“HE’S AWAKE . . .”
“No, he’s not . . .”
“His eyes are moving.”
“Jack? Jack, do you hear me?”
Jack. My name is Jack.
The dream was breaking up into flinty shards, images that shimmered and vanished. I could hear voices. Real, not dream voices. Cass and Aly. I tried to move my eyes but they weren’t working. I tried to talk but I couldn’t.
“He needs at least a half hour recovery, maybe more.”
“He can recuperate while we’re moving him.”
Dr. Bradley. Aly.
What was happening?
A warm hand clasped my arm. I was moving. Rolling. “He wasn’t due for one of these for another week, you say?”
“Early. Like Cass.”
“Then we can’t waste time. What about Bhegad?”
Dad. Torquin. Dad again.
“I appreciate the concern . . . but I will feel better . . . if someone destroys that banjo . . .” Professor Bhegad.
“Is ukulele.” Torquin.
Where am I going? What are you doing to me?
WHY CAN’T I—
“Taalk!”
The rolling stopped. My eyes popped open and I blinked. We were in the hallway, outside the recovery room.
“Did you say something, Jack?” Dad was staring down at me, his eyes creased with concern.
I blinked. “I said talk. I think.”
“I knew it!” Aly blurted out, clinging happily to my dad’s arm. “He’s okay.” She leaned close to me. “JACK, ARE YOU FULLY AWAKE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? YOU HAD A TREATMENT. YOU ARE BACK TO NORMAL NOW.”
“Why are you yelling at me?” I asked.
Cass appeared on the other side of the bed. “Bhegad’s awake. We asked him about the Loculus of Healing. And about the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus. Just to be sure. And guess what? You were right—about both!”
“Good work, Tailor,” Aly said.
“Tailor?” Dad asked.
Bhegad’s soft, breathy voice called out. He was on a gurney next to mine. “Tinker . . . tailor . . . soldier . . . sailor . . .”
“I’m the Sailor, because of my emosewa lanoitagivan ability,” Cass explained. “The Soldier is Marco—you never met him, Mr. McKinley, but he’s cool—because he’s mad athletic. And Aly is the Tinker because of her tech amazingness.”
Dad smiled. “So what’s the Tailor’s special ability?”
I smiled weakly. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
The one who puts it all together, Bhegad had once said. But that seemed like an excuse. Like the trophy you get even if your team finishes last.
Unfortunately, Bhegad had fallen silent.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s awesome,” Dad said. He gave a signal, and I felt myself being wheeled again. We were heading away from the recovery room toward the exit.
“What’s happening?” I asked. “Where are we going?”
“I had some time to think about what you told me before you passed out,” Dad said. “Since then, I’ve chatted with Dr. Bradley, Torquin, and your friends. I have decided it’s important to start planning for your fourteenth birthday. And fifteenth. So we’ve reserved Brunhilda to help us.”
“What the heck are you talking about?” I said.
We stopped by a small, empty room. Two McKinley Genetics Lab people stood just inside, holding some folded-up clothing.
“Brunhilda is the name of our corporate jet,” Dad replied. “Change quickly. I’m going to get you a cell phone in case we get separated at any point. Wheels up in ten minutes. With Bhegad. Torquin’s flying.”