For some reason I wake up thinking about Star Wars.
Last month, my dad had insisted we spend a whole weekend watching all six of those movies, and at the time, I’d thought they were fun, entertaining. Now, lying on a ratty cot under a threadbare blanket, the sounds of my friends’ breathing washing my skin with the chilling fear of loss, I wish the real world were a bit more like George Lucas imagined the future.
Black versus white, good versus evil, the Empire versus the Rebels. Luke versus Darth.
Hollywood has been wrong about just about everything, as far as I can tell, but there’s never something as simple as all that. Life isn’t black and white. No one is all good or all bad, and it’s up to each person to use the tools at their disposal to choose the least bad option on any given day.
The Olders lied, are continuing to lie. They have a secret agenda, but there’s no way to say whether it’s in our best interest or not. The government wants to use us, and that isn’t exactly noble, but if they’re combatting things like this deadly computer virus, it doesn’t mean their cause isn’t worthwhile. Putting aside the unscrupulous way they brought us into existence, of course.
My chest aches with the desire to call my dad. To ask him what he thinks we should do—trust the Olders or try to do the “right thing” working for the CIA. Or if we should strike out on our own, the seven of us. Eight, once Madeline gets Flicker up and running.
Instead of phoning my father I stare at the entry for Dane Lee that Jude put into my burner cell.
The others were asleep when I got back last night, but this isn’t a question that needs to be put to the group. We’ve agreed to contact Dane if we can, to try to barter what we found out about Hatfield, or maybe even offer our own services for information on the Olders. I’m the one who knows him, who had a relationship with the guy, so it should be me that calls.
But actually doing it feels like a step down a path into the future. What if it’s not the right one?
Just do it, Gypsy. You can always change paths, but you can’t find the one you want without stepping onto the road.
It rings four times, then five, and I’m convinced he’s not going to pick up. Maybe he’s at work, or maybe he doesn’t answer calls from unknown numbers, and I’m breathing out a sigh of relief when the ringing stops. I’m greeted by static and a weird crackle.
“Hello?” More crackling greets my question, and a shock of something other than expectation goes through me: fear. Then the noises cease, and I realize I’ve bitten my bottom lip. Maybe he just dropped the phone in his hurry to pick it up or something.
“Dane?” I try again.
“Norah Jane.” He sounds like himself, except tired. “I’m glad you called.”
A couple of breaths later, I find my voice. “You are?”
“Of course. I’ve been worried.”
“From what I’ve heard, there’s no reason for that. You guys keep pretty close tabs.”
“Hearing you’re fine and seeing it for myself are two different things.” He pauses and I can almost see him scratching the back of his neck like he does when he’s thinking.
His concern tries to pump life back into our friendship but I lock down the feeling before it takes its first breath. Focus, Gyspy.
“I want to talk to you about the Olders,” I blurt out.
The ensuing silence goes on so long that I pull the phone away from my ear to check the connection.
Then, finally, “I can’t talk on this line.”
“Well, where do you want to talk? Would you like to have high tea at the Two Meeting Street Inn?” My attitude is probably uncalled for, but I need answers.
“Lunchtime today. You know where.” Another pause. “And Norah?”
“What?” I snap, tired of playing games.
“Come alone.”
The others aren’t too keen on letting me meet Dane solo, and to be honest, neither am I. As much as I want to believe Dane and I had cultivated an actual friendship in those short weeks when I thought he was another new kid with normal problems, he’s not that guy anymore.
He’s a CIA agent who was undercover, with the objective of not only spying on me but trying to recruit me as an Asset. It’s hard to separate the two Danes in my mind—the encouraging understanding in his pitch-black eyes, and the guy who knew everything to start with and never thought of me as a real person.
I shake off the morose feelings that accompany the thought and look around for Goose. The Cavies had two requirements for not accompanying me en masse today—that Goose come along and that we all meet for lunch at S.N.O.B right afterward.
Goose is good company and I’ve been dying for shrimp and grits, cheddar jalapeño cornbread, and a bunch of other delicious items on S.N.O.B.’s lunch menu, so it wasn’t hard for me to agree.
The speedy twin appears at my side in the space of two breaths, the only evidence that he came and went a slight disturbance of air that brushes a few bangs loose from my hairpin. He’s leaning against the wrought-iron fence that wraps around Saint Philip’s cemetery as though he’s been there the whole time. It’s our second stop of the day—Dane wasn’t at the Unitarian graveyard where we used to hang out, and this one is my only other guess at what he meant. It’s going to be a real shame if I don’t know where to find him after all.
