I nod.
“What if Francine locks her in?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “She won’t do that, Mouse,” I lie.
“You promise, Finn?” she whispers hopefully. “Pinkie swear?”
I don’t answer this.
Mouse nods as if no answer is her answer. She takes out her clock and looks at it. For the first time, she seems to really understand what is at stake here.
“What about you, Finn? You won’t leave me, will you?” Her voice squeaks.
“I won’t leave you, Mouse.” I put my hand on her messy hair head. “That I can promise. Now c’mon.” I try to make my voice more upbeat than I feel. “We can do this.”
The farther we move into the tunnel, the closer the weather outside sounds. It’s raining out there, maybe hailing too, and the wind is howling.
What is my plan B? How will we find the black box without the acute hearing of a dog? Somebody in Falling Bird must know where it is, but who?
A thunderous boom crashes overhead. The sound reverberates through my legs as the ceiling collapses, spilling soil down all around me.
Dirt pours down my chest. Weighs down my head. Goes up my nose, burns my eyes. Dirt in my mouth, in my throat.
Everything is dirt. Dirt everywhere.
Air. I need air.
I cough, try to breathe.
The shale is loose. Dark all around. Can’t grasp, can’t claw. I fight, dig my way out, but which way is out?
Need air.
I shove my hand up as far as it will go. One finger wiggles free. Shove, push through, now my head. Get my head up there.
I breathe great gasps of air.
Air is the best thing ever. Better than chocolate, better than basketball.
I cough the dirt out of my mouth, my nose, my throat, and then it hits me . . . Mouse? Where’s Mouse? The avalanche filled the tunnel like water pouring into a glass. I can’t see her anywhere.
I dig hard one way and hard the other.
Where have I searched already? Where do I need to look?
“Mouse! Mouse!” My voice is hoarse from dust and from screaming. And then suddenly I hear a whimper.
I stand stock-still to locate the sound. Left. It’s coming from my left. I dig left crazy hard.
The sound is clearer now. A muffled whine, a tan paw. The blue-eyed dog is covered in dirt, her tail pinioned by a boulder the size of a basketball. I shove the boulder with my hands, heave my shoulder into it. The dog yelps as it rolls off her tail.
“Mouse!” I tell her. “Find Mouse!”
The dog begins digging one way, while I dig the other. She is a digging machine, this dog.
“Mouse!” I call, shale sifting through my fingers, dumping a fresh avalanche on my head.
And then from down the tunnel I hear a low howl and Mouse’s whispered voice. “Dog. You’re here.”
It takes me a while to make my way through the piles of dirt, shale, rocks, and sand, but when I get to Mouse, the blue-eyed dog has her nose up close to Mouse’s grimy face, allowing herself to be petted at last.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Mouse nods, tears making clean pink lines through the grime on her cheeks. “Finn,” she says. “The dog is here.”
I gulp the air, my insides rising up, filling my chest.
“You saved Mouse,” I tell the blue-eyed dog, running my fingers over her thick dirty coat.
“Know what I just figured out, Finn?” Mouse asks.
“What?” I scratch behind the dog’s ears.
“Dog is god backward,” she says.
“We need to give her a name,” I say.
Mouse puts her index finger to her chin, her head steady, her eyes looking up. “Boom,” she answers. “After the sound that brought us together.”
“All it took was an avalanche,” I say.
Boom wags her tail.
CHAPTER 29
WELCOMER STATION
I hang back, wanting to look in Bing’s wallet, but Mary Carol has a hawk eye—she doesn’t seem to mind that I’m lagging behind, but she won’t let me out of her sights either. How am I ever going to get time on my own? And then it hits me. It’s so obvious. Why didn’t I think of it before?
“Umm, Mary Carol, I need to use the bathroom.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Mary Carol mutters. “Closest facility is this way.” She changes course, walking back down the corridor in the direction we came and stopping at a sleek door. She presses her thumb against it and the door opens to a one-stall bathroom—no bigger than an airplane toilet—made entirely of metal.
