I grip my mother’s hand harder as we walk through the doors of the imposing gray building. She had promised me that we’d never have to come here again, but . . . here we are.

The letter had come in the mail a few days ago. We hadn’t heard from the hospital in months, and I had been settling into the routine of being normal, of not having needle marks on my arms.

The letter had changed all that, though. It always did.

Your presence is requested at the Howard Clinic on this upcoming Thursday, March 6th.

They had said the last time, and the time before that, and all the times before, that I would not need to return in the future. That they had everything they needed. It seemed that they hadn’t meant it, though.

Again.

The letter went on, about how I was “special.” How these experiments would one day make the world a better, safer, healthier place. It said things I knew by heart, about alleles and blood cells and immunity.

And it ended, as usual, with a short sentence.

You will be compensated for your time.

That was the sentence that got to my mother every time. With my mother working full time at a job that’s barely enough to support the two of us, we’re always short on cash. So the thousands of dollars that the clinic paid us every time they “requested my presence” was so, so tempting. So what if I was basically experimented on like a live animal? So what if the bruises and needle marks took months to fade? We needed the money, and so to the clinic I went. Again and again. And again.

“I promise, this is it,” my mom says. Knowing my feelings, without even having to ask. But she says that every time; her words are empty. I don’t reply. I can’t think of anything to say.

“This way, please,” says the receptionist, tapping a few keys on her computer. She knows me as soon as she sees me. The receptionists, the staff, they all do. I’ve been here so many times that they don’t even need to ask for my name.

I walk into the cold gray room, and suddenly, I am alone. I sigh. It always starts this way. I know that I’m here for the good of everyone, and that someday, my blood, my cells, will be used to create a cure-all, but it doesn’t change the fact that what they do to my body is brutal.

“Good afternoon,” says today’s doctor. “How have you been?”

It’s a question asked purely for show - it’s clear that he doesn’t care about my answer from the way his eyes, a cold gray, slide off mine. He is only here to draw my blood, take a sample of my natural-born immunity. He is only here to run tests on my body.

“Please, hold out your arm,” he says, and for a second, I allow myself to hope that this time will be different, that this time, he will merely draw a vial of blood, smile, and let me leave. He reaches for my arm, and I flinch as I see the needle in his hand. An injection.

“Relax,” he instructs, without an ounce of sympathy, and my hopes are dashed. My vision blurs as I am injected with anesthetics. The harsh white lights are the last thing I see before I fall unconscious.

I wake earlier than usual this time. The incessant beeping of machinery obnoxiously disrupts my thoughts, which are still muddled as though my head is stuffed with cotton balls. Pain runs through my body in jolts, and I struggle to keep my breathing even. I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to get up just yet.

Footsteps thud against the hard marble floor as someone approaches.

“Have you got the blood cells?” I recognize the voice - it’s the doctor from earlier. The one who, like all the others, heartlessly ran tests on me, pitilessly injecting rounds of viruses so that my immune system can develop antibodies - antibodies that will save others.

“Yeah, and the project is coming along pretty well. Who would have known that natural-born immunity could be made into a killer? Genius, what they’re having us do. No one will ever suspect that Code Zenith isn’t a bomb, but a gene weapon!” I don’t know who this voice belongs to - a technician, probably - and I don’t particularly care. My head is spinning. Gene weapon? I struggle to clear the cobwebs from my mind. They had told me my immunity was being used to develop a new type of antibiotic. A cure for diseases like cancer or Alzheimer’s.

“You should feel honored that you’re a part of it,” says the doctor, and I get the distinct impression that he’s talking to me, even though he doesn’t know I’m awake. The technician laughs, the sound nasal.

“Best get going,” he says, “She’ll be regaining consciousness soon. Wouldn’t want to risk discovery.”

Footsteps sound again as they walk away. I open my eyes, the brightness blinding as they adjust to the light. I sit up slowly, pain lancing through my body with every movement. Beside me, the computer hums, and I walk over to it slowly, dreading what I might see on its screen. It’s still on - the technician obviously never bothered to log out. On it, I see my name, a photo, my birthdate, all of the things you might expect in a normal patient portal. For a second, I almost manage to convince myself that there hadn’t been anyone in the room, that I’d made up the conversation. I’m about to turn away, to get on with my life, when my eyes catch on a small line of text in the corner.

Code Zenith.

My chest feels icy as I click on it. Amazingly, it doesn’t ask for a password. As I scan the text, it confirms my worst fears: everything I had heard was true.

I trail my fingers along the cold metal examination table, not really comprehending the implications of what’s happened. What I’ve done.

Death, it seems, always finds me in the end.