“Where is he?” Jack asks. He sounds like a kid hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus. I do not understand his fascination. To me, Victor comes off as a not-very-bright thug. Jack claims the guy is a brilliant musician. According to Jack, the two of them are great friends, but with the exception of our first day at the squat—a day I spent primarily sleeping while Jack hung out with his good buddy—Jack has been with me every day. I suspect Victor blew him off but thought it tactful not to ask. I need Jack’s help too much to risk offending him.
Faith shrugs off Jack’s question. The three of us stand there for a minute, watching the cars roll past, until a particularly large truck lumbers by in a gush of exhaust. Faith’s frail body sways.
“Here.” Jack digs through the grocery bag he’s carrying and pulls out a bagel, handing it to Faith. “You hungry?”
Faith accepts the food, holding it in her cupped hands as if she isn’t sure what to do with it. A palm reader would love Faith’s hands. They’re so dirty, I can see the lines from four feet away.
“So,” I ask, “have you noticed anything going on upstairs?” Faith blinks slowly without answering. I try again. “You know, with my friends?”
“Oh.” She picks a small piece of crust off the bagel and sets it on her tongue like she’s conducting a science experiment. “Yeah. That is one sick dude.” Faith nods to herself. “What’s he on?”
“Nothing,” I say. “He’s just sick.”
“Wow.” Faith chews the speck of bagel in her mouth. “Bummer.”
Jack shifts the grocery bag on his hip. “We’re going to walk around for a while. See you later, OK?”
Faith stops chewing. “You better not go upstairs. It’s too early.”
“We know,” I say.
“Cool,” Faith mumbles. Her attention shifts to a poster pasted on one side of the bus shelter. It’s an advertisement for a new action movie and features two tank top–wearing men with enormous muscles walking away from a bright yellow and black explosion. Both carry awkwardly large guns and sport artfully applied ash smudges. Faith watches the poster like it’s the actual movie. She doesn’t seem to notice when we leave.
Jack and I walk until we’re sure Faith has forgotten about us, then we duck into the small parking lot on the far side of Elmer’s, sliding past a dumpster to reach the rear of the building. This is the yucky part. Elmer’s backs up to a freeway, which roars along at the bottom of a steep slope behind the store. A chain-link fence marking the cliff edge stands about two feet from the building, which should make for a reasonable alley, except that the fence is completely overrun by a mass of blackberry bushes. To reach the fire escape that gives us access to the third floor, we have to shove through the berry-laden sentinels, which do their best to scratch reminders that we’re trespassing every time we scrape our way inside.
Jack stops walking and holds out his hand when he gets to the bottom of the fire escape. I adjust my bag of electronics so I can touch Jack’s skin, then reach out to freeze time. The time strands drag in my mental grasp—less like fine threads, more like coarse ropes. It takes a huge effort to pull them to a stop, and when I do, the perfect silence allows my headache to take center stage. I rub my forehead.
“Let’s be quick,” I say.
Jack yanks the rusty ladder down, and moments later, we’re stepping into the open space that makes up the entire top floor. I sigh, releasing time as soon as the door whines shut behind us. Something small and probably furry scuttles away from our sudden appearance. I wait for my vision to adjust to the gloom, listening to the resumed rumble of the freeway and the restless coo and shuffle of the pigeons that roost under the building’s eaves. Dust floats into my nostrils, the dry scent accented with an undertone of mold.
“Shannon?” Jack calls softly. She doesn’t answer, though she almost certainly heard him. All of us are primed for the slightest noise that could mean someone from Elmer’s is coming up the inner staircase to investigate.
Jack shrugs and heads toward the part of the squat we all refer to as the kitchen, even though it’s really just a counter with a dresser and a couple of boxes nearby. We store our food in plastic bins inside the dresser’s empty drawers, and we warm liquids in our single appliance—a grimy electric coffee maker.
