Not now.
“The red lights mean sedation protocol.”
Ice floods my spine.
“What?”
The doctor hears her.
And smiles wider.
“Good girl,” she says softly.
“Your conditioning is returning beautifully.”
Hannah physically recoils.
Like the words themselves hurt.
Sirens continue blaring overhead.
Then—
music starts playing.
Soft.
Gentle.
A lullaby.
Jesus Christ.
The children react immediately.
Some curl into tight balls beneath blankets.
Others start crying harder.
One little boy begins hitting his own head repeatedly against the wall.
“No no no no…”
Hannah’s voice fractures beside me.
Clay moves automatically between her and the speakers mounted overhead.
But it’s too late.
She recognizes the song.
I see the exact second it hits her.
Her pupils dilate.
Body locking rigid.
Overlap.
