“No.” Simon answered Tyler firmly. “We can all regenerate—heal,” he explained. “And we age more slowly and are more resistant to disease, but I don’t think any of the other Returned have shown signs of night vision or the ability to go long periods without oxygen.” He and Willow exchanged another look, sharing another of their secrets. “Have you heard of that?”
Willow gave a decisive shake of her head.
“Anything else?” Simon probed, this time directing his inquiry at me.
I thought about the gas station, and the way I’d moved an entire display of pain relievers—sent it shooting across the attendant’s stand until it smashed into the glass—simply by concentrating on it. I wondered if any of the Returned could do that. Move things with their minds.
I shook my head and shrugged. “Not that I know of.”
There was a brief silence, and then we were back to front-seat and backseat conversations when Willow dropped her voice and told Simon, “I talked to Jett while we were stopped, and he said there was chatter about the No-Suchers widening their search. We were hoping they’d pack it in when they lost her, but I don’t think they’re letting this one go.”
Since I was sure the “her” in question was me, I didn’t feel bad for eavesdropping.
I glanced curiously at Tyler and then, tilting my head sideways, I interrupted them. “The No-Suchers, who’re they?”
“The NSA, or as some people call them, the No Such Agency because everything they do is on the DL.”
“So what’s the deal with them? They just go around chasing those of us they think were experimented on?” It was still almost impossible to say the part about them being “alien” experiments out loud, so I didn’t try.
“Officially, no. Officially, they were never even here.” He lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “Unofficially, you’re the biggest prize they’ve had their eyes on in years. Maybe ever. If Agent Truman can get his hands on you . . . you’re what they call a ‘career maker.’”
Inwardly I shuddered. The idea of Agent Truman, or any of those guys in hazmat suits, hunting me was disturbing. “Aren’t you afraid of them? Doesn’t having me with you put you all at risk?”
Willow lifted her chin in a nod. “We’re not scared of them. Buncha grade-A pussies is what they are.” I wasn’t sure about the “pussies” part, but I doubted Willow was used to being messed with. “Besides, they’ll never find us.” She grinned at me through the rearview. “Not unless we want ’em to.”
“So what happens now?” Tyler asked. “How long do we have to hide before they give up?”
A long silence engulfed the cab. Willow shifted her gaze away from us as if suddenly the road was the only thing worth noticing. Simon didn’t ignore us exactly. He continued to dart nervous gazes back and forth between us and Willow. But he’d gone all radio silent too.
Finally I said what neither of them would, because they were too afraid to say what we all knew. “Forever,” I answered. “We have to stay hidden for the rest of our lives.”
I didn’t say the part where Tyler’s life would be way shorter than it should be.
Three hours after we left the rest stop we were at Simon’s camp.
It was in the mountains, too, but these mountains were less snow-capped peaks and densely packed fir trees than the Cascades we’d just traveled through and more like scrubby sagebrush and rocky outcroppings and spare-looking pine trees that might burst into flames if a match were lit anywhere in their vicinity. This was what my mom had always referred to as “rattlesnake country.”
By late morning the temperature was already approaching the eighty-degree mark. It was hard to imagine what it was like out here in July or August.
I wiped the sweat from my upper lip as I climbed down from the truck, kicking up a cloud of dust as my feet hit the gritty earth.
Tyler was asleep inside the cab.
He hadn’t thrown up again, but he’d bled. Not from his nose this time but from his right ear. I’d dabbed at it while he slept. I didn’t say anything but caught Willow watching me as I swiped at the trickle.
He was getting worse.
“We’ve got a place for you two already set up in the bunkhouse. We can get him in there, and then we should talk,” Simon told me, coming around behind me while I watched Tyler sleep. “I know this is hard, Kyra, but there’s nothing you can do for him. He’s only got a day or so left.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I shrugged it off, not wanting to hear what he had to say. “We’ll make him as comfortable as we can. We have drugs we can give him—they won’t cure him or anything, but they’ll . . .” He faltered, just like he should falter, I thought. Because this was bullshit. It shouldn’t be happening. “ . . . they’ll make it easier on him.”
I clenched my jaw, biting back every terrible thing I wanted to say to him because I knew he was right; it wouldn’t do any good.
The bunkhouse we were taken to was rustic to say the least: four walls and a few cots, which looked barely used and smelled like deep-rooted dust. With the windows closed it was even hotter in there, and I had to prop them all open just to get the scant breeze moving through the ramshackle building so Tyler wouldn’t suffocate when I laid him down. I sent Simon to get us some water and a washcloth so I could sponge Tyler’s burning skin.
When a boy came back with what I’d asked for, he offered me a grimy-looking water jug and a worn-looking rag. “I’m Jett,” he explained, pushing a mop of sandy-brown hair out of his eyes. “Simon had to take care of some things and asked me to look after you.” His eyes drifted to Tyler, to his limp form on the cot, and then skittered away from him again as if looking at him for too long was difficult. It was, really. I was the only one unwilling to admit it. “Can I get you anything else?”
I shook my head, turning back to Tyler and ignoring the boy.
After a minute I heard footsteps and knew the boy had left us alone. Good, I thought. I didn’t want him here anyway. I didn’t want anyone here unless they knew how to fix Tyler.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out another packet—Advil this time. I tore it open with my teeth and forced Tyler awake again. It was getting harder and harder to keep him conscious. “Tyler . . .” I tried not to sob when I said his name, but that was harder too. Guilt shredded me from the inside out. “Take these,” I ordered.
He opened his mouth listlessly but not his eyes, and I let the pills fall on his tongue, which didn’t really look like a tongue should—not pink and soft and moist. Instead it was desiccated, like leather. Pretending not to notice, I lifted the jug to his lips and trickled the water into his mouth.
After he finally swallowed, I thought he’d go back to sleep. Instead, he moved his lips to talk. At first all that came out were these garbled, whispering sounds, like muffled breaths, and then I heard him.
“Stuff your eyes with wonder,” he croaked. “Live as if you’d drop dead in ten seconds. See the world, . . .” He paused, taking a breath. I tried to figure out what he was saying and wondered if he was hallucinating. But he wasn’t finished. “It’s more . . . more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.” I recognized it then. It was from Fahrenheit 451, the book he’d shared with me. His favorite one.
My eyes burned, and then that burning gave way to the tears, because I understood what he was saying. I bent over him, weeping as I clutched his hands, desperate to make him know how sorry I was. “You . . . you . . . know?” I managed to say between choked gasps.