The morning after my first run with Micah, I woke up to a quiet house. Ordinarily, Mom and Dad both would have been rattling around by then, making breakfast and coffee and grumbling at each other, and eventually yelling at me to get my lazy backside out of bed. That morning, though? Nothing. Weirdly, I think that actually got me up earlier than usual. It was barely six when I rolled over and sat up—still dark outside, but with just a hint of a glow on the horizon outside my window. I sat there for a minute, knowing something was off but unable to put my finger on exactly what. Finally, when it became pretty clear that it was too late to try to go back to sleep, I got to my feet and started rooting around in my dresser for clean underwear and socks.
By the time I got downstairs, I’d figured out that Dad was not, in fact, anywhere in the house. This was a problem, because Dad was my ride to school. Mom could have substituted in a pinch, but she didn’t seem to be around either. I’m not sure why my parents both being completely AWOL that morning didn’t bother me more in and of itself, but it didn’t. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss first bell.
As I was toasting my bagel, I ran down a mental list of people who might possibly give me a ride. My friend list hadn’t been particularly long before the whole Climb to Failure thing, and it was considerably shorter afterward. There was Sarah, but she lived on the Syracuse side of Briarwood, and coming out to get me would add almost sixty miles to her ride—besides which, she only seemed to be my friend when Tara wasn’t looking, and I wasn’t positive she’d be willing to be seen showing up in the parking lot with me in her car. Micah had been friendly enough as a running partner, but our relationship had definitely not reached the come-pick-me-up stage. Devon? Ha! Even if she’d gone to my school, I felt like I was tighter with Inchy at that point. Who did that leave?
Jordan.
My bagel popped. I slathered it with cream cheese, carried it over to the breakfast table, and gave him a ping.
Wilma17: Jordan? You awake?
Jordasaurus: Not really.
Wilma17: It’s Hannah.
Jordasaurus: . . .
Wilma17: Jordan?
Jordasaurus: What can I do for you, friendo?
Wilma17: Um . . . Any chance I could catch a ride to school?
Jordasaurus: . . .
Wilma17: Please?
Jordasaurus: Sorry. Not 100% sure I’m going in today.
Wilma17: Oh. You sick?
Jordasaurus: Not exactly.
Wilma17: . . .
Wilma17: Okay, I get it. Sorry to bug you.
I dropped my phone, sat down at the table and crammed a quarter of the bagel into my mouth to keep myself from crying. Apparently, I didn’t rank nearly as high on Jordan’s friend list as he did on mine. Not too surprising considering our relative social standings, but . . .
My phone pinged.
I picked it up and thumbed the screen.
Jordasaurus: Look, Hannah. Things are weird right now, and you might actually be able to help. Want to ditch with us today?
I was sitting on the porch when they rolled up. Micah was riding shotgun, elbow jutting out of his open window. He waved.
There was somebody crammed into the cargo space behind the seats.
They stopped in the driveway. The doors popped open, and Jordan and Micah unfolded themselves like clowns coming out of one of those tiny circus cars. Jordan groaned and stretched as the girl in the back hauled herself out. I recognized her mod package right away. It was a super-exclusive thing. I’d seen examples in one of Dad’s brochures, but as far as I knew the only people who actually had it were a couple of celebrity kids, and one popular fashion model named Raven Blue. She was a Spooky—dead white skin, jet black hair, limbs just a bit too long for her spectrally thin torso. The package came with some internal mods too, but I couldn’t remember exactly what they were. I stood, and walked down the steps and over to where they were waiting.
“Hey,” I said. “Who’s your friend?”
“Him?” Micah said. “That’s Jordan. Not really a friend, though. More of a hanger-on.”
Spooky scowled at him and stepped forward.
“I’m Marta,” she said, and held out one fist. I gave it a half-hearted tap.
“Hannah,” I said. “I haven’t seen you around. You go to Briarwood?”
She laughed.
“Me? No, Hannah. I do not go to Briarwood.”
I looked at Micah, then at Jordan.
“Wait,” he said. “I thought you two were friends?”
Marta turned to look at him.
“What?”
“Last week,” Jordan said. “Didn’t you tell me that you and Hannah were tight?”
“No,” Marta said. “I definitely did not.”
He looked at me.
“Nope,” I said. “I mean, we’re not enemies or anything. I’ve never seen her before.”
“Seriously,” Marta said. “What are you talking about, Jordan?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Care to explain?”
Jordan looked at me, then at Marta, then back at me.
“Not really,” he said.
Micah grinned.
“Anyway, Hannah—Marta’s our new sidekick.”