Carrying the bag with the cell phones, I make my way through a mess of cast-off furniture toward the corner where KJ sleeps. The squat is essentially a big open warehouse, about fifty feet by a hundred, and it houses what must be years’ worth of old merchandise, mostly broken—mismatched chairs, lopsided bookcases, and teetering stacks of unmarked boxes.
As temporary residents, each of us has shifted pieces around to create relatively private “rooms” for ourselves. KJ has the section in the far right corner, under a pair of windows that face the street. Shannon sleeps beside him to be near her patient. Jack and I each carved out a room against the same street-facing wall. Victor and Faith camp out along the windowless back wall, somewhere in the dark to the left of the fire escape. Just to the right of the fire door, next to the kitchen, a tiny half-bathroom provides water, as long as we only turn on the taps (or flush the toilet) after the workers downstairs have gone home.
Shannon doesn’t raise her head until I step around the armoire that marks the entrance to KJ’s room. It’s brighter on this side of the squat, illuminated by sunlight filtering through grimy windows. It’s also a few degrees colder, since the windows don’t quite shut. Our resident nurse says this is OK. Fresh air is good for the patient.
Shannon sits on the floor, slumped against a crate stamped with the word Fragile. In her lap, a paperback romance novel rests face down, spine cracked to show she hasn’t gotten farther than about page five. KJ lies beside her, his bed nothing more than a pile of blankets and a pillow without a case.
“You’re back,” she says.
It’s a statement, and an unenthusiastic one at that. Previously rosy-cheeked and full of smiles, Shannon’s face since we left the Center has turned as pale as if she’d spent a month in a cave instead of three days in an empty building. Her tan slacks and red sweater are wrinkled and smudged with dust. A bowl holding a water-soaked rag shows the limits of Shannon’s nursing options.
“How’s KJ?” I ask.
Shannon shakes her head.
“The same.” Her blond hair, pulled away from her face in a messy braid, sways like it’s adding a second opinion.
“I can sit with him a while,” I say. “If you want a break.”
“It’s OK.” Shannon gives me a sad smile. “You’re probably tired from all your errands. And it’s not like I have anywhere else to be.”
I stand there, feeling useless, listening to the slow rasp of KJ’s breath. It sounds like even that minor activity takes enormous effort. I’m not sure which is worse—the times KJ lies so still he seems like he might be frozen, or the times he thrashes around moaning. Right now, his feet are twitching in small, uneven jerks.
Shannon wipes the edge of his blanket, cleaning off some of the dirt it picked up from trailing on the floor.
“He did open his eyes today,” she says, “while I was feeding him some broth.”
Hope rises in my chest, a delicate tendril reaching toward the light.
“He looked right at me.” Shannon’s voice catches. “But I’m not sure he actually saw me.”
The tentative shoot wilts, replaced by a gush of shame at her obvious distress. I always feel guilty around Shannon. She used to be my roommate, but when she agreed to come away with me, she didn’t do it because we’re friends, or because she hates the Center. She did it because she cares about KJ. And as far as she knows, KJ cares for her too. She has no idea that the night before we left, KJ and I changed from being best friends to being…something else, and that the morning he fell sick he was planning to break up with her. I know I should tell her. I know it’s wrong to use her like this, but I h
ave no idea how to help KJ get better. I need her. KJ needs her.
Shannon kneels on the floor and wrings the cloth out in the bowl of water. The blankets over KJ’s chest twitch when she places the cool cloth on his sweaty forehead.
“Did you remember to get ice?” Shannon asks.
My shame deepens. “Sorry,” I mumble, “I forgot.”
Shannon sighs, but doesn’t say anything, which only makes me feel worse. It’s as if she hasn’t expected me to manage even so simple a task. All the things that filled my day—finding the right stores, stealing supplies, Jack’s and my narrow escape at the mall—seem like some kind of holiday compared with Shannon’s long hours in this dim corner.
I cross my arms behind my back to hide the electronic store bag I’m still carrying. “Is this…normal for time sickness?”
