Chapter 18

As we walk to the Commons, I can’t do much more than follow Essie. She steers me into the lunch line, shoving a tray into my hands.

Smells slap me in the face. Chemicals in the meat. Bleach and tomato soup and all the human perfumes, vanilla and bergamot and cedarwood—all combined without regard for what makes sense, what grows together in nature.

It’s all wrong.

I get pizza because at least it smells like freezer burn and oven, not garbage. The milk is a few hours from turning. I gag. Essie holds out a big wad of brown paper napkins.

“I’m good,” I say as I grab...