Fire & Flood

CHAPTER ONE

If my hair gets any frizzier, I’ll shave it to the scalp.

Or light it on fire.

Whichever is easier.

I stare at my reflection in the pond and run my hands through the bane of my existence. For a moment, I seem victorious, my chestnut curls wrangled into submission. But when I drop my arms, the curls spring out, worse for the wear. I point an unmanicured finger at the water. “I hate your face.”

“Tella,” my mother yells from behind me, “what are you looking at?”

I spin around and grab a handful of my hair. Exhibit A.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

“You did this to me,” I tell her.

“No, your father gave you curly hair.”

“But you dragged me to Middle of Nowhere, Montana, as a sick experiment to see just how hideous I could become.”

Mom leans against the door frame of our craptastic house and nearly grins. “We’ve been here almost a year. When are you going to accept that this is our home?”

I walk toward her and punch a closed fist into the air. “I’ll fight to the death.”

A shadow crosses the deep lines of her face, and I instantly regret bringing up The Subject. “Sorry,” I tell her. “You know I didn’t mean —”

“I know,” she says.

I rise up on tiptoes and kiss her cheek, then brush past her to go inside. My dad sits in the front room, rocking in a wooden chair like he’s two hundred and fifty-six years old. In actuality, I think he’s a couple of years shy.

“Hey, Pa,” I say.

“Hey, Daugh,” he says.

Ever since my mom insisted we move out of Boston and into no-man’s-land, I’ve insisted on calling my dad Pa. It reminds me of those old black-and-white movies in which the daughters wear horrendous dresses and braid one another’s hair. He wasn’t a fan of my new name for him, but he accepted his fate over time. Guess he thought I could’ve rebelled a lot more following our relocation to purgatory, all things considered.

“What are we doing tonight?” I ask, dropping down onto the floor. “Dinner at a glam restaurant? Theater in the city?”

Dad’s mouth pulls down at the corner. He’s disappointed.

That makes two of us.

“Humor me and pretend you’re happy,” he answers. “That’d be entertaining as hell.”

“Language,” I tsk.

He waves me off, pretending he’s the man of this house and can say whatever he damn well pleases. I laugh when seconds later he glances over to see if Mom heard.

“I’m going to my room,” I announce.

Dad continues to stare outside like he’s comatose. I know that’s exactly what I’ll do when I get to my room, but at least I can do it in private.

The floorboards creak as I head down the narrow hallway toward my personal dungeon. A few feet from my room, I pause outside an open bedroom door that isn’t mine. I can’t help moving closer to the bed inside. Leaning over his sleeping frame, I check to see if he’s still breathing. It’s my twisted ritual.

“I’m not dead.”

I jump back, startled by my big brother’s voice.

“Shame,” I say. “I was hoping you’d kick off so I could have the bigger bedroom. You take up way more than your fair share of space, you know.”

He rolls to face me and grins. “I weigh, like, a hundred pounds.”

“Exactly.”

It kills me to see Cody sick. And it doesn’t feel great ripping on him when what I want to do is ugly cry and beg him not to die. But he likes our back-and-forth. Says it makes him feel normal. So that’s what we do.

“You look old,” Cody tells me.

“I’m sixteen.”

“Going on eighty.” He points to my face. “You have wrinkles.”

I dash toward the mirror over his dresser and look. From the bed, I hear Cody laughing, then coughing. “You’re so vain,” he says into his fist, his chest convulsing.

“Jerk face.” I move to his side and pull the heavy blanket to his chin. “Mom wants to know how you feel today,” I lie.

“Better,” he says, returning the favor.

I nod and turn to leave.

“Tell her to stop worrying,” he finishes.

“I doubt she seriously cares.”

I can still hear him laughing when I get to my bedroom, shut the door, and sink to my knees. My breath whooshes out. He’s getting worse. I can hear it in the way his words quiver. Like speaking takes everything he has. In the beginning, it was just the weight loss. Then it was night sweats and shaking hands. Then the fun really started. Seizures. Thinning hair. Slurred speech that started one Wednesday and ended with a coma on Friday. He came around three days later. Mom said it was because he didn’t want to miss a football game. Not that he played anymore. That died a long time ago.

Now he’s down to this: pretending. Pretending to be the brother who swung a right hook in my honor. Pretending to be the son who danced a jig in the end zone that his dad taught him. He’s still the guy who isn’t afraid to write more than his name in a greeting card. Still the guy who loves redbrick buildings and cars that growl and Cheez Whiz sprayed straight from the can into his open mouth.

He is still my brother.

He is not my brother at all.

I don’t know why Mom thought this place would help. A dozen doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, yet she thinks Montana’s “fresh air” will do the trick. The look in her eyes while we packed the moving truck still haunts me. Like she was waiting for something.

Or running from something.

I pull myself up and walk to the window. Outside, I can hear yellow-headed blackbirds calling. I rarely noticed stuff like birds in Boston. In Boston, we lived in a brownstone that wasn’t brown, and I had friends two doors down. Our family owned three floors of sparkling space, and we could walk to restaurants.

Here there are rocks. And a stream that runs near our home that’s free of fish. The sky is empty of rooflines and overstuffed with cotton-ball clouds. There are no neighbors. No girls my age to discuss the joys of colored tights with. A single, lonely road leads from our house into town. When I look at it, I want to strap a bag to a stick and limp down it hobo style.

Tall pine trees surround our house, like their job is to hide us from the world. I imagine running toward them wearing a hockey mask, swinging a chain saw over my head. They’d probably uproot themselves and squash me like a bug. Bury me beneath their twisted roots.

That’s how I want to go when it’s my time.

With a bang.

I slide the window open and stick my head outside. What I wouldn’t do to see my friends again. To get a mani-pedi or a blowout. Or a Greek salad. Oh my friggin’ God, Feta cheese and kalamata olives. I wallow in self-pity for another moment before remembering my brother. Then I spend exactly three minutes feeling like the World’s Biggest Ass.

We’re here for him. And I’d give anything to see my brother get out of bed and dance in the street like he did on Halloween two years ago. Or even just sit up for a few minutes without coughing.

I motorboat my lips and spin in a circle like a ballerina. I spin and spin until everything becomes a blur. When I stop, my room continues to rush past me, and I lunatic laugh that this is what I do for fun now.

My vision finally returns to normal, and my eyes land on the bed.

Sitting on my white comforter is a small blue box.

CHAPTER TWO

I snap my head from side to side, searching for someone in my room. But of course no one’s there. Then I realize what’s going on. Mom and Dad know how hard this relocation has been on me, and now they’re trying to buy my happiness. Or at least a break from my complaining.

Am I really this easy?

Please. They could have tied little blue boxes to the back of the moving truck and I would have chased after them until my feet bled.

I fly across my room and leap onto the bed, a smile spread across my face. I’ve spent these last nine months with no Internet or cell phone, and right now I feel like a wild dog eyeing its prey.

Holding the box to my lips, I tell it, “You’re mine, precious. All mine.”

I’m about to tear in when I stop myself. This moment of wondering what’s inside will be over so quickly. And once it’s finished, I’ll have nothing to anticipate. Perhaps I should postpone gratification, hold off until I can’t stand it any longer. I could be happy for days just knowing I have something to look forward to.

I pull the box away from my lips and give it a small shake.

Put the box down, Tella, I tell myself.

“Screw that,” I say out loud.

I close my hand around the lid and pull it off. Inside is a tiny pillow. I imagine all sorts of miniature animals using it in their miniature beds. But that’s dumb, because how would they ever find a pillowcase to fit?

My fingers pinch the pillow, and when I lift it up, I’m surprised by what I see sleeping beneath it. Flicking the pillow onto my bed, I reach into the box and grab the small, stark white device. It’s no longer than a nickel and curves in all sorts of funky ways. It looks … it looks like a hearing aid.

My nose scrunches up as I turn the device over in my hand. Then I nearly squeal with excitement when I see a raised red blinking light on the other side. Blinking lights are cool, I decide. They indicate technology and advancement and maybe a connection to the outside world — to my friends. Or maybe it’s music. Who knows what wild stuff they’ve come out with in the last year? I bet this baby holds, like, a billion songs. And I’m going to listen to them. Every. Single. One.

Vowing to give a solid, halfhearted apology to my parents and hoping I’m about to hear Lady Gaga’s latest, I stick the device into my ear. Hallelujah, it fits! I couldn’t be happier if my Boston boy toy just gave me diamonds.

I fumble for a second before my fingers land on the red blinking button. Annnnnd … give it to me, baby.

Once I’ve pushed the button, I hear a clicking noise. The sound goes on for several seconds. Long enough that I start to feel all kinds of devastated. But then the clicking turns to static, like someone on the other side of a radio is tuning in.

Jumping from the bed, I walk around the room, tilting my head like I’m searching for a signal. I feel like a moron, and it’s the most fun I’ve had in forever. I shoot straight up when I hear a woman’s voice. It’s a clear, crisp sound. Like this lady has never mispronounced a word in her entire life. My eyes fall to the floor in concentration. And I listen.

