Текст книги "Revived"

Автор книги: Cat Patrick

Соавторы: Cat Patrick
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

six

“You don’t have plans today, do you?” Mason asks when I creep into the kitchen after too little sleep. Last night, I made the mistake of picking up the latest book in a sci-fi series at eight thirty. By ten o’clock, I was way too absorbed to put it down. I finally went to bed at two AM.

“No plans,” I grumble, easing into a chair. Mason flips over a pancake. “You’re cooking,” I observe. Mason’s actually a really good cook, but he rarely does it.

“You need a solid breakfast,” he replies. “We’re doing your annual checkup today.”

“Seriously?” I ask in protest. “No warning? And on Saturday?”

“Sorry, Daisy,” Mason says sympathetically. “I think it’s better if you don’t have warning; you don’t have time to get worried about it this way.”

“But why now?” I ask. “Testing doesn’t usually happen until closer to the anniversary.” The bus that went off the bridge into an icy lake and killed twenty-one people—seven for good—did so in early December. Testing usually happens at one-year intervals, as close to December 5 as possible.

Mason has a funny look on his face. “God asked for them early this year,” he says.

“That’s odd,” I say. “I don’t remember this ever happening before…. Has it?”

“No,” Mason says.

“Bizarre.”

“I think so, too, but I’m sure he has his reasons.” Mason drops three pancakes onto my plate.

“Can we do it next weekend?” I whine before taking a bite. “I’m tired,” I say, mouth full. After swallowing, I continue. “I mean, it doesn’t make sense to do the test so early.”

Mason looks at me, frying pan and spatula in his hands. “Whatever our opinions are, it’s not optional,” he says, surprising me with his abrasive tone. Mason’s usually more chill. He turns toward the sink and, as he’s walking away, he adds loudly, “We’re doing the test today. End of discussion.”

I read once about the extensive testing that astronauts go through before they get their ticket to space. In my humble opinion, the annual Revive exam is even more rigorous.

First, there’s a physical, but it’s not exactly “routine.” Sure, they check my eyes, ears, reflexes, and heart, but then there’s a complete neurological assessment and balance and coordination exam. They take tissue and hair samples to review in the lab; even when my throat is fine, they do a culture. There’s a full-body skin scan, where all moles and other markings are carefully recorded. There’s a review of my Health and Diet Diary, a body-fat assessment, and a challenging fitness test.

Not exactly what you’d get at your standard doctor’s office.

Then comes the memory test. It’s fun because it usually ends in a contest between Mason and me, and I always win. Last year, we argued for an hour about whether my school in Palmdale, Florida, was on Connecticut Avenue or Connecticut Street.

“Avenue,” I said.

“You’re wrong,” he replied.

“I’m not.”

“You were only five. You can’t possibly remember.”

“I can and I do. The bus picked up on the corner of Connecticut Avenue and First Street.”

“How do you retain these things?”

“I just do.”

I didn’t want to tell him that I remembered because of him, that I used to stare up at that street sign wishing I was in the real Connecticut instead of on Connecticut Avenue—that’s how badly I didn’t want to ride the bus to school. Not until I broke down crying one morning did Mason realize that I had been totally traumatized by the whole bus incident.

He drove me to school after that.

The memory test is followed by the psych evaluation, which is slightly awkward because it’s administered by my father figure, but so far it’s been okay. Then there’s an IQ test, followed by age-appropriate math, science, reading comprehension, and language exams.

While the testing is grueling, even brutal, I appreciate it for all that it gives the program, data-wise, about the bus kids. But there’s one part I hate: the blood draw. Tissue samples are one thing—a quick pinch from numbed skin—but having fifteen vials of blood drawn at once is like having the life slowly sucked out of you. It starts with a poke and ends with wooziness.

It’s the worst.

But even though I see the benefits of the Revive testing—including that dreaded blood draw—the process does drain me to the point of exhaustion. Since I live with two agents and am essentially their human lab rat, my test takes only one day, as opposed to four or sometimes five for the average Convert. There’s no resting between sessions; for example, there’s no recharging the brain between the psych eval and the IQ test.

After it’s all over, overtired and blurry, I sign my name—my original name, Daisy McDaniel—at the bottom of an oath that binds me to a life of continued silence and make-believe. Then, instead of priming or primping for a party like everyone else my age at seven thirty on a Saturday night, I change into pj’s and struggle to stay awake while I brush my teeth.

