Until the Beginning

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s kind of frightening to hear that I’m an anomaly: no longer a ‘normal’ human, but not like the rest of your clan. I don’t even understand what my ‘new and improved’ body can do.” My joke falls flat. I shake my head. “Okay. What this means is I’m eighteen years old and I’m never going to get older. I won’t grow another inch, won’t develop past where I am right now. Right?”

 

 

She nods. “Pretty much. But you’re alive. And I happen to like you the way you are right now.” She leans over and wraps her arms around me, and I rest my head on hers.

 

We sit there for a full minute, her soft hair cushioning my cheek. Finally she pulls back, enough so that our faces are mere inches apart. She closes her eyes and leans in to give me a warm, soft kiss, and then stays close, running her fingers through my hair. I breathe in her breath and it calms me. Centers me.

 

“I promise to tell you everything I know about the Rite I gave you,” she says. “I’ll tell you everything the elders taught me about the Yara—the truth along with the lies.

 

“Then you can do what I’m doing now . . . figure out what makes sense to you. Which parts you believe—which parts make a difference to who you are. Who you can become.”

 

I don’t know what to say. I’m so tired all of a sudden, I don’t know if it’s the conversation, the death-sleep, or both. It all seems too big for me. I lean back against the headrest and run my hand through Juneau’s hair. Pull her to me and close my eyes. I feel unconsciousness grip me and sleep tug me under.

 

Juneau’s words come from outside the warm, still place I’m sinking into: “Old Miles, new-and-improved Miles, it doesn’t make a difference—I’m just glad you’re here.”

 

 

 

 

 

13

 

 

JUNEAU

 

 

AS I EXPLAINED TO MILES, MY CLANSPEOPLE barely wake during their death-sleep. So when he reenters his death-sleep, it isn’t like he’s merely nodding off. It’s more like he’s sucked into a vortex of unconsciousness. This reassures me. He’s not as much an anomaly as he fears—the other Rite-travelers were never on the run during their transition. That must explain the different reaction.

 

Miles doesn’t even budge when I get out to fill the tank and use the gas station restroom. I wear my sunglasses to hide my starburst, but the woman behind the counter is watching TV and doesn’t even notice me.

 

Back in the truck, I dig through our supplies for any remaining food, and am forced to throw out several bars of melted chocolate and some cheese that went bad in the swelter of the desert sun. I move the bottles of water behind the seat to keep them as cool as possible, and put what remains beside me: two apples and a pack of chocolate fudge Pop-Tarts. Not the most nutritious meal I’ve ever eaten, but all the gas station had was candy and I don’t have time to hunt.

 

I slip a Pop-Tart out of its package and munch on it as I reassess our situation. There are two things that concern me: how fast Whit will get out of the hospital, and how far Blackwell’s men will chase us.

 

I sift through the facts. Whit can track me by Reading. But he doesn’t trust his guards. In Salt Lake City, he slipped the fragment of the New Mexico map to me without them seeing. And his shocked reaction when one of them shot Miles is another indication that he’s not completely in charge. Although Whit knows I’m heading for New Mexico, his guards don’t. And if he doesn’t trust them, I don’t think he’d set them loose on me if he’s not there. Until he’s out of the hospital, they are not a factor I need to consider.

 

As for Mr. Blackwell, if he was so upset about Whit disappearing before they could make a deal, he must not know about the kidnappers. He wouldn’t be aware of where my clan is being held. Therefore he has no idea which direction I’m heading. The farther Miles and I get from L.A., the wider his search will become and the safer we will be.

 

Which all means one thing: I’ve got to continue driving as far and as fast as I can, and avoid anywhere someone could recognize us: hotels, gas stations, roadside shops. Blackwell might have alerted the police that his son was missing. I wonder how long it will be before he finds Miles’s car and discovers that I swapped it for this truck. The dirt bike guy obviously knew our exchange was fishy, and he has plenty of other cars to drive. Maybe he’s hidden it away for a while. I can only hope.

 

I crumple up the Pop-Tart package, glance over at Miles’s sleeping form, and press my foot to the gas pedal.

 

 

 

 

 

14

 

 

MILES

 

 

I AWAKE TO THE SOUND OF FLOWING WATER AND the smell of grilled meat. My eyes scan the tree cover above me. Beyond the branches the stars are so bright they look fake—like I fell asleep in a planetarium. I brush back the blanket spread over me, lift my hand to rub the sleep from my eyes, and sit up to look around. And then it clicks: I’m moving. I’m no longer paralyzed!

 

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