“If you’re hearing this message, you are invited to be a Contender in the Brimstone Bleed. All Contenders must report within forty-eight hours to select their Pandora companions. If you do not —”

“Tella?” my dad asks. “What are you doing?”

I spin around and do a little happy dance. “What is this thing?” I point to the device in my ear. “Where did you guys get it? Because it’s fan-friggin’-tastic.”

“Get what?” My dad’s face goes from confused … to alarmed. For a moment, I feel like a little kid. Like, any second, I’m going to be placed in the time-out chair and fume while Cody flaunts his freedom like back when we were four and seven. “What’s in your ear?” My dad sounds strange. His words are calculated, slow to leave his mouth. “Give it to me.”

“What? Why?” I say.

Dad holds out his hand. “Now.”

There’s no room for argument. My dad’s a fairly small guy, but right now he seems enormous. I pull the device from my ear and drop it into his palm. As he closes his fist, I’m certain my new toy has been permanently confiscated.

“Why’d you give it to me if you were just going to take it away?” I ask.

Dad looks at me like he’s going to say something profound, but then he mutters, “Your mom needs help in the kitchen.” He walks out of the room, my only source of excitement for the next eon tucked in his pocket.

I grab the sides of my door frame and hang my head. My dad’s freak-out tells me he’s not the one who left the talking hearing aid in my room, which makes me wonder who did. Then it dawns on me. Passing Cody’s room, I yell, “Nice joke, ass hat.” Even as I say it, I imagine what it would be like if it wasn’t him. Nothing exciting happens to me. Ever. But that doesn’t stop me from daydreaming.

I’ve got a world of possibilities ticking away in this noggin. And right now I’ve all but decided the leader of an underground cult has recruited me to be a part of the Brimstone Blood. Or Bleed. Or whatever Cody named it. Either way, it sounds kind of gruesome. He’s apparently gotten more twisted in his sibling brutality. And I do count getting my hopes up as brutality.

The real question is how he recorded that woman’s voice. Apparently, the kid’s been holding out on me. Mom insisted Cody relax once we moved here, hence the Technology Prohibition, but he must have stashed something away. A laptop. A smartphone. Something.

Just thinking about it makes me foam at the mouth.

I briefly wonder if I might be coming down with rabies.

Mom isn’t in the kitchen, but I do spot her standing in her bedroom, talking in a hushed voice with Dad.

“You promised!” my dad hisses. “You promised that they wouldn’t find her here.”

“I’m sorry. It’s too late now.”

“Not yet, it’s not —”

When my mom sees me, she holds a hand up to shush him.

“Tella,” she says, “I want you to finish making dinner and meet us in Cody’s room.” Then she closes the door.

“Jeez, rude much?” I say, mostly to myself. For a moment, I wonder what my parents were talking about. I can’t say what I heard didn’t unnerve me, but when you live with a chronically sick sibling you get used to overhearing your parents say weird crap behind closed doors. So I dismiss their crankiness and turn my attention to my marching orders.

Tonight is Sunday Funday, which my dad made up, and which equates to eating spaghetti in Cody’s room. We all sit around his bed and dine off paper plates, and no one’s allowed to say anything negative. All it really means is that everyone saves everything terrible they have to say for Monday, which kicks off the week real positivelike.

I drain the spaghetti and pour in a can of marinara. Then I do that finger-kiss thing that Italian chefs do on TV. Tipping the oversized chrome pot, I cover four plates with pasta and top them with packaged Parmesan cheese and a slice of freezer-stored garlic bread.

Everything we eat is made with love and kindness, and packed with as many preservatives as humanly possible. Living thirty miles from the nearest grocery store pretty much guarantees we’ll never eat fresh again, unless we grow something ourselves, and that so isn’t happening. My parents have always chosen their wallets over manual labor; another reason why we shouldn’t have left the city.

Walking toward Cody’s room, I carry a tray covered with plates and glasses like a well-tipped waitress. I even keep one hand cocked on my hip so I can sashay past our too-expensive-for-this-house furniture. When I get to the hallway, I overhear Mom and Dad whispering hurriedly to Cody. I make a point to stop and eavesdrop, but the floorboards choose this exact moment to creak beneath my shoes.

Everyone stops talking.

“You got the spaghetti?” my dad asks. The way he says it sounds like he’s digging for information beyond dinner.

I turn the corner and do my best sashay yet. It’s so good, I almost lose the tray altogether. Still, if it’s between sashaying and keeping spaghetti off the floor — I choose the former. “Dinner is served, my fine patrons.” I steady the tray and pass the grub out to my family. When I hand my dad his pasta, I pause and search his face. I know it was Cody who planted the box in my room, but it bothers me that my dad got so weird about it. He hates when Cody and I play-fight, and I guess he just wasn’t in the mood. Still, I want to know he’s not mad anymore. Even more, I want to steal back that talking device in his pocket. Prank or no prank, it’s a lifeline to fighting boredom and isolation.

While we eat, Mom talks ad nauseam about what’s on the agenda for tomorrow’s classes. I want to remind her that Sunday Funday outlaws talking about anything negative, but I hold my tongue. It’s August, which means exactly two things: A) It’s a new semester in the Holloway household, and B) Mom’s on a steady diet of overeagerness. And maybe crack.

Mom started homeschooling Cody and me once we moved here. It was a huge blow to my social calendar, second only to Guess what? We’re moving to Montana. I never thought my mom was the relocate-to-the-wilderness-and-homeschool-my-kids kind of person, but turns out she’s full of pleasant surprises. I’ll admit that, as far as teachers go, she’s the best I’ve had. Maybe because she glows every time I get an answer right, or that she dances when we ace our tests.

Cody sits up in bed and nods as Mom talks about lesson plans. Something about her voice is too eager tonight, like she’s trying too hard to get the rest of us to smile. I glance at my dad and realize she’s failed to amuse at least one of us. My dad’s fork twirls in an endless circle, turning my spaghetti masterpiece into reddish-orange mush.

I can’t stand the look on his face any longer. “Dad, you okay?”

His head snaps up, but it takes a while for his mouth to form a smile. “Yeah, everything’s great.”

Great? Now I know something’s up. Without meaning to, I eye the pocket where I know he stashed the device. He places a hand over it, and our eyes meet.

“Let’s do the dishes, Andrea.” Dad looks away from me and to my mom. They couldn’t be more different tonight: Dad with his somber twitchiness and Mom with her pageant smile.

My mom nods and collects our paper plates. Then she leaves, giving my dad a final look. These trippy vibes are killing me, so I open my mouth to say something, anything. “Nice prank, Cody. Too bad Dad killed your punch line.” It’s not the best I’ve got, but I feel like my dad’s bad mood started with the blue box. Why not lay it on the table while he’s still in the room?

Cody is in the middle of pulling himself farther up in bed but stops when he hears what I’ve said. He looks down and bunches the blanket into his fist. His face looks almost pained. A shiver works its way down my spine. What if Cody didn’t put that box in my room? But if he didn’t, then who did? Dad’s too pissed to have done it, and Mom would never do something like that. At least, I don’t think she would. She’s surprised me too much this last year to know for sure.

The shiver sneaking down my back starts to morph into goose bumps. But right then Cody raises his head and grins. “Took a lot of brainpower, baby sister,” he says, tapping his temple. Then he shakes his head as if I’ve been a huge disappointment. “Would have been so great.”

I sigh with relief. Adventure sounds a whole lot more enticing when it’s safe inside my head. For a minute there, I was thinking he might be like, “What are you talking about?” And then I’d have to decide if I really did want something exciting to happen, or if I just liked to dream.

Rolling my eyes, I say, “More like lame. It would have been so lame.”

I head toward the door, surprised Dad hasn’t spoken. If this is what he’s mad about, why hasn’t he piped in? As I’m heading out to help Mom in the kitchen, I look back over my shoulder. I catch Dad giving Cody a nod. It’s just a nod, nothing special. But something passes between the two of them during the exchange. They both look relieved, and it’s the most unsettling feeling — not knowing what they were so worried about.

Walking down the hallway and toward the sound of my mom humming, I can’t stop thinking about the device. What it really is. How Cody got his hands on it.

If it even was Cody.

The look on his face when Dad nodded makes me question everything. I set my glass down on the kitchen counter, and though I know my mom is talking to me, I don’t hear a single word. Because all I’m thinking is that I’ve got to get that little white device back. Tonight.

CHAPTER THREE

That blue box was meant for me, and my dad stole it. Even if Cody did plant it in my room, which I’m starting to doubt he did, my dad had no right to take it away. What am I — five?

I sit in the living area with my mom and dad, staring at the book in my hands. I’m not reading — I’m masterminding a complicated escape plan for my device. So far, I don’t have much in the escape department, but I’ve come up with plenty that could be classified as complicated.

