A doctor by the name of James Mitchell comes to my aid following my exit from the sensory deprivation chamber. Tall, handsome, with freckles peeking out from his ginger beard, he lifts me from the pod and allows me to fall into his arms as I am reduced to hysterics.


    Later—in a small medical clinic on the same floor, and away from Amelia Vanderoof’s judgmental eyes—the doctor lowers his clipboard and says, “You suffer from PTSD, don’t you?”


    I swallow the lump in my throat and say, “Yes. At least… that’s what the doctors at Trinity Springs told me.”


    “Trinity Springs was the hospital you were at before you declared your intent to assimilate?” Doctor Mitchell asks and frowns as I nod. “Who did you see at the hospital?”


    “A physician to check my head from when I fell.”


    “You fell?”


    “A psychiatrist to judge my mental state,” I continue, ignoring his previous question, “a social worker to determine what could be done for my situation.”


    “And that was when Shadow was dispatched to wipe you,” Doctor Mitchell says.


    “Before I refused to be wiped,” I reply.


    The doctor scribbles something on his clipboard and sets it on the table at his side before stepping forward to tilt my chin up. “Your pupils are normal,” he says, “your reaction times average, your blood pressure a bit high, your temperature warm—but that isn’t surprisingly considering you were in the tank for nearly an hour.”


    <i>“An hour?” </i>I ask.


    “You should be proud. Many don’t make it ten minutes.”


    “What… what <i>was</i> that?” I say. “I mean… I… I <i>saw</i> things. Things I couldn’t have possibly seen.”


    “Like?”


    “My father’s car accident. I was only three years old when he died, and at home with my mother while he was returning from running an errand on Christmas Eve.”


    “I’m sorry to hear that,” the doctor says. “I imagine that made holidays hard for you.”


    “He… s<i>poke </i> to me. Tried to <i>reach out</i> for me. Touch me. <i>Hug</i>


    me.”


    “It’s not uncommon for the sensory deprivation tank to assault people with things it feels might weaken them.”


    <i>“It?” </i>I ask. “What do you mean <i>it?</i><i>”</i>


    “You didn’t know?” the doctor asks and waits for me to say something further. When I don’t, he sighs, reaches up to tilt his glasses up and rub his eyes, then settles them back on his nose before saying, “Amelia never was one for being direct with the newbies.”


    “What’re you talking about? I don’t understand.”


    “The sensory deprivation tank,” the doctor begins, “or <i>Consi, </i>as we call her, is an artificial intelligence the Agency developed to help test Hunters’ spirits. Now, before you ask: there’s no real way to test your spirit. It can’t be pulled out of your body, molded into a precise creation, shaped into whatever form the individual desires. What <i>Consi</i> does test, however, is one’s willpower and strength of heart—which, if you think about it, cannot be tested when viewing monstrosities in the Viewing Chamber. That merely determines whether or not you are afraid.”


    “And the tank doesn’t determine that?” I ask.


    “The tank is meant to assault a potential Hunter with their greatest fears, their truest losses, their worst moments. Having courage is not similar to experiencing fear. They are two completely separate emotions.”


    “Can I go?” I ask, pushing myself off the table and shivering as I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m cold, and I’d like to try and rest.”


    “You’re free to go if you wish,” the doctor replies. “But before you do, Scarlet, I’d like to ask…”


    I turn my head to face him.


    “Would you like some medication?”


    “Medication?” I ask and blink. “For what?”


    “Your anxiety. It’s obvious you experience panic attacks. I don’t want you to suffer unwillingly.”


    <i>Suffer? </i>I think. <i>Unwillingly?</i>


    I could have laughed. Somehow, though, I don’t.


    My expression must betray my true emotions, as the doctor frowns when I start to make my way out of the room.


    “Scarlet,” he says but doesn’t reach out to touch me or block my way out. “I can prescribe you something for sleep, if you’d like, or medication for your anxiety.”


    “I don’t need pills,” I say. “I need to stay level-headed.”


    “These medications aren’t going to be a permanent thing. They’re only supposed to be used if you need them.”


    I shake my head. “No. No… No, thank you.”


    That’s the thing. Even <i>if</i> I am suffering the results of untreated post-traumatic stress, and even <i>if</i> I am battling my body because of incomplete sleep, I don’t need medication to treat those symptoms, regardless of whatever Doctor Mitchell thinks. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    <i>You need to stay focused,</i> I tell myself, <i>and keep yourself engaged.</i>


    As much as I want to ignore the feelings that haunt me, I know for a fact that I can use them to my advantage.


    It is just like Emily Bane had told me:


    <i>Channel your anger into your training.</i>


    <i>Use it to make your world a better place.</i>


    With one last shake of my head, I make my way out of the clinic.


    * * *


    I struggle to rest in the hours after returning to my room. Haunted by visions of my parents’ pasts, I toss and turn within my bed, trying my hardest to keep from seeing images of my father’s crash, my mother’s brutal murder.


    <i>The man in the car—</i>


    <i>The crash as it took my father away—</i>


    <i>The woman in the house—</i>


    <i>The screech before my mother</i><i>’s life was robbed forever—</i>


    And me, the girl witness to it all, within the pod—watching, waiting, <i>expecting</i>


    a revelation to come from it all.


    I’d passed the test of spirit.


    Now, all I had to do was wait and see what would come next.


