Breakfast is in the cafeteria, which is full of sad, shuffling wrecks shivering inside dressing gowns. Morning is the best time of the day here: the confusion has passed from the electroshock, or my stomach has settled after the emetic the day before. It’s the only time I have an appetite—for food, at least. It’s also the only time that we’re allowed to assemble in groups. The other gentlemen at my table are either staring blankly at their plates or pushing the food around and glowering in disgust.
A hand squeezes my shoulder. Warmth jolts down my veins and rattles my bones. James’s aftershave insinuates into my lungs like sweet poison.
‘You okay, Professor?’ he whispers.
|—||An excerpt from Cynnamon Conway’s The Wrong Kind of Human. Truly a captivating and skillful tale of a controlled state with genetically pure humans and cloned slaves. (via jukepopserials)|