only restrained. The more I think about it, the more peculiar it feels. I recall how Landon and Dr Red stood over me, watching. Was it a coincidence that I woke up while they were there, or did they do something to make me wake up?

It’s almost as if they were expecting it.

“Dr Red wouldn’t have released you if she didn’t think it was safe.”

“I guess.” But that’s the thing: how did Dr Red know if it was safe? She didn’t do any tests, and she barely asked me any questions. God, she didn’t even check my blood pressure.

“What happens with an induced coma? How is it induced?”

“With drugs, I believe.” I open my mouth to ask another question, but Gold ploughs on. “You should probably take this up with Dr Red. She’s a doctor, so she’ll know all the medical terms and whatnot.”

“Okay,” I reply even though I know I won’t ask her. I’m starting to think there’s more going on than I first suspected. That I’m being lied to.

I’m starting to think I was never in a coma.