Marta gave him a quick shot of side-eye.
“Sidekick?”
“Sure,” Micah said. “Like Bat-Boy, or Corporal Punishment.”
“Oh no,” Marta said. “I’m definitely not a sidekick. If anything, I’m the hero here.”
Micah laughed and shook his head.
“I don’t think so. Heroes get to ride in the front seat.”
“Actually,” Jordan said, “I think you’re probably a villain who’s on a redemption arc.”
We all turned to look at him.
“You know,” he said. “Redemption arc: villain has a change of heart, defects to the heroes’ side, gives them critical aid in defeating the forces of evil, winds up with reduced jail time and a sweet job in the prison cafeteria.”
I swear, at that moment, I heard a cricket chirp.
“Prison cafeteria?” Marta finally asked.
“Sure,” Jordan said. “Way better than working in the laundry—quieter, less humid, and you get to see who spits in what.”
“Huh,” I said. “When did you come down with verbal diarrhea?”
Micah snickered.
“Oh,” he said. “That’s nothing new. Jordan’s mouth has irritable vowel syndrome.”
There was that cricket again. Micah looked at Marta, then back at me.
“Too far?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Too far.”
He shrugged.
“Can’t nail it every time.”
“Right,” Marta said. “Can we go back to the whole redemption arc thing? How, exactly, am I a villain?”
“Well,” Micah said. “Maybe not a villain per se. You’re definitely villain-spawn, though, which I’m pretty sure qualifies you for a redemption arc. Unless, of course, it turns out you’re actually leading us to our doom. In that case, this would be a fake redemption arc. Are you leading us to our doom?”
“No,” Marta said. “I am not leading you to your doom.” She looked at Micah. “Well, maybe him. He’s annoying. Probably not Jordan, though.”
“Hey,” I said. “What about me?”
She gave me an appraising look.
“Probably not, but let’s see how the day goes.”
“Hmmm,” Jordan said. “I’m not sure how to classify that.”
“RA-EFGO?” I said.
Micah raised both eyebrows.
“What?”
“Redemption arc,” I said. “Exception for giant oafs.”
Micah looked at Jordan. Jordan shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“Yeah,” Micah said. “That’s just dumb. Get it together, Hannah.”
Incredibly, the space behind the seats in Jordan’s car was even less comfortable than it had looked from the outside. It was only meant to hold a few bags in the first place, and if it weren’t for the fact that Marta was as scrawny as I was and twice as flexible, squeezing us both in there at once would have been completely impossible. As it was, it was just kind of improbable. That, and very, very awkward.
“Just for the record,” Marta said. “I am not intentionally molesting you right now.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Good to know.”
Jordan twisted his head around to look back at us.
“Hey,” he said. “If we see the gendarmes, try to duck down. It’s kind of illegal to have humans back there. Or livestock either, now that I think about it. Actually, I think it’s illegal to have anything at all back there bigger than an old pizza box. So yeah, try to be inconspicuous, huh?”
“Got it,” I said. “If we happen to see any troopers, we’ll be sure to camouflage ourselves. I mean, we can’t actually move or anything, but maybe Micah could throw a blanket over us?”
“Don’t have a blanket,” Jordan said. “Just try to look like CPR dolls or something.”
I tried to smack the back of his head, but Marta beat me to it.
“Hey,” he said. “That was a compliment.”
“Right.” I tried to wriggle around enough to keep the cargo hook on the back of Micah’s seat from digging into my spine, but I just wound up making it worse. “Would you mind telling me where we’re going? If this is gonna take more than another five or ten minutes, I think I’d rather just run along behind.”
“I agree,” Marta said. “Hannah would be much better off running along behind.”
“Relax,” Micah said. “We’re almost there.”
I twisted my neck around until I could see out the windshield. We were driving under power lines.
“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “where, exactly, are we going?”
“Our top-secret headquarters,” Jordan said. “We need to make plans.”
“You have a top-secret headquarters?”
“Well,” he said. “Technically it’s the IHOP on Culver, but it’s pretty secret.”
“Sure,” Micah said. “Totally secret. Except for the billboard on 104, I mean.”
“Well yeah,” Jordan said. “Obviously except for that.”
I tried to catch Marta’s eye, but she’d buried her face in both hands.
“So,” Jordan said. “I suppose you’re wondering why we brought you here.”
I looked around the table. Jordan and Marta were watching me expectantly. Micah was cramming a cheese blintz into his mouth.
“No,” I said, and picked a hair out of my breakfast scramble. “I wasn’t wondering that at all.”
I picked up my phone and pinged Sarah.
