The Risen (Book 2): Margaret Read Online Free

it.
    I’m more concerned with the large machine that will be used to give us the shot than over what the shot is, or what it may do or not do to my body. The idea of dead things swimming around inside me does not make me feel any better though. Or, the not really dead things, depending on who you want to believe. Either way, my stomach does not approve.
    April’s face is still contorted with wrinkles of concern over it. “Do you think she meant like dead, dead? Or just like ….” Her voice trails off, unsure of what else dead could be, but dead.
    “Maybe it is one of those medical things that doesn’t make sense unless you have a big framed piece of paper on a wall behind a big wooden desk.” I offer, as the only hope I have to understand it all myself.
    She nods, seeming to be content with my answer.
    If only Charlotte was so easily convinced of such things. I roll my eyes with the thought. Santa will come in July before Charlotte would ever agree with another.
    April, Teddy, and I walk along the brightly colored purple and teal halls leading to our classroom. Normally, we would skip along the patterned tiles, avoiding the “cracks” as we call out the classic rhyme. Today though, we march, lifeless, along the brightly painted halls with each of us lost in our own mental debates over what today will bring for us.
    Our silence presents our teachers with added concerns as they watch us file into the rooms with our silent foreboding. The whole school is more restrained today with the knowledge of what lies ahead. We pout and sulk, knowing we are unable to avoid it with the grace that only those of our youth can get away with and master.
    We flop into desks. Book bags “accidentally” fall too hard from shoulders, hitting the floor with loud, unnecessary noises. Arms cross, eyes glare and lips frown all in silent conversations. Conversations that express our moods and the thoughts that are transforming us into the cranky, moody creatures that now fill the room.
    Our teacher’s name is Mrs. Mary Lamb. Seriously, I can’t make this stuff up. Of course, this means that our room is themed after the classic nursery rhyme. At the start of the school year, we were each asked to make our own cotton stretched lamb to place along the wall to display our names like dining table place mats marking our territories. Now, the room is filled with different designs of white lambs and their black drawn eyes of many sizes.
    I named mine after my own lamb from home even if my name is written on the pink collar around its neck. This way, he truly is with me everywhere I go. His bright colored smile is not as comforting as the one that awaits for my return home, but it helps as he stares down at me from his high place on the wall to brighten long school days, like today.
    The rest of the room’s walls are painted in a vivid mural depicting rolling green hills of a countryside scene. It winds around the room to focus on Mrs. Lamb’s desk, framing her within the classic story of a girl and her lamb’s trip to school. I used to find it pleasant and peaceful. Now it seems too bright for a room filled with so many silent frowns.
    Today’s schedule is placed upon the board, but the only entry our eyes see is the one labeled “special activity” and it falls far down on the list, making the day loom long and depressing before us. Nervous glances are passed around the room with each new set of eyes that finds the time slot. The shared horror stories of the potential possibilities of what may happen are easy to read among the many faces of my classmates. It brings forth new versions with each sigh as we all wonder what the other has heard and who has the truth.
    If there was even a truth that was told? I wonder, with all the many stories that float around, and each of them being more horrible than the last.
    Busy work is waiting on the desks to entertain the ones already here while the time passes for each student to make their way into the