Wild & Chance

by Allen Zadoff

  “I’m not doing anything,” Chance says. “Just hanging out.” He holds a finger to his lips to warn me not to bark.

  An LA Times blows around the parking lot, scattered by the wind. The local section glides past and sticks on the curb in front of me. A headline catches my eye, and I stop to read it.

  “LUXURY YACHT SINKS OFF CATALINA ISLAND”

  A mega-yacht belonging to the billionaire heiress Helen Horvath sank off Catalina Island Friday. The cause of the accident is yet to be determined.

  I look at the photo of the yacht and instantly recognize it as the ship I woke up on.

  Helen Horvath.

  The name sounds familiar, and it triggers fragments of memory and emotion, a little redheaded girl playing in a massive living room with marble walls.

  “How’s everything at the treatment center?” Chance asks over the phone.

  I read more in the article.

  Ms. Horvath and her family, who were not on board at the time, had been staying at their summer residence in Malibu.

  Is it possible the Horvaths are my family? Why else would I have been on their yacht?

  Junebug comes around the corner, and I let the paper go, watching it blow away across the parking lot. I’d rather not tell her what I’ve found out, at least not until I know her better.

  Junebug looks at Chance on the phone and throws me a quizzical look.

  “It’s his mom,” I whisper.

  “What if he gives us away?” she asks.

  “That won’t happen.”

  Chance walks toward us, still on the phone. “Hey, did you hear anything from the group home?”

  He listens for a minute.

  “No, everything’s fine,” he says. “I just wondered if they called you.”

  He looks over and gives us a thumbs-up.

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll see you Thursday. I swear I’m fine. Nothing to worry about at all. Love you, too. I can’t wait to see you.”

  He hangs up and I see tears in his eyes.

  “Whoa, what was all that about?” Junebug asks.

  Chance wipes snot from his nose and turns away, trying to hide his tears.

  “Sorry I asked,” Junebug says.

  I walk over to Chance and whine until he looks down at me.

  “I’m okay,” he says. “I just miss her a lot.”

  “What did she say about the group home?”

  “They haven’t called. I thought the housemother would report me missing.”

  “She won’t do that,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “They probably paid her to keep her mouth shut. Those soldiers are trying to find us. They don’t want everyone else looking for us at the same time. Too messy.”

  “So nobody is looking for me?”

  “Nobody you want to find you,” Junebug says, interrupting. “Now let’s get you cleaned up, Wild.”

  She opens a bag and pulls out antiseptic, paper towels, and a small sewing kit.

  “Sorry in advance, but this is going to sting a little.”

  She pours antiseptic on my wound to clean it out, then she threads a needle.

  “Do you have a favorite color?” she asks.

  “I like my color,” I say. “Can you make it match?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You know how to give someone stitches, too?” Chance asks.

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of homeschooling,” Junebug says. “End result? I can do stuff.”

  “Weird stuff. Doesn’t your dad teach you anything normal?”

  “This is normal for him.”

  Junebug places the first stitch, and I don’t make a sound.

  “You’re a tough dog,” Junebug says as the needle passes in and out of my skin.

  “All dogs are tough,” I say. “But maybe I’m extra tough.”

  The stitches hurt a little, but they’re nothing compared to jumping through windows and fighting strange dogs.

  “What kind of chip did you find inside?” she asks.

  “A transistor of some kind. There were prongs going into my muscle.”

  “My dad owns dogs. That doesn’t sound like a regular dog chip to me.”

  “I think we’ve established that I’m not a regular dog.”

  “Good point,” she says, “but it’s not like you put a chip inside yourself. Were there any words or numbers on it?”

  “There was a name. BreedX.”

  She hesitates, then places the next stitch. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Chance says proudly.

  Junebug glances up. “You’re full of surprises.”

  “It was some kind of cool dog-breeding company. My mom promised we could get a dog a couple of years ago, so I was looking around online. I remember their website was pretty high-tech, but I don’t remember much else.”

  “I can do a search later, maybe find out who registered the domain and trace them back—”

  She looks up to find Chance and me staring at her. She finishes the last stitch and breaks off the thread.

  “What’s with you guys?”

  “I know you’re homeschooled and all,” Chance says, “but you’re a hacker, you can drive, perform first aid—how can you do all this stuff if you’re only thirteen?”

  “My dad’s an even bigger freak than I told you,” Junebug says. “He’s a scientist and also a doomsday prepper.”

  “Like a survivalist?” Chance asks.

  “How do you know the term?” Junebug asks.

  “I know stuff, too. But it’s mostly from watching Nat Geo.”

  “Anyway, that’s my dad. He thinks the end of the world is coming, and he wants me to be able to survive under any conditions, so he teaches me all this stuff.”

  “Wow. Homeschooling sounds cool,” Chance says.

  “It’s not cool,” she says quietly. “I wouldn’t mind if I never went home again.”

  Chance’s expression darkens. “Me neither,” he says. “Or at least, not back to that group home. I want to be with my mom.”

  “Yeah, what was all that on the phone before?” Junebug asks.

  “Long story,” Chance says, and he bites at his lip.

