The Eighteen-Year-Old Rose Withered Overnight

For my eighteenth birthday, my adoptive parents went to a lot of trouble to give me a coming-of-age celebration.

After I blew out the candles, Mom pulled a plane ticket abroad out of her pocket and said gently,

Our Zoe Fox's all grown up now. Your dad and I have worked half our lives for one thingto give you the best life we can.

"The ticket's for tomorrow, and I've already wired five hundred thousand into your account as a travel fund. You leave at dawn."

I threw myself into Mom's arms, touched, and clung to her.

Beside us, Dad gave a jealous little huff.

"So it's only Mom who's good to you? Am I not good to you too? You ungrateful little thing."

I turned and kissed him on the cheek.

He laughed until the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes bunched together.

At two in the morning I woke up thirsty and came out for water.

Mom and Dad's bedroom door hadn't been shut all the way, and the light was still on.

I was about to sneak up and scare them.

Just as I reached the doorway, a voice came from inside.

"Raise your soldiers for a thousand days to use them for one. I've spent eighteen years on this research, and I'm finally about to see the results."

"Your plan really was the better one. Once she's out of the country, we tell everyone she vanished while traveling abroad. There'll be departure records at the airport too. No one will ever trace it back to us."

Mom gave a soft laugh.

"You men, your minds are just too simple. Get some sleep. Once morning comes, we'll be busy."

I stood outside the door, and every drop of blood in me froze at once.

My father was an expert in the medical field, specializing in the hardest cases of genetic disease.

What kind of research he meant to do, I didn't dare imagine.

Afraid of alerting them, I rose onto my toes and crept back to my room.

I set down the cup, crouched on the floor, and started stuffing things into my backpack.

ID card, bank cardsthose all leave traces too easily in an age of information.

I didn't take them. I shoved them back into the drawer.

I packed only five thousand in cash.

And a bottle of iodine, just in case.

When I finished, I looked down at the sorry state of myself and laughed.

The eighteenth birthday I'd been waiting for so long.

The gift I'd been given was a one-way ticket abroad, with no coming back.

And a swindle they'd spent eighteen years carefully preparing.

I'd just shouldered my bag and was about to leave.

Then a car engine started up downstairs.

Very quiet. It stopped right at the building's entrance.

My chest tightened, and I pried apart the slats of the blinds to look down.

A black company car. License plate ending in 073.

It was from my dad's research institute.

They'd called someone in after all.

There was no time.

I put on my bag, pushed open the second-floor window, and climbed down clinging to the drainpipe on the outer wall.

The early-autumn wind poured in through my collar, cold enough to bite.

I twisted my ankle on the landing but bit down and made no sound.

Bent low, I ran along the base of the wall toward the back gate of the complex.

The gate needed a face scan, so I didn't dare use it. I climbed the low wall on the side instead.

Beyond the wall was the late-night street.

The streetlights were dim and yellow. There wasn't even a cab out.

I limped two blocks before I finally flagged down a night-shift cab.

"Where to?"

"The Old Town. The West Street alleys."

I gave the name, my voice shaking a little.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror and didn't ask anything more.

As the car pulled away, I looked back toward the complex.

That house I'd lived in for eighteen years still had its warm yellow lights on.

I used to think it was the warmest place in the whole world.

I was adopted by the Fox couple when I was one.

The orphanage director said I was the luckiest child in the whole place.

Professor Fox and Dr. Pruitt were both well-known biomedical experts in their field.

They had no children of their own, and the moment they came to the orphanage, they picked me at first sight.

They really were good to me.

So good that at eighteen I'd barely ever washed my own socks.

So good that when my stomach cramped during my period, Mom would crouch by the bed and rub it for me until her own hands ached.

So good that to celebrate my birthday, Dad turned down an international medical conference and made birthday noodles for me with his own hands.

When I blew out the candles that afternoon, they pressed the plane ticket into my hands.

I hugged them and cried, promising I'd study hard and come back to take care of them.

Now that I think about it, the look in their eyes when they watched me was never the way you look at a daughter.

It was the way you look at a lab specimen you've finally raised to maturity.

The cab stopped at the intersection.

I didn't dare use my phone to pay. I paid cash.

Dad's friend worked in IT. Pulling my transaction records would be nothing to him.

West Street was in the Old Town, the alleys running every which way.

Nothing around but houses decades old, and hardly any cameras.