    <i>Your training,</i> something tells me, <i>will continue.</i>


    This much is already obvious. Because as much as I want to believe I am ready to face the world and all its monstrosities, I am not even physically ready to combat a human, let alone a creature of darkness. However, the fact that I’ve overcome two of the tests—and relatively unscathed in spite of them—is enough to reassure me that I can, in fact, <i>do this.</i>


    <i>I can be a Hunter, </i>I tell myself. <i>I can do it.</i>


    If I cannot do it for me, and if not for my mother, then I would do it for any other unfortunate soul whose paths happen to cross the wicked creatures of darkness.


    A knock comes at the door, startling me from thought.


    “Hello?” a familiar voice asks. “Are you there, Scarlet?”


    <i>Shadow? </i>I think.


    What could he be doing here? Could he have heard of my trial and have come to offer me moral support?


    Rather than continue to question myself, I roll out of bed and open the door.


    The Wiper stands in the hall, his head up, his gaze set toward me. “I… brought you some provisions,” the man says, shifting a paper bag in his hand.


    I step aside so he can enter.


    As I close the door behind him, Shadow turns and extends the bag toward me. “It isn’t much,” he says. “Just some essentials. Razors. Pads. Tampons. Painkillers.”


    “You think I’m on my period?” I laugh, then say, “Wait. Can you tell that sort of thing?”


    “No.” The man shakes his head. “I simply thought that they might make you more comfortable is all.”


    He was right. They <i>would</i> make me feel more comfortable—and <i>do, </i>especially considering that I hadn’t been able to procure any of the necessary items I would need come the end of the month.


    As I look into the bag, acknowledging the items that have been so graciously gifted by someone I didn’t yet consider a frown, I glance up at the man and offer a smile I know is genuine, considering all the dark thoughts that plague my conscience. “Thank you,” I say. “It means a lot.”


    “I worry,” the man says, “that you are not properly taking care of your mental health.”


    “I’m trying,” I say, though in reality, I have shrugged off more assistance than I could have ever imagined. “I mean… I’m doing what I can to keep myself going.”


    “You are aware that there is a commissary here for people like you.”


    “People like me?”


    “People who have been adversely affected by the Supernatural world.”


    “I didn’t know,” I say, “but thank you for telling me.”


    “I could take you, if you like.” He pauses and shifts his eyes away from me. “I… am sorry I’ve been distant. I’ve had… errands to attend to.”


    “Have you been visiting my family?” I ask.


    Shadow blinks, as if waiting a moment to answer. “How did you—”


    “There was something in your eyes,” I say. “Something that betrayed your true emotions.”


    “I don’t mean to be dishonest. I merely mean for you to be comfortable.”


    “I understand.” I seat myself upon the bed and reach back to grab a pillow, which I wrap my arms protectively. “”How do you do it?”


    “Wipe a family, you mean?” Shadow settles into the chair opposite the bed, then leans forward and presses a hand to his chin. “It really isn’t that difficult. You present yourself to the individual who answers the door, wipe said individual, then enter their house and begin to take anything that may have relation to the person in question.”


    “How do you do that?”


    “Find the items?” He waits for me to nod before continuing. “There’s a… residual energy that can be felt from a person: an aura, technically, that can be seen on anything that might identify with that person. You can’t see it—few truly can—but Wipers have the innate ability to detect these auras. This is how we find paperwork, documents, even files on computers. When we trigger electromagnetic interference, we’re not actually erasing everything in a computerized device. Just the files that identify that person.”


    “So you wipe a person by will,” I say, “and find and destroy everything else through auras only you can see.”


    “Exactly.”


    “And you do this for every person an initiate might have been in contact with?”


    “Correct. Your aura touched many people, Scarlet. I’ve been quite busy ensuring your existence has been erased.”


    “That’s where you’ve been all these days, isn’t it? Back in Shreveport.”


    “And the surrounding towns, making sure everyone has forgotten.”


    I tighten my hold on the pillow, almost uncomfortable so.


    Shadow frowns and asks, “It’s finally starting to settle in… isn’t it?”


    “That my old life is gone?” I ask. “Yes. It is.”


    “Does it bother you?”


    It does—though not badly. Nothing has compared to the knowledge that my mother is gone, that she has been viciously murdered. I miss my friends, but it isn’t as if I need them. Ariana wouldn’t have been able to tell me what to do. Cindy couldn’t have held my hand. Coach Vasquez did not, nor ever would have, any advice for me, especially not regarding this. The truth is that I am completely, utterly, and undeniably alone.


    <i>But at least you have people you can depend on,</i> I think, lifting my eyes to consider Shadow. <i>People who won</i><i>’t leave you not now, or maybe ever. Not when I need them the most.</i>


    “Thank you,” I say.


    “For what?” Shadow asks.


    “For being there for me. For helping me. For… offering me this chance.”


    “The Sanguine will be dealt with, Scarlet. In time.”


    With a nod, I relinquish my hold on the pillow and spread out along the bed. “I think I’m going to try and sleep now,” I say, watching carefully as Shadow rises and makes his way toward the door. “Thank you for bringing what you did, Shadow. It means a lot.”


    “If you need me to take you to the commissary later, please, don’t hesitate to have someone contact me. That phone”—he gestures to the one lying on the bedside table—“will direct you to a Keeper in the front office, who will then direct someone to find me.”


    “Thank you, again.”


    Shadow turns and departs the room.


    As he closes the door behind him, leaving me in a place that I am only just now beginning to associate with home, I take a moment to compose myself.


    Then I reach out, tap the bedside lamp, and usher my world into darkness.


    I can only hope that nightmares will not follow.