“We need to check you.”
I stood without arguing, shrugged off my jacket, and pulled the collar of my blouse aside.
The place where the shot had gone in showed nothing. No scar. No mark. I had forgotten it within weeks.
Carter ran the scanner slowly over my shoulder.
Nothing.
Then a sharp electronic beep split the air.
His face hardened.
He moved to another monitor and pulled up an imaging screen. Beneath the skin of my shoulder, about an inch deep, a bright speck glowed on the image.
A grain of rice.
No. Smaller.
“What is that?”
“Biotracker,” Carter said. “Military grade. GPS accurate within a few feet, plus limited audio transmission. Ceramic casing, body-heat powered. It doesn’t register on standard metal detection.”
I gripped the table.
“They put a tracking device inside my body.”
Dad looked like he might fall apart where he stood.
“For two years,” he said hoarsely, “they have known where you went, who you talked to, what you said in private.”
The violation hit my body before it hit my mind. I barely made it to the trash can in the corner before I got sick.
Someone was suddenly behind me, steadying my hair. A bottle of water appeared in my hand. I rinsed my mouth and spat and rinsed again, but it did nothing to wash off the feeling.
