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Justin stopped crying. He pointed. “That’s my room.”
“Yeah. No prob.”
“I don’t know where my blanket is.”
“Huh. Okay, well, we’ll find you a blanket.”
They stared at each other for a minute. Then the big kid said, “Oh yeah, my name is Roger.”
“My name is Justin.”
“Cool. People call me the Artful Roger. Because I like to draw and paint. You know, from the Artful Dodger in Oliver Twist.”
Justin stared.
“It’s a book. About this kid who’s an orphan.” He waited like he expected Justin to say something. “Okay. Okay, you don’t read a lot of books.”
“Sometimes.”
“I’ll read it to you, maybe. That way, I’d be paying you back for living in your house.”
Justin didn’t know what to say to that. So he said nothing.
“Right,” Roger said. “Okay. I’m…um, going to go back to my room.”
Justin nodded fervently.
“If it’s okay with you, I mean.”
“It’s okay.”
TEN
51 HOURS, 50 MINUTES
“THAT’S THE LAST of the fuel,” Virtue reported mournfully. “We can run the generator for another two, three days at most. Then no more electricity.”
Sanjit sighed. “I guess it’s good we finished off the ice cream last month. It’d melt otherwise.”
“Look, Wisdom, it’s time.”
“How many times have I told you: Don’t call me Wisdom. That’s my slave name.”
It was a tired old joke between them. Virtue would call him Wisdom only to provoke him, when he thought Sanjit wasn’t being serious.
For a part of his life, Sanjit Brattle-Chance had been called Wisdom by just about everyone. But that part of his life had ended seven months earlier.
Sanjit Brattle-Chance was fourteen years old. He was tall, thin, slightly stooped, with black hair down to his shoulders, laughing black eyes, and skin the color of caramel.
He had been an eight-year-old orphan, a Hindu street kid in Buddhist Bangkok, Thailand, when his very famous, very rich, very beautiful parents, Jennifer Brattle and Todd Chance, had kidnapped him.
They called it adoption.
They named him Wisdom. But they, and every other adult on San Francisco de Sales Island, were gone. The Irish nanny? Gone. The ancient Japanese gardener and the three Mexican groundskeepers? Gone. The Scottish butler and the six Polish maids? Gone. The Catalan chef and his two Basque assistants? Gone. The pool guy/handyman from Arizona, and the carpenter from Florida who was working on an ornate balustrade, and the artist-in-residence from New Mexico who painted on warped sheets of steel? Gone, gone, and gone.
Who was left? The kids.
There were five children all together. In addition to “Wisdom,” they were: Virtue, who Sanjit had nicknamed “Choo” Peace; Bowie; and Pixie. None of them had started their lives with those names. All were orphans. They came from Congo, Sri Lanka, Ukraine, and China respectively.