The only thing I hear — and it’s driving me crazy — is the sound of my mom and dad turning the pages of their own books. God forbid we buy a TV for this house. Wouldn’t want anyone to have a link to life beyond the Holloway household. I swear, the second Cody got sick, my parents lost all sense of reality.

But right now none of that matters. The real reason I’m irritated with my parents is because I want them in bed. Asleep. Where they can’t watch me slink around the house, looking for my device. And I am going to slink like nobody’s business.

I glance at the clock. It’s ten at night, and my parents look like they could run a marathon. I stare at them as they stare at their books and will them to become tired. After five minutes of mental warfare, I give up. But just then my dad yawns. Victory is mine!

“Think I’m going to hit the hay,” he says.

“I’m right behind you,” my mom answers, not even looking up. She doesn’t move.

Hoping she’ll be swayed by numbers, I stretch my arms over my head and announce, “I’m exhausted. I think I might turn in, too.”

That does the trick. She runs her finger down the page. It’s her telltale sign that she’s finding a stopping point. She reaches for the busted-up bookmark I gave her for Mother’s Day when I was, like, nine, and slides it into place.

“You going to bed, too?” I ask.

She looks up at me and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I suddenly wonder if my parents were doing the same thing I was — pretending to read.

“Yep” is all she says. Then we begin a Mexican standoff: me waiting for her to get up and her waiting for … what?

“Okay,” I say, caving. “Guess I’m going to go now.” I stand up and walk toward my room, throwing the book I wasn’t reading onto the couch. Right before I leave, I glance back. She’s watching me go, so I throw a little wave. Mom waves back, but her smile is long gone.

Something is definitely up.

That or my family is auditioning for a remake of The Shining.

I stop by Cody’s door on the way to my room. I want to keep walking, to pretend for once that he’s okay and everything is back to the way it used to be. But I can’t. So I pad into his room on tiptoes and lean over his bed. Now I’m the one being a creeper.

Once I’m certain my brother is still breathing, I go into my room and collapse onto the bed. One hour. That’s how long I’m waiting before I search every corner of this blasted house. Then the contents of that mysterious blue box will be mine.

Four hours later, I wake up.

So much for Operation Sly.

I push myself up from the bed, rubbing my face and berating myself for falling asleep. I’m, like, the biggest weakling on planet Earth. Sliding my shoes off so I make as little noise as possible, I create a mental list of where to check first: the coat closet, the hallway bathroom, maybe the kitchen. The kitchen. I wonder if there’s any cherry cheesecake left in the fridge. No. Find device. Then cheesecake.

I’m about to open my door, but something stops me.

It’s smoke. A lot of it. And it’s coming from outside my window.

Crossing the room, I keep an eye on the smoke as my scalp tingles with nerves. I start to imagine my house catching on fire. Or one of my parents’ cars. How would anyone find us out here? I like to think someone would, eventually. Probably a fireman who happens to be my age and carries an ax over his left shoulder like a Greek god. Fire would rage behind him as he saves us all and he’d smile to reassure me and, my Lord, he has dimples.

I slide open my window and the smell of burning wood fills my room. Though I’m terrified that something horrible is happening, I can’t help but relish the scent. It reminds me of being home in Boston, of cold nights when Dad would make a fire in the fireplace and we’d drink cocoa with pastel-colored marshmallows.

The smoke billows from left to right and leads me to believe the fire is coming from in front of our house. I’m about to wake up my parents when I see a flash of red and black. I’d know that shirt anywhere. It’s the plaid flannel my dad wears when he goes hunting with Uncle Wade.

What is my dad doing in front of our house at two in the morning?

I contemplate going out the front door to ask him. It’d be a reasonable question. No one wants to wake up in the middle of the night to find her dad embracing a new pyromania habit. But something stops me. Maybe it’s the way he’s been acting since he saw the talking device, or the weird way he whispered with my mom before dinner, or even the way he nodded at Cody like there was something big the two of them were hiding. Regardless, I decide to move in closer without revealing myself.

Crawling out the window, I think of how ridiculous I must look. How if my best friend back in Boston, Hannah, could see this, she’d be laughing like a lunatic. Thinking about her laughing in turn makes me laugh, and I have to cover my mouth as I drop down on the side of the house. This afternoon, I was bored to tears, and now I’m acting like a friggin’ CIA agent.

I really am losing my mind out here.

I creep along the wall toward the front of our house and hold my breath as I peek around the corner. My dad is standing in front of a bonfire, just staring into the flames. He looks like an assassin, all crazy in the face. The fire is actually much farther from our house than I originally thought, which makes me even more nervous. It’s like he’s covering up something. Just doing a bad job.

Running a hand through his thick curly hair, my dad sighs. Then he opens his other hand and looks at something in his palm. I narrow my eyes to try to see what he’s studying, but I can’t make it out from here. Whatever he’s holding has a short life span, because he pulls in a long breath and tosses it into the fire. It arcs in the air for only a moment, but it’s long enough for me to see the flash of white.

It’s my device.

And now it’s gone.

I lean back against the side of the house in a panic. Now I’m certain this was no practical joke. There’s no way my dad would go to such lengths to get rid of something trivial. And in the dead of night, no less. Something was on that thing, and now I’ll never know. I rack my brain, trying to remember everything the woman had said.

The Brimstone something or other.

An invitation.

Forty-eight hours.

When I peek back around the corner, my dad’s eyes meet mine. I slam back against the house and mutter a string of profanities. From far away, I hear the sound of his footsteps. They come closer and I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m like an ostrich, hoping if I can’t see him, he can’t see me. Seconds later, the front door opens and closes. My muscles relax and I almost laugh at having escaped being caught.

I’m not sure what I’m so afraid of. It’s not like I did anything wrong. He stole the earpiece. He acted weird about it. He built a fire and burned what was mine.

Anger surges through my veins. That blue box was meant for me. And now a strange sensation tells me whatever was in it was extremely important. How dare he rob me of knowing what that was?

I wait for a long time, longer than I think I’ll be able to, and then head toward the fire. The white device will be burned into a lump of plastic goo, but I want to see it with my own eyes. I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t pick it up and storm into my parents’ bedroom, demand to know what’s going on.

As I near the fire, I realize it’s diminished considerably. Only a few flames lick the cool night air, while the rest of the wood glitters red, fading quickly into ash. Coming to a stop where my dad had stood, I inspect the area. When I see it, I take a step back.

The device is nestled in a pile of ash and embers. It doesn’t look melted or disfigured at all. I grab a stick and try to flick it out. After a few tries, it lands near my bare feet with a small thump.

Crouching down, I reach out a finger and poke the device. It’s not hot. In fact, it’s not even warm. I gather it into my hand and stand up. I’ve forgotten my surroundings. Forgotten that my dad could be inside watching me. All I can do is marvel that the device is untouched by the fire. I turn it over to inspect the other side and my mouth drops open.

The red light.

It’s still blinking.

I don’t think; I just run. Back to our house. Back to my window. Back to my room where I can listen to this message uninterrupted. I pray it’s still there. For some unknown reason, I can’t imagine not hearing what the woman wanted to tell me. I need to know — have to know.

Inside my room, I close the window and crawl into my bed. I turn off the lamp and assume a sleeping position. If anyone comes in, they’ll think I’m in never-never land. Hesitating only a moment, I slip the hearing aid–looking device into my ear. My fingers find the tiny, lit-up button, and I swallow a lump in my throat.

I push.

At first, there’s nothing but dead air, but after a few moments, I hear the same clicking sound. It’s working, I think. It’s still working. The clicking turns to static, and I cover my ear with my palm so I can concentrate.

“If you’re hearing this message, you are invited to be a Contender in the Brimstone Bleed. All Contenders must report within forty-eight hours to select their Pandora companions. If you do not appear within forty-eight hours, your invitation will be eliminated.”

I’m so happy the message is still there, I can hardly contain myself. I sit up and glance around the room for a piece of paper, thinking maybe I should be writing this down. But before I can decide what to do, the woman continues.

“The Pandora Selection Process will take place at the Old Red Museum. The Pandora you choose is of the utmost importance, for it will be your only source of assistance throughout the race.

“The Brimstone Bleed will last three months and will take place across four ecosystems: desert, sea, mountains, jungle. The winning prize will be the Cure — a remedy for any illness, for any single person.”

I cover my mouth, trying not to cry. A cure. A cure for Cody. I’d do anything for that. I listen as the woman pauses.

“There can be only one champion.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I leap out of bed, heart pounding. This must be a joke. A prank. It can’t be real.

Can it?

If this is a joke, it’s the worst kind. Because I’d do anything to save Cody’s life. And this device — this woman — just told me there’s a way. Did my dad listen to this? My mom? Do they know what she said? If they did and they thought there was even a possibility of its being true, why would they ever try to destroy it?

I don’t know. I don’t care. This is about me now. The blue box was on my bed. I’m the one who received the invitation.

But this can’t be real. Can it?