I slipped down a narrow lane and found a family-run motel tucked deep inside.

The owner was a middle-aged woman, sitting behind the counter cracking sunflower seeds.

"Staying? ID. Sign in."

"Forgot to bring it."

I slapped two hundred dollars on the counter.

"Just one night. I'll be gone by dawn."

She looked me over for a few seconds.

Then took the money and tossed me a key.

"Last room on the third floor. Don't cause trouble."

"And we get all kinds in here. Girl your age shouldn't go out at night."

I took the key and turned to head up.

The room was tiny, the damp hitting me the second I walked in.

I went to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain.

It looked straight out onto the alley behind.

This room really wasn't bad.

I bolted the door.

Wedged the chair against it, and only then let myself slide down to the floor with my back against it.

The moment I relaxed, the pain in my ankle came throbbing up in waves.

I dug out the antiseptic, tipped some onto a tissue, and pressed it to my ankle.

It hurt so much I sucked in a sharp breath.

And then I laughed.

Good. Let it hurt.

The pain meant this wasn't a dream.

The pain proved I was still alive, still here.

I stared at the peeling paint on the wall, my mind blank.

Details from all those years kept surfacing.

Ever since grade school, I'd gone to the research institute every month for a checkup, three full vials of blood drawn each time.

Mom said, "Zoe's not strong. Regular checkups just put my mind at ease."

In middle school, the school held a sports day. Everyone had to take part.

I signed up for the eight hundred meters.

Mom made a special trip to talk to my teacher, said my heart was weak, that I couldn't do anything strenuous.

Back then I sulked about it for the longest time.

A few days ago I fell off my bike and scraped my knee.

Dad lost his temper at me for the first time, dragged me to the hospital, disinfected it three times over.

I'd thought then it was because he cared.

Only now do I understand.

He was afraid something would go wrong with his sample.

Eighteen years of careful raising, and not so much as a cut allowed.

All for today.

To put me on a plane, ship me off to some nameless lab overseas.

No one the wiser.

As dawn came close, I couldn't hold out any longer and drifted off into a hazy sleep.

Voices downstairs woke me.

I was instantly alert. I crept to the door and pressed my ear against it.

It was a man's voice, a stranger's.

"Eighteen, on the short side, long hair, white hoodie, black backpack. Seen her?"

The owner's voice was lazy.

"Nope. Small place like this, only regulars stay here."

The man said, "Twenty thousand if you find her. She's my daughter. Threw a fit and ran off. She's got depression, and I'm scared something'll happen to her."

My heart clenched hard.

Depression.

That was the label they'd pinned on me.

So even if they found me, no one would believe me when I begged for help.

Twenty thousand.

I really couldn't decide whether to be impressed they'd spend that much, or insulted that my life came so cheap.

Downstairs went quiet for a few seconds.

Then the owner's voice: "Huh. Now that you mention it, there was a girl who came by last night..."

The blood went cold all through me.

I spun around and bolted for the window.

Shoved it open. The alley was right below.

The third floor wasn't that high, and there was junk piled underneath.

I climbed onto the sill and jumped.

I dropped into a crouch on landing, but the jolt still shot pain through my ankle.

I didn't dare stop. I scrambled up and ran deeper into the alley.

Behind me came the sound of the door being kicked in, and the man shouting, "She ran! There! After her!"

I didn't dare look back.

The alleys twisted and forked, and I didn't know the way, so I just ran on instinct.

The Old Town alleys were a maze.

I ducked through more than a dozen of them before the footsteps behind me finally faded out.

I leaned against a wall, chest heaving, my ribs aching like they might split open.

Money really could do anything.

There was no place left for me in this city.

I hid in the alleys until nine in the morning.

The streets were filling up.

I found a public restroom and pulled my hair into a bun.

I dug a black jacket out of my bag and put it on, then splashed cold water on my face.

The face in the mirror was pale, the eyes red.

Nothing like the pampered eldest Fox daughter I used to be.

Good.

If I couldn't recognize myself, no one else would either.

At the corner, I saw a sheet of paper stuck up next to the bus stop.

A missing-person flyer.

With my photo on it.

Taken at my birthday party.

I wore a crown, smiling without a care in the world.

Below the photo there was just one line:

Zoe Fox, eighteen, ran away from home due to depression. Anyone with information please call the number below. Reward: five hundred thousand dollars.