“How do you do that?” I stare at him, my mind boggled. And based on what little I understand of physics, not possible.
“Do what?”
“You’ve been gone maybe ten seconds. You can’t have been through the whole graveyard.”
“It was only ten seconds? Huh.” He twists his lips, thinking. “It’s like…I go so fast now that the world kind of stops.”
“What do you mean, stops?”
“Well, maybe not one hundred percent stops, but like, people move in like super slow motion. I can see everything in the time it takes for them to take half a breath.”
“And they don’t see you?” My brain hurts. “Even while they’re frozen?”
“They’re not frozen, Gyp. They just look that way to me.” He shrugs, then pats my cheek. “Don’t hurt yourself. Dane’s in there. Back side of Calhoun’s grave.”
Goose watches me as I press my lips together in an attempt to prepare for this conversation. Even though the market is a couple of blocks away I can almost hear the sounds of the old slave market opening up for the day, later and lazier than it will be during the height of tourist season. Can almost smell the sweetgrass being woven into baskets by Gullah descendants and the scent of the fried green tomatoes and rich, ham-and-cheese grits wafting from the patio at the Lowcountry Bistro, one of my father’s favorite restaurants.
I’m starting to think the food is one of the main things I miss about living in this city.
“Well? Are you going in or chickening out?” Despite Goose’s attempt at laid-back banter, there’s tension in his shoulders and face, in the clench of his hands.
The same anxiety twitches above my right eye and somersaults through my stomach. It’s not going anywhere until I talk to Dane long enough to determine his willingness to trade information.
“No.” The last thing I want to do is nothing. “It’s just…this place.”
“Ah, secret Dane and Norah spot, huh?” Goose shoots me a smile that lets me know he’s not looking for an argument. “Remember who he is, Gypsy. We want his help but we don’t need him, got it?”
It’s still weird having two names. It’s even weirder how many times I’ve been called Norah in the past few days after two weeks of not hearing it at all.
I try a smile for Goose, as practice. “We have a thing for graveyards.”
“You’re in the right place. What are there, like, two hundred churches in Charleston proper?”
“More than that, maybe,” I murmur.
My fingers are cold. I stuff them in my pockets and chew on my lower lip while Goose reads the funny sign informing tourists that, no matter how much their tour guide insists, there are no ghosts on the church grounds other than the Holy Spirit.
He turns back and jerks his thumb toward the fence. “What the hell is this?”
“Cursing in front of a church, Goose? Really?”
“You suddenly put stock in this stuff?”
The way he asks it, as though he really wants to know the answer no matter what it is, makes me think twice about my answer. “I don’t know. I guess I put more stock in the power of belief than I did a few months ago.”
He cocks his head to one side, bright red hair falling across his forehead. “Explain.”
“I think collective belief, or even really strong individual belief, can make things happen.” I gesture to the church and the city behind it, a skyline of steeples and spires. “This city was founded on it. It spurred citizens to support the politicians that shaped the country. And belief in ghosts and spirits—in living history—is what draws people here, what makes locals and tourists alike fall in love. They believe in this place. And they have for centuries.”
“Have you been taking online philosophy classes behind our backs?”
He grins as I whack his arm, my cheeks a little warm from the teasing. Despite his ribbing, there’s a thoughtful expression in Goose’s eyes that satisfies me. I turn my back on him and stare into the “stranger” side of the church’s burial grounds, if local lore is to be believed.
I squint into the distance, around the mature trees and large, ornate headstones, my gaze roaming the edges of the resting place of one of Charleston’s more famous residents—John C. Calhoun. When I see the tip of a black Chuck Taylor resting on the wet grass on the opposite side of the monolith, it hits me like a punch to the gut.
“Okay. I’m going in.”
Goose screws up his face, unhappiness in his dark eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this by yourself?”
“I know him the best, and we have a rapport. At least, we did,” I amend. “I just think we’ll have a better chance of getting information if we at least appear to play by his rules.”
Multiple replies flicker across my friend’s slightly goofy features before he settles on acquiescence and gives me a nod. “Fine. But if I hear anything that pisses me off I can’t promise to stay out of the way.”