My heart aches as I consider my brother. What’s crazy is — as absurd as this race sounds — I can’t stop thinking, What if it’s true? I want to believe it’s real. I want to believe there can be an end to Cody’s blood tests and MRIs. That my mom will learn to sleep again, and that my dad will stop quietly raging. I don’t want to smell antiseptic anymore or meet another kindhearted nurse who’s great at hitting a vein on the first try. How about, instead, you leave Cody alone?

How about, instead, you make him better?!

Driven by raw emotion, I weigh my choices. Ignore the woman’s message and go back to bed.

Or.

Take the chance, the miniscule chance, that my dad knew there was something to hide.

The realization that I may be onto something slams into me. My parents tried to conceal this. My brother passed it off as a joke. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone in my family stop me from helping Cody.

Assuming this is all real.

“It has to be,” I whisper in the dark.

Anger coils in my stomach like a serpent. My dad didn’t think I could do this. That’s why he tried to destroy the device. But maybe he doesn’t know his little girl as well as he’d like to believe. Because when it comes to doing something for my family, I’m not just his daughter.

I am strong.

I will be strong for my brother.

My hand grips the device I’ve removed from my ear. The woman said I needed to get to the Old Red Museum within forty-eight hours. How long has it been since I first saw the box? How long did it take to get to me?

Grabbing my old backpack from my closet, I think about what to pack: clothes, food, water, the device … maybe some nail polish. Just because I’m entering a race doesn’t mean I don’t want to look magically delicious. I throw on a black, long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and yellow ballet flats. Then I jam things into my bag as quickly as I can, knowing I want to leave before the sun rises and my parents wake up. The first thing I’ve got to do is figure out where the Old Red Museum is. We don’t have an Internet connection here, but some place in town will. I’ll be able to look it up there. At least I hope so.

A lump forms in my throat as I think about leaving. My parents will be fine, but what about Cody? Will he be okay while I’m away? I stare at the bag in my hands, then drop it onto the bed. I’m not even sure of what I’m doing when I leave my room and head to Cody’s. I stop in his doorway and listen to his even breathing.

I’m glad he’s asleep. There’s no part of me that wants to banter with him right now, even if he does like it. I just want to tell him I love him. So I do.

“I love you, Cody,” I say. And then, “Please don’t die.”

Tears sting my eyes as I run toward my bedroom. I want to keep this picture of him in my head, his sleeping chest rising and falling under the heavy blue blanket. This race may be a crock, and I may only be gone chasing a phantom for one day, but I’ll still miss him.

When I’m almost back to my room, I hear a creaking sound. Crap. Someone’s coming. I manage to wipe the tears from my eyes and throw my backpack into the closet, but I don’t have time to jump into bed before my mom appears in the doorway.

She walks over to my lamp and flips the switch. Warm light washes across my room. She looks at me for a long time, so long that I wonder if she’s forgotten who I am. Then she sits down on the bed.

“You’re awake,” she says. She doesn’t sound surprised. It’s more like a statement.

“Yeah,” I say, not sure what else to say. I consider asking her about the device, if she knows what is on it. But I’m afraid of what she’ll admit.

“I heard you moving around,” she continues. I notice that she’s holding something. Her hands work their way across it like she’s smoothing it out. She sees me looking and holds it up. In the lamp’s glow, I make out that it’s a feather of green and blue and is attached to a thin leather string.

“This was my mother’s,” she says. “I don’t remember much about her.” My mom has rarely spoken of her own mother, and it’s almost surprising remembering she had one. But of course she did. Her mother died when she was young. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t exist. Mom holds the feather up to her head and smiles. “I remember she used to wear this in her hair.”

The smile slips from my mom’s face. I sit down next to her on the bed. I’m about to tell her what I know, but she holds up a hand. At first, it’s like she’s stopping me from speaking, but then she moves to touch my hair. She pets the back of my head, and I can’t help but close my eyes. For the second time tonight, I feel like I might lose it.

“You have your father’s hair,” she says. Then she looks me dead in the face. “But you have my eyes.”

I don’t know exactly what she’s implying, but it’s not that we share the same eye color.

Mom moves the hair off my neck and onto my shoulder. Then she lifts the feather to the bottom of my scalp. Tingles shoot across my shoulders as she ties the leather twine attached to the feather into my hair. When she’s done, she lets my curls spill across my back.

“You look beautiful, Tella.”

I stand and look in the mirror. The vibrant green-and-blue feather lies over my right shoulder, mixed with a bit of my thick, curly hair. I look at my big brown eyes and wonder what she sees in them. Besides fear.

My mom stands suddenly and crosses the room. She wraps me in a hug and holds on to me for several moments before letting go. I think she’s going to confess something, but she only says, “Good night.”

I lie down on the bed, pretending I’m going back to sleep. At the door, she stops and glances back. Her eyes flick toward my open closet, where my backpack lies exposed. Her gaze returns to me and her face twists. “Your mama loves you.”

Then she’s gone.

I choke on her final words, willing myself to crawl back out of bed and grab my backpack once again. Stuffing the clothes down, I decide not to get any food from the kitchen. I need to leave now, and I can buy some in town. But I do grab the stash of money I have from months of unused allowance. I’m sure I must have almost two hundred dollars at this point. Because I have no idea of what I’ll need, I also throw in random things from my desk: pens, paper, scissors, tape. The last thing I pack is a photo of my family that’s stuck in the edge of my mirror. I can’t bear to go without taking a piece of them with me. That and my glittery purple nail polish.

When I leave, I go out the front door. There’s something definitive about it. Like if I use it, then I’m making some sort of statement. Even if I have no idea what it is.

We don’t have a garage, so my parents park in the driveway, on the opposite side of the house from my bedroom window. I round the corner and deliberate on which car to take. There’s the sleek black 4Runner with the navigator and off-terrain tires that I always pestered my parents about driving when I first got my license, and there’s Bob. Bob has been with us for a while, like, since I was born. And after almost two hundred thousand miles, the car is an utter embarrassment to the auto community.

I decide to take Bob. My parents will wake up to find their daughter gone. I’d hate to have them left with the crap car, too.

Grabbing the extra keys from the breaker box, I reason that if I gun it, I can make it to town in about twenty-five minutes. Not too bad. I hop inside the car, throw my bag in the passenger seat, and start the engine. As I’m rolling down the dirt driveway, I glance into the rearview mirror. The house is still cloaked in night, and all I can think is: My family lives there.

Driving away, I suddenly realize the house isn’t so bad. I spent more time with my family in the last nine months here than I did in ten years living in Boston. And as it turns out, my people are pretty awesome.

I pull into the parking lot of the only diner in the area that’s open twenty-four hours and glance at the dashboard clock: 3:37. I made it in twenty-three minutes. Not too shabby.

The door of the diner chimes when I walk through. Exactly two people turn in my direction: a trucker-looking dude with Popeye-sized forearms and his female friend, who finds her inebriation hysterical. They’re a flawless match in this decrepit town of Montana.

A waitress in bad khakis appears from the back and strolls toward me, holding a discarded tray in her right hand. Watching her walk, I decide I could teach her a thing or two about sashaying.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I pull myself up, trying to appear adultlike. “Do you guys have a computer I can use?”

The waitress cocks her head. “You buying something?”

“Um, yes?”

“You know how to tip?” she asks.

Oh, real classy. “Thirty percent. That’s the standard, right?”

She smiles and nods. “You can use the one in the office. Just make it quick.”

I go behind the counter and find the computer. After a little googling on their dial-up Internet connection, I find that the Old Red Museum is in a city called Lincoln. And, good Lord, it’s seventeen hours away. What if I miss the selection process for the Pandora — whatever that is?

I print off directions and buy several sandwiches and bottles of water on my way out. I leave more than the 30 percent I promised the waitress, hoping it’ll put a little sashay in her step.

Then I get on the road and drive like a demon toward Nebraska, wondering if I’m a naïve idiot for doing this.

Almost twenty hours later, I’m nearing the middle of the city. I’m exhausted after the drive, and by now the whole wide world feels surreal and disconnected. Everything is fast and slow at the same time. I follow the last of the directions until I see it — the Old Red Museum. The picture Google provided matches the enormous redbrick building, which looks more like a medieval castle than a museum. At almost midnight, the place looks particularly eerie.

I find a parking spot and walk up the short flight of stairs. Rubbing my arms to fight off a sudden chill, I stop in front of the enormous double doors.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

There’s no way this place is open this late. And by the time they do open, it’ll probably be too late. It’s probably too late as is. I hold my breath and tug on the door. It doesn’t budge. I pull again and again, and scream when it still doesn’t open.

I drove across the US of A, left my family without an explanation, and now I’m either too late or there was never anything here to begin with. Ef my life. Rearing back, I kick the door as hard as I can. Then I wrap both hands around the door handles and let out a noise like a wild banshee as I pull back.

The doors swing open.

I’m not sure whether to celebrate or freak out. I decide to do neither and slip inside. As I walk around the inside of the museum, listening to the sound of my footsteps echo off the walls, I imagine I am moments from death. It’s sad, I think, that this is all it takes to break my sanity.

