Wild (17 page)

“That, too.”

He turned in time to find the live tank. He turned his head to one side, then the other. Crouching in front of the tank, he watched lethargic beasts crawl over each other in the murky water. Their antennae waved faintly. With two fingers, he waved back. “It's a giant crawdad.”

“Related anyway. They're lobsters, from Maine.” Then, uncertain, she added, “Probably.”

“You don't know where your food comes from?”

Uneasy, Dara shrugged. “I mean, the store. It comes from the store. Sometimes Mom gets eggs from the farmers' market.”

“What if the animals were sick?” Cade asked.

“They weren't.”

Cade tapped the tank. “How do you know?”

Breaking in, Sofia said brightly, “Okay, I'm going to go pay. Anytime you guys wanna catch up, that'd be awesome.”

Dara watched Sofia go. Now she was alone with Cade, a tank of lobsters, and questions that sounded perfectly reasonable to ask. Why did she feel so stupid that she didn't know the answers?

Peering into the tank, Dara waited for the lobsters to help her out. They were mostly green, some speckled with orange. Did that mean they were diseased? Was that what lobsters usually looked like? Suddenly, Dara realized she had no idea.

“How do you know?” Cade repeated.

She didn't. But she wasn't going to tell him that. Straightening up, Dara said, “They wouldn't sell it if it was bad. Somebody checks. I just don't know who.”

Another question was coming, she could tell. The whole thing left her feeling weirdly defensive. Standing quickly, she offered Cade her hand. “Come on. We really have to get Sofia's gutters back on before her parents get home.”

“Or she will be grounded.”

“Or she'll be
murdered
,” Dara said.

He squeezed her hand, suddenly tense.

Untangling herself, Dara smoothed out their hands and folded them together again gently. “Not literally.”

Relaxing, Cade nodded. “Good. I like Sofia.”

“Me too,” Dara said. And she laughed, because what else could she do?

Twenty-seven

I
t turned out Dara was right.

She could learn to do anything from YouTube, or at least, how to do some basic home repair. It didn't even take that long. Cade held the ladder like a champ while Dara nailed in the new brackets. Sofia kept the downspout in place, and when they were finished, they agreed it looked perfect.

“Can't take your word for it, though,” Sofia told Cade. “Like you'd even know.”

He laughed, rolling away from her when she shoved him. Dara watched them for a minute, shaking her head. It was like Sofia had completely replaced Javier, who was kind of lame as brothers went anyway.

He spent most of his time building epic Minecraft cities. Oh, and experimenting with “extreme physics” at the lake. Stuff like making dry ice bombs, building human catapults, and one extremely memorable attempt to set the lake on fire.

It was a good thing Javier was a straight-A student, because otherwise, people would have thought he was a terrorist.

“I'll step on your limpy foot,” Sofia threatened.

“I'll throw you over my shoulder,” Cade replied.

Before Dara could egg them on, a flash caught her eye. A short burst of light exploded from the forsythia. It had a particular quality, blinding but brief. Holding up a hand, Dara murmured, “Guys. Stop, guys. I think somebody's watching us.”

They quit moving, and Dara stood for a moment, conflicted. Common sense told her to go inside. For all of them to go inside. Call her dad, let the police sort it out. But she was already annoyed—it was probably that stalker Jim Albee, and she kind of wanted to have her paparazzi moment.

Dara raised her voice, stalking across the yard. “Get out! Get out, this is private property!”

Snatching up Sofia's lacrosse stick, she waved it like a bat. The bush started to shake, and just as she reached it, a body tumbled out. Sprawled on the grass in front of her was Kit Parson, Lia's idiot friend.

He was the guy running the gossip Tumblr. The one with all the crappy macros and leaked emails that probably got the regular media interested in a total nonstory. He was anchored by the biggest digital camera Dara had ever seen.”What's your problem?” she demanded.

Kit threw his hands up. Interestingly, he protected the camera, not his face. That one tiny detail is what kept her from walloping him. Dara loved her own camera so much, she'd named it. They were majestic, elegant creatures of beauty and truth. They deserved to be protected.

“Jeez, Dara, come on,” he said. “I just want one picture.”

Raising the stick again, Dara said, “Oh what, you can't hack anything else from the police station so you're turning stalker?”

“I didn't hack anything!” Kit's voice turned to a whine. His fedora lay in the dirt, and he looked like he might strangle himself with his own skinny tie. “If I got a tip, I published it, so what?”

Acid roiled in Dara's stomach. If he got a tip . . . and most of his tips seemed to come straight from Dad. Nobody knew where Dara planned to head today, and it certainly wasn't common knowledge that Cade would be with her.