  Junebug looks over at me. “Seems like you’re both trying to get home.”

  I stand up and shake off the dirt from the sidewalk.

  “We appreciate all of your help, Junebug. But Chance and I are going to go our own way now.”

  “We are?” Chance asks.

  “But, wait,” Junebug says. “I bought snacks and everything. I figured you guys must be hungry.”

  “I’m hungry,” Chance says.

  “Nothing against you, Junebug. But like you said, you risked a lot to help us, and you already banged up your dad’s car. I don’t want to get you into any more trouble.”

  “I crashed a security cordon. I’m already in trouble.”

  “Not really. You can fade into the background, erase your tracks online. That’s not a stretch for a hacker like you.”

  “Good point.” She sighs and brushes dirt from her pants. “Whatever. If you guys don’t want me around anymore, I get it.”

  “I kind of want you around,” Chance says. “You’re weird, but in a good way.”

  “Listen, both of you. These soldiers are not playing.” I turn to Chance. “I think we should let Junebug get back to her father, and you and I can hide out until it’s time to take you back to your mom.”

  Junebug nods. “I get it, Wild. So I guess this is good-bye.”

  Chance kicks a stone against the curb and frowns at me. He’s obviously upset, and he’s terrible at hiding his feelings.

  “I don’t think you’re a kid,” she tells him.

  “You don’t?”

  “Nah, I think you’re a tough guy.”

  Chance laughs and stares at the ground. “I think you’re a tough girl.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  She turns back to me. “You’re the first ta
lking dog I’ve met. I won’t forget you.”

  “And you’re the first thirteen-year-old I’ve met who drives like a race car driver.”

  She takes out the Accord keys, and suddenly a police car shoots around the corner and stops between us and the Honda. A Culver City police officer gets out and walks toward us.

  Junebug and Chance freeze, surprised by his sudden appearance. I adjust my body to look like the friendly dogs I’ve seen on the street—head up, tail wagging. I could be anyone’s pet.

  “How are you kids doing this morning?” the cop asks.

  “We’re okay,” Chance says cautiously.

  “Are you Windward students?”

  “Culver City High,” Junebug says. “But it’s Sunday, our day of rest. Also our day of Spicy Cheetos.”

  The cop smiles. I’m amazed at how easily Junebug lies to him.

  “All right, then,” the cop says. “By the way, anyone know whose car that is?”

  He’s pointing at the Accord.

  “It’s my dad’s car,” Junebug says.

  The cop’s posture stiffens.

  “Do you have your father’s permission to use it?”

  “As long as I’m home before dark,” Junebug says.

  “I ran the plate from across the street. This car was reported stolen in Westlake Village a day ago.”

  Junebug’s composure cracks for the first time. I can smell her fear mixing with Chance’s.

  “That’s not right,” she says. “I’m allowed to use the car.”

  “No need to get upset,” the cop says. “Let’s head down to the station and we’ll sort it out.”

  Across the street, one of the blue vans rolls by, the driver’s head on swivel. I’m guessing they found the BreedX chip on the highway and realized what happened. Now they’ve sent the vans out to look for us.

  The driver sees us with the cop at the 7-Eleven, and he stops on the corner, engine idling.

  “I need you to get in my car,” the police officer says.

  I think about our options. Should we go with the police officer or risk it out on the road, pursued by the police and Animal Control—or whoever they are?

  “Listen,” I say to the kids. “We’ll go with the police and let Junebug sort things out with her dad. We’re safer in a police station right now than we are on the road.”

  The kids nod imperceptibly.

  “Does your dog have a cough or something?” the cop asks.

  “She’s just getting over a cold,” Chance says.

  “Let’s get going,” the cop says. “I’ll let the dog ride in the back with you if you promise not to give me any trouble.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Chance says.

  “I can’t lose my laptop or my dad will kill me. It’s in the Accord,” Junebug says.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get it for you.”

  The cop opens the back door of the squad car. I smell a combination of gun oil, sweat, and old french fries.

  We climb in, and the cop closes the door, then goes to retrieve Junebug’s laptop.

  “Did you steal your dad’s car?” I ask Junebug.

  “It was more of a borrowing situation,” she says. “And he tends to overreact.” Her head drops, and she leans over with elbows on her knees.

  “I thought my family had problems,” Chance says.

  The cop slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

  JUNEBUG SQUIRMS IN HER SEAT.

  I sense her agitation, and it concerns me. Scared people do stupid things, just like scared animals.

  “Relax,” I tell her. “This will work out.”

  “I can’t relax,” she says, and she taps hard on the partition, trying to get the cop’s attention.

  “I’m sure this is a mistake, Officer.”

  “I’m sure it is, too,” the cop says. “We’ll give your dad a call at the station and get it all sorted.”

  Junebug looks at us apologetically.

  “I told you, my dad’s a maniac,” she whispers. “He said if I ran away again, he’d have me arrested. I thought he was bluffing.”

  “You ran away?” Chance asks.

  “I told you already. I heard you guys were in trouble, and I came to your rescue.”

  “How is that running away?”