Two curling flights of stairs bow out from the first-floor lobby, and red and white tiles cover the floors. There are gilded picture frames everywhere. So many that I think the placement of the frames — and not their contents — is the real art. Everything, absolutely everything, smells like wax. I mosey up to an abandoned reception desk and leaf through the glossy pamphlets littering the surface. I hold one of the pamphlets up to my nose. Yep, wax.

I glance around, having no idea what to look for. Will there be a sign like at school registration? Students with last names starting with A–K this way?

On my left, I notice a long hallway dotted with doors on either side. Nothing looks particularly unusual. But when I glance to my right, I spot something. There’s a door at the end of the corridor that has a sliver of light glowing beneath it. I’m sure it’s just an administration office, one where someone forgot to flip the switch. But I’ve got nothing better to go on, so I head toward it.

I pause outside the door, wondering if I’m about to get busted for B and E. Then I turn the handle and find myself at the top of another winding staircase.

You’ve got to be kidding me. What is this — Dracula’s bachelor pad?

I’ve watched a lot of scary movies, and I’ve learned nothing good is ever at the bottom of a winding staircase. Pulling in a breath and preparing myself to be eaten alive, I head down. My shoes are loud against the steps. So loud, I imagine they are intentionally trying to get me killed.

When I reach the final few stairs, I ready myself to look around the bend. My heart is racing, and I secretly pray the worst I encounter is an angry janitor with a wax addiction. I turn the bend — and my eyes nearly pop from my skull.

The enormous room is perfectly circular, dotted with candles to light the space. Surrounding the walls are rows and rows of dark, rich mahogany bookshelves. A large round table stands in the center of the red-and-white-tiled floor. The room is spectacular, but what it holds is so jarring, my ears ring.

Across every shelf, every spot on the table, every tile on the floor — are small sculptures of hands. And in a few of those hands — the ones still performing their duty — are eggs. There are only nine eggs left, it seems. For a moment, I imagine how amazing it would have been to see each hand holding an egg, but it’s enough just to see these nine.

The eggs seem to dance in the candle flame, and as I move closer, I realize why. The surfaces of the eggs are almost iridescent, their colors changing depending on how you look at them. They are different sizes, too; some as big as a basketball, others as small as a peach.

I don’t need the device in my pocket to tell me what my gut already knows.

This is the Pandora Selection Process.

CHAPTER FIVE

If this race isn’t real, I think, I give the prankster mad props for enthusiasm.

The eggs look fragile, like if I touch them, they’ll shatter into a million pieces. I remember when I was small and we would go to my grandmother’s house — the grandmother I knew — there were always things I was allowed to touch and things I was not. These eggs would have definitely made the Do Not Touch List. I walk around the room slowly, bending down or reaching up on tiptoes to look closer at each one. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and it feels almost like I’ve stepped onto the set of a sci-fi flick. I don’t understand how these things got here. Or how this is even happening.

Some eggs seem brighter than the rest, while others seem a bit sturdier. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pick, what characteristics I should look for, or how I’m supposed to announce my decision.

As I’m about to touch an egg, a thought occurs to me. What if the first one I touch defines my choice? Yes, this whole thing may still turn out to be a hoax, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem that way, and I want to be careful in case it’s not. I yank my hand back and bite down on my fist. Decision making has never been my strong suit.

I lean in close to a rather large egg, my breath causing the colors to swirl and change. It’s so beautiful, and isn’t it always more fun to have the bigger present at Christmas? A decision must be made, and if I let myself contemplate what’s inside each egg any longer, I’ll never make one.

“Eeny, meeny, miny …” I point to the large egg in front of me. “Moe.”

My hands are almost on it when I hear a thundering on the stairs behind me. I spin around and listen. It sounds like hail during a bad storm. And it’s getting louder, and closer. Moments later, people of all ages spill into the room in a frenzy. They race toward the eggs, their eyes wide and their hands outstretched. Unlike me, they don’t hesitate. They snatch the first eggs they come to and race back up the stairs.

My face burns when I realize what’s happening. They’re taking all the eggs. There won’t be enough for everyone. I can’t wait any longer.

Someone has already grabbed the egg I’d intended to take, so I dash toward another one. A man in his midtwenties cuts me off and swipes the egg in one graceful movement. Then he tucks it under his arm like a football and makes for the stairs.

Three more people rush toward two eggs. They claw and kick and scream until two girls, no older than thirteen, slip away from a portly man and sprint toward the stairs. I see an egg toward the room’s entrance and hurry toward it, but I’m not aggressive enough, and when it comes down to me and another girl with wild eyes and big shoulders, I falter. She sneers at me and grabs the egg. Then she’s gone, flying up the stairs two at a time.

Everything has happened in a matter of seconds. As I look around the room, I realize with a bolt of fear that there’s only one egg left. I’m closest to it, and the girl closest to me realizes that. She narrows her eyes in my direction and darts toward the egg. But I’m faster. The people behind us don’t move, or at least I don’t hear them move. It’s like they know it’s too late. That it’s between me and this girl, and they might as well pack it in.

I’m so close to the egg that a smile curls my lips. I’m going to get there first. Then it’s just a matter of getting past her and back up the stairs. I reach out to grab the softball-sized egg, and then I feel it — a shooting pain ripping across my scalp.

The chick has ahold of my hair and she’s pulling me down, down. I crash to the floor and she leaps over my body. Instantly, I reach for her legs. If I have to fight her on the ground, I will, because suddenly I remember Cody the way he was before I left, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The girl anticipates my grabbing for her, so she makes a hard left, races around the circular table, and it’s over. She’s gone. At some point during the mad dash, I realized with overwhelming certainty that this race is real. That the Brimstone Bleed is real. And now I try to swallow that I’ve already lost.

I beat my fist against the ground and look up. Three people remain in the room with me. They looked equally dazed, searching for an egg that isn’t there. One of them hangs his head and ascends the stairs slowly. Like me, he seems petrified to return home and admit failure.

The back of my head aches, and when I reach around and touch the throbbing spot, I feel something wet and sticky. Though I know I’ll be sick if I look, I almost want to. Like seeing my own injury will be partial punishment for failing my brother.

I look at my hand. Sure enough, my fingers are coated in blood. It’s bright red, which I think is good. Dark blood means it’s coming from somewhere deep. I glance up to — what? — show the two people left my wound?

But when I look up, there is only one person.

My heart stops.

The guy looking down at me is very tall, or maybe he just seems so because I’m still on the ground. He appears to be about my age, though the broad width of his shoulders tells me he may actually be a couple of years older. His eyes are blue. Not in the way that makes me buckle at the knees and start naming our children, but the kind of blue that makes my breath catch. A cold, hard blue that looks more like a statement than a color — one that says, “Back the fuck off.”

His hair is so dark, it looks like wet ink, and is spiked around his scalp in soft tufts. He has a strong jawline, and right now that jaw is clenched so tightly, I’m afraid this guy is about to kick me when I’m down.

“They’re all gone,” I whisper. I hadn’t thought to say anything, but it just slips out.

He narrows those chilling blue eyes at me, and in an instant, they flick toward the floor near one of the bookcases. He looks back at me, and I wonder if maybe, even though he looks a little like a serial killer, he’s going to help me up.

His gaze lands on my hair, on the feather woven into it. Then he turns and walks toward the stairs, carrying a colossal egg under his arm. I contemplate fighting him for it; it’s easily the biggest egg I’ve seen tonight. Then I realize it’s pointless. I’m dizzy from hitting my head, and this guy looks like he works out for a living. But I think about the way his eyes flicked toward the bookcase. It makes me wonder …

Treading softly, I move toward where he had looked. But there’s nothing there. I grab on to the top of the bookcase, as far as I can reach anyway, and step up. Then I climb the shelves like they’re a ladder until I can see over the top. There’s nothing there and — when I look around the room from this elevated height — I don’t see anything anywhere else, either.

I crawl down the shelves until I’m standing on the floor again. Then I get onto my hands and knees. When I lay my face against the cool tile and peer under the bookcase, I have to bite my lip to keep from whooping.

I see an egg.

Pressing myself flatter against the floor, I stretch my arm out. I hold my breath as I retrieve it, afraid if I fill my lungs, I’ll drop my prize. Once the egg is safely out, I study it closely. It’s the size of a watermelon, which I guess is okay, but the coloring is all wrong. It’s not like the others, with the remarkable sheen that changes when you turn them over in your hands. This one is dull, and when I hold it up, I see there’s a fracture the length of my finger running across the bottom.

It must have dropped onto the floor and rolled beneath the bookcase. Looking at it, I wonder if whatever’s inside is still alive. My guess is no, but I have no other choice than to hope it is. I stand up, pull out my shirt, and lay the egg in like my shirt’s a nest.

Then I smile. This egg is ugly, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s got a little stank rolling off it. But it’s mine. And I’m going to take care of what’s inside.

