“Yes, I mean no, not exactly.” Because actually it was Gideon who explained them. Why give my dad credit for being honest about anything? “They are the not-normal ones.”
Dr. Simons nods. “That’s a fair description. The Outliers are the handful of test subjects who demonstrated simultaneous nonvisual and nonauditory emotional perception,” he says. “In other words, capable of reading other people’s emotions while blindfolded and wearing headphones. There weren’t many. Really, they were an inadvertent by-product of your dad’s research. The combined nonauditory, nonvisual segment of the test was meant to provide a control baseline. Your father was looking at the implications of live discussion on emotional perception. He never imagined that there would be some individuals capable of accurate emotional perception without visual or auditory clues. But their discovery could have profound implications.”
“Profound how?” I swallow hard, try to keep my stomach from pushing farther up into my throat.
“Well, for instance, the US Office of Naval Intelligence has been trying for years to use intuition in combat, and a discovery like this could be critical to that research,” he says. “I expect North Point’s interest in the Outliers is similar. Their ultimate goal would be to use the Outliers’ skills to develop some kind of innovative military strategy or technology.”
“So why don’t these people just redo the study themselves, find their own Outliers?”
“They’ve been unable to. Because the Outliers were an inadvertent, inappropriate by-product of your father’s study, their existence was acknowledged only in a footnote in his data section.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“They were an accident,” he says. “We only know of three Outliers thus far. Notably, all of them were younger than the minimum age for study participants. All under eighteen. Two of the three were included because the study parameters were not properly administered by your father’s research assistant.”
This is all Dr. Caton’s fault because of some mistake he made? It would explain why my dad was so angry at him.
“Dr. Caton, you mean?” I ask.
“Precisely,” Dr. Simons takes a breath, puts his hands flat on the table like he’s trying to make the next point really clear. “And because North Point has been unable to replicate the research, it seems they believe their only option is to find your father. Not only does he know that subject age is the key factor that unites the Outliers—several people know that, including myself—but your father is the only person who knows the actual names of the Outliers.”
And I can see from the look on Dr. Simons’s face that this is the point he’s been bracing himself to deliver. That this is the essential detail.
“Wait, so they literally want my dad?”
He nods. “Yes, we believe so. But as I said, we are taking every possible precaution.”
“Awesome,” I say quietly. Because I do not feel at all comforted. “And what about Gideon? If they want my dad, and they came after me—he’s just sitting home by himself.”
“Thanks to Level99’s work in interrupting North Point’s communications, we have no reason to believe there’s anyone coming to your home, or that anyone would come after Gideon or you, had you remained there, which is what your dad wanted, of course,” Dr. Simons says. “But as an extra precaution, Officer Kendall also has a friend on the Boston police force who is keeping an eye on your house while your dad is gone, just in case.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling even worse now about having taken off. My dad was right to try to get me home.
“You know, we have met, you and I,” Dr. Simons says, changing the subject, probably because I look freaked out. “You and Gideon couldn’t have been more than five. Your parents came out to California to visit, and I think you went on to Disneyland afterward?” When I look up, he smiles gently. “Though, I suppose, if you have any memories from the trip, they would probably be of Mickey Mouse and not me.”
I do not remember meeting Dr. Simons. But my favorite picture of my mom is from that trip, so young and happy, her hair in two braids, hands tucked into her overalls. I do have one actual memory, too—my mom and me near the cliffs of Carmel, lost in a sea of prairie dogs. Usually so calm and cool, my mom squealed and ran when the little animals started poking all their heads out of their dozens of holes. And there I stood, unable to tear myself away.
“See, Wylie,” my mom said afterward, winded and gasping with laughter. “There are all different kinds of brave.”
Do I actually remember even that? Or is that just a story I made her repeat so many times that the words became like my own? These days everything important about my mom feels like a memory inside a memory about to collapse in on itself and disappear.