Good. There’s only room for one person.
I walk in, move the door slot to lock, which makes the light flicker on. Then I take the wallet out of my pocket.
Inside is one dollar, and the license for Bing hand-drawn by Mouse. I take it out of the plastic sleeve Mouse made from a Baggie. Tucked in another slot is something else folded and folded again—a photo of our family. My father’s arm is around me and my mom. My mom’s arm is around Finn. My mom is very pregnant. She looks like she might tip over, her stomach is so big.
I’m in there. Mouse has written on the side with a big arrow directed at my mom’s tummy. On the back, she wrote: Thank you, Bing, for taking this picture when I couldn’t see on account of the skin.
I can’t stop staring at the photo. I’ve never seen it before. Mouse must have found it in the move.
My dad’s smile shines out of the picture, his eyes full of love for our family. He’s sure that we will stay this way forever. He doesn’t know that a few weeks or maybe days later he’ll be gone.
Mouse never knew him. She never felt my father’s love. She never saw us when we were complete. Is that why she made up Bing?
But the moment this photo was taken my daddy loved me with all his heart. He totally did.
This is my family. Nothing in the world is more important than that.
“India.” Mary Carol knocks on the door. “You’re over reg time for a bathroom visit.”
There’s a reg time for a bathroom visit? Jeez. “Just a minute,” I call, flushing the toilet.
I check to see what else is in the wallet. That’s when I find the tiny slip of paper written in a handwriting I don’t recognize.
India,
Sparky has your back.
Chuck
Sparky? That’s the Century Training dude who’s in dispatch, right? How’s he going to help me? I don’t even have a car.
“India.” Mary Carol bangs on the door.
How much time do I have?
My clock is ticking again. I can feel it. My hand presses up against the smooth clock face. I pull it out and steal a glance . . . four hours and twelve minutes left.
I can make another choice. It isn’t too late. I’m going to find Mouse and Finn. Get out of my way. I am totally doing this. I open the bathroom door.
I feel so sure and then an instant later I’m not sure again. How can I do this? I’m not smart enough to figure this out.
Wait, though. Step by step I can think it through.
I could try to get Mary Carol on my side. Chuck jeopardized his job to help us . . . would Mary Carol? She isn’t mean, and she likes me. But rules are so important to her. I don’t think she would break a rule for me.
We walk down the corrugated aluminum hall, going in the opposite direction from Passengers Waiting. I fall behind Mary Carol. She glances back at me, but I continue to walk, my head low, trying to adopt the most obedient posture I can muster.
I can do this. I can figure it out.
We get on another tram—the purple line. This one has a bunch of people in different Falling Bird uniforms. This tram seems more normal—but very lavendery, as if I’m in lavender land.
Mary Carol smiles at me. “You’ll be a good welcomer, India. Such a beautiful voice. I’m glad we have you back.”
I put on my good welcomer face, smile, and nod.
“Laird’s a bit on the temperamenta
l side,” she confides in me. “You’ve got some apologizing to do. He’ll expect you to eat crow for a while.”
I nod, trying to appear engaged with Mary Carol as I figure out my plan.
Mary Carol will probably hand me off to Laird at the amphitheater. If I’m to escape, I will need to get away now or else wait until she drops me off. Waiting will take precious time, but it’s less risky. It’s wild in the amphitheater during a welcoming. With so many people going wild over the new arrival, it will be easier to slip away. Laird won’t watch me as closely as Mary Carol does. Mary Carol’s eyes are totally glued to me right now.
According to the laminated map on the wall, the ride to the checkpoint station is short. I have to get on the green line and then I could totally make it out there in time. But how will I find Finn and Mouse once I get to the checkpoint? And how will we find the black box? I don’t let myself think about this. First things first.
Mary Carol notices I’m studying the map. She seems pleased to see my interest and begins explaining the different routes. I’d like to ask how you get on the green line, but I can’t think of a reason a welcomer would need to know that.