I wrap both arms around the bottom of my egg and hurry up the stairs, out the front doors, and into Bob. Slamming the car door, I glance around. I’ve got to find a safe place for this thing. I grab my bag from the back and pull out anything sharp. When all that’s left is soft clothing, I nestle my egg inside, take one last look at it, then zip the bag back up.

Opening the glove compartment, I start to toss in all the remaining items from my bag. When I get to the device, I notice the red light is blinking. My shoulders tense. Will it be the same message as before? Or will there be new information that helps me find the race? I hadn’t even stopped long enough to wonder what I was supposed to do now that I had this freaky egg in my possession.

I slip the device into my ear, close my eyes, and push the button.

Silence — clicking — static.

“Congratulations. You have chosen Pandora Companion KD-8. Each Pandora is unique in its design, and your Pandora is no exception. Please stay tuned for a message from the Creator of KD-8.”

She knows. She knows which egg I took. Opening my eyes, I place a hand on my bag, imagining the egg safe inside. My knees bounce as I anticipate hearing someone new on the device. I don’t have to wait long.

“Hello?” an older male voice says. “Hello? Okay. I’m Creator Collins, and I generated Pandora KD-8. I cannot tell you much about my — er, our — Pandora, as there are strict rules about such things.” The man pauses, as if he’s afraid to say too much. “But I can tell you I’ve spent my entire professional life conceptualizing KD-8’s capabilities, and I hope you find them useful inside the Brimstone Bleed. While you must discover KD-8’s abilities for yourself, please know I have the utmost faith in his ability to reveal his strengths when the time is right. Good luck to you, Contender. And …” The man hesitates again. “And I hope you care for KD-8 as I have.”

My mind buzzes thinking about the man who created my Pandora — Creator Collins. He sounds like an okay guy. His voice is that of a man who owns too many sweaters. I like the way he seems to care about KD-8. It makes me think there might be something special about my egg. I wonder if he made other Pandoras, or if it’s only one Creator per Pandora. Something about the way he hoped I would care for KD-8 the way he did makes me think it’s a one-to-one situation. And who are these Creators anyway? I instantly picture mad scientists with big white hair and plastic goggles. Insert flash of lightning.

I keep listening, and within seconds, the woman whose voice I’ve already memorized returns. “Please report to Lincoln Station and take the train to Valden. You have one hour.”

The deadlines thing is already getting old. I’m a girl who doesn’t like to be rushed. But apparently that’s a big thing in this race. I’m quickly learning that I’ll have to adjust, be someone who rolls with the punches.

Pulling Bob’s visor down, I check myself out in the mirror. Mascara runs down my cheeks, and heavy bags droop beneath my eyes. My hair is everywhere, but when I touch a hand to the back of my head, I don’t find any more blood. Win.

It almost pains me to see myself this way. Even living where no one could judge me besides my family, I prided myself on looking fabulous. And now I look like the bride of Frankenstein. Running my fingers through my hair, I think about how I should be racing toward Lincoln Station. But the compulsion to repair my face is too strong.

I grab my makeup bag — the one I never leave home without — and fix what I can. What I really need is twelve hours of beauty rest and a Swedish massage, but something tells me that ain’t happening. My hair also needs way more than I can do from inside a clunky car. And that’s when I remember Cody on Christmas.

My curly hair has a will of its own, and while I sleep, that will grows and grows so that when I wake up, I resemble a wild animal. Cody refers to my hair as a lion’s mane. And last Christmas — when he’d only been sick a few months — he constructed an actual mane from faux hair and a headband. Then he wrapped it as a gift from me to him. When he opened it, he acted all blessed to receive this gift I hadn’t given him and read the card (which he wrote) aloud. “Dear Cody, I want nothing more on this Christmas morn than for you to join my pride. Roar.” At roar, he clawed the air.

At the time, I hated him for it. But thinking back on how much time he put into being an ass, I can’t help but laugh. Because I know now, if he really hated me, he wouldn’t have bothered.

I pull my hair in front of my face and study it up close. It’s the hair my father gave me; the hair my mom thinks is beautiful. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with it. But some girl yanked it to bring me down tonight. And now that I know the race is real, I can’t let anything stand in the way of me winning. My brother’s life — Cody’s life — depends on it.

Before I can stop myself, I grab the scissors from the glove compartment and start slashing. I cut a huge chunk of hair from the base of my neck and work my way up until it’s almost all gone. Tossing the scissors onto the seat next to me, I run a hand over my head. Crap.

When I look back into the mirror, I grow cold. It’s gone. My hair is gone. I mean, all over, there are small pieces of hair curled close to my head — but the length, the heaviness have vanished. I almost cry looking at myself. Almost. I’ve always hated my hair, but now I don’t even look like me. My brown eyes — my mother’s eyes — look bigger, and my lips fuller. It’s like now that the hair is gone, everything else can breathe. That’s nice, I guess. But it isn’t all good news. My hair has always pulled attention away from the thing I hate most. My freckles.

Even my brother has never made fun of the freckles that cross my nose and stretch out along my upper cheeks. He knows that I — like everyone else — have a breaking point. And that if he brought them up, I would end him.

Now it’s like they’re mini-cheerleaders, picking up megaphones and refusing to be ignored. I press my lips together in irritation, but my face softens when I see my feather. I was careful not to cut it when I hacked my hair off.

I lean my head back and reinspect my reflection, try to see things in a new light. With curls trimmed close to my head and a roguish green-and-blue feather dangling over my right shoulder, I decide I just might seem like someone who would enter a daring race — and win.

CHAPTER SIX

Lincoln Station, I discover, accommodates both trains and buses. I have no idea which I’ll be taking, but I know I’m going to Valden. I decide I’ll just tell the person at the ticket window where I’m headed and let them figure it out.

The station is surprisingly busy for this late at night, or early in the morning, or whatever you call it. The floor is covered in small white tiles, and overhead, there are vast skylights that would probably be pretty awesome during the day. Big round benches dot the floors for people to lounge on, and because the ceiling is high and the floor is tile, every little sound morphs into something like an elephant stampede.

Eventually, I stumble upon the check-in area. It consists of a skittish guy in his midthirties standing behind a large, plasticky counter. He’s wearing a navy suit with a crisp white dress shirt. His tie is yellow, which pleases me to no end. The guy spots me approaching and runs a hand over his canary-yellow tie. Then he does it again. And again. It’s either his first day on the job, or my being a girl makes him extremely uncomfortable.

“Hi,” I say to the nervous guy. “I need to go to Valden.” No point in beating around the proverbial bush.

My request pushes Yellow Tie Man over the edge. His eyes get enormous and he actually starts to sweat. “Valden?” he croaks.

“Yeah, Valden. I’d like to go there.” I lay my allowance on the counter as proof of my seriousness.

The guy looks around like a SWAT team is about to bust up this convo and pushes my money back toward me. “Are you sure you want to go to Valden?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m sure.” But now the guy’s glistening brow has become a dripping glistening brow, and I’m suddenly not sure at all. Maybe Valden isn’t somewhere I want to go. Maybe it’s in the center of a volcano, and that’s something I’d like no part of. “Can you remind me what state Valden is in?”

The yellow tie trembles, and so does the man behind the shoddy counter. “It’s not a place. It’s just a word to let me know —” He stops to wipe his forehead, and I feel my own brow prick with sweat. This explanation does not make me feel better about things.

Eyeing my backpack, he slides a ticket across the counter. I expect it to be laced with acid that’ll burn my skin off, but as I take it, I realize my fingers will survive. And so will my allowance, since this dude is apparently giving me a free ride. I shove the cash back in my pocket.

“Where do I go?” I try to sound more confident than I am. Which is not at all.

“You’ll take train 301. Down that way.” He points over his shoulder to the right. Then he backs up, like he can’t wait to get rid of me. As I start to head in the direction he indicated, he throws his hands over his face. “Oh my gawd. I almost forgot. Why do I keep forgetting?” His hands fall. He searches for something under the table, looks around again, and reaches across the counter. “Put this on your shirt.”

It’s a small gold serpent pin, and it’s fairly heavy. When I attach it over my heart, it tugs the cloth of my long-sleeved shirt down, and the snake glares up at me with a glittering green eye.

“It will identify you,” he says.

I had figured as much, but it relieves me to hear him confirm my suspicion. As if my figuring out this one thing is a sign from the universe I’ll be okay. “Thanks,” I say. “Nice tie.”

The guy smiles, but I’m not sure I’ve made his day any better. I want to tell him he didn’t exactly soothe my nerves, either, but he clearly wants nothing more to do with me, so I yank my backpack straps tighter and head toward the platforms.

To my astonishment, I get myself onto the appropriate train without killing myself, though I’ll admit it’s far harder to fall onto the tracks than I’d originally thought. A woman wearing way too much rose-scented perfume shows me to my seat, which turns out to be in a sleeper car. When I first get inside the tiny room with a mini window and cute bunk beds on both sides, I can’t help but do my happy dance. Then I wonder exactly how long I’ll be on this train and why I’ll even need a place to sleep. The question doesn’t bode well for my sanity. I mean, trains are cool and all. But not when a small white device has told you to board one to a city that doesn’t exist.

