After I had received his mother's kiss on my forehead, Matt had howled. He had howled in anger. He had howled in fury. Sometimes he shouted. For eight hours at Matt's school and then another hour during baseball practice I was subjected to his bellowing. Nine hours! Nine hours of nothing but Matt's screaming! My brain felt like it was going to explode! If my host wasn't making my life a perpetual migraine, I'd almost have respected Matt for his tenacity; his resolve amazed me.

And then baseball practice had finally ended, and trying not to look too eager, I had rushed to the mall to 'run an errand.' Within fifteen minutes I was relaxing in the cool waters of the Yeerk Pool.

Peace. Finally peace. The calm plashing of the Pool waters, the great relief of silence. And finally I was reunited with Tristan, my oldest friend. I had not seen Tristan for three days, our longest period of separation ever.

(And you wouldn't believe these humans) Tristan was laughing (They really have no idea of the Yeerk invasion! My host really thought he was joining a 'family oriented' club! The Sharing ha! As if anyone would wish to waste their time 'sharing' anything with that fool!)

Tristan and I had found our way to our familiar area of the pool. Tristan was telling me in great and excited rushes of his experiences as a Controller.

(And do you know what else? Before being infested, my host had urged all his comrades to join the Sharing as well! So that means I'll get the credit for bringing in five new hosts!)

Tristan was quite pleased with his host, Robert van Hoslen, an adult human. Robert was a policeman, an occupation that both Tristan and I found ridiculous. It was Robert's job (and now Tristan's) to capture humans who harmed other humans. The human "criminals" were then penned into a "prison" where they were fed and entertained, while they were "rehabilitated." Tristan and I found Robert's occupation quite comical because in the Yeerk heiracy there was no need for "policemen". A Yeerk who harmed his fellows was simply executed, not captured and "rehabilitated."

(With those five hosts plus all the new hosts I'm sure to gain, I'll be promoted to a sub-visser at least! And when I convince some of my host's fellow law officers I'll- Iden! Are you listening to me?) Tristan suddenly stopped.

(I-er-yes,) I replied hastily.

(No you're not) Tristan argued.

(I was.) I protested.

The truth was that after three long days of listening to Matt's hollering, my mind had puddled. I was having trouble following a rational thought pattern let alone following what Tristan was saying. My poor battered mind had slowly turned in upon itself, wanting no more than to bask in the nothingness that had accompanied the temporary loss of my host.

(Iden, what's wrong?)

(Nothing,) I replied quickly.

(Iden, I've known you since you were two hours,) Tristan said impatiently. (Something's wrong).

I sighed. I wanted to tell Tristan what was bothering me, because Tristan, being Tristan, could tell me what to do. Tristan always knew what to do. At the same time however, I was almost embarrassed to tell my best friend about my dilemma with Matt. How was it that my time with my host was so miserable, while Tristan was so thoroughly enjoying his time as a Controller? Was I such a failure of a Yeerk?

(Iden…)

I sighed, deciding to tell Tristan the truth. Tristan would know what to do to help me.

(I'm having trouble with my host,) I finally admitted.

(How so?)

I groaned. (He just won't stop fighting me!) I complained. (I mean, he Just. Won't. Stop! All he does is shout: morning, afternoon, evening! Shout! Shout! SHOUT! He even shouts us to sleep!) I was so tired, so tired. (I feel like I'm going to lose my mind! He just won't stop shouting!)

I felt drained, like a baka tree that had shriveled under too much moonlight. I just wanted to swim to my favorite corner of the pool, and hide there.

Tristan was quiet for a moment, reviewing what I had just confessed to him. (And you've tried threatening him?) He asked thoughtfully.

(Yeah, I told him I'd infest his mom if he didn't quiet) I replied wearily.

(No, I mean did you try memory threatening him?)

I shifted uncomfortably at the suggestion.

(Iden, you dimwitted Andalite! You mean you haven't memory threatened your host one time since you got him?) Tristan asked incredulously.

(I…er…)

(Iden you are so contrary to life!)

In all honesty I didn't feel comfortable with the tactic. Memory threatening: invading my host's mind and finding an unpleasant memory, then threatening to replay that memory anytime my host acted up. The thought of using memory threatening to control my host unnerved me. I controlled my host's body because I had no choice—I couldn't live the rest of my life both blind and deaf! But trespassing upon the privacy of my host's mind? Something about that thought just didn't bode well with me.

