“What… is that taste?” I ask.
The rope-braid nurse pauses. “Which part?”
“The… bitter.” I swallow again, grimacing. “It wasn’t there before.”
She seems almost pleased by the question.
“That’s the concentrated herbal blend,” she explains. “Natural precursors are converted very efficiently by your body.”
“Precursors to what?” I ask, even though I already know.
“To the hormones that support lactation and gestational readiness.” She smiles. “You are priming perfectly.”
Gestational readiness.My stomach twists. “I didn’t agree to this,” I whisper.
Her smile falters, just a flicker. Then she schools her face back into serenity.
“You were chosen,” she says softly. “Consent is for participants, little cow. You are an asset.”
Asset.I turn my face to the ceiling and let the next swallow burn all the way down.
On what I’msure is the fourth night of week three, the music playing overhead is the same nocturne they used three nightsago. I’ve started counting them, and I notice the nurse brings in the nighttime bottle.
It looks thicker and heavier. She almost glows under the overhead lights.
“Time for rest,” she says. “Your numbers were excellent today. We need your body to consolidate the changes.”
“I don’t want it,” I say, voice shaking. “I don’t want any of this. Please. Just… let me talk to someone. Let me call Erik. Please.”
Her gaze softens for a fraction of a second. I see something human flicker and then vanish.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “We’re not authorized to allow external contact.”
“This isn’t ethical,” I choke out. “You know that! You went to nursing school and took an oath!!” I’m practically yelling, or as much as my hoarse voice will let me.
She takes a breath, then another, and for the first time, her hands tremble faintly around the bottle.
“Ethics,” she says quietly, “are written by people who don’t understand what’s possible.”
I stare at her, my horror blanking out everything else. She lifts the bottle again. “You need sleep, little cow. Your body does more work at rest than you realize.”
I feel so hopeless at this moment. Where is Erik? Why hasn’t anyone come to get me? It didn’t take nearly this long for us to find Grace, so what is going on? And the bone-chilling realization begins to creep in. What if… what if no one is coming? What if this is my life? I’ll be auctioned off soon, and I’ll never see anyone I love or care about again. My body visibly shudders from the thoughts swirling in my mind, yet the nurse is ignoring any indication of my emotional breakdown. She presses the bottle nipple firmer into my mouth, and at first I try to resist, but then the dam inside breaks.
I’m so tired of trying to emotionally fight this, and now I’m realizing I’m too tired to cry.
The nipple presses deeper into my lips. I open, swallow, and taste that same thick sweetness overlaying something else, something that spreads warmth through my limbs almost instantly.
Within minutes, my muscles go heavy. My thoughts slow. The pump hum drops into the background like distant thunder.
“Good girl,” the nurse whispers, stroking my hair. “Let the medicine work. You’re making miracles, you know.”
If this moment is a miracle, I think hazily, what does a curse look like? Darkness pulls me under before I can find the answer.
Near the endof the fourth week, Friday, maybe, or Saturday, I wake from my afternoon nap groggy, but not fully drowned by the sedative haze.
The room is quiet. The pump still hums. The containers beside me are already half full of thick, pale liquid swirling gently with each pull.
The door opens. It’s not the rope-braid nurse this time.
