“Drink the juice,” he scolds. “They said you should at least drink the juice.”
“Why?” I manage to choke out. “What’s in the juice?”
“A little paranoid?”
“A little.”
“They just drained about a pint of blood from you. So they said make sure you drink the juice.”
I have no memory of their taking my blood. Did that happen while I was “talking” to my father? “Why are they draining my blood?”
Dead-eyed stare. “Let’s see if I can remember. They tell me everything.”
“What did they tell you? Why am I here?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he says. Then: “They told us you’re a VIP. Very important prisoner.” Shaking his head. “I don’t get it. In the good old days, Dorothys just . . . disappeared.”
“I’m not a Dorothy.”
He shrugs. “I don’t ask questions.”
But I need him to answer some. “Do you know what happened to Teacup?”
“Ran away with the spoon, what I heard.”
“That was the dish.”
“I was making a joke.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well. Fuck you.”
“The little girl who choppered in with me. Badly wounded. I need to know if she’s alive.”
Nodding seriously. “I’ll get right on that.”
I’m going about this wrong. I was never good with people. My nickname in middle school was Her Majesty Marika and a dozen variations of the same. Maybe I should establish a rapport beyond eff-you. “My name’s Ringer.”
“That’s wonderful. You must be very satisfied with that.”
“You look familiar. Were you at Camp Haven?”
He starts to say something. Stops himself. “I have orders not to talk to you.”
I almost say Then why are you? But I catch myself. “It’s probably a good idea. They don’t want you to know what I know.”
“Oh, I know what you know: It’s all a lie, we’ve been tricked by the enemy, they’re using us to wipe out survivors, blah, blah, blah. Typical Dorothy crap.”
“I used to think all that,” I admit. “Now I’m not so sure.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“I will.” Rocks and rats and life-forms evolved beyond the need for physical bodies. I’ll figure it out, but probably too late, though it’s probably already too late. Why did they take my blood? Why is Vosch keeping me alive? What could I have that he could possibly need? Why do they need me, this blond kid, or any human? If they could genetically engineer a virus that kills nine out of ten people, why not ten out of ten? Or, as Vosch said, why bother with any of it, when all you need is a very big rock?
My head hurts. I’m dizzy. Nauseated. I miss being able to think clearly. It used to be my number one favorite thing.
“Drink your damn juice so I can go,” he says.