“I’m not sure.” Shannon bends over KJ again, adjusting the wet cloth. “I’ve never tended anyone on my own at this critical point in the illness. But four days seems like an awfully long time to be this out of it, doesn’t it? I heard Yolly say you were really sick with your first bout, and you were out for only two days.” She says this accusingly, as if my recovery somehow counts against me.
“Is there anything else we can do?” I ask.
Shannon sits back on her heels. “You know what I think.”
“We can’t go back,” I say.
“You really believe the Center is poisoning us? That Yolly is trying to kill us?”
Images of Yolly, the Center’s matron, float in my head—her easy smile and her soft body draped in those stupid cheerful smocks. Yolly thinks we should be proud to serve our community with what she always calls “our talents.” She keeps lollipops in her pockets for the Youngers and never reports a rule-breaking unless she has to. Every time she pricks our arms for the monthly blood tests, she promises that it won’t hurt.
I shake my head. “I don’t think Yolly knows.”
“So, what, it’s all some big conspiracy?”
I rub my forehead. Shannon and I have had variations of this conversation every single day since we left; today’s version is doing nothing for the headache pounding in my skull.
“I told you. Only a few people know the truth. Dr. Barnard admitted everything to me when he tried to take me to the Central Office.” Time has not dimmed my rage at his revelations. If anything, in the three days since we left the Sick, it’s grown increasingly intense.
“He said our unrestrained skills were too dangerous for the rest of society.” My mouth twitches. “I guess he thinks it’s a reasonable exchange that we die so Norms don’t have to worry.”
“Alex.” Shannon hesitates, as if girding herself against the anger that must be clear on my face. “I talked to Yolly after you left with Dr. Barnard that day. She said you were raving. And when I saw you an hour later, you admitted you had a concussion. How do you know that what you remember actually happened?”
Heat flames my cheeks. “You saw how high my chronotin levels were—you were the one who did the blood test.”
“But we don’t know what high chronotin levels mean,” Shannon says. “All we know for sure is that Aclisote suppresses them.”
“We know suppressed chronotin is what makes us sick. Dr. Barnard said so. And we do know what high chronotin levels mean.” I freeze time, take three steps and melt it again. “It means we can do that.”
Shannon flinches at my abrupt shift in location. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not? It feels completely natural—much easier than freezing did before. You should try it.”
Shannon’s lips tremble. “What about side effects? Everyone says that before Aclisote, all spinners eventually went crazy. How do we know insanity isn’t associated with high chronotin levels, too?”
A blast of fury races through me so fast it makes my skin itch. I want to shake Shannon until I force her to understand. The urge is so strong I clench my hands together to keep from grabbing her. How can she be so completely dense? I have explained this to her a dozen times. More.
“What we know”—only fear of getting caught by the Elmer’s staff keeps me from shouting at her—“is that our natural time skills allow us to move things in frozen time and that Aclisote suppresses that power. We also know high doses of Aclisote kill us. The rest is all garbage. Horror stories to make sure we take our meds.”
Shannon stands up.
“It’s fine if you and Jack choose to take chances, but how can you justify risking KJ’s life on a theory?” She points at the figure lying between us.
I lower my gaze, following the line of her shaking finger. Everything that gives KJ life is leached out of the body stretched before me. He’s limp, expressionless. The scrub of a four-day beard stands out against his unnatural pallor like some kind of mold, an external sign of internal decay. Anger slides away from me like a passing shadow, leaving behind a quivering lake of fear. What if KJ dies? What will I do? KJ’s lips move and he moans softly. Goose bumps ripple my arms.
“None of us knows how to treat time sickness,” Shannon begs. The fading sun in the window behind her lights the strands of hair escaping her braid, making them glow like a golden halo. “The only people who do are at the Center. Help me take him back. You and Jack can stay here if you want. Yolly will know how to treat him.” Shannon reaches a hand toward me. “Please, Alex. At home, no one ever died after their first attack.”