Because summer solstice is nothing compared to this; the longest day of my year is test day.

seven

Sunday, I wake up at noon, out of it and thirsty. I stretch, then drag myself out of bed. I’m not sure why, but I check my phone before doing anything else. There’s a text waiting from Audrey:

Audrey: Want to come over and hang out?

I put on a bra and use the bathroom, then go downstairs to find Mason. He’s not in the kitchen, so I check the basement.

Halfway down the stairs, I stop.

“…just out of the blue,” Mason is saying.

“But why would he contact Sydney?” Cassie asks. “She’s not even active anymore.”

I hold my breath at the mention of Sydney’s name.

Cassie wasn’t always Mason’s partner. Sydney was with us for five years, until I was almost ten. I loved her like the mother I never had, but she fell in love with another Disciple and got pregnant. She left the program and her fake family for a real one, and I haven’t spoken to her since.

According to the rules, when you’re out, you’re out.

Even knowing that, I skulked around the house for months after Sydney left, pretending to be okay with everything but crying into my pillow at night and begging Mason in private to bring her back. Even fully briefed on the rules, I felt discarded like an old pair of shoes.

Feeling icky for eavesdropping, I start down the stairs again, but this time I stomp loudly so they have a little warning. Mason shares most things with me about the program, but even so, the look on his face when I enter the lab tells me not to ask questions. At least not right now.

“Can I go to Audrey’s house?” I ask instead.

Mason raises his eyebrows, and the usually emotionless Cassie looks my way, surprised.

“This is the girl you went to lunch with?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“She invited you over?”

“No, I’m going to show up unannounced,” I say sarcastically. “Of course she invited me!”

“Okay,” Mason says, looking around at the explosion of papers and science stuff on his workspace. “What time?”

“Now-ish,” I say.

“Give me twenty?”

“Okay.”

I head back upstairs, where I text Audrey, then shower without washing my hair. I throw on shorts and a ratty T-shirt and flip-flops because apparently Omaha didn’t get the memo that it’s fall.

Mason makes me agree to eat something before we leave the house, so I inhale half of a sandwich and crunch a few baby carrots. On the way out, I grab a handful of red grapes. The grapes are sweet and delicious; I can’t help but shovel them into my mouth as Mason chauffeurs me to Audrey’s. I don’t really feel like talking—not like I could, anyway—so I let my mind wander. Grapes in my cheeks, I end up remembering the third time I died.

I was five and a half years old, and I went to full-day kindergarten because Mason read some study that said it was better for kids. Anyway, there I was at kindergarten, and maybe I skipped breakfast, maybe I burned through my energy at recess, or maybe I was just a weird kid. All I know is that I was famished at lunch that day. I wolfed down my PB&J, then started in on my grapes, stuffing more than a handful in at once.

A monstrous red grape got lodged in my windpipe.

Since I was at a table alone—my one semi-friend was home sick that day—no one noticed. Apparently, the sounds of a choking girl are no match for a rowdy elementary school cafeteria. I was on the floor by the time a fifth grader happened to pass by.

Sydney arrived in her paramedic outfit to load me into the borrowed ambulance, where Mason was waiting to Revive me. I don’t remember most of it, of course.

I woke up freezing and wheezing, throat sore from whatever Mason used to dislodge the grape. My lungs burned from the sudden return of oxygen, and for the first few minutes, I was completely confused as to what had happened. Mason hugged me for the first time when he told me that I’d died again.

For that, I remember death number three, strangely, with a tinge of fondness.

“This probably goes without saying, but you have to be incredibly careful with new friends,” Mason says, interrupting my thoughts.

“I know,” I mumble around the grapes in my mouth.

“She’ll want to know about your background… your parents… where you lived before.”

I swallow my food. “I know what to say.”

“I know you do,” Mason says.

“Don’t worry, okay? I won’t blow the program.”

Mason looks at me for a moment and smiles genuinely, then refocuses on driving. I turn and look out the window at the suburb inching by. Though not brand-new, the houses are massive, with sprawling front yards and the kind of grown-up trees you can barely stand not to climb. In one driveway I see a family loading into a minivan: Both parents are dressed in weekend casual, their older child is dressed like a princess, and the baby is still in jammies. A block later, we hit a stop sign and three girls with pigtails ride their bikes in the crosswalk, all in a row, like ducklings.

