LAUREN DESTEFANO WITHER PDF

What if you knew exactly when you’d die? The first book of The Chemical Garden Trilogy. By age sixteen, Rhine Ellery has four years left to live. A botched effort. Editorial Reviews. Review. Amazon Exclusive: Cassandra Clare Reviews Wither Wither (The Chemical Garden Trilogy Book 1) by [DeStefano, Lauren]. Audible Sample. Audible Sample. Playing Playing Loading Loading. Wither by Lauren DeStefano In Wither, genetic engineering led to the creation of perfect children. Cancer has been cured. Allergies eradicated.

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The first book of The Chemical Garden Trilogy. By age sixteen, Rhine Ellery has four years left to live. A botched effort to create destdfano perfect race has left all males born with a lifespan of 25 years, and females a lifespan of 20 years–leaving the world witner a state of panic.

Geneticists seek a miracle antidote to restore the human race, desperate orphans crowd the population, crime and poverty have skyrocketed, and young girls are being kidnapped and sold as polygamous brides to bear more children. When Rhine is sold as a bride, she vows to do all she can to escape. He opens her to a magical world of wealth and illusion she never thought existed, and it almost makes it possible to ignore the clock ticking away her short life.

Her father-in-law, an eccentric doctor bent on finding the antidote, is hoarding corpses aluren the basement; her fellow sister wives are to be trusted one day and feared the next; and Rhine has no way to communicate to her twin brother that she is safe and alive. detsefano

LibrisNotes: Wither by Lauren DeStefano

Together with one of Linden’s servants, Gabriel, Rhine attempts to escape just before her seventeenth birthday. But in a world that continues to spiral into anarchy, is there any hope for freedom? Get a FREE e-book by joining our mailing list today!

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Wither By Lauren DeStefano.

Book 1 of The Chemical Garden Trilogy. Price may vary by retailer. Add to Cart Add to Cart. They keep us in the dark for so long that we lose sense of our eyelids. We sleep huddled together like rats, staring out, and dream of our bodies swaying. I know when one of the girls reaches a wall. The light is frightening. I recoil into the blankets with the other girls in horror, not wanting to begin or end.

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How long has it been—days? The big open dwstefano waits in its usual place. I stand in line with the other girls, and men in gray coats study us. Where I come from, girls have been disappearing for a long time. They disappear from their beds or from the side of the road.

It happened to a girl in my neighborhood.

Her whole family disappeared after that, moved away, either to find her or because they knew she would never be returned. I know girls disappear, but any number of things could come after that. Will I become a murdered reject? These things have happened. I could become a bride. The other girls never make it to the television screen. Some girls disappear forever, and all their families can do is wonder. The girls are taken as young as thirteen, when their bodies are mature enough to bear children, and the virus claims every female of our generation by twenty.

Our hips are measured to determine strength, our lips pried apart so the men can judge our health by our teeth. One of the girls vomits.

She may be the girl who screamed. She wipes her mouth, trembling, terrified. I stand firm, determined to be anonymous, unhelpful. I feel too alive in this row of moribund girls with their eyes half open. I sense that their hearts are barely beating, while mine pounds in my chest.

After so much time spent riding in the darkness of the truck, we have all fused together. We are one nameless thing sharing this strange hell. I do not want to stand out. Someone has noticed me. A man paces before the line of us. He allows us to be prodded by the men in gray coats who examine us.

He seems thoughtful and pleased. His eyes green, like two exclamation marks, meet mine. He keeps walking, and I stare at my shoes. I should never have looked up. The strange color of my eyes is the first thing anyone ever notices. He says something to the men in gray coats.

They look at all of us, and then they seem to be in agreement. The vomit girl is taken back to the truck, and a dozen other girls with her; a man in a gray coat follows them in. There are three of us left, the gap of the other girls still between us. The men speak to one another again, and then to us.

I can hear the distant sounds of traffic. I can see the evening city lights beginning to appear in the distant purple haze.

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Just before someone shuts the door, I hear something inside the van where the remaining girls were herded. I awake in a satin bed, nauseous and pulsating with sweat. My first conscious movement is to push myself to the edge of the mattress, where I lean over and vomit onto the lush red carpet.

Air tight, I assume. Vaguely I remember the whooshing of air coming through vents in the walls. I look over my shoulder at the window. Somewhere wwither the hall a woman screams. The boy tenses for a moment. Then he resumes scrubbing away the foam. Maybe he was also brought here against his will.

Wither (Chemical Garden, book 1) by Lauren DeStefano

He pulls a handle out of the wall, and a chute opens; he tosses the rags into it, lets go, and the chute clamps shut. He tucks the can of white foam into his apron pocket and returns to what he was doing. Nothing that will make you fall asleep again, I promise.

But he maintains a concentrated gaze as he lifts a metal lid off a bowl of soup and another off a small plate of steaming vegetables and mashed potatoes cradling a lake of gravy. The sentiment is so vile I could almost throw up again. I think the House Governor took her to tour the gardens.

I remember my despair and crash against the pillows. House Governors own mansions. They purchase brides from Gatherers, who patrol the streets looking for ideal candidates to kidnap. The merciful ones will sell the rejects into prostitution, but the ones I encountered herded them into the van and shot them all. I heard that first gunshot over and over in my medicated dreams. My brother, Rowan, and I had it with our breakfast each morning, and with dinner each night. The smell is like home.

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My mother would hum as she waited by the stove for the water to boil. Blearily I sit up and take the tea. I hold it near my face and deshefano the steam in through my nose. The boy must sense that the full destrfano of what has happened is reaching me. Quietly, without looking back, he leaves me to my grief. But instead of tears, when I press my face against the pillow, a horrible, primal scream comes out of me. Wither Trade Paperback More books from this author: More books in this series: The Chemical Garden Trilogy.