Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117246 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117246 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
The elevator came to a wobbly stop. Ding. The double doors slid apart.
Head high, I stepped into a hallway. Huh. The twenty-second floor wasn’t exactly the peaceful, professional oasis described in pamphlets. Small cubicles abounded, multiple phones rang at once, and two armed knights in body armor stood at the ready with their backs to a wall. Soldiers in Cured’s army. Our royalty.
Their presence was a much-appreciated precaution, even though they watched me with cold, unwavering stares as I followed the instructions I’d received. Eighth block of cubicles down, third compartment on the right. It smelled better in here, at least, with hints of stale coffee and oversweet perfume.
Stopping at the correct entrance, I pasted a smile on my face. The only occupant was a fiftysomething woman with messy salt-and-pepper hair, wrinkled clothing, and strain etched into every line of her face.
Here she was, my level-two life adviser. The woman whose recommendation would decide the direction of my entire life. Currently, she read an air screen while clacking her blunt-tipped fingernails against her desk, striking a keyboard made of light. A green-and-gold Cured mug and various stacks of biodegradable flyers cluttered her workspace.
In a matter of minutes, mere seconds, she would tell me if all the special classes, holiday camps, and expensive tutors my mom had worked night and day to afford had been enough to earn a spot at Cured’s most prestigious agricultural school.
I squared my shoulders and cleared my throat to let her know I’d arrived. “Ms. Butler? Hi. I’m Arden Roosa.”
“Have a seat,” she said without glancing my way. “I’m still processing your records.”
My carefully practiced cheerfulness slipped, preshredded nerves fraying further. I’d been assured the upgrade from a level-one to a level-two adviser exponentially increased the odds of my success. The only reason I’d paid double the tax to meet with someone of her prominence. And yet, she’d done zero homework on my situation.
Pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth, I eased into the chair beside her desk. Minutes bled together as she read aloud.
“Exemplary student. Extreme anxiety disorder, blah, blah. Standard stuff. No known association with Soalians.”
“Of course not!” Even the thought brought shudders.
“Tested high in the sciences, creativity, and language. Why is there a two-year gap in your schooling—ah. Okay.” Clack, clack, clack. “You worked odd jobs to pay your mother’s bills while she underwent treatment for the Madness.”
Yes, and the memories of Mom’s wellness journey still haunted me. The medications and therapies had so depleted her, she’d needed another year to facilitate a full recovery. Although she wasn’t fully recovered. Mom might never be herself again. “I’ve never tested positive.”
“That’s good, but the delay is a major hurdle.” The clacking resumed, and I started perspiring again. “The paper you submitted to the Center for Agriculture was a nice touch. Very well received.”
“Thank you.” Pleasure bloomed, and I sat up straighter. I’d poured my heart and soul into that paper, doing my best to depict my driving passion for the Great Soil and Seed Anomaly.
“Hmm.” Ms. Butler frowned. Typing, typing. “This is interesting. You qualified for—hmm,” she repeated.
I tried not to scream. “Please tell me there’s no problem.”
Heartbeat. Heartbeat, heartbeat.
Her chair whined as she swiveled to face me. The slightest hint of sympathy emanated from her. “Look. I have a quota to meet, so I’ll jump right in. Despite those ill-advised gap years, you were selected to attend the Center. Congrats. They only accept the best and brightest. You report to class on Monday.”
Joy like I’d never known exploded inside me, and I laughed. I’d done it! Soon I would be experimenting with soil and seeds, doing my best to grow food as abundantly as the people who’d lived before the Fall of Nations.
“Unless,” Ms. Butler added with a pointed look, breaking into my thoughts and happiness.
My breath hitched. How quickly I tumbled from the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. “Unless,” I squeaked, and shook my head. “No unless.”
“Your mother owes a significant amount in back taxes, and someone has to pay.”
“But that can’t be right,” I replied, confused. I’d paid everything off. “You must have misread the file. There’s no debt. We filed for medical clemency both years.”
“And she received it—for the first year. Her last filing for disability relief was denied. She no longer tested positive; therefore she should’ve been at work, doing her part, paying her fair share.”
No. No! I shook my head with more force. “She was nothing but a skeleton with hair, barely able to crawl out of bed. I handled her bills, and I never received a rejection for our request. Whatever was due, I submitted.”
Ms. Butler lowered her chin, any trace of sympathy evaporating. “I can help you lodge an official complaint with Cured, Miss Roosa. In fact, I can summon the knights on duty and get the process started right now.”