“I’m counting on it.” I give him a rueful smile. “There’s no one I’d trust more to wrestle a full-grown man to the ground. He’d never know what hit him.”
Goose’s snort echoes in my ears as I take a step into the graveyard, then another, then a few more. The walk feels more like swimming, with the world gliding along my body, blurry and void of sound.
Which is maybe why the sound of my name, once again on Dane’s lips, is loud enough to make me flinch.
“Fancy meeting you here, Norah Jane.”
He looks exactly as he does in my memory—sleek black hair, eyes the color and shape of polished almonds, a solid, pleasing build that used to make me feel a little bit safe. Dane’s sitting on the small ledge on the back side of Calhoun’s tomb, where he and I sat together just weeks ago with, as it turns out, a lot more lies between us.
Or maybe that’s a judgment call.
I swallow and find my voice, determined not to be intimidated. The more I think about how he could have helped me back then if he’d wanted to, the more anger replaces my worry. If he would have trusted me, told us at least a little bit about the Olders, the Cavies and I might have made a more informed decision before going with them.
Of course, if we hadn’t gone we might never have found Flicker.
“Yeah,” I manage, taking a seat next to him, mostly because my knees are wobbly and about to give away my nerves. “Are you waiting for me or something?” I joke, trying to keep my cool.
That makes him smile, and it looks as easy as the first one he ever gave me. Maybe because he lies for a living. “Waiting for you? History has shown that to be a waste of time, hasn’t it?”
I don’t know the best way to respond to that, so I don’t.
“I was just taking a lunch break.” He nods toward a crumpled brown paper bag by his feet. “Tuna. To be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d show.”
His tone irks me, the way he acts like nothing has changed since the last time we were here. The thought stops me. It makes me wonder whether, in the grand scheme of things, anything really changed at all.
I shake off my uncertainty. Making me question myself is exactly what he wants. “I’m here for my friends.”
Silence pushes between us, prodding Dane, then me, in an attempt to push one of us to break this standoff. I have a million questions, which he likely knows, but Dane must have his own agenda for this little chitchat.
I’m guessing it’s still to recruit us.
In the end, the quiet bullies me, but only because time is running short. I’m not sure how long Goose will wait patiently on the other side of the gate, and anyway, the Cavies have some serious decisions to make, and the sooner the better, especially if we need to leave town in a hurry.
“I saw Jude last night,” I begin, testing the water with a single toe.
Dane’s eyebrows go up. “Is that right? Well, I must say, I’m not surprised you sought him out first. Disappointed, sure, but not surprised.”
I ignore the ridiculous comment. “He said you’re the reason he got to go back to school instead of spending who knows how many years locked away because of what he saw.”
Dane purses his lips, nodding along as though the information coming out of my mouth is all very thought-provoking. “Hmm. Interesting theory. And what exactly did he see, Norah Jane?”
He’s asking me to lay all my cards on the table, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep a few hidden up my sleeves. “He saw Mole light stuff on fire with his eyes, Geoff lift Dumpsters off the ground with the flick of a finger, Haint disappear. He knows what we can do, even if he can only guess at what we are.”
“His guesses are more educated than most after living with his unrelenting father. That man doesn’t know when to quit.” There’s something regretful in Dane’s tone. “I tried to talk to him, you know. Get him to shut up, to dispose of the evidence in his house, but he won’t let it go. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”
The way Dane poses the last question brings all my uneasiness from last night crashing down.
Ask the right questions, Gypsy.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Because he’s a reporter looking for the story that will shake his career.”
“Another interesting theory.”
“If you have a different one, I’d love to hear it.” My teeth dig into the inside of my lip in an attempt to stop Dane from baiting me, and when he doesn’t answer, I move on. “You think the threat of something worse happening to his dad is enough to keep Jude in line?”
Dane watches me, seeming to consider his answer. “I think Jude has more than one dog in this fight, and they’re enough collectively to keep him from opening his mouth. He cares about you, too, and he’ll keep quiet if he thinks that’s what you want.”
My heart pounds so hard my ribs ache. Poor Jude.
As sweet as the sentiment is, in my mind all I can see is the sorrow in his dying gaze. My ears strain to make out the words he’s desperate to speak in my vision, sure they’ll make all of these jagged edges line up.