(Come on Iden, I know you've never really liked the idea, but memory threatening is a tried and true method) Tristan cajoled me.

(Yea, I know) I sighed. (It is the "most sure mode" of controlling one's host) I remarked, dryly quoting our infestation drill officer.

(Well it is) Tristan returned. (And besides you're a Yeerk!) He added. (If you weren't supposed to be able to enter a host's memories you wouldn't be able to.)

There was a certain logic to what Tristan was saying.

And yet... (I'm just not sure I feel comfortable mind threatening my host.)

(Well do you really want to listen to your host's fussing?)

(No.)

(And do you think you can go for another three days without hearing yourself think?)

Another three days?

I shuddered.

(No, I can't) I admitted.

Still memory threatening just didn't seem right somehow, and I couldn't really explain my reluctance.

Tristan must have sensed my remaining unease, because then he asked (Iden how do you think you will ever become my Visser Two if you can't even control your first host?)

I couldn't. And hadn't it always been Tristan and my dream to become the top ranking Vissers?

Tristan was right, I realized. I needed to control my host, and if I had to use to mind threatening, then I would, even if I was uncomfortable with it.

But still… (You're sure this will work?)

Tristan chuckled cockily. (Of course it will Iden! Since when have I led you wrong?)

When I re-infested Matt, I immediately followed Tristan's suggestion.

(Alright human, now you listen to me!) I snapped, steeling authority into my voice. (You'll stop shouting at me, and you'll be quiet, and you won't keep us up until all hours of the night!)

(Get out of my head you filthy slug!) Matt snapped back.

(I'm warning you, either listen to me or you're not going to like the consequences) I cautioned him.

(You dirty worm! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!)

That did it.

To control his body, I had already accessed the most primitive parts of Matt's mind. However, I hadn't yet entered the more complex areas of his brain, the areas where Matt's memories were stored.

Truthfully this was the first time I had ever attempted to access the memories of any host. Since I had never felt comfortable, I had never tapped into the memories of the training Hork Bajir.

What if I couldn't enter the memory portion of my Matt's brain? What if I did something wrong? What if I permanently damaged my host?

I knew I was going to mess up something.

Slowly, tentatively I stretched out my palps, reaching for the deep crevices of Matt's brain. Then carefully, cautiously I contacted what I thought was the part of Matt's brain where his memories were stored.

(What are you doing?) Matt asked suspiciously.

Ignoring him, I painstakingly established a connection between my palps and the memory portion of the brain. As I nervously tried to extract a memory from Matt's brain, I prayed that I didn't make a mistake. I prayed that I didn't accidentally maim my host.

And then it was like something snapped! inside of me. Suddenly, the instincts of my Yeerk body responded, and I just seemed to know what to do. I felt myself establish an electric connection with Matt's brain; I felt myself execute a series of input commands, and then I felt—

Information flooded my mind, a long river of thoughts and images.

Matt hitting a home run during a baseball game. Matt receiving an award during an Honor Roll Assembly. Matt joking around with his best friend Steve.

(HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING! STAY OUT OF THERE! )

Matt and his mother laughing over a game of cards. A thirteen year-old Matt dressing up as Batman at Halloween. An eleven year-old Matt making Mother's Day Breakfast in bed for his mom.

(GET THE HELL OUT OF MY MIND!)

Thoughts swirled through my head. Pictures from different places, different times. The memories crashed against my Yeerk brain like waves breaking against a dune. It was all that I could do to cling tightly to my mind link and keep myself from drowning under the deluge of memories.

A ten-year-old Matt playing Joseph in the Church Christmas Pageant.

(GET THE HELL OUT OF MY MIND!) Matt's voice took on a fearful, almost desperate tone.

Matt playing first base in the Little League regional qualifiers. And then

Why did the all the rooms in the hospital have to be painted white? Didn't they know that Dad hated white? A seven year-old Matt wanted to know. Dad said that he was getting sick of looking at the white walls in the hospital. Although why Dad just wouldn't leave the hospital and come home, Matt didn't know. Didn't Dad like home anymore?

