The main cabin is buzzing with activity when we step inside, even though it’s past four a.m. Watching them, suddenly all I feel is tired, like my running burned off the coating of panic that was covering up my total exhaustion.
But the people in that cabin seem like sleep is the last thing on their minds, more proof maybe of just how serious this situation is. They are men and women ranging from their twenties to sixties, clustered in small groups—pairs mostly—talking, hovering over papers. There’s a tall, thin guy in a maroon Harvard hoodie next to a pretty woman with a smooth bob and a fuzzy purple beret. Farther back, against the wall, are two other women my mom’s age, in matching black running pants and fleeces, and a graying man and woman. And then there’s Miriam at the back, organizing the coffee station. Ten people in all, including Quentin and Stuart. Dr. Simons, thankfully, is nowhere in sight. I’m not ready to talk to him again, especially not if he’s going to bring up my mom.
“Have you guys been planning this for a long time?” I ask. If so, my dad is even better at hiding things than I ever thought.
“Dr. Simons called me two days ago and asked if I could spare a few days. I don’t know about everyone else.” Quentin points to the man in the Harvard sweatshirt and the girl in the purple beret. “I think Adam is the one who grew up here and knew Officer Kendall. Adam is getting his PhD in cognitive neuroscience at Harvard. His girlfriend there in the purple hat is named Fiona. I’m pretty sure they came up at least a week ago.”
“And who are they?” I point to the two women in fleeces.
“Beatrice and Gladys are on the faculty at Smith and Williams, respectively. I think Beatrice might be an old girlfriend of Dr. Simons, actually.” Finally, Quentin points to the slightly older man and woman. “And they are”—he hesitates like he’s trying to remember—“Robert and Hillary. He is a psychology professor at”—he pauses again and narrows his eyes—“Boston University, I think, and I’m not sure about her. It’s a lot to keep track of.”
“What are they all doing?” Everyone seems hard at work—taking notes, studying diagrams. Adam and Fiona have a laptop open in front of them, and so do Robert and Hillary.
“Drafting a research protocol for the next phase of your dad’s study, I think,” he says. “I know that’s part of it. If your dad can figure out the significance of the Outliers and make it public, companies like North Point will be out of luck.”
“So all of you were just willing to come up here and hang out with mostly a bunch of strangers and maybe risk your lives?” I ask, and not in the nicest way. I don’t know why I am annoyed by them suddenly. But they feel like enablers. Without them, my dad might have had to tell the truth.
“I had questions, don’t get me wrong,” Quentin says, and now he sounds defensive. “But the way Dr. Simons laid out the whole thing for me, it seemed really important to protect your dad and his research. Especially from people who profit from war.”
“So you’re here because you’re antiwar?” Now I officially sound like an asshole. And maybe I am. I’ve never had enough space in my crowded head for a cause.
He crosses his arms. “And you’re pro-war?”
“No”—I shake my head—“of course not.” I really do sound like an asshole. “It’s just a lot to risk for an idea.”
Quentin shrugs. “Something has to matter,” he says. “Or nothing will.”
I resist the urge to shudder. “My dad says that all the time.” Everything is starting to feel like déjà vu.
“Really?” Quentin asks, then smiles. “Bet right now sounding like your dad isn’t making you like me more.”
“Are you okay?”
When I turn toward the voice, there’s Cassie. And for a second, I feel relieved. But then I see that the color is washed from her face again, the way it was back when we first saw her in the cabin. An Outlier. It’s possible, I guess. I would never have described Cassie as especially good at reading people, but maybe it would explain why she was such a mess, so much of the time.
“Actually, I should go tell Dr. Simons about those gunshots we heard,” Quentin says. “Can I get you guys something to eat? There’s nothing fancy, but we have some pretzels and granola bars and stuff like that.”
“Sure, thanks,” I say, and to my surprise I do actually feel a little hungry.
“Great,” Quentin says. “I’ll be right back.”
“I was so worried when you ran out,” Cassie says when he’s gone, pulling me into a tight hug. “I am so sorry about all of this.”
“You shouldn’t be sorry. My dad should be,” I say when she finally lets go.