“How’s Eve?” It’s an unconscious decision, using Reaper’s given name, or maybe it’s because that’s how we all knew each other at Charleston Academy.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the status of any current CIA Asset.”
I pause, waiting for him to crack a smile. It doesn’t happen. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. If you’d let me talk to you about the foolishness of your decision to join forces with the older generations, maybe go back to the safe house, we could probably arrange some information for you.”
I take several deep breaths because I’ve got a few more toes in the water now and sense that there might be piranhas circling. If I make a wrong move, I might lose a valuable appendage. “How about we take this one step at a time.”
His gaze, still trained on me, narrows. Dane might be on a mission, but he’s not a fool. And it would behoove me to remember that he’s a professional spy, not an actual high school student.
“I’m listening. What’s the first step, then, as you see it?”
“I want to know what you know about the Olders.”
“The Olders?”
“Yeah. That’s what we’re calling them. The other Cavies.”
“Ah. Well. Since you and your friends are smart kids—engineered that way, but still, smart—” He gives me a small smile when I acknowledge the intentional barb with a snort. “I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that they want something from you, too.”
“Yeah, you told me that before we left. Do you know what it is?” Impatience makes me sweaty, twists my stomach into loopy knots.
The look on Dane’s face suggests he’d like to hear my theories first, but that’s not going to happen.
“We know they’ve been funded by someone with endless cash. I know they’ve developed a way—using that money—to enhance their genetic mutations, but that whatever they’re using hasn’t been tested or approved.” Dane stops there, even though there must be more.
“Nothing that has ever been done to us was approved, Dane.” My voice is scratchy, full of more emotion than I expect. It catches me off guard, to finally say aloud that I’m angry about how my life began.
Dane’s eyes go soft, shift from the suspicious interrogator to the kindhearted boy determined to help me fit in, and he reaches out his hand to cover mine. I jerk away, despite the fact that when I touch Dane I see nothing.
Saw nothing. Who knows what would happen post-GRH-18. Either way, plugging more emotion into my charged system could send it sparking into overload.
“Of course it wasn’t,” he says, his voice as careful as his gaze. “All I’m saying is that what you are, Norah, is the result of decades of work. Of trial and error. These Olders are tampering with that, using themselves—and now you guys—as guinea pigs.”
“That’s what we are, Dane. That’s what Cavy means.” I let all the hatred in my heart bleed into my tone, not caring how it makes him feel. “Don’t pretend you give a shit just because you’re not the one holding the syringe this time.”
Dane’s never administered anything to me or any of my Cavies. It’s more a metaphorical point, but by the way his skin pales, it’s clear I hit a sensitive spot. I use the success to bolster my confidence, false as it may be.
“So, y’all don’t know who’s funding them, then?” I ask, trying to calm myself down.
“No. We have a shortlist of possibilities, but so far all of them have checked out as legitimate.”
I don’t know if he knows about Hatfield, yet, but I keep that intel tucked in my back pocket.
“What about why they wanted us so badly? Why they gave us enhancements without asking?” They’re the questions I most want answered, and I know in my gut that if we asked Chameleon or any of the others, they would never give us a straight answer. So far all they’ve done is spout b.s. about us being family, being the same, as if there could be no other reason for our alliance.
“There could be a ton of reasons. Most likely, they need more test subjects.” Dane reaches out again, and this time touches me before I can pull away.
There are flickers at the edges of my vision, waves of sound or light or water, and I hold my breath waiting for his death to appear. Nothing materializes before I pull away again, using my hands to tug my hasty ponytail tighter. He’s not going to tell me anything, either. Not without encouragement. “What if we knew who was funding the Olders? Would you know anything more specific then?”
Surprised excitement lights his dark gaze before he can tamp it down and he sits forward, hands clamped over his kneecaps. “You know who’s funding their research?”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Maybe.”
“Wait, are you trying to blackmail me?”
“It’s not blackmail, Dane.” I roll my eyes. “It’s an information exchange. I’m not going to hire a mobster named Tony to break your legs if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“You really do watch too many movies.”
“Yeah, well, it was the only connection we had to the real world growing up at Darley.”
“You’re not going to make me feel sorry for you, so you can stop trying.” His eyes bore into mine, determined now. “I might feel badly for little Norah Jane, but you’re nearly an adult. It’s time to stop lamenting your childhood and figure out who you want to be now.”