Wilma17: Hey. What’s the sitch in GeneChem?
SM37: Quiz. You sick?
Wilma17: Nah. I’m at IHOP.
SM37: Really? That’s what you ditch for?
Wilma17: Not my idea. Can you forward any notes?
SM37: Sure. You gonna tell me what this is about?
Wilma17: Oh yeah. Soon as I figure it out.
Jordan cleared his throat. I looked up.
“Rude,” Marta said.
Jordan nodded.
“Extremely.”
I looked at Micah. He shrugged, glanced over at Jordan, and put away half of another blintz.
“Anyway,” Jordan said. “The reason we brought you here is that we have something very important to discuss.”
I turned to Marta.
“Very important,” she said.
“Micah,” I said. “What are they talking about?”
He shrugged again, chewed slowly and swallowed.
“Don’t ask me,” he said. “Marta’s our conspiracy theorist. I’m just in this for the blintzes.”
I looked at Jordan then.
“Explain?”
“Well,” he said. “Actually, I’m not one hundred percent sure what the issue is either. Marta, however, has been very clear that there is some serious shit going down.”
“Mostly clear,” Micah said.
Jordan nodded.
“Right. Mostly clear. Tell her, Marta.”
Marta glanced back and forth between them, then gave me a long, critical look.
“Who did your cuts?”
Micah froze in mid chew. Jordan opened his mouth, then closed it again and turned to look at Marta.
“Uh . . .” I said. “What?”
Marta rolled her eyes.
“You’ve got a brow ridge, Hannah. That doesn’t just happen. That’s also not a part of any standard package I’m aware of. So, who did it?”
Again, remember—this was six years after Hagerstown. I can’t even think what the equivalent question would be today. Maybe asking someone for the name of their smack dealer?
“Marta,” Micah said around a mouthful of cheese and crepes.
“No,” I said. “It’s fine, Micah.” I gave her my best glower. She didn’t flinch. “My dad did the design work.”
She nodded.
“I figured it was something like that. Custom work like that isn’t cheap, and you don’t look like a trust-fund kid.”
“Said the queen of trust-fund kids,” Micah said. Marta shot him a hard glare, then turned back to me.
“Right. Your dad’s an engineer?”
I nodded.
“Who does he work for?”
“Seriously,” Jordan said. “What’s with the grilling, Marta?”
“Got a hunch,” Marta said. “Spill, Hannah.”
I looked from Marta to Jordan, then back again. My dad had drilled it into my head since I was a little girl that this was not a topic to be discussed with anyone, let alone with random Spooky girls in IHOPs. Between the people who would be inclined to stab me in the eye because gene cutting is the devil’s pastime, and the ones who would be inclined to kidnap me because they thought engineers were all richer than Croesus, it just wasn’t a great idea to talk about what Pops did for a living.
For some reason, though, Marta didn’t strike me as particularly stabby, and she apparently didn’t have the need for ransom money.
“Bioteka,” I said. “He’s a project lead or something now, but he used to be a front-line engineer.”
She leaned forward then.
“I knew it. What’s he working on? What projects, I mean. Don’t care if he’s cooking up new versions of you in his spare time.”
I started to say something snippy, then closed my mouth and shook my head.
“Why are you asking about my dad’s projects, Marta? Is this a corporate espionage thing or something? Because I have to tell you, I’m already spying on him for one rando. I’m starting to feel like maybe I should be prioritizing family a little bit more.”
“Yeah,” Micah said. “I don’t know exactly where she’s going with this, Hannah, but I’m pretty sure it’s not corporate espionage. This is Marta Longstreth. Her dad owns your dad.”
It took me a moment to realize that my jaw was hanging open.
“No,” I said.
“Yeah,” Jordan said. “For reals.”
I looked back at Marta. Now that they’d brought it up, I remembered that Marta was the name of Longstreth’s kid. I’d never seen a picture of her, but this girl was about the right age anyway.
“Uh . . .” I said. “Okay. Jordan, why are you hanging around with Marta Longstreth?”
“Long story,” Marta said. “Answer the question. What’s your dad been up to lately? Has he thrown any funny-sounding code names around at the dinner table?”
I’d already told Inchy about DragonCorn. No harm in telling the boss’s kid, right?
“Maybe,” I said. “Does the word DragonCorn mean anything to you?”
Marta leaned back then, and folded her arms across her chest.
“This is too perfect,” she said.
“Wait,” Jordan said. “I think I missed something. What does DragonCorn mean?”
“What it means,” Marta said, “is that Hannah’s dad has been busy for the past year or so helping my dad to cook up the end of the world.”