Two older women stood beside it, pointing at the line and talking.

"Such a pretty girl. How did she end up depressed?"

"Her parents must be worried sick. Five hundred thousand, that's real love for their child."

I kept my head down and walked past quickly.

Love for their child.

The corner of my mouth twitched with contempt.

Eighteen years of caring for a lab sample, and now the sample had run off. Of course they were frantic.

I didn't dare take the bus, didn't dare touch my phone, didn't even dare scan a code to buy water.

I had a little over four thousand in cash left.

This couldn't go on.

I had to get out of the city.

The bus station needed an ID card, the train station scanned your face, and the high-speed rail was worse.

I remembered a classmate once mentioning that out by the flea market on the edge of town, there were unlicensed cars that ran long distances.

No ID needed. Pay and go.

I circled two streets over and found a shared bike.

It took more than an hour of riding to reach the flea market.

Sure enough, a few vans were parked along the market's edge, the drivers crouched by the roadside smoking.

I walked over and asked,

"Fairhaven. You going?"

A driver with a beard looked me up and down.

"Just you?"

"Yeah."

"Two hundred."

I pulled out two hundred and handed it to him.

"Leaving now?"

"Two more passengers. Once it's full, we go."

I didn't say anything, just pulled the door open and climbed in.

Two people were already inside.

Migrant workers, from the look of it, clutching bags big and small.

I curled into the seat farthest in, hat on, head down.

Every time someone new got in, my stomach clenched.

After twenty minutes, the driver finally pulled out.

As the van rolled off and the city fell farther and farther behind, I finally let out a breath.

Once I was out of the city, they wouldn't have such an easy time finding me.

Halfway there, the van stopped at a rest area.

I got out to buy water. I'd just twisted off the cap when I heard someone nearby on the phone.

"Yeah, black van, plate 869, headed for Fairhaven. There's a young girl on it, black jacket, hat, matches the one we're looking for pretty close..."

The bottle clattered out of my hand and hit the ground.

Water spilled everywhere.

The man on the phone glanced at me.

I turned and ran for the edge of the rest area.

How did they know I was on this van?

Had they been watching me from the moment I got in?

Or was the unlicensed driver working with them too?

I couldn't let myself think about it.

Behind the rest area was a stretch of wasteland, weeds grown waist-high.

I plunged straight in and ran deeper.

Dry grass slashed at my face, stinging like fire.

Footsteps came behind me, and shouting.

"Professor Fox says whoever finds her gets eight hundred thousand!"

It had gone up again.

My life really was worth something.

I ran as hard as I could, one thought hammering in my head.

I couldn't let them take me back.

If they took me back, I'd never get out again.

I don't know how long I ran, but the footsteps behind me finally faded.

I slumped to the ground, gasping for air.

The sun beat down until my head spun.

The water in my bag had spilled earlier, and my lips were cracked and dry.

I looked down at my hands.

These hands. Mom used to rub lotion into them for me when I was little.

She said a girl's hands should be soft and smooth to look pretty.

Now they were caked with dirt, cut in a few places.

I laughed all at once.

And somewhere in the laughing, the tears came.

Eighteen years.

A full eighteen years.

I thought I was the luckiest orphan alive, adopted by parents who were like angels.

So it turned out I was just a data sample, chosen the moment I was born.

They fed me the best, dressed me in the best, gave me the best education.

Not because they loved me.

Because they had to protect the quality of the sample.

All those late nights helping me with my homework.

All those nights sitting by my bed when I was sick.

None of it was real.

How could they act it out so perfectly?

How could they look at a sample with eyes that gentle?

I couldn't understand it.

I stayed out in the wastelands until the sun went down.

Once I figured the others had gone, I followed the ridge between the fields toward the village ahead.

It was a tiny village, only a few dozen households.

There was a little shop at the entrance.

I dug out five dollars and bought a bottle of water and two rolls.

The owner was an old man. He looked up at me.

"You're not from around here?"

"No. I'm visiting relatives and got lost."

"It's already dark. Why don't you stay at my place tonight? Fifty a night."

I hesitated.

But there was nothing around but wild country, and walking on would get me nowhere.

"Okay."

The old man's house was right behind the shop.

A mud-brick house, chickens still out in the yard, a bit of a smell to it.

He fixed up a side room for me.

The bed was made with old bedding that smelled of sun.