It takes thirteen minutes to get to the amphitheater stop. Thirteen whole minutes. When the lavender tram slows and the glass doors slide open, I smile and wave at Mary Carol, hoping she’ll trust me to find my post on my own. Fat chance. Mary Carol is in lockstep with me, marching me to my station, where Laird is in high energy mode, his hands gesturing wildly as he gives the dos and don’ts to a new recruit.
The girls see me first. “India!” They rush over, enveloping me in a big warm hug, placing my tunic over my head. When they finally let me surface again, I see Laird and Mary Carol watching me.
“Well, well, well,” Laird says in an acid voice. “If it isn’t India Tompkins back from the—”
“Laird,” Mary Carol snaps.
Laird and Mary Carol exchange a look. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” Laird tells me. His voice is measured now, controlled.
“Hi, Laird,” I say.
“Hi, Laird,” he imitates. “Surely you can do better than that, India.” He waits.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Am I sorry? No, not a bit. But I need to play along here. “I didn’t realize how much this job meant to me.”
Mary Carol clears her throat. “Statute forty-one-ninety-two,” she reminds Laird, “expressly prohibits requiring wayward recruits to grovel.”
Laird snorts. “I just want a decent apology, but never mind. We’ll do it your way, Mary Carol. Come, India.” He opens his arms as if to give me a big exaggerated hug.
Mary Carol watches this. She seems reluctant to turn me over to Laird. Clearly I am right about her. In her own procedure-bound way she likes me.
“Really, Mary Carol.” Laird’s eyes bug out at her. “You can go.”
Mary Carol nods. She allows herself a little smile. “Nice to have you back, India,” she says before disappearing into the crowd, which is bursting with welcoming fever.
Laird directs his total attention on me. “India, really, you’ll need to do something with your hair,” He produces a hairbrush and hands it over as he launches into a canned lecture on what he calls re-treads—people who have to go through the training a second time. Clearly I’m not the only welcomer to have deserted her post.
“Should you make the wrong choice again, India . . . INDIA!” Laird shouts. “You’re not listening to me. What did I just say?”
“Should you make the wrong choice again,” I offer, but my hands are trembling. He saw that my mind was elsewhere. He suspects something.
Laird’s blue eyes get small as nail heads. “How long were you in Passengers Waiting?” he asks.
“I dunno,” I whisper, cold sweat dripping down my back.
“Never seen anyone get out of there.” He pauses to let this sink in. “Course, you do look like something the cat dragged in, but never mind. You’ll stay with me today, and tonight we’ll get you cleaned up.”
My eyes are drawn to the screens, which are filled with the face of a strikingly beautiful dark-skinned boy.
“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” Laird’s voice is gentle.
“Yes,” I say truthfully.
“All right then.” He smiles, his face softening.
He knows there’s nothing like a handsome new wel-comee to keep the welcomers happy.
CHAPTER 30
RED ALERT
I watch the movie clips of the newcomer as he wins a tennis match and reads a book to his blind sister. It feels so nice to just stand here and watch him. He is way over the top cute.
But this won’t last. I know it won’t.
In my hand is Bing’s wallet. The one that used to be my dad’s. The photo of my parents is tucked inside. They are my family. They are real.
I look at Laird, who is as transfixed by the screen as everyone else. Then I pull myself away from the newcomer’s beautiful face radiating from the screen and I slip through the crowd. No one sees me. They are all watching the boy.
I pretend to be a runner welcomer, edging toward the road. It’s a different job, with a different uniform, but in the thrill of the welcome, I am hoping no one will notice.
My plan is to take the tram to the border crossing, but when the newcomer’s feather taxi drives by, I have a better idea and I take off after the car.
I’ve never driven a car before, but I drove a golf cart in Palm Springs when I went on vacation with Maddy’s family. Her dad let us drive the cart at night when the golfers had all gone home. A car can’t be much different, right?