When the GPS lady tells us, “You have arrived,” an unfamiliar jolt of what I realize is nervousness pokes me in the gut. Too quickly for me to will it away, Mason turns into the driveway of a brown brick plantation-style house. It’s impressive, with columns flanking the front porch and everything. I want to stare, but Mason quickly opens his door to get out, so I do the same. Audrey must have been watching for us; she flings open the front door.

“Hey!” she says.

“Hi, Audrey!”

Mason walks toward the front porch and gets there before I do.

“This is my dad, Mason,” I say as he opens his mouth to introduce himself.

“Hi, Daisy’s dad,” Audrey says. Her mom appears behind her in the doorway, and you’d think Audrey and I were getting married for all the hand-shaking that goes on.

“Joanne McKean,” Audrey’s mom says as she takes my hand in hers. “It’s so nice to meet you, Daisy.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Mrs. McKean has manicured nails and soft skin and smells a little like maple syrup. She’s wearing a gold cross and a light blue cardigan with worn jeans and flats. Her blond hair is blown dry into a sleek bob, and she looks like she should accompany the dictionary definition of mom. Even though they are nothing alike, Mrs. McKean makes me miss Sydney.

We all chat until finally Mason takes my (overt) cue to leave—“Dad, don’t you have to be somewhere?”—and Audrey and I go inside. She gives me a quick tour of the main floor of the house, which is a cross between an art gallery and a Pottery Barn catalog, before we retreat to her bedroom.

I like Audrey even more when I step into her space.

The wall behind her bright yellow lacquer headboard is painted with black chalkboard paint, and it’s covered with doodles and drawings, sayings and notes, scribbled floor to ceiling. The bed’s made with simple white linens, but there’s a funky throw pillow on top that has a cartoony map of Nebraska embroidered on it.

The rest of the walls are white. On the one directly across from the bed is a modern low black dresser; the wall with the door holds a small white desk, with no-frills shelves hanging over it. There are photos as well, but most are of Audrey and her family; the few shots of friends show faces I don’t recognize. I wonder again why Audrey doesn’t have more friends. Then, happy to be here regardless, I move on.

In the corner near the largest window is a little seating area with a small futon and a striped yellow, red, and black chair. Between the two seats is a see-through coffee table, where a stack of magazines seems to be floating in midair.

“Is that Lucite?” I ask, pointing to the table before settling in across from Audrey.

“I guess,” she says.

“It’s so awesome,” I murmur. “Did you design your room?”

Audrey nods proudly, smiling.

“I’m into that, too,” I say.

“Cool.”

There’s a pause while I wonder what on earth to talk about next. Have I entirely used up my conversation starters after only a few days?

Thankfully, Audrey keeps things moving.

“So, your dad seems interesting,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”

“Sure,” she says. “He talks to you like you’re an adult.”

“Yeah.”

“And don’t hurl, but he’s hot,” Audrey says.

“Where’s your bathroom?” I joke, standing halfway up. Audrey laughs and I sit back down.

“I’m sure everyone tells you that,” she continues. “He looks like George Clooney… only not as old.”

“I’ve never thought about that, but you’re right. He sort of does.”

“Totally. But your coloring is so much lighter. You must look like your mom,” Audrey says.

“Maybe,” I say before I realize what I’m saying. When Audrey gives me a funny look, I proceed with caution. There are things I can share; there are things I can’t.

“I’m adopted,” I admit, which is mostly true. What I don’t admit is that I was an orphan when I died in a bus crash; that after the government brought me back to life, it wasn’t quite sure what to do with me; that ultimately it gave Mason a lifelong assignment to raise a child… or at least until I turn eighteen. That if we’re getting technical, the adoption isn’t legal because the real me died in Bern, Iowa, eleven years ago.

“Really?” Audrey asks, clearly intrigued by the whole adoption thing. Her brown eyes are wide and sparkling.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“I don’t know anyone who was adopted,” she says. “Did you always know, or did they pull a Lifetime movie on you and surprise you when your birth mother needed a kidney or something?”

