by Bella Jacobs
“Red sauce is fine, Mom,” I call back, pulse throbbing faster in my throat as the raccoon shakes its head like it understands what we’ve said and is against red sauce.
Or against dinner.
Or against me sticking around to eat it
“Definitely option three,” I note in a trembling voice as the raccoon lifts his—her?—other hand and presses a small, square sheet of paper to the window.
Even from ten feet away I can read the bright red words on it loud and clear. There are only two of them, scrawled in thick capital letters—Run Wren.
Chapter 5
Wren
Before I can get across the room, the raccoon has dropped the paper and leaped from the windowsill. Forcing my trembling arms to function, I shove the old glass up and lean out, peering into the yard as the raccoon scurries through the vegetable garden and vanishes into what looks like a tunnel dug under the fence.
A part of me wants to call out to the creature—to demand that it come back and tell me what the hell is going on—but the logical voice in my head fights back, reminding me that animals don’t talk.
But they don’t usually deliver ominous warnings either.
Lunging forward, I grab the piece of paper before the wind can blow it away, wondering what happened to the screen that usually covers the window. It was there yesterday, I’m sure of it. But now it’s gone, and there’s nothing in my way as I draw the note inside, fingers probing at the edges of the tightly folded paper as I realize there’s more to this than two words.
Freeing a sharply creased edge, I spread the creamy stationary open on the ledge to read—Don’t take your medication after dinner, watch this window, and be ready to run when you see the sign. Let us help you, Wren. Before it’s too late. You can trust us. We’ll explain everything as soon as you’re free. On the chance that this note is discovered, we can’t say more, but be assured that luck is on your side—and in your pocket—tonight.
Eyes going wide, I turn my right hand over and uncurl my fingers, revealing the coin sitting in my sweating palm.
Only a few people know about my lucky coin. When we were kids, Dust made me swear never to tell anyone. It was something he’d brought with him from England, a relic from his life before the Parsons adopted him. He knew if his parents found it or any of his other secret treasures, they would be taken away.
It’s real gold, lucky, and it will help me find you if you get lost, he’d promised me, pressing it into my hand one afternoon beneath the bleachers, when we’d snuck away to play pretend instead of baking in the sun at the annual Church of Humanity Portland vs. Seattle softball tournament.
For years after, I never said a word to anyone about it.
After Dust disappeared, I finally confessed my secret to Scarlett, knowing it would help her understand why I was so sad that Dust had gone away. And then, just last year, the coin fell out of my pocket while Carrie and I were on our hands and knees dragging contraband beer cans out from under the bed of one of our residents. She’d picked it up and passed it over to me, asking what it was.
“Just my good luck charm,” I said with a shrug, popping it back into my pocket without further explanation.
If anyone would understand toting around a coin your best friend gave you when you were eight, it would be Carrie—she still has a charm bracelet her grandmother gave her when she was five and wears it every day to remind her of the one loving parental figure in her life—but I still hadn’t wanted to say more.
The coin is one of the most deeply personal, private things I own.
But now maybe Carrie and I should have a talk about good luck charms.
Shoving the window closed, I hurry over to my bed, grabbing my cell. But when I pull up my text thread with Carrie, I hesitate, thumbs hovering above the screen.
How to ask your best friend if she’s part of a secret society trying to liberate young adults from the movement?
That must be what this is, some sort of “cult rescue” operation.
But I don’t need to be rescued. The movement isn’t a cult, and we’re not involved in weird exorcism rituals or human trafficking or selling children to billionaires overseas or anything else we’ve been accused of over the years. All of that noise is just reporters looking for a sensational story and finding an easy target in a relatively new church.
Our particular beliefs and practices—based on spiritual teachings from all over the world and promoting love for our fellow humans above all else—were only organized into a recognized religion in the 1980s. The mere fact that we’re a modern creation makes some people freak out about our customs in a way they never would an older, more established tradition.
So we have a ban on online activity for younger members? So what?
That doesn’t mean our elders are trying to keep us ignorant while they plot to sell us on the dark web. It means they’re trying to keep us safe and healthy in a digital world that’s been scientifically proven to have negative effects on the minds and social development of young people. And they’re happy to waive the ban when it’s necessary for study or a member’s job.
I mean, the Catholics drink wine and break bread they believe are the blood and flesh of Christ. I’m not one to judge anyone’s religious practices, but objectively that sounds way creepier than staying off the web until you’re thirty…
And Carrie seems like she’s truly committed to the movement, even more than I am. Being part of the C of H is about community for me. I love the people I grew up with in the church, and I work for a movement charity. I also happen to truly believe loving my fellow humans and making cooperation not war is an excellent idea. Therefore, I remain a member, even though, the older I get, the more I find some of the movement’s policies counterproductive to the mission they say they’re trying to accomplish.
But from the day Carrie showed up at the shelter—half starved, with an infected dog bite on her leg and tiny, moon-shaped scars from years of her abusive father putting his cigarettes out on her arms and legs—she’s embraced the movement with fervor. She’s been transformed by her faith, healed physically, mentally, and spiritually by the soul work she’s done. Her strength and her happiness truly seem to be grounded in her commitment to the movement and the causes we champion.