Matt missed Dad. Matt missed playing catch with Dad, and playing action figures with Dad. Matt missed reading the Hardy Boys Mysteries with Dad—Dad always figured those out! And Matt missed how Dad tucked Matt in at night, the way that Dad whooshed the sheets up like a great tent for Matt to hide under, and then after Matt had burrowed deep under the bed sheets, Dad would say "Oh no! Where did Matt go?" and Matt would jump up and say, "here I am!"

Why wouldn't Dad come home? Why wouldn't he leave the hospital?

And now Mom was gone a lot too. She was visiting Dad at the hospital all the time, and Auntie Becky had come all the way from Wisconsin to live with Matt and Mom for a couple of months.

Matt looked up at Auntie Becky as they trudged down the hallway to Dad's hospital room. "Auntie Becky, do you think that Dad will come home with us today?" he asked hopefully.

"Maybe he will, kiddo," Auntie Becky replied in her cheerful "talking-to-Matt" kind of way. Matt didn't know why, but he didn't think Auntie Becky was telling the truth.

Matt followed Auntie Becky down the white walled hallway. He was careful only to step in the middle of the shiny white tiles that lined the hallway floor. His best friend, Steve, had told Matt that if Matt stepped on a crack he'd break his mother's back, and Matt sure didn't want Mom to have to be in the hospital too. Matt didn't want Dad to have to be in the hospital either, but no one seemed to listen to what Matt wanted anymore.

Auntie Becky and Matt walked down a long white hallway, and then down another white hallway. All the hallways were white. All the floors were white. Everything was white! Matt had no idea where they were; they were lost in one giant white maze. Did Dad ever get lost in the hospital?

And then Auntie Becky stopped in front of a door. She turned around to squeeze Matt's hand. "Here we are, Matty, your Daddy's room." Auntie Becky said quietly. She smiled down at Matt, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

Aunt Becky walked through the open door, and Matt slowly followed her into the hospital room. He didn't see Dad in the room, but Mom was there. Mom looked up at Matt, and her eyes filled with tears.

Matt was scared. Moms weren't supposed to cry. It was a grown-up rule; moms weren't supposed to cry.

"Matty, my baby," Mom said as she walked over to Matt and Auntie Becky. Mom leaned over and scooped Matt into a hug. Then, carrying the little boy over to the bedside, she deposited him next to the bed.

There was something in the bed, Matt realized. A strange creature. A bony, yellowish tinged creature, with glassy blue eyes. The creature had all sorts of funny tubes and wires running out of it.

"David, look who I've brought to see you," Mom said to the funny-looking creature. "It's your Matty."

The thing in the bed smiled weakly. "Matty." It wheezed.

Matt was frightened. He looked at his Mom and then at Auntie Becky.

"Aren't you going to say hi to your dad?" Mom asked gently.

Matt stared at the creature in the bed, and slowly his father's face seemed to blur into focus. Why did Dad look so funny? And why did he have all those wires poking in his face?

"Matty. You came to see me," Dad said slowly.

Something was really wrong. Dad looked so strange, and Mom had tears in her eyes. And suddenly Matt wanted to run. He wanted to run out of the hospital room with it's too white walls, and away from Dad laying in his hospital bed with all the funny wires poking his face.

Instead, and for no reason that he understood, Matt started to cry.

The memory ended, and without knowing how, I stopped the steady streaming of images. I didn't want to see anymore.

As I wrenched my palps free of the memory portion of Matt's brain, Matt was silent. He didn't scream. He didn't shout. He didn't say a word, not one word.

And suddenly the world around me became quiet. Painfully quiet. I felt the need for motion, for doing something. I needed to say something—anything-to break up the silence.

"Threaten your host, " Tristan had told me. Threaten my host.

(Next time you feel like yelling at me, I'm going to play that) I said woodenly, forcing a sneer into my tone. For some odd reason my voice seemed strained to me.

(So…so you'd better be quiet!) I added. (Be quiet!)

But my host didn't answer. He remained silent. He would remain silent through that night and the next morning and the day after that. Matt was quiet for days, and his silence quickly became as deafening as his previous screaming had been.

I almost longed to hear his voice.

Soon after viewing Matt's private memories, a strange numbing sensation descended over the back of my mind. Although I succeeded in ignoring this feeling, it would remain my constant companion over the next few weeks, periodically prickling at my conscious like a shard of broken glass. I would experience this numbing sensation whenever I thought about the memory and its effect on subduing my host. Only much later would I find a word to describe this feeling.

Shame.