No. Kit had known to hide in Sofia's backyard because
Lia
had tipped him.

Though she longed to whack him, Dara nudged him instead. It was the last little bit of her patience and willpower. “Get up. Get out. And tell my sister she sucks.”

Kit stood. But he looked past Dara. Arms still protecting the camera, he called to Cade. “Hey! Hey, can I ask you two questions?”

“Out!” Dara shouted. She poked him with the lacrosse stick. “Get out!”

After suffering a couple more blows, Kit gave up and jumped the fence. He only ran halfway down the alley. Then he turned back to take a couple more pictures. Just before Dara lunged over the fence to teach him a lesson for real, Cade caught her by the shoulder.

“Hey,” he said. Wrapping his arms around her waist, melded against her. Like he didn't know any better, he was all up on her. Possessive and hot to the touch.

But Dara was too mad to be cosseted. Peeling his arms off, she slipped out of his embrace. She bounced, unexpected adrenaline careening through her. She heaved the stick back to the middle of the yard, and then started toward the house.

“It's lunchtime, come on!”

Cade didn't hesitate to follow.

 

Stirring her pudding cup, Sofia decided they'd sufficiently bonded. Wrestling and takeout from Uncle Stan's had brought them together. Plus, the glory of giving Dara a hard time for the beat-down she dropped on that idiot Kit—it brought them closer together. They were a team as far as Sofia was concerned.

That meant now she could be straight-up nosy without too much interference from Dara. She couldn't help it if she had questions. It was weird that Dara didn't have more. Swirling her spoon in the air, Sofia pointed it at Cade.

“Okay, so, where do you go to the bathroom in the woods?”

“Seriously?” Dara exclaimed.

But Cade just laughed. “Away from your camp. Not in the river.”

Making a face at Dara, Sofia sucked her spoon clean. “Simple question, simple answer.”

“My turn,” Cade said.

His pudding cup still had its foil lid. He kept rolling the cup between his fingers, occasionally sniffing at it. Once, when Dara reached over to open it for him, he held it away. Sofia watched, fascinated. He obviously knew how to open it. He just
wasn't.
Every weird little thing about him amused her.

Since he claimed a turn but hadn't said anything, Dara prompted, “Well?”

“How many people are there?”

Unaware that Cade had asked Dara the same question, Sofia reached for her cell phone. With a few quick strokes across its face, she pulled up the answer and turned the screen to him. There was a little graph and everything. “Seven billion, give or take thirty-seven million.”

 

The same answer as before. Seven billion.
Billion.
His head ached and he rubbed at his brow. It was an impossible number.

“Why does that surprise you?” Dara asked.

“What about the pandemic?”

Sweeping a finger to get the last bits of pudding from her cup, Dara shook her head. “Like what? Bird flu?”

“No, it was swine flu.”

“SARS,” Dara countered.

Sofia took the challenge, and replied with, “H1N1.”

Watching them both, Cade's expression darkened. How many pandemics had there been? How could there be anyone left, let alone billions and billions. He could practically feel his mother's fingers on his brow, singing an old plague song to him,
Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies . . .

“Aw man, there was a 5 one, but I don't remember what it was. H5N-something?” Sofia picked up her cell phone again. “The one they gave ferrets on purpose.”

Cade didn't know how it contained so much information, but he wanted one. It was like Branson's tablet, only smaller, a handheld miracle.

There were answers inside that tiny box. And YouTube videos. Pictures, and whole books, tons of books. Briefly, he wondered if Sofia would notice if it went missing. Then he felt instantly guilty, because he knew better. His parents had taught him better.

While Sofia searched the box, Dara slid closer to Cade. She kept her voice down, rubbing her elbow against his. “Why do you keep asking that?”

It was possible his mother had lied. It was possible his parents had fed him black fairy tales all his life; hidden him away from
nothing
. A seed of anger pulsed inside him. But he didn't know for sure. He didn't have enough facts—maybe if he had a cell phone, he'd have enough. He didn't, and he didn't. So he shook his head and looked past her. “Curious.”

“Kind of a weird thing to be curious about.”

Uncomfortable, Cade deflected. He brushed a finger against her chin, then smiled. “Do
you
have any questions? How I take a bath in the
woods
? What I do for fun in the
woods
?”

“What do you do if you get a cold in the
woods
?”

Cade shook his head. “I've never had a cold.”

“You lie!” Sofia forgot her phone for the moment.

“I don't,” he said. Fingers skating across the table, he drew a diagram. His fingers were so warm, they left a brief impression on the cool laminate surface. “Rhinovirus spreads person to person, mostly through physical contact. Animals don't get rhinovirus, not the kind that infects humans. Mom said that theoretically, rabbits might get it, but I've never borrowed a spoon from a rabbit, have you?”

