A power generator is an unpredictable thing. It can blow up, blow out, or electrocute people with the same happy ease with which it charges your electric toothbrush.

The larger the generator, the more power it delivers, and consequently, the more potential for devastation.

The Three Gorges Dam, capable of providing 10 percent of China’s power with its thirty-two massive turbines, had been the world’s largest electric power generator. But even the largest turbine is just a quantity of copper wire spinning around a magnet, and can’t compare to a chunk of copper fifty miles across, spinning around the magnetic core of planet Earth. There was a new mega–power generator on the block, and its name was Bonk.

Everyone was aware of the buildup in static electricity. Most people just considered it “one of those things.” Like the way Wint-O-Green Life Savers spark in your mouth when you chew them, or how sometimes dry bedsheets flash with microlightning when you shuffle your feet beneath the covers.

Petula was no stranger to the phenomenon of electric shock.

Her parents would often laughingly tell of her many near-death experiences when, as a toddler, she had repeatedly shoved forks into outlets. Eventually they became an all-plastic-utensil household. Petula remembered it enough to know that she didn’t have an infant death wish—she was just trying to kill the “stinking monster” in the wall that kept shocking her for no good reason.

But now the monster was back, and it was no longer confined to the wall.

Petula knew it wasn’t going to be a good day when she awoke to discover that the static she had kicked up in her sheets during the night had caused her braided pigtails to stand almost on end, like Pippi Longstocking. It took the painful touching of many doorknobs to discharge the static, and industrial amounts of hair gel to keep her braids in place.

Petula suffered through her morning classes, but ever since the day Ms. Planck, the so-called lunch lady, had invited her to join the Accelerati, the busywork of institutionalized curriculum seemed like a nonsensical waste of her time.

The problem, Petula only now realized, was that Ms. Planck had inducted her into a sleeper cell of two. They were supposed to do nothing but watch and wait.

Petula was skilled at watching, but waiting was something she could not abide. She had gathered information on Nick Slate’s activities. She had reported to Ms. Planck which objects Nick had in his possession. She had taken remarkably dull pictures of the future on Ms. Planck’s orders, and she kept expecting Ms. Planck to ask her to actually do something important, but no such luck.

During history class, while the teacher was droning on about Manifest Destiny, Petula decided it was time to manifest her own destiny. The instant the lunch bell rang, she made a beeline to the cafeteria.

Ms. Planck was at her usual station behind the steam table. The woman, who had worked undercover all these years, was one of the few people in the world Petula respected and one of the fewer she actually liked. But at the moment, she was holding Petula back.

There were other kids already waiting for lunch. Petula allowed them their place in line ahead of her so she could formulate her thoughts and build her resolve. When no one was looking, she reached up and felt the hidden gold pin she wore, running her thumb and forefinger over the smooth little A with an infinity sign as its crossbar. “Wear this close to your heart, but don’t let anyone see it,” Ms. Planck had told her. Well, membership had to mean more than a stupid pin. It had to be a doorway to greatness, and Petula was tired of knocking.

When Petula finally approached, Ms. Planck must have read something in her face, because she offered a conspiratorial smirk and said, “You look like you could use some food from my special surprise stash.”

Seventy-five percent of surprises, Petula had concluded, were unpleasant, but she had to admit she was curious.

“Sure,” she said to Ms. Planck. “What ya got?”

The lunch lady reached a pair of long silver tongs below the counter, then dropped a perfectly broiled lobster tail on Petula’s tray.

“Impressive,” Petula said. “Who do you usually serve this to?”

“Anyone who deserves it and isn’t allergic to shellfish,” Ms. Planck said.

“There are kids I know who are allergic to shellfish, and deserve to be given some.”

“Give me their names,” Ms. Planck said with a wink, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Hey,” said the kid behind her in line. “How come she got the big shrimp? I want a big shrimp too!”

“Can’t do it,” said Ms. Planck flatly. “Serving you a bottom-feeder could be considered encouraging cannibalism. You get soy pizza. Next!”

Kids were pushing forward to get their lunch, but Petula blocked the flow, refusing to move on. “We need to talk,” she told Ms. Planck.

“Later” was all Ms. Planck said, and she then ignored her, serving up slop as if Petula wasn’t there. So Petula found a table, sat down, and ate the lobster tail unnoticed by the other kids. This didn’t surprise her—she was convinced she could have done a hula dance with the lobster tail on her head and, with the exception of the one kid who wanted “big shrimp,” no one would have paid any attention.

That, Petula resolved, was one more thing that needed to change.

After school, Petula took her daily photographs for the Accelerati with the focus ring of Tesla’s old box camera set twenty-four hours to the future. She snapped a photo of the newspaper kiosk, where tomorrow’s headlines would appear. She took a few pictures of the digital stock ticker that wrapped around the Wells Fargo Bank building. And finally she took a shot of the front of the neighborhood bowling alley.

When she was done, she went to Ms. Planck’s darkroom and developed the negatives. Together they pored over the enlargements, studying tomorrow’s newspaper headlines, noting the next day’s closing stock prices, and confirming that the bowling alley looked unchanged. Ms. Planck had never explained the significance of snapping this last photograph every day, and not knowing why made Petula feel even more like an outsider.

“Look,” Petula said, pointing at a news headline. “The Phoenix Suns are going to beat the Lakers in tonight’s playoff—that’s a pretty big upset.”

“Yes, it is. I’m sure the Accelerati will find the information most useful,” Ms. Planck responded.

“You mean they’ll place a bet?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, honey. They’ll buy the team.”

Thanks to me! Petula wanted to shout. Not only was she their eyes and ears on Nick Slate and his attic, she was also feeding the Accelerati reams of priceless information about the future. But did they even know about her, or was Ms. Planck taking all the credit? It was that thought that pushed Petula over the edge.

“Enjoy those pictures,” she told Ms. Planck. “Because they’re the last you’re going to get. As of now, I’m on strike.”

Ms. Planck didn’t seem bothered. She just smirked. “Really. Is it just you or the entire future-tographer’s union?”

“I don’t mind being used,” Petula told her, “as long as I get something worthwhile in return.”

Ms. Planck considered that, then said, “Maybe it’s time to introduce you to the brass.”

Petula’s only context for that sentiment was a gangster movie she had seen once on TCM, in which being “introduced to the brass” meant a beating with brass knuckles.

“Are you threatening me?” Petula asked, and she assumed a ready position she had learned in her online theoretical jujitsu class.

“Take it easy, honey,” Ms. Planck said, arching an eyebrow. “I only mean to say I think you’re ready to meet some of the higher-ups in our little association.”

Petula let out a small breath and smiled at the thought. This was what she had been waiting for: her moment to make an impression. With her personality and perfect elocution, she had no doubt that this was her opportunity to open the door wide.

“In that case, we have a deal,” she said. “The strike has been averted.”

She would enchant the visionaries of the Accelerati. And God help them if they weren’t enchanted.