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Connor instantly knows what this is. He's seen it before. He's seen a storked baby twice on his own doorstep. Even though it's not the same baby, he stops in his tracks as if it is.
"C'mon, Billy, you'll miss the bus!"
"Huh?"
It's Risa. She and Lev are a few yards ahead of him. She speaks to Connor through gritted teeth. "C'mon, 'Billy.' Don't be an idiot."
Kids have already started piling onto the bus. The police car sits motionless behind the blinking red lights.
Connor tries to make himself move, but can't. It's because of the baby. Because of the way it wails. This is not the same baby! Connor tells himself. Don't he stupid. Not now!
"Connor," whispers Risa, "what's wrong with you?"
Then the door of the house opens. There's a fat little kid at the door—six, maybe seven. He stares down at the baby. "Aw, no way!" Then he turns and calls back into the house, "Mom! We've been storked again!"
Most people have two emergency modes. Fight and Flight. But Connor always knew he had three: Fight, Flight, and Screw Up Royally. It was a dangerous mental short circuit. The same short circuit that made him race back toward armed Juvey-cops to rescue Lev instead of just saving himself. He could feel it kicking in again right now. He could feel his brain starting to fry. "We've been storked again," the fat kid had said. Why did he have to say "again"? Connor might have been all right if he hadn't said "again."
Don't do it! Connor tells himself. This is not the same baby!
But to some deep, unreasoning part of his brain, they're all the same baby.
Going against all sense of self-preservation, Connor bolts straight for the porch. He approaches the door so quickly, the kid looks up at him with terrified eyes and backs into his mother, an equally plump woman who has just arrived at the door. Her face wears an unwelcoming scowl. She stares at Connor, then spares a quick glance down at the crying baby, but she makes no move toward it.
"Who are you?" she demands. The little boy now hides behind her like a cub behind a mother grizzly. "Did you put this here? Answer me!" The baby continues to cry.
"No . . . No, I—"
"Don't lie to me!"
He doesn't know what he hoped to accomplish coming here. This is none of his business, not his problem. But now he's made it his problem.
And behind him the bus is still loading kids. The police car is still there, waiting. Connor could have very well just ended his life by coming to this house.
Then there's a voice behind him. "He didn't put it there. 1 did."
Connor turns to see Risa. Her face is stony. She won't even look at Connor. She just glares at the woman, whose beady eyes shift from Connor to Risa.
"You got caught in the act, little dearie," she says. The words "little dearie" come out like a curse. "The law might let you stork, but only if you don't get caught. So take your baby and go, before I call those cops over."
Connor tries desperately to unfry his brain. "But . . . but . . ."
"Just shut up!" says Risa, her voice full of venom and accusation.
This makes the woman at the door smile, but it's not a pleasant thing. "Daddy here ruined it for you, didn't he? He came back instead of just running away." The woman spares a quick dismissive look at Connor. "First rule of motherhood, dearie: Men are screwups. Learn it now and you'll be a whole lot happier."
Between them, the baby still cries. It's like a game of steal the bacon, where no one wants to take the bacon. Finally, Risa bends down and lifts the baby from the welcome mat, holding it close to her. It still cries, but much more softly now.
"Now get out of here," says the fat woman, "or you'll be talking to those cops."
Connor turns to see the cop car partially blocked by the school bus. Lev stands halfway in and halfway out of the bus, keeping the door from closing, a look of utter desperation on his face. The irritated bus driver peers out at him. "C'mon, I don't have all day!"
Connor and Risa turn away from the woman at the door and hurry for the bus.
"Risa, I—"
"Don't," she snaps. "I don't want to hear it."
Connor feels as broken as he did the moment he found out his parents had signed the order to unwind him. Back then, however, he had anger to help dilute the fear and the shock. But there's no anger in him now, except for anger at himself. He feels helpless, hopeless. All of his self-confidence has imploded like a dying star. Three fugitives running from the law. And now, thanks to his short-circuit stupidity; they are three fugitives with a baby.