I hear a sharp snap and turn around. A girl my age pushes into the room, acting very much like she owns this sleeper car and all the contents in it — including myself. She has short dark hair, with hard bangs cut razor straight across her forehead. Her eyes dart around, looking everywhere but at me. Seconds later, another girl walks into the room. This one looks a bit younger and a lot less hostile. She’s got long, wavy hair and big blue eyes, and she stares right at me.

“Hi,” Blue Eyes squeaks.

“Hey,” I say with a nod. Then I notice a glint on her blouse. It’s a serpent pin — the same as mine. I glance at the aggressive girl and notice she has one, too. They’re each carrying a bag, and I suddenly realize they’re also packing Pandora eggs.

They’re Contenders, I think with relief. I’m not alone. Then I remember they’re my competition. I wonder how these girls got invitations, and if they also have someone they’re trying to save. I wonder how any of us were chosen to compete in the race. Did whoever’s running this show choose only contestants with sick family members? Do they all have the same thing?

These thoughts make my head spin. Regardless, there’s no reason not to be polite to these girls, no matter why they’re here. We’re all going through this together.

“I’m Tella,” I say to Blue Eyes.

The girl looks at me with such relief that my heart aches. She opens her mouth to respond, but stops when someone new comes through the door.

The first thing I see is a shock of color. The woman’s dress is so bright and so devastatingly green that I almost forget my name. It curves around every bit of her body and ends at the knee. Her bright blond hair is pulled back into a tight twist, and her lips are painted a flashy shade of red. In her left hand is a gold clutch. She’s my kind of girl — a fashion guru, if you will — and I feel underdressed and underkempt in comparison. I wonder where she found her shoes.

“Please, sit.” The woman waves a small hand toward the bunk beds. Her voice is perfectly even, perfectly calm. I wonder if anyone has ever told her no. My guess is if they did, they quickly changed their minds.

Blue Eyes sits on a lower bunk and I sit across from her on the other. Aggressive Girl jumps onto the top bunk above me, her legs dangling in my line of vision. I press my lips together in annoyance and move over so I can see.

The woman closes the door behind her and locks it. Never a good sign. She reaches into her gold clutch and pulls out three blue boxes, exactly like the one I found on my bed but much smaller; so small, I wonder what could possibly be inside. The woman hands a blue box to each of us. When she gets to me, her fingers brush mine. My muscles tighten, but she only smiles. I realize the woman must work for this … race. I eye her closely, looking for clues that’ll help me understand what I’ve gotten myself into — that’ll help me win.

“Open them,” she says.

I lift the lid of my blue box. There’s no miniature pillow this time — only a single green pill. I remove it from the box and lay it in my palm. It’s the kind of pill that looks like it has liquid inside. It’s actually quite beautiful, and I find the desire to take it compulsive.

“Swallow the pill immediately. If you do not, you will be disqualified.” With that, she unlocks the door and leaves.

I glance at Blue Eyes and wonder if she can hear the hammering of my heart. It pounds so hard against my chest, I imagine I might be having a heart attack. How did this happen? How did I go from homeschool and teasing Cody and Sunday Fundays to this? I could back out, I think. I could just throw up my hands now and decide this is all too friggin’ psychotic.

But then I think of Cody. I know he would do this for me. He wouldn’t even hesitate. Despite all his irritating qualities, I’ve always thought of him as courageous.

“Damn Pharmies,” the girl above me says. “Bottoms up.”

Blue Eyes gasps. Then she looks at me. “She took it.”

I shrug, trying to act like it’s all cool even though I’m about to pass the hell out. Glancing down at the green pill, I make a decision. I will not abandon my brother. I pop the pill into my mouth and swallow. It goes down easily, but I still reach for a water bottle in my bag. I take a few pulls, then hand it to Blue Eyes.

“Here, it’ll help.”

She takes the water with a shaking hand. When she looks at me, the pill close to her lips, I nod. I don’t know why I’m helping her. I probably shouldn’t. There’s no telling what we’re taking. I could be helping her sign a death sentence, for all I know.

The thought sends shivers down my body. I tremble so hard, I have to lie down. Turning my head on the overstuffed pillow, I watch Blue Eyes swallow the pill and then two gulps of water. She lies down on her bunk, keeping her eyes locked on me the entire time.

I look above me and wonder what Aggressive Girl is doing. Her legs have disappeared from over the side of the bed. “What did you mean?” I ask, tapping the bottom of her bunk.

“About what?” Aggressive Girl says, though her voice doesn’t sound quite so aggressive anymore. It sounds more … drained.

“You said something about Pharmies,” I say. “What is that?”

“Not what — who,” she answers, though I can hardly understand her. It sounds like she’s slurring her words.

I move to sit up, to drill her with questions since she seems to know what’s going on. But as soon as I do, the room spins. I drop back down onto the bed and glance over at Blue Eyes. She’s looking at me, her face a mask of fear.

“Who are the Pharmies?” I ask aloud. My voice sounds strange. I’m not sure if I’m talking strangely, or hearing differently.

The girl above me doesn’t respond, and slowly, I begin to sink. Blue Eyes and I hold each other’s gaze for several seconds, like if we can just keep eye contact, we’ll be okay. But then her lids flutter closed and open. Once. Twice. Her cheek presses deeper into the pillow. She doesn’t open her eyes again.

My own eyelids feel like they’re weighted. It’s just a sleeping pill, I assure myself. That’s all we took. Since I haven’t slept in I don’t know how long, I close my eyes for just a moment. I fully intend to reopen them, but once they’re closed, it feels so good.

“Can anyone hear me?” I ask, my eyes still shut. My voice sounds like it’s coming from the other side of a wall. Though my arms feel heavy, I manage to tug my backpack onto my chest. I wrap my arms around it, praying my egg is safe inside. When my feather falls over my neck — tickling my skin — it reminds me of my mother.

I pull her face into my mind, and I let go.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The first thing I become aware of is the sound. It’s a low rumbling and seems to be coming from beneath me.

I open my eyes and immediately close them again. Everything in my body screams for more sleep. I almost give in to the temptation but know I shouldn’t. There’s something I’m forgetting. I force my eyes back open and this time, I take in my surroundings. Or at least I try to take in my surroundings. There’s hardly any light to see, and a slow panic twists in my stomach.

Where am I?

Pushing myself up from the fetal position, I feel smooth wood beneath my hands. I throw my arms out and find four walls. They’re close, way too close. My throat tightens when I begin to understand.

I’m in a box.

I go from mild anxiety to full-fledged mania in a matter of seconds. Pounding my fists against the boards, I scream. I swallowed the pill. I’m in a box. How stupid could I have been? I left without telling my family where I was going, got on a train to a city that doesn’t exist, and swallowed a foreign object. Oh yeah, and I also picked up a rotting egg along the way.

My egg.

I feel along the bottom of the box and my fingers touch a corduroy bag that’s not my backpack. Stuffing my hand in, I sigh with relief when I find my smooth egg tucked safely inside. I pull the bag over my crossed legs and into my lap and wrap my arms around it.

“It’s okay. We’re okay,” I say. I’m not sure who I’m talking to, but I guess it’s my egg. I gently lift it out of the bag and lay it in my lap. “Everything’s going to be okay.” I stroke the outside of the shell and glance around. The rumbling sound outside is steady. It’d almost be soothing if I weren’t in a friggin’ box.

I consider screaming until someone lets me out, but I’m afraid I’ll lose my mind if I do. I’m also concerned with how long I’ve been in this thing and how much air is left. I don’t see any air holes, and I know screaming will cause me to use what little air there is quicker. Thanks, horror movies.

I try to steady my breathing and calm my thoughts. It’s not working. I rub my hands over my egg and think that this would be a really good time for this thing to hatch and help a sister out.

I lean over as best I can and whisper, “Please come out.”

Nothing happens.

Rubbing the fabric over my knees, I suddenly realize my jeans don’t feel right. I grab at my legs and stomach. These aren’t my clothes. Oh my God. Someone changed my clothes while I was asleep.

My first thought is: What creepazoid takes someone’s clothes off while they’re sleeping? The second is what undies I’m wearing — whether it’s an old skeezy pair or my good Victoria’s Secret stuff. I’m not proud of this last thought.

My box suddenly jerks and a loud hissing sound pierces the air. I’ve heard the sound somewhere; I just can’t quite place it. For several minutes, nothing happens. I continue stroking the egg, reassuring whatever’s inside that everything’s going to be okay. Even though I’m not at all sure it is.

When my box jerks again, I scream for the second time. My hands fly out and I push against the walls beside me. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. Then the box, and me, and my egg start swinging. It’s not much, but the sensation is undeniable.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” I repeat it like a mantra as the box continues to sway side to side.

