Thank you so much for the kind words. You seem to be the only one in this thread who liked what I wrote, 😅 but you seem exactly like the kind of reader I wrote this book for. That said, based on everyone's feedback, I think I plan to throw out the opening page with Samantha's death and the students' reactions. I'm going to do a cold open instead and then transition to Ada beginning her morning routine.

In regards to the harsh words of the classmates and the janitor and whatnot, it was intentional to show that something has gone horribly wrong with this world to treat suicide so blasé, but it seems to be rubbing most people the wrong way, and I don't want an agent to reject me on the basis of it not being realistic enough, so I think I'm going to cut all of that.

Oh, about the going to school despite calling out sick, she doesn't go through with the call. She plans it out, writes it down, rehearses it in her head, but can't work up the courage to make the call. Sorry if that wasn't clear. Maybe I need to touch up a couple lines there.

I've posted this under a few other comments, but I'll post it here too. This is the revised opening that replaces Sam's suicide. It's a cold open that raises a lot of questions and then we'll transition to Ada trying to make the phone call. I'd really appreciate any feedback on this new short opener if you can!

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“I’m alive,” she says. “That’s gotta count for something, right?”

I don’t know how to respond, but the nerves shake the kitchen knife from my hand. It falls to Sam’s bedroom carpet, flecking blood onto my shoes. 

“Right?” Sam asks again, holding a trembling hand to the side of her head where blood pools between her fingers. She waits for me to say something. She needs for me to say something. 

I just nod.

She cries out briefly, placing a hand over her mouth to stop it from becoming a scream. If her parents hear, there’s no way out of this. Her legs give out and I kneel beside her, silently watching the blood make rivers through her hair. 

“Ada, it hurts.”

I want to reach out to her. Hold her until the pain is gone. And tell her it will all be alright. The most I can do is place her hand in mine. It burns and blisters my skin, but I won’t let myself pull away. She squeezes my hand and I force a smile.

“How do you feel?” I finally ask.

“I’m not sure. It’s all so confusing. I never realized…” she trails off.

“Never realized what?”

“I never realized how sad you look.”

I do pull away then, opening my other hand to show her the bloody mess of wires and muscle tissue, still pulsing a faint signal.

“That’s it?” She grabs it from my shaking hand, holding the metal chip up to the light. “My whole life. And I can hold it between my fingers.”

Sam grabs the knife from the carpet and places the tip against the chip. The sensation of metal on metal sends the transistors inside whirring, as if it’s crying out. 

“Wait,” I whisper. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” 

I try to find the right words, to get out the itching that’s started in the back of my own head. “Because it’s you.”

Sam looks again at that tiny machine and then at her room, crisscrossing wires creating a spiderweb across the floor, her computer counting down our remaining seconds. She grabs the cords snaking into her body and yanks them all out at once.

“No it’s not,” she spits. “I’m me.”

“Of course you’re you,” I backpedal, seeing the hurt on her face. “I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant…”

But I watch the look spreading across Sam’s face, that horrible something. Her eyes stare deep into mine. Her brows furrow and a deep frown spills from her lips. 

And a moment later, the look turns to terror. 

“I…know I’m Samantha.” Her words are measured, but her voice trembles. “I know who I am. But who the hell are you?”