“You had spoons?” Sofia exclaimed.

Cade mimed like he was whittling. “I carved them from antler and bone.”

“Where did you—” Sofia cut herself off. “Don't even answer. If you killed Bambi for spoon bones, I don't even want to know.”

 

Standing to throw away her trash, Dara rolled that over in her head. Never had a cold, that seemed impossible. Stepping on the lever to open the bin, Dara just stood there. Thoughtfully, she pointed out, “You lived with your parents, though.”

“But away from other people. Rhinovirus doesn't just float in the atmosphere, waiting to land on somebody. It dies without a host. Like I said, person to person.”

All the fascinating factoids about colds aside, Dara slowed with realization. She drew out the question, her tone funny and slightly high-pitched. “Are you saying that Josh and I were the first people you'd ever seen besides your parents?”

“No.”

Sofia sprawled in her chair. She didn't say anything; she didn't have to. It was obvious from her posture that she was belted in and ready to listen to whatever he had to say, for as long as he had to say it.

“Sometimes we saw soldiers,” Cade said. “I mean, rangers.”

Yes, they wore uniforms, but they weren't from the military. The Parks Department sent them. He still didn't know why they'd put grates over caves, or boxes high up in the trees. Or why his parents moved camp when they saw one. So little of his life made sense now.

Raising her hand, Sofia interjected. “'Scuse me.”

“Go ahead,” Dara said.

“You know what rhinovirus is,” Sofia said. “But you don't know what chopsticks are. Explain.”

Never tell,
his mother whispered in his ear. She slipped through memory so easily. Rising to the top of his thoughts, full-formed, almost alive again. It made him shiver; he felt the phantom of her touch on the back of his neck.
The survivors are dangerous. They'll take you from us. They'll hurt you.

With a casual shrug, Cade repeated Ms. Fourakis as he finally peeled the lid from his pudding. “I'm a man of many mysteries.”

 

Mrs. Porter let the curtains drop back in place. “They're back.”

Irritated, Sheriff Porter stood and took his own look. He believed his wife, but it made it more real to see for himself. Three vans tonight, plus a photographer. A flash kept going off. It came so fast, it was like a strobe light. Setting his jaw, the sheriff pulled the curtains tight. “This is ridiculous.”

“I'll work on a placement out of town,” Mrs. Porter said.

Technically, that was the Cabinet for Health and Family Services' job. But her nonprofit had its own pool of volunteers. She had connections that CHFS didn't; she was shameless about pressing them into service.

Most of the time, they worked this magic for actual runaways. For teens at risk, fleeing families rife with drug addiction and violence. Kids who didn't
want
to be part of the system, and usually for good reason.

But if she could use her powers to get the local affiliates off her lawn, she'd do it. She had Branson's number in her contact list. Between the two of them, she could get Cade moved somewhere both safe, and far, far away from Makwa.

“Don't,” Sheriff Porter said. He didn't like the invasion any more than his wife did. But he also hated unanswered questions, and that's all he had right now. Slumping into the couch again, he went back to the open file he had on the coffee table.

Mrs. Porter arched a brow. “Why not?”

“I don't want Dara following him, for one.” Sheriff Porter frowned, flipping through photos from the hospital. The doctors agreed the story made sense. The wound was consistent, they said, with a bear attack. (
He's the luckiest kid in Kentucky,
one doctor said. Sheriff Porter didn't see it that way, but he dutifully wrote it down anyway.)

“We can always send her to stay with my mother.”

“I like her just fine where we can see her.”

Mrs. Porter couldn't help herself. She peeled the curtain back a little more. A fourth van rolled into sight, and she sighed in disgust. “If that's for one, what's for two?”

Stills from the security camera told the truth about the morning Cade trashed the hospital room. Before anyone got in there, he was up on the windowsill, trying to get out. He wasn't knocking stuff over to be destructive. If Sheriff Porter had to guess, and he did have to—it was his job—he'd say he was scared.

Glancing up at his wife, Sheriff Porter said, “He talks to her.”

“Excuse me?”

“He talks to her, Beth. I sat here and watched him lie to the social worker. Said he couldn't read, and Branson Swayle bought it because he's—”

“Tony,” Mrs. Porter warned. She knew her husband didn't have much patience for the man, but Branson was a colleague. He had a good heart; they liked to have lunch at the Thai place that nobody else would touch.

Sheriff Porter brushed that aside. “I watched that kid go through our books. He took one, by the way. Poetry. I don't know about you, hon, but if I can't read, the last thing I'm gonna do is steal a book. I
can
read, and the last thing I'm stealing is Walt Whitman.”