The box jolts to a stop. I feel like something’s going to happen, so I tuck my egg back into the new bag. Then I look around, waiting. The front of my box slides open and light blinds me. I blink several times, my arms shading my face. When I lower them, I see dozens of people wearing what look like brown scrubs and tan boots, all standing in a forest-like area. Looking down, I realize I’m wearing the same thing. With the light, I’m able to look around the box. My backpack is gone. I figured it was, but now I know for sure. The food, the water, the cash … the photo of my family. Gone.

Afraid I’ll be stuck forever inside this box, I grab the corduroy bag and scramble outside. When I turn around, I gasp. Two enormous semitrucks are parked several yards away. A hundred or more boxes are stacked on the semis, and someone operating a crane is lifting each one off the bed and placing it on the ground. The semis’ and crane’s windows are tinted, so I can’t see who’s inside, but I do spot two men opening each box that the crane sets down. They’re wearing green, collared shirts and jeans, and they look like they could live in a suburb outside of Boston. One man is tall and lanky, with thinning hair and enormous ears. The other looks almost pregnant with his protruding belly and twiglike extremities.

I turn in a circle and watch as people of all ages, races, and genders crawl out of the boxes. There’s an older woman with short blond hair, who folds her arms across her chest and scowls, and a girl with a determined expression, who can’t be older than twelve. I spot a man who looks like he’s never seen the inside of a gym and young woman who could pass for a physical trainer. Everywhere I look, people. These are the Contenders — I realize. But they’re treating us like livestock.

“Crazy, huh?”

I spin around and see a man twice my age with dark skin and enormous eyebrows.

“What’s going on?” I ask him. I don’t wonder why he’s speaking to me; I just want my questions answered.

“You don’t know?” he asks.

“No. You do?”

He makes a face like he’s sympathetic. “I don’t blame your parents for trying to hide this. I would have done the same for mine.”

I’m guessing he means his own children, but all I can think about is what he’s implying. That my parents knew about this and didn’t tell me. I decide that’s impossible. They wouldn’t do that to me; they certainly wouldn’t do that to Cody. Maybe they knew something might happen. Why else would my dad try to burn the device? But they couldn’t have known … everything.

I notice the man’s brown shirt has the gold serpent embroidered onto the pocket. When I glance down, I realize mine has the same.

“Where are we?” I ask him.

He waves an arm behind him. “The starting line.”

I really study the area for the first time. Trees tower overhead, growing so close together that their leaves create a thick canopy. When the two men let me out of my box (did I really just say that?), there seemed to be so much light. But now it doesn’t seem that way at all. Though there is enough light to see, everything is cast in shadows. A heavy fog lounges above the trees, not helping matters. Even the air feels different, like oxygen is more abundant here, but also somehow thicker.

The thing that shocks me most is the plants. They are everywhere, in every shape and color imaginable. I have trouble finding a spot that isn’t covered by long, looping vines or fat palm leaves. The forest is entirely carpeted in green — a canvas of life. I breathe in the rich scent of earth and vegetation. The woman’s voice inside the white device said we’d compete across four ecosystems. Remembering this, I suddenly realize this is no mere forest — it’s a jungle.

“We’re in a jungle,” I say to the man with the eyebrows. But he’s already gone.

I turn in a circle and count more than a hundred people in brown scrubs. Some have small tan bags, like mine. Others have enormous bags, and some have none at all. The ones with no bags carry eggs in their arms. I glance down at my own bag. Then I hook the single strap over my head and hang it over one shoulder. Sticking a hand into it, I rub the egg and try very hard not to feel claustrophobic among these trees. Many of the people around me seem okay with what’s happening. Not me. Every muscle in my body aches for home. Since the race hasn’t even started, I feel this doesn’t bode well for my competitive edge.

I hear a hissing sound that I recognize from inside the box. Spinning around, I realize it’s a semi’s brakes clicking off. The two men are climbing inside the crane. All the boxes have been removed from the beds of the two semis, and now the vehicles and monster crane are rolling away from us — going somewhere that isn’t here. I have to fight the impulse to race after them, begging for a ticket home. I’m not cut out for this, I realize. I should be in my lavender-painted room, giving myself a milk-and-avocado facial, wrestling my hair into a messy but fashionable updo. My hair, which is completely gone now.

The two semis pull away and follow the crane at a snail’s pace. They’re leaving us here. What if this is all a sick experiment in which someone somewhere gets off on ripping people away from their homes and dropping them in precarious situations with no hope of survival? How do I know the Cure is real? And is everyone else here racing for the same thing? We’re all totally susceptible, the perfect targets to scam. Just dangle a cure no one knows anything about and say, “Run, monkey, run!”

The woman from the device didn’t begin to answer the questions I have, and I’m guessing no other Contender knows much about this race, either. Yet here we all are.

I have to leave this place. Now.

I push my way past a blur of faces and race toward the retreating trucks.

“Wait,” I yell. “Wait!” The Contenders turn and watch me with visible disgust, but I don’t care. I can’t be left out here with nothing to go on besides “the winning prize will be the Cure.”

I’m only a few yards away from the semi in the back when a commotion ripples across the Contenders. They’re all moving, shifting their weight, and searching their bags. When I spot a handful of people near me place white devices in their ears, I realize what’s happening.

I stop running and gasp. It isn’t hard; it’s like the air wants nothing more than to fill my lungs. This is the jungle, and apparently its goal is to make everything grow. I fumble in my bag, pushing my egg to the side, until I feel the smooth plastic. Pulling my device out, I see the light is blinking. It taunts me to make a decision: keep chasing down my only way out of this hellhole, or stop and listen.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Around me, more than one hundred people raise their arms and press the buttons. I wonder what the message is. Turning back to the trucks, I realize they’re moving too quickly. I could catch up, but I’d have to run and I’d have to run now.

As the trucks pull farther and farther away, noises from the jungle amplify. I turn and face the lush, green landscape. In the midday heat, I make out birds calling to one another, and a long, sharp, whooping sound. I can hear the foliage rubbing together, even though there’s not a trace of wind. A short, low roo-mp, roo-mp sound repeats over and over, and somehow, while listening to all the different melodies, a small smile parts my face. This place … it’s miraculous.

Cody would love it.

In a daze, I place the white device into my ear.

I push the red blinking button. When the woman speaks, she sounds almost excited. It’s eerie to hear her normally robotic voice so animated.

“We’ll wait a few more seconds while everyone tunes in,” she says.

I wonder how long she’s been saying this, and how she could possibly know whether everyone is tuned in. There must be some sort of tracking capability built into the device. Glancing over my shoulder, I note that I can see still the trucks. I could still make it out.

“All right, I think that’s quite long enough.”

Was that a few seconds? I need her to wait. I need more time to decide. My pulse quickens and sweat beads across my arms.

“If you are hearing this message, then you have successfully completed the Pandora Selection Process. It also means you are now at the official starting line.”

Around me, Contenders whoop with excitement. Seriously? They’re about to plunge into a wild jungle, and that brings them happiness? Once again, I realize how out of my league I am. I don’t even have a change of clothes, for crying out loud.

“As you may have realized, you are on the outskirts of a rain forest. This will be the jungle part of the course. You will have two weeks to arrive at the jungle’s base camp. You will find this base camp by following the path of blue flags.”

Contestants glance around, immediately looking for the first blue flag. As for me, I’m watching the taillights of the semi and having a massive coronary.

“If you are the first to encounter a blue flag, you may remove it, but you may not remove the stake it is attached to. Doing so will result in immediate disqualification.”

I wonder why anyone would want to remove the flag to begin with. No one else seems concerned by this.

“While the Cure will be awarded to a single winner at the end of the last ecosystem, we will bestow a smaller prize for each leg of the race. The prize for the jungle portion will be monetary.” The woman pauses dramatically. “I’d like to officially welcome you to the Brimstone Bleed. May the bravest Contender win.”

That’s it? That’s all she’s going to say? Because it seriously sounds like she’s wrapping up. So why aren’t I running after the trucks? Why am I not chasing after my only way out of this jungle like my life depends on it? I know the answer — though I wish I didn’t. Cody would do this for me. I am his only hope. I have to believe his cure exists. My only other option is to return home and watch my brother die. If I could even get back home.

I glance around frantically, looking for someone to tell me what to do. The Contenders have formed a long line, the kind you see at the start of a marathon. A few yards down from where I stand — I see him. My throat tightens when I realize his cold blue eyes are locked on me. It’s the guy from the Pandora Selection Process. The serial killer–looking dude who I thought was going to kidney punch me. He glares in my direction like he might take this opportunity to finish what he never started. I raise my hand in a small wave, hoping it says something like: See? Look how friendly I am!

He lifts his own enormous hand. For a moment, I brighten. I think maybe that — even though it looks like he hates every fiber of my being — he’s going to wave back. But he doesn’t. He holds up two fingers — his pointer and his middle — places them under his eyes, and then points in front of us.

Oh no he didn’t. I think he basically just told me to pay attention. I’m still processing this when the woman’s voice rings in my ear.

“Go!”