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“I won’t be one of the helpless bystanders, that’s all,” Shade said. She sat on the closed toilet as if exhausted. For a while she said nothing. Then, with eyes cast down as if she were inspecting the floor tile, she began to speak in a rushed, low voice, as if every word was distasteful. She was performing a duty, not unburdening herself. She shook her head slightly as if denying what she was saying. “You’ve seen the videos, Cruz, but I was there. People, kids, just this far away . . .” Shade stretched her arm out and seemed to touch something in the air. “And I heard her call me. Call my name . . .”
Cruz knew then. She knew as certainly as if Shade had told her.
Cruz crossed herself slowly, not warding off evil, but invoking God’s attention to her damaged friend.
“Your mother,” Cruz said.
The muscles of Shade’s jaw twitched. Her scar stood out white against reddening skin. “A lot of people died there that day. Helpless. Just innocent bystanders.” She repeated the word, and raised a finger as if she was a teacher making an important point. “Helpless,” Shade repeated, and the word was not self-pitying, it was not a plea, it was an angry accusation. And the accused was Shade herself.
Cruz watched as Shade raised her hand to her scar, as she had done in the cornfield. Shade seemed self-conscious, knowing Cruz was watching, but was unable to stop herself from touching the tactile proof of her own weakness.
Cruz wanted to ask, Who was helpless? but the answer was obvious. Shade was helpless. Little thirteen-year-old Shade Darby had been helpless.
“It was madness,” Shade said. “The dome came down and the kids from inside were just running in panic, climbing over dead bodies, just . . . I told you that’s how I got this.” She pointed at the scar. “Machete. I came close to dying.” She sighed heavily, then tried to soften the tragic tone with a wry smile. “I nearly died. And my mom did.”
Cruz wanted to take Shade’s hand. Wanted to hug her. But now the shark was back, and the human girl who had been helpless four years ago to stop the slaughter, to save her mother, had been pushed down and away. There was a distance to Shade now, a disconnect from her own emotions, and Cruz withdrew her tentative hand.
It’s not just powers she wants, Cruz realized. It’s revenge. Revenge against a creature long dead.
“There’s a strange mental side effect, though, probably some reaction to the change—”
“Wait, what change?”
Shade winced. “It’s weird, Cruz, but it did something to me physically. It was dark, so . . . but my legs . . . Fortunately, changing back is easy enough. Just form the picture of your real body in your mind and . . .”
“So, what was the side effect?” Cruz asked.
“There was . . .
well, it was weird, like a delayed nightmare after the main nightmare. It’s hard to explain.” Shade concentrated, eyes drifting up and away as people’s eyes do when they’re trying to recall something intangible. “It was like . . . remember that scene in Lord of the Rings when Gollum looked into the swamp and saw dead faces under the water staring up at him?”
“You saw dead people?”
“No, they weren’t dead, and I don’t think they were people.” Shade avoided eye contact, glancing sideways suspiciously, over her shoulder, as if she was anticipating someone sneaking up behind her. “Just an extra nightmare, Cruz, like I said, a holdover, I mean I was asleep when the change started. But the important thing is, Cruz: it worked,” Shade said. The normal Shade, Cruz’s friend, reemerged, as if from a dark vision, and in a more enthusiastic voice said, “I need to test it, work with it. Somewhere private where I won’t be exposed or accidentally hurt anyone.”
“How could you hurt anyone?”
Shade held up her palms for inspection. Then she pulled up her sweatpants, pulling them up to over her knees. “I hit that wall hard enough to knock divots into it, Cruz, then fell eight feet onto hardwood, and do you see a bruise or a scrape?”
Cruz did not.
“It’s not just the ability to leap out of bed,” Shade said. “I must also be very strong, and very, um, I don’t know . . .”
“Invulnerable?”
“Yes! Maybe,” Shade said, and bit at her thumbnail, dislodging some of the packed gypsum from the impact with wallboard. And then, as if drawn by magnetism, her finger touched her scar again.
“This is incredible, Shade. And scary as hell. But what’s all this about bugs and cameras?”
Cruz whispered the words “bugs” and “cameras.”
“Ah, that.” Shade dropped her hand to her side. “After Iowa, the government team, you know, HSTF-Sixty-Six, must have started to suspect my father. I’m not surprised—in fact, I expected it. When I came home from school I searched. There are probably other bugs I haven’t found, but unless the task force wants to risk taking video of a minor girl in her bedroom or bathroom, I doubt there’s a problem in either room.”
“But how long have they been there? They could have heard everything!”
Shade shook her head. “No. If they’d had surveillance on us earlier, they’d have stopped us before we went to Iowa. No, this is recent, this came after Iowa.”
What kind of person actually expects their house to be bugged? Cruz wondered, but said nothing. The answer was obvious: a person like the obsessed person in front of me.
