cellar—“Stay here, no matter what happens.” The house shakes—Daniel and I huddle together, our minds locked on each other, trying to block it all out. I scream as Dad’s unchecked cry of pain cuts through me. I run up the stairs and out the door, Daniel running after me, crying at me to come back. I can feel Mom sending calm into the mob, but it’s not enough, just her alone by Dad’s side.
The mob sweeps us up and pushes us along like a river, away from Dad, away from the horrible beating. Daniel clutches my hand. And then a woman with a deep thrum running through her, the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen, her eyes so large they make her look innocent, plucks me out of the crowd, and Daniel with me. She bends down to my level. “You have a gift, don’t you, sweetheart? Something that makes you special.” She holds out her hand. “This is no time to be out. Come with me, and I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
37
Cheryl Rainfield
I look up into her face, trusting the kindness she projects. I take her hand. Daniel glares at us. “We don’t know her. And Mom told us not to!”
He clenches my hand, tries to draw me back.
“Your mom told me to come get you both,” the woman says. Daniel looks up at her, and she touches his cheek gently. “I wouldn’t forget you.”
Something about the way she looks at him feels wrong, as if he’s a donut she wants to eat up. I shake myself uneasily. “Come on!” I send. “Let’s go back.” Daniel ignores me and takes her hand as the mob descends on us, hitting us like a giant wave, pulling me away from them. I lose sight of Daniel. And then suddenly our connection cuts off, like a moth snuffed out by an electric flare. “Daniel!” I shriek. No matter how hard I send to him, or how often, he never answers; there’s just this empty void where he is, a void that widens to a chasm when I feel Dad’s last cry.
I shake my head, trying to focus on the present. Daniel is gone.
But I can’t help hoping that somehow, someday, I’ll find him again—through the Underground. For now, it’s just not safe. I push myself farther away from the others until it’s like I’ve got cotton in my brain, or I’ve gone deaf.
I cross my arms protectively over my chest as I walk.
I can’t believe how alone I feel. How lonely, without that constant hum of conversation and connection. I feel so disconnected, like I could die and no one would know or care.
Is this how Normals feel all the time? Is this how Mom feels now I shudder.
38
HUNTED
e
The glossy red-and-black ParaWatch poster jeers at me from a pillar, the words as familiar as a playground chant.
PARAS ARE A NATIONAL THREAT! REPORT SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR
TO OUR HOTLINE.
I look around casually, feeling outward. No one’s focused on me. I grab a silver marker from my backpack, scrawl two words, then drop the marker back in. The poster now reads, PARAS ARE NOT A NATIONAL THREAT! DON’T
REPORT SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR TO OUR HOTLINE. I walk on, a bounce in my step. Let ParaWatch find that .
I shouldn’t take such risks, but someone has to fight back. And it feels good. Man, does it ever feel good.
It’s different from the fighting back I do on my blog.
That feels more educational, more thought out—and safer, at least as long as my anonymizers and firewalls hold, and no one can trace it back to me. This—defacing a poster in daylight—could get me imprisoned, even killed. But still, I can’t stop doing it.
I’m almost at the school; I can feel it in the bright, swirling energy, the chatter, the emotion emanating from the place. It’s like teens amplify their thoughts, with all the feelings and hormones raging inside them. I have to fight extra hard to strain it out.
I’m thankful for the weight of my backpack on my shoulder, for my most precious things tucked inside—my tattered copy of The Lorax that Dad used to read me; my dog-eared copy of Homecoming that I read with my mom; 39
Cheryl Rainfield
and a
The mob sweeps us up and pushes us along like a river, away from Dad, away from the horrible beating. Daniel clutches my hand. And then a woman with a deep thrum running through her, the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen, her eyes so large they make her look innocent, plucks me out of the crowd, and Daniel with me. She bends down to my level. “You have a gift, don’t you, sweetheart? Something that makes you special.” She holds out her hand. “This is no time to be out. Come with me, and I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
37
Cheryl Rainfield
I look up into her face, trusting the kindness she projects. I take her hand. Daniel glares at us. “We don’t know her. And Mom told us not to!”
He clenches my hand, tries to draw me back.
“Your mom told me to come get you both,” the woman says. Daniel looks up at her, and she touches his cheek gently. “I wouldn’t forget you.”
Something about the way she looks at him feels wrong, as if he’s a donut she wants to eat up. I shake myself uneasily. “Come on!” I send. “Let’s go back.” Daniel ignores me and takes her hand as the mob descends on us, hitting us like a giant wave, pulling me away from them. I lose sight of Daniel. And then suddenly our connection cuts off, like a moth snuffed out by an electric flare. “Daniel!” I shriek. No matter how hard I send to him, or how often, he never answers; there’s just this empty void where he is, a void that widens to a chasm when I feel Dad’s last cry.
I shake my head, trying to focus on the present. Daniel is gone.
But I can’t help hoping that somehow, someday, I’ll find him again—through the Underground. For now, it’s just not safe. I push myself farther away from the others until it’s like I’ve got cotton in my brain, or I’ve gone deaf.
I cross my arms protectively over my chest as I walk.
I can’t believe how alone I feel. How lonely, without that constant hum of conversation and connection. I feel so disconnected, like I could die and no one would know or care.
Is this how Normals feel all the time? Is this how Mom feels now I shudder.
38
HUNTED
e
The glossy red-and-black ParaWatch poster jeers at me from a pillar, the words as familiar as a playground chant.
PARAS ARE A NATIONAL THREAT! REPORT SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR
TO OUR HOTLINE.
I look around casually, feeling outward. No one’s focused on me. I grab a silver marker from my backpack, scrawl two words, then drop the marker back in. The poster now reads, PARAS ARE NOT A NATIONAL THREAT! DON’T
REPORT SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR TO OUR HOTLINE. I walk on, a bounce in my step. Let ParaWatch find that .
I shouldn’t take such risks, but someone has to fight back. And it feels good. Man, does it ever feel good.
It’s different from the fighting back I do on my blog.
That feels more educational, more thought out—and safer, at least as long as my anonymizers and firewalls hold, and no one can trace it back to me. This—defacing a poster in daylight—could get me imprisoned, even killed. But still, I can’t stop doing it.
I’m almost at the school; I can feel it in the bright, swirling energy, the chatter, the emotion emanating from the place. It’s like teens amplify their thoughts, with all the feelings and hormones raging inside them. I have to fight extra hard to strain it out.
I’m thankful for the weight of my backpack on my shoulder, for my most precious things tucked inside—my tattered copy of The Lorax that Dad used to read me; my dog-eared copy of Homecoming that I read with my mom; 39
Cheryl Rainfield
and a
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