His dreams were usually faded and quick to pass, like shadows fleeting on the surface of a quick river. But now, in the white room full of white things and white light, Carter could see everything. He could see his arrival. When he’d still been in the back of the van, it had stopped without his realizing it, and the door had opened with gasps and coughs and gagging at the sight before the transporters. One had cried out, vaguely Carter could remember his words: “God damn! It looks like a murder scene back there! Get ‘im out, take that thing upstairs!”

They did. They’d put him through difficult, harsh cleanings, three in total, in a large white room. Men in white suits had come in with thick, rough brushes and scrubbed his skin with stinging liquids and scalding hot water. Then they’d strapped him down, rolling him through a few hallways, and poked him with needles, putting things in him and taking what blood he had left. Then they’d attached some large blood bag to him, which made him a bit stronger, but still kept him tired and lethargic.

Gritting his teeth, Carter opened his eyes and looked around. He’d thought it to be a bad dream, thought he’d be back where was familiar, a place that might have been filthy, cold and damp for half the year, but he recognized it. He knew what it was. This place... These people... He didn’t know any of it. Stretching slightly, Carter sat up and stared at his bare arms, outlining the scars. He knew how to talk. He knew a few words of the written language, and had learned to speak by listening to the television and his grandparents talking above the basement. He was no animal---but when he was treated as one, he acted as one.