It’s tough to hear, but pretty much what Mole and the rest of us have decided these past couple of days. We’re looking into the future without a map, but it’s still better than looking back.
“And there is probably more we can tell you about the Olders,” he adds, “if you’re willing to share information. But that’s not where it’s going to stop.”
“If we did come to talk to the CIA, what would they say? Give me the recruitment speech.” Knowledge is power. It can’t hurt to be prepared for how they’re going to try to woo us to their side.
“They want to help you develop and improve your abilities in a natural way. They want to let you continue your education past high school, if that’s what you desire.” He pauses, then shrugs. “They want you to work for them. To be available for covert ops and to serve your country to the best of your rather unique abilities.”
“So, be spies.”
“In layman’s terms, though that won’t be the extent of your duties if you agree.”
There it is. On the table. For some reason, what the CIA might ask of us seems less scary out in the open. The devil you know, and all that. The shadow of the Olders’ intentions could as easily be full of nightmares as daisies.
The truth is, though, it’s not what they might ask of us that’s causing me to hesitate. It’s the fact that they did all of this to us in the first place, planned on using us our whole lives and never really thought they’d have to ask us at all. Maybe it means I’m selfish and stubborn, but part of me wants to give them the finger just because I can.
Dane and I stare at each other for a long moment. His response bothers me, and something about the way he holds his shoulders tight against his neck unsettles me.
“Why do you say they, not we? Don’t you work for the CIA?”
“Of course. But I’m not them, Norah. I’m not a robot.” He glances away, as though afraid to let me see behind his eyes. “I got to know you, and Eve, and yeah, even Jude. It’s not the same for me now.”
“That’s why you wanted to talk to me alone. You think we’re friends.”
His gaze is still soft, but there’s wariness around the edges. As if he’s not sure he wants to continue the conversation. “I don’t know about friends, but I wanted to tell you that you can trust me without the others rolling their eyes at you. I’ve got your best interests at heart, and I’m telling you the government is the lesser of two evils.”
“Oh, so basically the Olders are strangers handing out candy in the back of a white van?”
“Nice real-world reference there, freak.” He winks, and I can’t help but feel pleased. “Listen, I’m not going to sit here and blow rainbows and sunshine at you. It’s not who I am, you’re too smart to fall for it, and it doesn’t do either of us any good. The government created you. They own you, whether you like it or not, and they will expect a return on that investment.”
I bite back a growl, my chest hot at the claim that anyone owns me and my Cavies. Maybe they don’t even think we’re people. “What does that mean?”
“It means they’re going to come to you with unique cases and problems and expect your help.”
“Like this situation with the computer virus out of Russia?”
That makes his jaw drop and a not small amount of satisfaction flush my skin. I got the drop on Dane, for once, and it feels pretty awesome.
“How do you know about that?”
“I’m friends with Cavies. Some of them can do pretty awesome things.”
“Well, yes, exactly like that, and we especially need Mole, Haint, and Athena on this one.”
Shame smacks me across the cheeks, as hard as any palm. They don’t need me. They need my friends.
The internal lecture about how messed up my reaction is can’t come quick enough, or be convincing enough, to stave it off, and in my too-long pause, Dane rushes on.
“We want you all. We can utilize each and every one of your talents, but those three are the ones we have missions for right up front, is all.” The fact that he’s trying to make me feel better, that he knows me well enough to sense my insecurity over my bogus mutation, twists a knife in my heart.
“I don’t care, Dane. I know I’m useless as far as Cavy things go.” He doesn’t agree with me, or at least, he won’t say so out loud.
“Will you ask the other Cavies to meet with us? Hear us out?”
“Yes, I know they’ll want to, but expect us to have more than a few requests of our own before we agree to anything.” I catch his eye. “Like information. Lots of it.”
Dane slips me a business card with a contact number on it.
I raise my eyebrows. “I have your number.”
“That’s the one on the front. There’s another one on the back. If you just want to talk.” He swallows, looking toward the graves pushed up against the fence, an area supposedly haunted by the ghost of a little girl who died mysteriously in the spot. Dane stares for a long time, as though watching her spirit skip among the stones. “If you all decide to stay in town, you should be fine to stay at your father’s house for another week. He’s out of town on business.”
My blood turns to ice at the mention of my father. At the idea that the CIA knows he’s out of town on business and at why, after learning what happened to Mr. Greene, it never occurred to me they could have gotten to my father, too. The invisible threat drains all the blood out of my head.