"You rest, miss. I'll go cook you a bowl of noodles."

"Don't go to any trouble, sir."

"Hah, it's no trouble."

He turned and went out.

I sat on the edge of the bed, chewing on the hard, dry roll.

In all my life I'd never had it this rough.

At home, I wouldn't touch food if it was even a little too firm.

Now I felt lucky just to have a roll to eat.

I was still thinking that when the sound of a motorcycle came from the yard.

The old man asked, "Huh? Looking for a girl? How old is she?"

The roll dropped out of my hand onto the bed.

Again.

They wouldn't let go.

I rushed to the window and pulled back a sliver to look out.

The one on the motorcycle was a young man, holding up his phone to show the old man a photo.

I didn't have to think about whose photo it was.

The old man pointed toward my room and opened his mouth to speak.

I stepped back.

There was no time.

The back wall wasn't high. I climbed onto the windowsill and went over it.

I didn't land right and fell, scraping the skin off my palm.

I scrambled up and ran for the hills behind the village.

A shout came from behind me.

"She's running! She's headed up the hill!"

Dark came fast in the hills, and before long I couldn't see the path.

I pushed deeper on instinct, branches whipping my face until the pain went numb.

They wouldn't dare follow too far.

No signal in the hills, the ground hard to walk, and after dark they were afraid of getting hurt too.

They didn't chase long before the voices fell away behind me.

I found a big tree and slid down against the trunk.

My feet hurt, my hands hurt, my face hurt.

Everything hurt.

But it hurt worse inside.

I hugged my knees.

Afraid I'd draw someone, I didn't dare cry out loud, and I sat like that all night.

Only at daybreak could I see where I was.

A wild, empty hill, trees everywhere.

At least it was a clear day, with the sun to tell direction by.

I headed for the other side of the hill.

After most of a day, I finally reached the foot of it.

Ahead was a town, quite a bit bigger than yesterday's village.

I found a corner with no one around.

Brushed the dust off myself, straightened my hair.

I didn't have much money left in my pocket. I couldn't keep hiding like this.

You can hide for a while. You can't hide forever.

They had money, they had connections. Finding one person was too easy for them.

I had to figure out what exactly they wanted to do with me.

Eighteen years of setup couldn't have been for some ordinary research.

I thought of the computer in Dad's study.

All his research files were on it.

When I used to go in with fruit, he always shut the page the moment I stepped inside.

There was a bookstore in town.

Inside was a row of old computers, five dollars an hour.

I went in, paid, and took the seat all the way at the back.

I opened the computer and searched my dad's name.

Glen Fox. A leading authority in biomedicine, focused on gene therapy for rare diseases.

Scrolling down, there were the papers he'd published these past few years.

I opened the most recent one.

The title was long. I couldn't make sense of the technical terms, only the last few lines.

"Optimal drug sample requires a long-term, stable growth environment and developmental observation free of external interference. Recommended observation period of fifteen to twenty years; clinical study may proceed once physical development is complete."

My eighteen-year observation period.

Just right.

The hand on the mouse started to shake.

I kept scrolling.

The acknowledgments read:

"Special thanks to my wife, Winifred Pruitt, and to my daughter, Zoe Fox, for providing valuable sample support for this research."

Valuable sample.

In his paper, I didn't even deserve a name.

Just a sample.

I stared at that line, cold all over.

Eighteen years of being raised, and it was all one sample observation.

They gave me a comfortable life. They gave me all their tenderness.

Only so that I would grow up in the best environment into their most perfect paper data.

Once I turned eighteen and my development was complete, it was time to pull in the net.

If it worked, they'd be the angels who conquered a rare disease.

If it failed, they'd say I'd gone missing abroad.

Either way, no loss to them.

What a fine plan.

I was staring blankly at the screen when a familiar voice came from behind me.

A voice I'd listened to for eighteen years.

"Zoe."

Every drop of blood in me froze at once.

I turned around slowly.

Mom was standing behind me.

She looked at me, her eyes rimmed red.

The same pained look she used to wear when I was sick.

She reached out a hand to me, her voice very soft.

"Come home with Mom."

"Whatever it is, we'll talk it through at home, sweetie."

At the door behind her stood two men in black.

And my dad.

Standing in the shadow, his face too dark to read.

I could only see the paper he was holding in his hand.

It was that plane ticket abroad.