Home. My goose bumps vanish. Home is supposed to be a safe place, full of people who protect you. Love you. The Crime Investigation Center is not home. I raise my head to face her.
“No.”
Shannon starts to cry, an exhausted sound that only hardens my resolve.
“Just go away then,” she sobs. “Leave us alone.”
I turn my back on her and storm out of the room.
* * *
Jack is sitting on an overturned box in the kitchen eating a bagel spread with peanut butter. The fury that overwhelmed me while I was talking to Shannon fades, leaving me feeling a little sick. The stress of our situation has to be affecting me more than I had thought. I can’t remember ever being quite that blindingly angry.
“You want to go see a show tonight?” Jack asks, voice muffled by the food stuffed in one cheek. “There’s a free end-of-summer concert down by the waterfront.”
“Shannon wants to go back,” I tell him.
Jack licks peanut butter off his fingers. “So let her go.”
The dresser where we stow our food slopes to one side, its broken leg propped up on a paint can that isn’t quite the right height. Jack has dropped the empty grocery bag on the floor and spread its contents on the dresser’s tilted surface: three cans of soup, bagels, yogurt, peanut butter, a bag of apples, some cookies, and a box of instant oatmeal. The bagel bag is open, and a plastic knife stands upright in the center of the peanut butter jar. I move closer, ignoring the mess, and pick out an apple.
“She’ll tell them where we are. Plus, she won’t leave without KJ. She wants to ‘save’ him.” The scorn in my voice makes me cringe. Of course Shannon wants to save KJ. It’s why I brought her. I should be groveling at her feet, not snapping at her like a tyrant.
“You think KJ wants to go back, too?” Jack asks. “ ’Cause if so, we might as well dump them both now.”
I sink my teeth into the apple.
“We’re not dumping anybody,” I say. “Even if Shannon doesn’t believe me, I’m still going to keep her from running off and getting killed.” Something rattles under the dresser. I glance down and see a thick, hairless tail vanish into the deeper reaches of the squat. I step back. “Even if this place is a total pit.”
“What, you don’t like the accommodations I found for you?” Jack waves his hand around like a game show host revealing a new car. “I think it’s kinda fun. Edgy.”
I drag another box over so I can sit near hi
m. “We need to put together a plan.”
“I have a plan,” Jack says. “I’m going to learn how to play the guitar.”
“Not a plan for us,” I say. “For them. The other spinners.”
Jack groans. “OK, how about this. Let’s go back to the Sick and tell the other kids the truth. After that, they’re on their own. They can run off, or stay, or keep taking Aclisote, or stage a revolt—their choice and not our responsibility.”
Jack pops the last of his bagel into his mouth. He seems pleased with his answer, one I find totally inadequate. It’s such a typical Jack solution: shortsighted, requiring little effort, and leaving the difficult decisions to someone else. KJ would never suggest a cop-out like that. We’re spinners. We stick together.
“We have to do more than warn them,” I say. “We have to find a way to save them.”
“I thought we agreed on our next steps. We lay low until KJ’s better, and then we skip town.”
I fling my apple core at the empty grocery bag, which I completely miss. “That’s not good enough.”
Jack makes an exasperated noise. “What more do you want?”
I shake my head. I want so much: a safe place to live, money, to stop feeling like I’m seconds away from being caught. I want every spinner in the world to be free. I want KJ, alive and whole. The fear woken by KJ’s wasted body returns—a depthless lake in which I could drown.
I stare at the dark corner where my apple core rolled.
“What if we could stop Barnard from raising the dose on anyone’s Aclisote prescriptions?” I ask Jack. “Even if it were only temporary, it would buy us some time to figure out a way to rescue them.”
“So, what, we kidnap him?” Jack laughs. I can tell he isn’t taking me seriously. I lean forward.
“No. We blackmail him.”
Jack stops laughing.
“With what?” he asks.
An idea builds in my head, its shaky hope offering a bridge over my lake of despair. “When you were working in Barnard’s office, back at the Sick, you told KJ he was helping Sikes.”
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