I laugh. “Even though you could probably kill me in fifteen different ways with a table fork, and even though you barbecue bunnies, I like you, too, Juneau. So let’s get our butts to New Mexico.”
“A very good plan,” she says. I stand and lean over the bed and kiss her forehead. She gives me her crooked mouth-closed smile, and I feel a rush of relief. She’s going to be okay.
My dad is waiting in the den, wearing his “caring father” expression. “Did she tell you anything?” he asks expectantly.
He probably thinks I can’t see through his act. Well, I learned my lying skills from the very best. I rearrange my face to show concern and disappointment. “She was too tired to really talk,” I say, and his face falls. “But she did mention that you said something about her eye being a genetic mutation?” Dad nods and, leading me into the kitchen, grabs a bottle of apple juice out of the fridge. He pours us both a glass and takes a swig from his.
“The girl’s eye is a mutation, and if all the children in her clan have the same one, as she claims, it means that their parents all did something that would produce that dramatic of an effect in their offspring.”
“And you think this has something to do with a drug.”
“What I was told, Miles, is that a group of greenie scientists were working on a drug to solve the problem of endangered animals. To help species that were dying out resist disease and extinction. They tried it on themselves and found it had made them immune to every illness they tested. It would have been at least a year—nine months, of course—before they discovered its effect on a developing fetus. And when they knew what they had, they escaped America for somewhere they could live undetected, in seclusion.”
“Just to hide their kids’ eyes?” I ask doubtfully.
My father sets his glass down on the counter and looks at me intently. “I’m guessing that they didn’t initially know what they had. But they stayed when they discovered they had stopped aging.”
“So that’s what Amrit is,” I say, confirming my theory from before—from when I saw Whit with my own eyes. “It’s a drug that stops aging.”
“If you want to get technical about it, Amrit doesn’t completely stop aging. But it slows it down to an imperceptible rate—at least that’s what Dr. Graves claims. It’s the holy grail, Miles. The fountain of youth. They have figured out how to cheat death.”
I just stare at Dad, at the greed on his face, and feel sick. “Not only do I think you’re all crazy,” I say, “but I think you’ve been duped.”
Dad holds a finger up, like he’s scolding me. “Believe it or not, it’s true. I’ve seen the test results. I’ve seen Mr. Graves himself. I know what’s possible with this drug, Miles. And Blackwell Pharmaceutical will own its patent.” He turns and leaves the room.
I’m not going to let this happen. When I hear his office door close, I sneak away to the carport and start cleaning out my car, leaving all the camping gear in the back. We’re going to need it. Hopefully soon.
59
JUNEAU
THE BUZZING IN MY EARS HAS FINALLY STOPPED. My vision is normal, but I feel shaky. And the last time I went to the bathroom, the nurse had to come over and help me walk. My legs feel like rubber bands.
No one knows what happened to me. The paramedic said I could have just fainted or had a panic attack. It could have been the stress of the last few days. All I know is that when Mr. Blackwell said what he did about the elders taking a drug and having mutant babies, something snapped in me. Maybe because it made sense. Maybe because I didn’t want it to be true. My clan’s lies are never-ending. We kids are experiments. The whole thought of it made me sick.
I am left alone with my thoughts and for once don’t want to be by myself. It’s just me and the realization that what Mr. Blackwell said about a drug is true. I didn’t make the connection before, didn’t realize that what I thought was a complicated ceremony to unite a person to the Yara could actually be broken down to one essential component. That the singing and dancing and arrangement of the body was just a farce. That the tying of elements to the hands and feet, the nine sips of pure water, the furs and feathers and candles and crystals were all symbols. Like Whit’s totems. They were all a sham.
Only a second of the eight-hour ceremony counted for anything, and that was when the concoction of plants and minerals was poured down the initiate’s throat. It was a drug. And it had a name: Amrit.