The longer I think on it, the harder it is to fathom that she could be an undercover Hostile Force.
But who else could it possibly be?
Despite the foolish hope I’ve clung to for so long, I know Scarlett is dead. If she were alive and part of some secular liberation movement, she would have come for me a long time ago. She wouldn’t have left me for eight years in a situation she believed was dangerous, and she wouldn’t have let me suffer through grieving her.
Yes, the Scarlett who was sent away to Greater Good to get off drugs was an angrier, scarier version of my sister than the one I’d known, but she still loved me.
So not Scarlett. Not Carrie. Which leaves…
“Dust,” I whisper, letting my cell drop back onto the bed.
It’s crazy, but it has to be him. After over a decade, he’s back.
And he’s a Hostile Force who wants to rip me away from my family and everything I’ve ever known, precisely when I’ve been presented with an opportunity that could save my life.
Could give me a real life. Give me a future.
Or kill you, a soft voice in my head whispers.
Yes, or that…
The timing of the call and the letter is eerie. Could it be related to the procedure in some way? But if so, how did these mystery people find out I’m scheduled for treatment tomorrow? I didn’t even know myself until thirty minutes ago, medical records are confidential, and I can’t imagine that my parents would have mentioned it to anyone.
The thought gives me something to cling to, to investigate.
After hiding the note deep in my sock drawer—tucked into a pair of wool stockings I won’t be wearing until next winter—I head back into the kitchen, arriving
just as Mom is dumping pasta into a colander in the sink.
“Mom, you haven’t mentioned tomorrow to anyone else, have you?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. “Like Aunt Sarah or Grammy P?”
Mom shakes her head as she sets the pot back on a cool burner and lifts the colander, giving it a shake, sending fresh steam swirling around her face, where her hair is already starting to curl into ringlets from the heat. “No, I didn’t tell anyone. I thought that should be your choice, sweetheart. I’m not sure Grammy’s up to dealing with this news, not with her own health so poor. But if you want to talk to her, we can. And we can absolutely get Aunt Sarah on the phone after dinner. It’s late, East Coast time, but she’s a night owl and I know she’d love to hear from you.”
I nod and say, “That sounds good,” even though it doesn’t.
I don’t want to talk to Grammy or Aunt Sarah. I love them both, but the thought of having to put their minds at ease on something I’m still not 100 percent sure about myself doesn’t sound like a great way to use up the last of my rapidly waning energy.
By the time we finish a quick dinner of pasta and fresh baby greens from the garden, I can barely keep my eyes open.
I need my meds, specifically the ones that keep my energy levels relatively consistent and allow me the luxury of having the strength to shower, brush my teeth, and read for an hour or so propped up in bed.
But when I grab my pillbox from the counter after dinner and tip the handful of red, white, blue, and yellow tablets into my palm, I don’t pop them into my mouth and down them with the last of the water in my glass. Instead, I fake the tossing motion and pretend to swallow something more than water as I discreetly slip the pills into my jean pocket.
I don’t know why I do it—I don’t believe the author of that note knows what’s best for me, and I haven’t missed a dose of meds since I was a toddler.
It’s like I’m possessed.
But not by demons or spirits, the way some of the movement’s more orthodox elders might think. There’s nothing supernatural in the prickling of my skin or the humming in my thoughts. It’s plain old, garden-variety curiosity that has me hooked.
Safe and wise, or not, I want to know who sent that note. I want to look them in the eye and tell them that I’m fine and not even a little bit in need of saving.
And if it’s Dust…
If it’s Dust, I want to tell him that I’ve missed him and that he meant so much to me when we were children and that I’m glad he’s alive, even if he has been enlisted into some crazy war. If I die tomorrow, I’ll go out more peacefully after saying goodbye to one of the people who meant the most to me in my life.
And if it’s someone else, then I’ll deal with that when the time comes.
When the sign comes.
It could be any minute now…
After dinner, I assure Mom I’m okay with waiting to call Grammy and Aunt Sarah until we get back from the procedure, when I’ll have good news to share with them. Mom, clearly approving of my positive thinking, sends me to bed with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to wake me early tomorrow so I’ll have time to get ready, and I retreat to force myself through the usual bedtime ritual.
My parents don’t think anything of me going to bed at eight. I rarely manage to stay conscious past nine or nine thirty. Exhaustion hits me hard after the sun goes down.
That’s always the case, but tonight is far worse than usual. Without my drug cocktail to keep me semi-functional, my feet feel like leaden weights strapped to my legs. I shuffle into the bathroom—a zombie with sagging eyelids and limbs made of rubber. I flop through the washing of my face and the brushing of my teeth, knocking over my electric toothbrush, the hand towel holder, and my entire row of moisturizers before I’m finished.
In addition to nausea and a boatload of other fun side effects, my meds make my skin super dry, so thin and flaky I go through a small fortune in drugstore face cream each month. Tonight, however, I glop on more than I need and smear it in circles with clumsy fingers as I amble back to my room, not worried about wasting it.
