I do a double take when he says it. Déjà vu, for the second time. But this time it was me who said that exact same thing—nothing like your worst fear coming true—in my last session with Dr. Shepard. Because my mom dying was always my greatest fear, and Quentin is right. Your worst fear coming true turns the world a special kind of dark. And I’m pretty sure it stays that way forever.
But standing there in the middle of that broken-down camp, I suddenly feel a tiny bit better. Because for the first time since my mom died, it feels possible that someone might understand me again. Maybe not the way my mom did. And not even Quentin necessarily, not today. But maybe someone, someday.
“So what about you?” Quentin asks. “Any secret childhood talents that are hopefully more real than my ability to build things?”
For a second my mind is a total blank, like I’ve never done an interesting thing in my entire life. “I used to take pictures,” I say finally.
“Used to?” Quentin asks.
“Yeah, well, my mom was a photographer. So …”
“I get it.” Quentin nods, and I’m grateful that he doesn’t make me spell out how picking up a camera has been a total impossibility since she died. “Listen, do you want to go inside and get a drink or something?” He taps the top of the black box in front of him with his pliers. “I could use a break from this.”
“Yes,” I say, and I could too. A break from everything. “That would be great.”
Inside the empty main cabin, Quentin tosses his jacket on one of the tables before heading over to the refrigerator. I drift over to the stacks of papers at the other end: photocopies of different Q&As, Instructions for Testing, Training Protocol. My eyes scan the pages, picking up familiar bits and pieces. Some of it looks like the test my dad gave us, some of it is a little different. My dad definitely never said anything about a training protocol. So maybe Gideon was right, people can be taught after all.
Quentin comes back and stands next to me, holding out a Coke. It’s a relief, cold and solid in my hand. Like a relic of a long-lost civilization. Still, as Quentin and I stare down at the stacks of printouts, I can feel my chest slowly tightening.
“What do you think they’ll do with Cassie if they get her?”
“I don’t know,” Quentin says, keeping his eyes on the table. “Maybe Dr. Sim—”
“Come on, what do you think?” I ask. “You don’t need to be an actual scientist to have an imagination.”
Quentin glances at me, then turns away and shrugs. “They’ll want to learn everything they can,” he says finally. “See if they can figure out how she’s reading people. If it’s not her eyes or her ears, then what is it? They’d probably do functional MRIs, that kind of thing also. They want to learn how to be Outliers themselves, right?”
“Learn?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You can learn to do anything, right? I mean, not everyone is going to be Yo-Yo Ma, but most people could learn to play the cello pretty well if they tried hard enough. Maybe there are a lot more people who have Cassie’s potential, and they just need help accessing it.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say. “Or maybe it’s more like basketball. No matter how much you practice, most people are never going to dunk the ball.”
“Maybe they’ll also want to figure out how many others there are like Cassie. Your dad’s study had, what, three hundred people? If he found three Outliers, that’s one percent of his study. If that relative percentage held true for the rest of the population, it could be tens of millions of people.”
The pit in my stomach pulls a little deeper. Because what will happen if North Point’s scanning of Cassie’s brain doesn’t work? I imagine them opening up her skull, attaching monitors to the squishy surface of her brain, her body kept alive by a series of tubes. I shudder hard.
“Hey, this is all going to be okay,” Quentin says, putting a hand on my arm. “I promise.”
I turn, about to remind him that no one can promise that, when there’s a commotion behind us. The doors bang open, a crowd stumbles inside. And they’re carrying something. No, someone. Fiona.
“Put her down, put her down!” It’s Adam. He’s frantic as someone yanks down a tablecloth and they rest her carefully on the floor.
“Gently, gently,” Dr. Simons says. He seems so much older and frailer, his curly ring of hair all wild and out of place as he stands off to the side, as though he’s too frightened to actually lend a hand. It’s not exactly comforting.
“I’m okay, really,” Fiona says, trying to push herself up. “It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? It’s a bullet, Fiona!” Adam shouts at her. “Don’t sit up!”
“What happened?” Quentin rushes over to where Fiona is on the floor.
“Adam,” Fiona pants. Her voice is breathy and high. She is in pain, but is pretending not to be. “Really, I’m okay.”
“She got fucking shot in the leg!” Adam shouts at Quentin. Like he’s the one who did it.