  “I didn’t tell him I was leaving.”

  “Or that you were taking his car,” I say.

  Junebug shrugs. “He’s usually not paying that much attention. Not to me.”

  The cop calls into the station, reporting that he has two minors in custody and he’ll arrive in five minutes.

  He leans back to talk to us.

  “When we get to the station, I’ll put you in a room to chill out, and we’ll call your parents and social services.”

  I smell the sweat break out under Chance’s arms.

  “If they call social services, it might affect the hearing,” he whispers.

  “What do you mean?” Junebug asks.

  “I have to go to Family Court with my mom on Thursday.”

  “Sounds rough,” Junebug says.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say, concerned that the kids are getting overly upset. “They’ll release Chance and me when they find out we have nothing to do with the car, and they’ll release you when your father vouches for you.”

  “If he vouches. He might want me to spend some time in juvie so I learn my lesson.”

  “I’m totally screwed,” Chance says.

  The cop’s cell phone vibrates. “Now who’s this calling?” he says.

  He answers the phone, and I sense his energy change. He speaks quietly and glances at us in the rearview mirror multiple times.

  “Roger that,” he says abruptly, and he ends the call.

  We turn a corner, and the Culver City police station comes into view. The cop drives right past the entrance and keeps going.

  Junebug throws me a What’s up? gesture.

  “Something’s wrong,” I say.

  “Wasn’t that the station?” Junebug asks.

  The cop doesn’t respond. I tense, my body warning me of impending danger.

  “Where are we going?” Chance asks.

  “Different station,” the cop says.

  “Which station?” Junebug demands.

  “Too many questions,” the cop mutters under his breath. He seems upset, and he refuses to look back at us.

  Who did he speak to on the phone?

  The cop turns south, and the houses get smaller and more run-down.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling,” Chance says.

  “I think he’s heading for the Ballona Wetlands,” Junebug whispers.

  “What are those?” Chance asks.

  “Isolated marshes near the ocean,” Junebug says.

  “Isolated? That doesn’t sound good at all,” Chance says.

  I’m looking around the backseat, frantically searching for a way to escape. I press on the rear window, wondering if I can force my way through, but I feel the thick layers of wire-reinforced glass. We’re in the back of a police car that has been designed to prevent escape.

  “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” Junebug asks me.

  “Give me a minute to think—”

  Chance grabs for Junebug’s hand. Their fingers entwine, knuckles white with tension.

  The hackles on the back of my neck stand up, my instincts on high alert.

  This is my fault. If it wasn’t for me, these kids wouldn’t be here right now. They’d each be having a quiet Sunday at home, safe and sound.

  “I’m going to get us out of this,” I say.

  “But how?” Chance asks.

  The cop stops at the light, and I hear the roar of a truck engine close by. I look to our right and see a large black-and-red truck with a lightning bolt painted on the hood barreling toward us.

  I watch for a moment in disbelief, certain it will slow down or swerve to avoid us. But it does the opposite, speeding up on a collision course with the police car.
>
  “Hang on!” I scream.

  I barely get the words out before the truck hits us at full speed. Metal grinds against metal and glass shatters. For a few seconds the patrol car is airborne, and then it crashes down hard, rolling over on itself, flinging us violently from side to side.

  I hear the children screaming, but there’s nothing I can do to help or protect them. This is my fault, I think again, as the crash seems to go on forever. We spin end over end, until suddenly we’re upside down, and the world goes black.

  I OPEN MY EYES.

  A saintly woman in robes looks down at me from above, a golden light shining from around her head. She reaches out, beckoning to me.

  Come home.

  I blink hard and realize I’m awake and looking at a religious painting on the wall.

  Where am I?

  There’s a soft bedroll on the floor beneath me. I feel music vibrating from somewhere nearby, the electronic beats of Korean pop music. I hear a mix of accents as people talk and laugh. The delicious smell of cinnamon and roasted tomatoes fills my nose.

  I sit up on my haunches and feel pain everywhere. That’s when I remember the police car crashing, and the screams of the children. My body stiffens in fear.

  Where are the children?

  There’s a gauze curtain hanging from the ceiling across the room. The sound of gentle snoring emanates from behind it.

  I stand on unsteady legs and pull the curtain aside. Chance and Junebug are sleeping under the covers of a large bed. There’s a bandage on Chance’s head, expertly wrapped. Junebug’s face has some scratches, but otherwise she looks unharmed. The reinforced cage of the police car must have kept us safe in the crash. But how did we get here, and who helped us?

  I listen at the door and hear the music change to Spanish rap. I glance back at the kids, trusting they’ll be okay for a few minutes while I figure out what’s going on.

  I take the doorknob in my mouth, concerned that it will be locked, but I turn it and it opens.

  We’re not prisoners here. So what are we?

  I step into the hall, ready for anything.

  THE HOUSE SEEMS TO BE EMPTY.

  I follow the voices down the hall until I emerge in a kitchen. Trays of raw meat are sitting on the counter. I lick my lips involuntarily. The music is louder here, and I can smell more meat sizzling on the grill outside. I push through the screen door into an enclosed backyard.