Laughing, I say, “I always knew. Like you said, my dad treats me like an adult. Same goes for my mom. We don’t really have secrets.” At least not from one another. I scratch my nose before remembering that some agents would call the gesture a “tell.” I return my hand to my lap.

“Gotcha,” Audrey says, not seeming to notice. “But don’t you wonder about your birth parents?”

“Not really,” I say honestly.

“Seriously? I think I’d wonder.”

“The way I see it is that I don’t want to know people who didn’t want to know me. I don’t mean that to sound bitter, because I know they had their reasons. I mean it like I don’t want to spend energy worrying or thinking about people who aren’t in my life.”

“I guess that’s a good way to look at it,” Audrey says. “You seem incredibly well-adjusted about the whole thing.”

“Thanks, I think,” I say, laughing. I tip my head to the side. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘well-adjusted’ before.”

Audrey chuckles, too, and despite my concern about whether or not I’m sticking to the script, it feels good to have someone ask about my past. I’m so into the conversation that when Audrey asks how old I was when my parents adopted me, I blurt out the truth.

“Four.”

“Where did you live before that?” she asks.

Screeching tires and warning bells sound in my brain; I actually feel my fingers wrap around the armrests. For practical reasons, like if I have to go to the emergency room or something and my blood doesn’t match my parents’, it’s okay to tell people I’m adopted. But the story is that I was adopted at birth. Where I lived before is not part of the dossier.

“I can’t get over your mom letting you chalkboard your entire wall,” I say, looking over Audrey’s head. I force my hands back into my lap. Apparently okay with the change of subject, Audrey turns in her seat and admires the décor, too.

“My mom lets me do what I want,” she says in this weird way that doesn’t sound egotistical. It sounds strangely… sad. Audrey shifts her gaze from the wall to her feet; there’s a brief pause in the conversation. Then, just when I start to feel awkward, her head snaps up and her eyes are on me again. “Hey, you want a soda?”

“Sure,” I say, thankful she’s not asking any more about my adoption.

“Regular or diet?”

“Regular.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” she says, standing to leave but then pausing in the middle of the room. “Want music?”

“Sure.”

Audrey goes over to her desk, but when she gets there, she huffs and shakes her head. I wonder what she’s annoyed about but don’t ask because it feels intrusive. Instead I look around some more as she opens iTunes on her laptop, selects a playlist, and turns up the volume on the little speakers.

“This okay?” she asks.

“It’s great.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

Audrey leaves me alone in her room. As I relax into the lounger, I can’t help but think that it’s cozy here, in this chair and in this house. And for a girl with no real roots, cozy feels a lot like home.

One of my favorite new songs comes on, and I’m so happy that I can’t help but sing.

eight

Something shifts in the doorway. I stop singing mid (tuneless) note and drop my arms to my sides. I look, expecting Audrey, but instead it’s none other than the guy I’ve been drooling over in English all week, Matt something.

“Wicked air drumming,” he teases, smiling a fidget-inducing half grin. His villain’s eyes are shining. Playful. He looks like he’s happy to see me.

“Thanks,” I say, at a loss for words because I’m confused about why he’s here. Is he Audrey’s boyfriend? Just a friend here to hang out, too? Then I realize that not only is he barefoot, but he’s leaning on the doorframe like he built it. My brain clicks. He lives here.

Duh.

Matt is Audrey’s brother.

“You should see my air cymbals,” I joke, happy to have solved the mystery. “They’re even more worthy.”

“Actually, what I liked most was the singing,” Matt says, smiling full-out this time. “The high note at the end was pure genius.” He scratches his defined jaw with the back of his index finger. It’s oddly sexy.

“Awesome, right?” I say, hoping I sound more casual than I feel.

He gives me a double thumbs-up and a totally cheesy smile. “I think you could easily get a recording contract.”

We both laugh, and when it subsides, we’re still for a few seconds.

“I’m Daisy,” I say, in case he doesn’t recognize me. “We’re in English together?”

“I know,” he says automatically. He looks down and away for a second, smiling a little to himself like he’s embarrassed for having answered so quickly. Then his narrow eyes are back on mine. “I didn’t know you were friends with my sister.”

“Our lockers are in the same hall,” I explain. “That’s how we met. She told me she has a brother. I didn’t know it was you.”

“It’s me.” Matt nods again, shoving his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans. He looks conflicted, like he wants to stay but thinks he should go.

