Max started to scream but no sound emerged. At his feet, Nigel moaned and struggled to stand, but his arms buckled beneath him and he collapsed back to the ground.
“Better run, Max!” Mrs. Millen warned. “Better run while you can! Leave that scrawny thing to me and I’ll let you go!”
She was just ten feet away when Max finally bolted.
He wrenched the front door open to the summer rain. Whipping around, he saw Mrs. Millen chuckling and crouching low over Nigel, whose foot thumped dully against the floorboards.
A blind rage came over Max. “Get away from him! Get away from him!” He dashed back into the living room only to see Nigel sitting, comfortable and composed, by the rekindled fire. Max stalked down the hall, adrenaline now racing through his body. There was no sign of Mrs. Millen. The kitchen door was whole, solid and secure on its hinges.
Nigel smiled and spoke softly into his recorder. “Test three complete. After a brief moment of initial hesitation and retreat, Mr. McDaniels responded to phantasm with a frontal assault, exhibiting extraordinary determination and—oh dear, how should I put this—ferocity! Given that phantasm was generated from a mind cache recently exposed to the Enemy, this is particularly remarkable. It is with great pride and personal satisfaction that this Recruiter may report that Mr. Max McDaniels has passed the Standard Series of Potential Tests.”
Max stared in disbelief at Nigel. “So that was all just a…test?”
“Yes, I am sorry about that,” said Nigel with a sigh. “It’s the only way we know of to test a Potential’s courage and loyalty. Unfortunately, it’s the test most Potentials ultimately fail, but we’ve refused to compromise our standards. You were willing to help me at great danger to your person, my boy, and I am indeed touched.”
Nigel smiled and rose to place a hand on Max’s shoulder.
Max glanced at the hand. He let it slip off his shoulder as he walked wearily toward the kitchen. Nigel followed.
“Don’t be too angry with me!” he pleaded. “It’s not so easy being on my side of it, either—what with all the screaming, the crying, the irretrievably soiled pants….”
“I’m not mad anymore,” sighed Max. “Just promise that you won’t conjure up Mrs. Millen again. I don’t think I could handle her three times in one day.”
“It’s a deal,” chuckled Nigel. “Now, let’s see if we can’t find some more of those Crispy Sons Snack—whatever you call them.”
3
THE TIME TO CHOOSE
Max awoke earlier than usual as Nigel’s whistling and the smell of coffee wafted upstairs. It was light outside; sprinklers were hard at work. He yawned and rolled out of bed, throwing on a T-shirt and shuffling down the stairs.
Nigel was seated at the dining-room table, already dressed in a suit and tie. He perused the Tribune and sipped at a mug of coffee. Steam rose from a covered basket arranged on the table along with a crock of butter, several types of jam, and a glass of juice.
“And the sleepyhead emerges from his burrow! Can’t say I blame you, though—you had quite a day yesterday.”
“Nigel, it’s six fifteen in the morning….”
“Exactly. Time to rise and shine! I’ve got to be on my way shortly, so I thought we’d first enjoy a proper breakfast. Max, have you ever had popovers?”
Nigel peeled back the basket’s cover to reveal a dozen of what looked like steaming hot biscuits.
“Are they anything like Pop-Tarts?” asked Max.
“I should say not,” said Nigel with a shudder. “My wife’s would shame these sorry creations, but I still think you’re in for a treat! Here’s to new discoveries!”
Max raised his glass, then spent the next several minutes attacking the hot, flaky popovers.
“Mneez uhn illy guuh!” he said at last.
Nigel looked up from his paper.
“Come again?”
“These are really good!” Max repeated, reaching for another.
“Are you admitting they compare favorably to the almighty Pop-Tart? I believe that’s four you’ve managed already….”
Max narrowed his eyes.
“Yes, well, now that we’ve fed the monster, perhaps we should give him a present.”
Max wiped his mouth as Nigel presented him with an envelope of the same heavy cream-colored paper as the mysterious letter that had appeared in his pocket. This envelope was larger, but it, too, had Max’s name scripted on the front. Max slid his hand under the sealing wax and opened the flap to remove a sheaf of papers and a glossy brochure.
“Save the brochure for later,” said Nigel. “Have a peek at the rest.”
Max turned the papers over and scanned the cover page.
Dear Mr. McDaniels,
It is our understanding that you passed the Standard Series of Tests for Potentials. As Mr. Bristow no doubt informed you, this is a tremendous achievement. On behalf of Rowan Academy, please allow me to extend our most sincere congratulations.
Based on your results, Rowan Academy hereby extends you an offer to join our organization as an Apprentice, First Year.
We are hopeful that you will begin the fall term at the new student orientation one week from today. Details are enclosed, and we trust you will find the attached scholarship offer attractive.
A representative will visit you and your father this evening to discuss this unique opportunity and, we hope, celebrate your decision to accept. Given the unusual circumstances of your initial contact, we have taken additional precautions. You can rest assured that Miss Awolowo is indeed a legitimate representative. She will arrive at precisely eight o’clock.
Warmest regards,
Gabrielle Richter
Executive Director
“Who is she?” asked Max. “She signed my first letter.”
“Ms. Richter? Oh, well, she’s the boss, for lack of a better term. Quite a lady, I might add.”
“Oh. And the academy—what’s that?”
“Hmmm. Well, I might not be the best person to explain it to you. That falls under Miss Awolowo’s responsibilities. I can say, however, that it is an extraordinary place for extraordinary people just like you, Max.”
“I don’t understand. Would I have to go away?”
“Well, yes. The academy is located in New England.”
Max put the letter down and shook his head.
“Forget it—I can’t just leave. Not after everything that’s happened.”
“I understand your feelings, Max—” Nigel began.
“No you don’t. My dad would be all alone without me.”
Nigel closed his eyes and nodded.
“My mom’s been gone two years,” Max blurted suddenly, his face growing hot. “My dad talks about her like she’s alive, but she isn’t. They never even found her.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Nigel quietly, wiping up some crumbs and refilling Max’s juice.
“There isn’t much to talk about,” Max said. He felt tired again. “They found her car on the side of the road. It was still running. She was gone.”
Max glowered and flicked a crumb off the table.
“Anyway,” he mumbled, “I don’t think moving away is a good idea.”
“I see.” Nigel pushed the popovers back in his direction. “I won’t try to convince you, Max. All I’ll ask is that you keep an open mind and listen to what Miss Awolowo has to say. In the meantime, I would encourage you to study the materials in your packet.”
Nigel straightened the papers and brochure, handing them to Max before rising with his briefcase.
“I realize the timing is dreadful, but I must be going. Yesterday’s events have raised questions that need answers, and I’ve been ordered away. Don’t worry about your father and the Raleighs—I’ve taken care of everything.”
Max was incredulous.
“Nigel! You can’t leave me here by myself. My dad doesn’t get back until this afternoon! What if Mrs. Millen comes back?”
“Max, this house is under priority watch. You should be just fine.”
Max stood up from the table and began pacing the room.
“No, no, no! You said Mrs. Millen shouldn’t have known I was a Potential and shown up here to begin with! Can’t I come with you?”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Max. However, I do think I can procure some company so that you’re not alone.”
Max paused.