Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
You must worry that you’ll be me in a few years. Autumn turned her head, staring unseeing out the window to the wide stretch of emerald-green lawn and paths where a few early morning walkers strolled, arms linked with nurses, children and teens who moved slowly and hunched over as though they were ninety. A wheelchair went by, the occupant’s head hung low, lank flaxen hair covering her face.
You must worry that you’ll be me in a few years.
A buzz of guilt vibrated through her. Of course she did. And perhaps more than others because she was one of the ones who hadn’t yet developed any tumors. That yet loomed large, and rarely did a day go by when she didn’t fear that the next scan would show what was practically inevitable.
Her fate.
She was an ADHM baby, the chemical name a long chain of consonants she’d known once and would recognize on paper but couldn’t spell unless she thought long and hard about it. And she had no interest in doing that. The acronym told the tale, and there wasn’t anyone in the Northern Hemisphere who hadn’t heard of it at this point.
ADHM, a street drug that had hit the market sixteen years before and addicted hundreds of thousands of people, was known by other names too: satellite, blue lightning, blind man’s vision, Lucy in the Sky (and the simpler offshoot, Lucy), among the more popular and well-known. The users of ADHM who had gotten pregnant while taking it had had babies riddled with cancerous tumors, and if they weren’t born with tumors, they developed them soon after. There were a rare few, like her, who remained tumor-free longer, thanks to the medication all ADHM babies were put on at birth. But they were the exceptions. Her body had responded amazingly well, but like all of them, she was a ticking time bomb. Her clock simply held a few more digits. The oldest ADHM baby had lived until sixteen. His name had been Logan, and he’d lived in the room down the hall. He’d loved classical music and read philosophy books. The nurses had called him an old soul, and Autumn had hoped that was true and he’d lived a hundred lifetimes, because this one had been far too short. Logan had died five days after his sixteenth birthday.
Autumn was fourteen and three months.
And her last scan, while tumor-free, had shown a concerning thickening of her stomach walls and swelling of her uterus.
She was scheduled for a full hysterectomy in three months. Most female ADHM babies had them earlier to avoid the tumors that would inevitably grow there, but Autumn had been a late bloomer, her periods had been light and absent of the severe pain often associated with their disease, so the surgeon had put it off, opting to keep a close eye on any changes.
Because many if not most of those who had given birth to ADHM babies were chronic addicts, often living on the street, and diagnosed with one or several mental illnesses, a large swath of the kids were wards of the state and lived in government-run facilities like Mercy Hospital for Children. It served as a home, a hospital, and a school. Most had never met or known their birth mothers.
Autumn stretched her back as the nurse took Mara’s temperature. She felt especially sore this morning. The Mesmivir was their only hope of keeping the tumors under control or, in her lucky case, away entirely for as long as possible, but it also came with a long list of side effects ranging from unpleasant to horrible. It made them sick and achy. It gave them severe rashes and stomach issues, which often necessitated feeding tubes. It brought on migraines and cognitive disorders. But it was the sleep medication, designed and manufactured specifically for their bodies, that gave them vivid dreams so realistic they engaged all their senses.
Autumn had hated those dreams. Until last night. Before, she’d dreaded them because she’d woken disoriented and afraid. But this time, she’d opened her eyes with this sense of wonder and a feeling that the dreams were not at all what they seemed.
Cheryl patted Mara’s hand. “The pain meds should kick in shortly.” She shot Autumn a look. “You have ten minutes, and then this young lady needs to rest.” Then the nurse bustled out of the room, the soft-close door shutting silently behind her.
Mara adjusted herself again, wincing. “You’ll feel better in a few minutes,” Autumn told her.
Mara nodded, but her expression remained pained.
“I had one of the running dreams last night,” Autumn said, the words spilling out quickly, attempting to distract Mara from her obvious discomfort until the medication started working. If it started working. Because they’d been on every drug imaginable since birth, their tolerance was sky-high. Finding the right dose that would ease their pain without putting them in a coma was a challenge the doctors sometimes failed.