Hidden (Book 3 of the Immune Series)

Upside Down

Mya

For a moment, nothing makes sense.

The room spins around me as I clutch Finn's still body up against me. His skin is ice under my hands, soft like snow. The lights seem to dim as my vision swims, blending my surroundings into mindless confusion.

Then, panic clicks into place.

I gasp for air, checking for a pulse in the spot he guided me to minutes ago.

"No. Please, no," I mumble, pressing uselessly into his skin. No matter how hard I press, nothing lives beneath the permafrost layer. I push away from him, laying his head back on the pile of pillows I fluffed.

"Wake up, Finny. Please, wake up," I plead, patting his cheeks. He stares up at the ceiling with empty, misted eyes. Snow flurries blow across the golden irises.

"This isn't funny," I say, anger growing in my chest. "Wake up!"

I realize then that I'm screaming, filling the dead space around us.

Yet, nothing's happening.

I clutch the front of his shirt, shaking him violently as tears stream down my cheeks, falling onto his face. I continue to scream his name, until my throat is raw and I collapse onto his thin frame. The bed shakes under us with every tremor that wracks my body.

When the door opens behind me, I don't move.

Mom enters the room like a cyclone. Hands grip at my back and shirt, tugging me away from my brother.

My dead brother.

Oh, God.

I start screaming again, digging my nails into the mattress and using my body as a cage around Finn.

She killed him.

She can't take him.

"Mya! Let go," Mom yells, wrapping her arms around my abdomen and yanking me away from him.

"You did this!" I scream, clawing at her arm with one hand and clutching Finn with the other. "This is your fault!"

"You don't understand, Mya. You can't understand."

I glance back at her and see the tears running down her cheeks like wildfires.

Seeing them only makes me more angry.

Mom gives one good tug, and my hands slip. We stumble backwards, and Mom tosses me to the ground. I hit the tile hard, sliding across the floor on my side until I crash into the legs of my bed.

Her hands fumble for his chest as I struggle to breathe. She presses rhythmically, whispering numbers under her breath. Every now and again, she will tilt his chin up and breathe a pointless breath into his lungs.

It won't work, I want to say, but I can't find the words.

He's gone.

You took him.

Mom checks for a pulse.

I already tried.

It won't work.

"He's dead," she says, but the words come out in a small squeak. "He's dead."

Don't say it again.

Maybe if you don't say it, it won't be true.

My press a hand to my mouth, fighting the scream I feel building by biting down on my palm. Copper tasting liquid floods my mouth, centering me.

Mom lifts Finn's body from the bed and carries him to the door.