I’m not worried about meeting my would-be savior in my pajamas with my hair up in a messy ponytail, either. I won’t be going anywhere with him or her. The only place I’m going is to sleep—and soon.
Garble Voice better get moving with that “sign” if he wants me to be awake to see it.
“Vastly underestimated the power of exhaustion, he has,” I grumble Yoda-style as I fumble the meds from my jean pocket before tossing my dirty clothes from today into the bin.
I’ll wait fifteen more minutes, then I’m taking my pills, shutting my curtains, and crawling into bed. If Garble or his pet raccoon shows up in my backyard, they’ll be as out of luck as the crack addict who tried to break into our house a few years ago. Our place may look quaint and cozy, but we’ve got one hell of a security system. Pops grew up in this neighborhood when it was truly the wrong side of the tracks and is a firm believer in being safe rather than sorry.
“Cops on ’im so fast his head will be swimming with the fishes.” I’m with-it enough to realize that’s not how that saying goes, but too floaty to figure out which part I’ve got wrong. My head is a helium balloon fighting to touch the ceiling, and my neck feels longer and thinner with every breath.
Fifteen minutes of continued vigilance might have been an overly ambitious goal.
Shuffling across the room, I open my sock drawer and grab my wool socks. Maybe rereading the note will help wake me up.
I worm my fingers into the tight curl of fabric, but no matter how deep I dig, there’s nothing there but sock and more sock.
Have I accidentally grabbed the wrong pair?
With clumsy hands, I work my way through my entire sock drawer—even the summer stockings too thin to hide any secrets—without success. The note isn’t hidden in my socks or anywhere in the drawer. The note is…gone.
Someone’s been in my room.
Someone could still be in my room.
The thought is barely through my head when a hand covers my mouth, pulling me back against a wall of warm, unrelenting flesh.
Chapter 6
Wren
“Don’t scream, and don’t be afraid. It’s me. I’m here to help.” The deep voice rumbles softly into my ear, short-circuiting my shriek before it can emerge.
The voice is familiar.
So is the evergreen, sea spray, and campfire smell of this man.
“Kmmte?” I mumble into Kite’s hand, sucking in a deep breath as he pulls his palm away. I turn to face him, the room spinning and blurring as I add in a slurred voice, “Wha’ you doing here?”
Kite’s three foreheads wrinkle and concern floods all seven or eight of his dark eyes. “We’ve got to get you out of here. You’re going into detox crazy fast.” He curses as he shakes his head, making his extra eyes kaleidoscope in and out in a way that makes my stomach uneasy. “They must have had you pumped full of enough drugs to take down an elephant.”
I squint hard at his face, willing his features to hold still. “So you’re the one? The one on the phone?”
The realization hurts, but my head is too cloudy to make sense of the misery flooding through me.
I’m having a hard enough time keeping my eyes open and my body upright. Even the shock of learning that I’m not alone in my bedroom isn’t enough to banish the lethargy infecting me at a cellular level. No matter how much I want to give Kite a piece of my mind, pretty soon I’ll be sacked out face first on my bed…
If I can make it across the room before I pass out.
“Easy, baby.” He catches me as my knees buckle, swinging me up into his arms. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re going to be safe soon, I promise.”
I want to tell him not to call me baby—he’s not my friend, he’s a lying, crazy, undercover Hostile Force who took advantage of my trusting spirit and stupidly naïve heart—but the room is spinning faster now, and my lips refuse to obey orders. My throat is tight, and my st
omach is pitching, and it’s all I can do to roll my head onto Kite’s chest as he swiftly crosses the room and shoves open the window.
The security system must be off.
It must have been off earlier, too, or it would have sounded when I opened the window the first time.
I curse myself for being so easily distracted by that note-delivering raccoon, as Kite sticks his head out into the near darkness and makes grunting sounds low in his throat. They’re so soft I can’t imagine anyone but me being able to hear them, but a moment later there’s an answering clicking sound from the garden. Someone’s out there, his accomplice, and if I don’t pull myself together soon, they’re going to have me out this window and at their mercy.
“Help me,” I whisper, swallowing hard as I will my clutching throat to relax. But when I try to call out to Mom and Pops, the only sound that emerges from my lips is a soft croak.
“Don’t be afraid,” Kite says again. “I promise I’ll explain everything as soon as we’re out of here, Bird Girl, but right now I need you to trust me.”
Trust him? He’s kidnapping me! He broke into my house, manipulated me into skipping the drugs that would have given me the strength to call for help, and now he’s passing me through the window into the cool night air. I’m caught by another pair of arms—thinner than Kite’s, but no less powerful—but I can’t see the man’s face. My head has fallen backward again, and this time I lack the strength to lift it.
The most I can do is blink faster to stay awake as the world bounces by upside down, the shadowy trees sprouting out of the sky as the ground bleeds from pale blue to cobalt stabbed through with the first bright white stars.
The moon is there, too, I realize as the stranger carrying me reaches the garden gate and quietly opens it, revealing more of the endless night spreading out around us, devouring all memories of the sun. The moon is the eye of a giant serpent hovering in the darkness, squinting down at my bared throat, debating whether or not to rip me open with its teeth.