Chapter 3: The Note Behind the Glass

After I got her to bed, I slipped into Danny’s room.

The door creaked open, the air inside still and stale. His bed was neatly made, posters still tacked to the wall. I ran my fingers over his desk, tracing the grooves he’d carved into the wood.

Everything was still in its place. But it all felt different.

It was like walking into a museum—a place frozen in time. His favorite books lined the shelf, a half-finished model airplane sat on the windowsill. I felt like an intruder in my own home.

They’d become relics.

Every object seemed to hum with memory. I picked up his baseball glove, held it to my face, and breathed in the scent of leather and sweat. I felt tears sting my eyes.

I sat on the cold edge of his bed, staring at the big, colorful portrait hanging on the wall.

It was his graduation photo—cap askew, grin wide and goofy. The colors had faded, but his eyes sparkled with life. I reached out and touched the glass, wishing I could bring him back.

In the photo, my brother should have been laughing, but a layer of dust on the glass made him look lost in fog. Hard to read.

I wiped at the glass, my sleeve smearing the dust into cloudy streaks. It felt symbolic—no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see him clearly anymore.

I took down the frame, breathed on it, and wiped it clean—when a small note slipped out from the back.

My heart skipped a beat as the paper fluttered to the floor. I bent down, hands trembling, and picked it up. The handwriting was cramped, hurried—definitely Danny’s.

*My body tells me it’s healthy. I don’t want quarantine. I don’t think anyone in this town is really sick—we’re living a ridiculous lie.*

The words hit me like a punch. I read them again and again, trying to make sense of them. Danny had always questioned things, but this—this was different.

*I overheard the guys in white coats talking. In private, they call the people in town who get the blue stamp ‘ready for slaughter.’ But only pigs get sent to slaughter, right?*

My stomach turned. I remembered the way the doctors looked at us, the way they whispered behind closed doors. Suddenly, everything felt sinister.

*I can only pretend to be crazy—here, only the ‘crazy’ get to speak their minds, to vent their anger.*

He’d always seemed so lost during his episodes, but now I wondered—was it all an act? Was he trying to protect himself?

*Last year, when my eighteen-year-old sister went in for quarantine, our parents drugged her. Poor Lila—she had no idea. Maybe they know something, too?*

My hands shook as I read my own name. I tried to remember that day—the dizziness, the nausea. Had it really been an accident?

*I don’t think we’re even people—just livestock penned in. What’s the point of living like this? I don’t want to go on.*

The final words trailed off, cramped and shaky. I pressed the note to my chest, tears streaming down my face. I felt like I was falling, the ground crumbling beneath me.

Reading those tiny, cramped words, my mind felt like it had been struck by lightning—everything went blank.

I stared at the wall, the note clutched in my fist. My thoughts spun in circles, unable to land. Was everything I knew a lie?

My brother’s mental illness… was it all an act?

The idea was too big to grasp. I tried to picture him, tried to remember every moment, every word. Had I missed the signs?

And last year, before my first quarantine—did my parents drug me?

The memory came rushing back—Mom handing me a glass of water, Dad watching me drink. I remembered the bitter taste, the way my vision blurred. I’d thought it was nerves. Maybe it wasn’t.

No wonder my heart was racing and I wanted to throw up that day…

It all made sense now. The headaches, the cold sweat, the way I could barely stand. They’d done it on purpose.

But why would they drug me?

The question gnawed at me. What were they trying to protect me from? Or was it themselves they were protecting?

My brother’s note stuck to me like a nightmare, keeping me awake all night.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the note pressed under my pillow. Every creak of the house made me jump. I felt trapped, like the walls were closing in.