Chapter 9 - THE GIRL THEY THOUGHT THEY OWNEDRYAN
My mother sounds tired.
That is the first thing I notice when the call connects.
"Mom?"
"Ryan, sweetheart."
Her voice makes my eyes burn.
We have been given a short supervised family communication period, and I have spent the last ten minutes trying to reach her.
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine."
I close my eyes.
She always says that.
Even when she's sitting in a hospital bed.
Even when she can't keep food down.
Even when my father tells me afterward that she was too weak to walk to the bathroom.
"Mom."
She sighs.
"Some days are better than others, baby. Today is one of the difficult ones."
I press my lips together.
"Did you go to your appointment?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"The doctor adjusted my treatment."
"Are you getting everything you need?"
She hesitates.
Then she laughs softly.
"You're starting to sound like your father."
"Someone has to."
"Your father is doing his best."
"I know."
There is silence.
Then she says:
"Ryan, I need to ask you something."
My stomach tightens.
"Okay."
"Has someone been giving us money on your behalf?"
I stop breathing.
"What?"
"Your father received a payment toward the hospital account. The reference said educational family assistance."
I stare at the wall.
Oh no.
"Mom—"
"Ryan, did you apply for some kind of grant?"
I swallow.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because I wanted to help."
She is quiet for a moment.
Then she says something that breaks my heart.
"My child, helping your family should never require you to carry secrets that hurt you."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
"How do you know I'm carrying a secret?"
"Because I know the sound of my daughter's voice."
A sob escapes me.
"Mom."
"Talk to me."
I want to.
I want to tell her everything.
But I don't know who might be listening.
And I don't know what will happen to her if I refuse to cooperate.
So I whisper:
"I made a mistake."
Her voice changes.
"What kind of mistake?"
"One I don't know how to fix."
She doesn't scold me.
She doesn't demand an explanation.
Instead, she says:
"Then start by telling the truth to someone who can help you."
I wipe my face.
"What if the truth costs me everything?"
"Then we will figure out what comes next together."
I lower my head.
"I love you."
"I love you more."
The call ends.
I sit there staring at the phone.
For the first time since I agreed to Colonel Venter's arrangement, I understand something.
I thought I was protecting my family.
But I had allowed fear for them to become a weapon somebody else could use.
And I had hurt the one person here who genuinely cared about me.
That evening, I receive instructions to report to the research wing.
Colonel Venter is waiting.
He is standing behind his desk with a folder in his hand.
"Cadet Dube."
"Sir."
"Sit."
I obey.
He studies me.
"You seem distracted."
"I'm tired, sir."
"That's unfortunate."
He opens the folder.
"Your recent performance has been disappointing."
I keep my eyes forward.
"Sir."
"You failed to predict Mthembu's reaction to the classroom presentation."
"I didn't know she would be shown that information."
"That wasn't the question."
I say nothing.
He leans back.
"Do you understand why we selected you?"
"Because I agreed to assist with research."
He smiles.
"Partly."
My stomach twists.
"We selected you because you're intelligent, ambitious, and highly motivated by your family's circumstances."
I look up.
He knows.
Of course he knows.
He knows everything.
"You want to succeed," he continues. "You want to help your parents. You want to make sure your brother has opportunities you didn't have."
I press my hands together.
"Yes, sir."
"Then why are you making this difficult?"
"Because the agreement didn't say I would have to hurt someone."
He sighs.
"Cadet Dube, emotional discomfort is not the same as harm."
"It is when you deliberately use someone's private information against them."
His eyes narrow.
"Careful."
My heart begins pounding.
I remember what Kayise once told me.
Fear makes you want to react quickly. Sometimes you need to slow down before deciding what to do.
I breathe.
Slowly.
"Sir, I want to withdraw from the study."
He stares at me.
Then he laughs.
"You think this is a student club?"
"No, sir."
"Do you have any idea how much money has been invested in your development?"
"I can repay the educational grant through a proper repayment arrangement, if that is what the agreement requires."
His smile disappears.
"You don't have that kind of money."
"Then I will work out a payment plan."
He stands.
"Let me explain something to you."
He walks around the desk.
I force myself not to shrink back.
"Your scholarship is conditional. Your research participation is confidential. If you breach the agreement, there will be consequences."
I stare at him.
"What kind of consequences?"
"Loss of funding. Possible disciplinary action."
My throat tightens.
"I didn't agree to an arrangement that let you do whatever you wanted."
He stops walking.
For several seconds, he looks at me without speaking.
Then he returns to his desk.
"Tomorrow, you will submit a written statement."
"About what?"
"Kayise Mthembu's academic conduct."
I frown.
"Sir?"
"You will confirm that she had advance knowledge of the aptitude assessment and that she has been receiving unauthorized assistance."
I feel the room tilt.
"But that's not true."
"You will confirm the statement."
"I can't."
His expression becomes cold.
"You can."
"No, sir."
The words escape before I can stop them.
He slowly rises.
"What did you say?"
I am shaking now.
Actually shaking.
But I repeat myself.
"I won't lie about her."
He stares at me.
Then he opens a drawer and places a photograph on the desk.
My younger brother.
Sizwe.
He is standing outside his school, carrying his backpack.
My stomach drops.
"Where did you get that?"
Venter folds his hands.
"Your family is very important to you."
I jump to my feet.
"Leave him alone!"
"Sit down."
"He's a child!"
"Then perhaps you should think carefully before making decisions that could affect the people you love."
I feel tears rolling down my cheeks.
"You said this was research."
"It is."
"This isn't research."
He doesn't respond.
I look at the photograph.
My little brother is smiling.
He has no idea that someone has been watching him.
And suddenly, the money doesn't matter anymore.
The scholarship doesn't matter.
Nothing matters except getting my family away from these people.
I grab the photograph.
"I'm leaving."
Venter doesn't stop me.
But as I reach the door, he speaks.
"Cadet Dube."
I freeze.
"If you report this conversation, you'll be making a serious mistake."
I turn toward him.
For the first time, I see him clearly.
Not as an officer.
Not as a researcher.
As a man who believes fear gives him ownership over other people's lives.
I don't answer.
I walk out.
Back in my room, I sit on my bed and stare at the photograph.
Then I pull out the research phone.
I scroll through the messages.
The instructions.
The threats.
The promises.
I don't know whether the device will be taken from me.
So I write down the message dates and times in my notebook.
I keep the original device untouched.
Then I compose an email to the academy's independent welfare reporting address.
My hands are trembling so badly that I make mistakes.
I erase them.
Start again.
And finally type:
My name is Ryan Dube. I participated in a program that I now believe is harming cadets. I need protection for my family, and I am prepared to tell the truth.
I stare at the message.
Then I press send.
For the first time in days, I can breathe.
But my relief doesn't last.
A reply arrives almost immediately.
It isn't from the welfare office.
It's from the research phone.
WE KNOW YOU HAVE CONTACTED OVERSIGHT.
I freeze.
A second message appears.
YOU HAVE UNTIL FRIDAY TO PROVE YOUR LOYALTY.
Then a third.
A recent photograph.
My brother.
This time, he is standing beside an unfamiliar black car.
May you like
And beneath the photograph are six words.
DON'T MAKE US VISIT YOUR FAMILY.