“Audrey went to get sodas,” I say just to say something, hoping that if I keep talking, he’ll stay put. It works, at least for a minute.

“How’d you do on that quiz?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say. “I got an A.”

Another nod. “Me, too.”

We hold each other’s gaze for a slightly uncomfortable but still glorious moment. I feel like I did that time I had to present my science project in front of the whole freshman class: exhilarated and apprehensive at the same time.

Matt pulls an iPhone from his right pocket and steps into the room only far enough to put it in the charger on the desk. His being that much closer makes me shift in my seat.

“Don’t tell Audrey about this, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, confused. “Don’t you have your own phone?”

“Yeah, but hers has better music. One time, I accidentally—” Matt stops himself, as if remembering that he has to be somewhere. “Never mind. Long and boring story.”

I want to say that I’ll listen to any story he has to tell, but I manage to hold back. He returns to the doorway.

“Guess I’ll see you in class,” he says, hesitating before giving a slight wave and turning to leave.

“Bye,” I say quietly. Just then, as if the playlist is the soundtrack to my life, a lighthearted love song starts. But before I have too much time to skip into fantasyland, Audrey’s back.

“Sorry about that,” she says, a little out of breath as she rushes into the room. “My dad called from work and was grilling me about my homework. I didn’t mean to leave you alone in here for so lo—” She stops and looks at me curiously. “What’s with the goofy smile?”

“Oh, I was thinking about a guy,” I say cryptically, keeping my crush on her brother a secret for today.

“Does he look like Jake Gyllenhaal?” she asks. “Because Jake is the hottest guy on the planet.”

“No,” I say with a little head shake. To me, Matt is even better.

Audrey and I read gossip magazines and talk about celebrities we’d like to have dinner with. She shows me the shoes she told me about earlier this week and I doodle daisies on her chalk wall. After a while, her mom invites us downstairs for cookies, which makes Audrey roll her eyes and causes my stomach to rumble. No one bakes cookies in my house. We jog down the steps and saunter into the kitchen, then plop ourselves onto the bench next to the rustic wooden table. Mrs. McKean gives us two cookies each, saying, “Don’t worry, I made the lower-fat option, and the milk is skim.” Audrey nods and we both start snacking.

Then every happily relaxed muscle in my body tenses when Matt walks into the room.

“What’s up,” he says to his mom.

“Hi, Mattie,” Mrs. McKean says before standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. He doesn’t pull away, but he does look a tiny bit embarrassed when our eyes meet, and I wonder whether it’s about the kiss, or being called Mattie, or both.

Matt goes to the cabinet and retrieves a mug, then pours himself black coffee from the pot and adds a touch of milk. No sugar. He grabs a cookie and sits down with me and Audrey at the table.

My stomach flips at the sight of the little wisps of hair behind his ears. They’ve become my English-class distraction. Being so close now, I fight the urge to reach out and touch them. As if he can read my mind, he looks at me curiously, like he’s wondering if I just might do it.

“Mattie, you slept the day away,” Mrs. McKean says from across the kitchen.

“ ’Cause he was out so late,” Audrey says under her breath. They both glance at their mom to make sure she didn’t hear.

“I stayed up late reading,” Matt says to his mom. She turns her back to us to get more cookies out of the oven. When she opens the oven door, it makes the warm kitchen hot.

“The show ran long,” Matt whispers to Audrey. “I couldn’t miss the encore.”

“What are you kids plotting over there?” Mrs. McKean asks, spatula in hand.

“Nothing,” the siblings say in unison.

We munch quietly for a moment before Audrey starts harassing her brother again. She leans toward him, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed, and lips pinched.

“By the way, I know you used my phone again. Just because you’re too lazy to charge yours doesn’t mean you can steal mine whenever you please. Stop taking my stuff.”

Matt rolls his eyes at her and then looks at me with an expression that straddles the line between annoyed and amused. “Thanks a lot,” he says in a voice that could be sarcastic; I don’t know him that well. Right when I decide he’s teasing, he gets up from the table.

“Later,” he says to no one in particular.

“Bye,” I say quietly, wishing I could make him stay.