I have no idea how I will get the car away from the taxi dude. I’m trying to work this out when suddenly Laird appears. His steely fingers wrap around my tunic. But I duck out of it, leaving my tunic in his hands. I’ve still got my clothes underneath. I’m totally me inside.
I take off, running so hard my whole body vibrates, but Laird’s feet pound after me.
“You’ll never make it, India!” he shouts.
I practically fly over the road, dodging people, weaving around groups, around carts, under banners, diving under one lady’s arm. My chest heaves, my throat hurts, but I can’t stop.
The cab pulls up to a house with a large elm tree and a rope swing and a stream flowing right in front of it. The driver gets out to unload the luggage, but the newcomer is too much of a gentleman to let anyone wait on him. He flashes a smile so bright I can’t take my eyes off of his full lips. His eyelashes are so lush and long they seem unreal.
He’s joking with the driver. I lean closer to hear what they’re saying as they unload together. He’s so relaxed, so confident, the kind of person everybody likes to hang with, the kind of person who has his own thoughts, the kind of person who says things you don’t expect.
I could talk to him . . .
But then all at once I understand. I don’t want a piece of someone else’s life . . . I want my own. I want my chance to live my own life my own way.
I leap forward and slip into the driver’s seat. When the driver reaches up to shut the trunk, I pounce on the gas pedal and the feather taxi shoots forward, veering wildly onto the sidewalk. I forgot I have to steer and press the gas pedal at the same time. I get a firm grasp on the wheel and manage to turn the car so it thumps back over the curb and onto the street.
The driver is running after me, waving his short arms. I drive onto the sidewalk on purpose this time to avoid the crowds in the street. Once I’ve made it past the amphitheater, I press the accelerator pedal as far as it will go and fly down the almost deserted street. I look back but the driver is so far behind he’ll never catch up.
Mary Carol totally explained the map to me. I was thinking I’d be on a tram, but the route is almost the same. I know how to get to the inspection station.
What I don’t know is how long it will take the driver to alert the blue security dudes. Can they see the taxi on a radar screen? Am I being watched now? The only people here are clustered
around the screens. They aren’t looking at me. But what about the people in Headquarters—the people who run Falling Bird, can they see me?
The driver has left his jacket with Travels with Ed embroidered on it and his cap on the seat next to me along with his paste-on sideburns and beard. I wiggle into the jacket, switching hands on the steering wheel, then use my elbows while I wind my hair up and quickly smash the hat on, catching the wheel again with both hands.
Yes! I am so good at this!
For a few minutes I get caught up in the sheer power of being behind the wheel on the open highway. Driving is so cool! I’m glad I got to try it while there’s still time. “Shut up,” I tell myself. “You’re so totally a fighter, India Tompkins. You can figure this out.”
“Come in, number seventy-seven,” a woman’s voice on the radio blares. “You are making an unauthorized city exit. Please return your vehicle to the garage and report to Vehicle Registration Group. Come in, seventy-seven. It is against regulations to tamper with a vehicle. Please access your radio. We are contacting Human Behavior Group.”
I pull the clock out of my pocket and glance at it. I have three hours and eighteen minutes. I can do anything in three hours and eighteen minutes, right? I grab the radio and switch it off. The car shudders as I floor the gas pedal again.
“In, it’s me! Where have you been?”
Ohmygod! Maddy is on my wrist screen, which has flipped upside down on my arm. I wiggle it around to where I can see the curly hair and sweet eyes of Maddy, my best friend.
“Maddy.” The tears stream down my face. “I miss you,” I sob.
“Well, come back then, In.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. I’ll meet you at Laird’s station.”
Wait. How would Maddy know about Laird? I didn’t tell her about him, did I? Is this even Maddy?
“Maddy,” I whisper as the checkpoint station comes into view in the distance. The gates are closed. The golf carts are parked helter-skelter. “Talk me through this, okay?”
ALL PASSENGER VEHICLES PLEASE SLOW FOR INSPECTION, a sign reads.
“I don’t want to go back there, Maddy. And my clock is running out.”
No Passengers Beyond This Point Page 14