“How do you know that?” My dad’s face hovers in my mind, and my teeth find my bottom lip.
“The CIA keeps tabs on their Assets, Norah. And the people who matter to them.”
I lick the blood off my lip. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” He doesn’t deny having my father, or at least enjoying unrestricted access to him, and I wonder whether the whole business trip is a lie. Dane reads the fear on my face in an instant and reaches for me, making contact this time with no accompanying vision. “No one’s laid a hand on your father.”
I hear a yet at the end of his statement, whether he meant to put it there or not.
“Unless I don’t get my useful and talented friends to come talk to you about selling their souls?” I snap, fear and anger mixing in my gut.
“You don’t believe in souls.”
The faint smile, the friendship, in his response turns on the light behind my eyes. The others might think I’m crazy to believe that Dane could see me as more than a Cavy. More than an Asset, even if the CIA doesn’t.
But my heart struggles to let go of the idea.
“I know.” I close my eyes and sigh. “I’ll talk to them. When do you want to brief us?”
“Soon. Tonight, if possible.”
“Where? And don’t say your safe house or that forsaken warehouse on the waterfront. Somewhere neutral and public.”
“We’re not going to be able to discuss this in public, Norah.”
“Fine. How about the Unitarian graveyard, then? The western half.” It’s more deserted. Creepy as heck, too, as evidenced by the dryness of my mouth at the thought of hanging out there after dark, even with a group of people.
Some of them probably have guns, but that won’t scare any respectable apparition.
“They lock it at night,” Dane reminds me.
“You’re the big bad government guy. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Norah?”
Goose and I have gone about two blocks in the direction of lunch when the high-pitched sound of my name halts our pace. It’s not as though I wasn’t friendly during my short stint at Charleston Academy, but other than Peter, Maya, and Jude, there are only a couple other girls who would stop me on the street.
I turn slowly, hoping like heck that it’s Jude’s sister Holly, but find Savannah instead. The cold breeze toys with her high ponytail, whipping blond strands across her pink cheeks. She’s surprised to see me but not gleeful as Maya was, based on her expression.
“Hi, Savannah.”
Her gaze strays to Goose, then back to me without asking for an introduction. At least she’s not going to flirt with him the way she did with Mole. “What are you doing here? Are you back?”
“No, I’m just in town for a few days.” I close my eyes when Goose clears his throat expectantly. “Oh. This is Hosea.”
“What’s with your Darley friends and biblical names?” She smiles, but not the thousand-watt one she has in her arsenal. “Hi. I’m Savannah, one of Norah’s friends from C.A.”
“So, how are you?” I ask when it’s clear that we’re not done catching up.
“Good. I got into Auburn.”
“That’s amazing news.” And I mean it. I envy her. Not for her perfect hair or her popularity or anything specific, just for all of it. Her whole life. “Well, we’re meeting some people for lunch so I guess we should go.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Savannah swallows, glancing down at the toes of her furry boots, then back at me. “It was good to see you. Everyone was worried when you just…disappeared. But I guess everything’s fine.”
“Yep. Fine.”
The dubious expression on her face seems to indicate that I can’t even make a girl who amounts to little more than an acquaintance believe my lies. I think Dane and the CIA should rethink my ability to make a living as a spy.
“Well, okay,” she says. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.”
Savannah reaches out before I can avoid it, her fingers wrapping around mine for less than three seconds, which would normally only be enough contact to give me the faintest outline of a death age in my mind.
Instead, the scene explodes around me in full color. There’s no preamble, as though my ability senses there won’t be time to show me extraneous details.
Savannah’s at a white-painted desk in a bedroom decorated in purples and whites. Pictures and invitations, cute notes and ticket stubs clutter a corkboard behind the computer. On the giant Mac desktop screen is a series of flashing numbers and pictures, graphs and geometric images, while an unsettling, high-pitched shriek emanates from the machine. She stares at it, transfixed, then starts to tremble.
Then her eyes start to bleed. Dark, black blood drips from her nose. It’s followed by a greenish-yellow fluid that’s thick like jelly as it covers her mouth and cheeks, runs out of her ears until her blond hair mats against her skin.
Savannah goes limp, her head dropping to the desk with a thud.
The computer screen goes blank. A message pops up, white on a black background.
Come and get us.