Audrey and I decide to go to a just-opened mall that she says is like shopping heaven. We okay it with her mom and with Mason, then take off in her sunshiny yellow car. While we shop, I balance my overwhelming desire to ask about Matt, Matt, and more Matt with wanting to get to know Audrey better. I don’t want Audrey to think I’m only interested in her brother, so I decide as we walk through the temperature-controlled atrium that I’m restricted to asking only three questions about Matt.

As we meander down the aisles of Von Maur, GAP, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Hot Topic, Audrey and I chat easily about anything and everything else. After only thirty minutes, I know that she got her hair colored at the salon on the first level, loves glass elevators, wants to go to Paris someday but takes Spanish at school, prefers pretzel bites to sticks or full soft pretzels, and is a closet history nerd.

“I could have rocked the Victorian era,” Audrey says as she fingers a ruffled, Victorian-inspired shirt at Anthropologie.

“I think you’re right,” I say. “But corsets? No thanks.”

“I bet they weren’t so bad after you got used to them.”

I hook Audrey a look like she’s insane and move to the other side of the rack.

“I love this song.” I sing quietly as I flip through pants I can’t afford; I used all of my allowance on stuff for my bedroom.

“Ick,” Audrey says. “I totally don’t get this band. You and Matt.”

I suck in my breath, hoping she’ll say more about her brother. She doesn’t, so I decide to use question number one.

“What show did he go see last night?” I ask casually.

“Crunch Toast.”

“Love them, too.”

“Actually, I agree with that one. They’re awesome. One time…”

Audrey tells her story and I try to listen but instead I zone out, pulled away by thoughts of Matt’s hair. Of his tanned arms and the wide, industrial-hip watch that looks like it was made specifically for his arm. I think of the way he smelled faintly of cucumber and mint—both must be in his shampoo. I think of the sound of him sipping his coffee: not a gross slurp, but not silent, either. Like a little inhale. Of his easy smile. Of the way his worn jeans hang perfectly from his hips. I think of the fact that he has the nicest boy feet I’ve ever seen… not that I’ve seen a ton of them.

I wonder what he’s doing right now.

Then I wonder if he’s mad about the iPhone.

Then I wonder whether he’s wondering about me.

“Hello?” Audrey says. “Are you even listening to me?”

I blink, confused.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.

“Do… you… want… coffee?” she asks, enunciating every word. She looks really tired all of a sudden.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, putting the shirt I didn’t realize I was holding back on the rack.

We take the escalator to the coffee shop on the second floor. Audrey orders a nonfat caramel latte and it sounds delicious so I get the same. When we’re settled at a table by the window, Audrey checks her phone.

“What time do you have to be home?”

“Five,” I say, sipping my drink.

“Okay, we’re doing all right, then.”

Audrey’s still looking down at her phone. I take the opportunity to bring up Matt.

“Why did Matt take your phone?” I ask. She rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Because he’s an idiot.”

I raise my eyebrows, and she continues. “He accidentally synced all of his music onto my phone instead of his, and it took forever, and he’s too lazy to go back and do it again on his own. So if I’m around, he’s always taking my phone. It’s so annoying.”

“I saw him bringing it back today. I think he thinks I ratted him out.”

“I knew anyway,” Audrey says. “He never puts it back in the right place.”

“I think he’s mad at me.”

“Doubt it.”

“He seemed like it,” I say.

Audrey sips her latte. “You mean when he said, ‘Thanks a lot’?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, he was just messing around. At least I think he was. Sometimes, lately, I can’t tell.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, realizing my question probably counts as number three.

“Oh, nothing,” Audrey says, disappointing me with her answer. “He’s just got some stuff on his mind.”

Audrey is quiet then, clearly done talking about her brother. Kicking myself for using all my questions about Matt, I look out the window to the mall patrons cruising by with strollers and shopping bags. Movement near a planter catches my eye: A man in a blue button-down and jeans is standing there, waiting for someone. The funny thing is that he looks right at me when I look at him. He watches me for a second like a curious stranger might, then looks away, taking out his phone and typing on the keyboard. I imagine him texting his wife or girlfriend to hurry up, except something about him bugs me. He’s got the same robotic look that Cassie has, that the agents in the cleanup crews have.

Unexpectedly, my cell rings. It’s Mason.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yes, why?” I ask back.

“No reason. Do you have your card?”

“Yes,” I say; he’s asking about the debit card that’s linked to my allowance account.

“That’s good,” Mason says. “Have fun.”

Click.