Page 85 of Evan and the Alpha

The alarms echo in here, almost tinny, and I wince. Ge-Ro growls low in his throat; I can barely hear it, but I look up at him and see he’s cowering.

We need to get out of here. Or turn that damn alarm off.

Unfortunately, we’re not the only ones in the bay. Mom turns to us, a look of both stupefaction and rage on her face. “What the hell are you doing down here?” she asks me as she marches up to us, her fists swinging at her sides, like she’s going to punch one of us.

She ignores Min and Ge-Ro, just beelines right for me and glares up at me; even in her heels, she’s not as tall as me.

“Uh,” I manage eloquently.

Min leaps to my rescue. “The alarms,” she says. “We thought we needed to evacuate. Are we under attack?”

Mom’s expression softens with something like confusion. I can see a conflict playing out in her eyes; there’s something she wants to tell us, but then she doesn’t know if she should.

“I don’t know,” she admits.

“What are you doing down here?” I ask, taking the opportunity.

She glances at me, then shakes her head and straightens up. “That is none of your business.”

“Mary?” someone crackles over the loudspeaker. “Mary, are you in the launch bay?”

She jumps, then glances around. “Yes, Tom. What’s going on?”

More crackling. “Someone’s—goddamn thrusters,” Dad grumbles, his voice cutting in and out. The alarm blares louder for a second.

Mom looks blankly at us. Min is completely stonefaced. I’d never want to go up against her in a poker round, I decide. “What’s wrong with the thrusters?” Mom asks finally.

“One of them blew up!” Dad barks. “We’re—stuck here—can’t break—”

Worry lines Mom’s brow and, for half a second, I almost feel sorry for her.

“Tom?” She asks. “Tom, you’re breaking up. I can’t hear you—what does that mean?”

“Orbit,” Dad crackles. “We’re stuck, Mary, we can’t break orbit.”

Another hasty glance at us. “Oh.”

“Scott’s assessing—ge—we might—et her down.”

Mom waits for a moment, then says, “All right. What do you want me to do?” She pins her gaze on me.

“Hang tight,” Dad says, then cuts out entirely.

For a split-second, there is aching, ringing silence as even the alarms shut off. Then they blare to life again as Mom fixes her gaze on us. “So,” she says almost conversationally, “you’re the only ones who rushed down here, thinking you needed to leave …”

Min is still poker-faced. “I guess we overreacted,” she says.

“Mm,” Mom says, smirking as she advances on us again. “Yeah, maybe. Or … perhaps that’s all according to plan?”