arms up to indicate the crate/hospital room, and pain explodes in my shoulder.“Whatever the hell this thing is. I’ve been shot. The government thinks I’m a traitor. Runs in the family, evidently. And Dad . . .”
I lose it completely, dissolving into heaves and sobs. Keith holds me, rocks me, whispers words of comfort that don’t make a damn bit of difference. At some point, the crate door opens. Somebody enters, but I can’t make out anything more than a fuzzy silhouette.
When I’m too tired to cry anymore, Keith lets me go with a kiss to the forehead. Over his shoulder, I see James in the corner of the crate, looking anywhere but at me. He’s carrying a glass of water and an MRE packet. I can think of only one reason why he brought me dinner.
I wipe my eyes and glare at Keith. “You’re leaving?”
“I need to head back to Fort Riley for a debrief,” Keith says. “James—”
“Take me with you,” I say. “I have to see Dad. Please.”
“It’s too dangerous. You need to lay low until things settle down. I’ll let you know how he’s doing when I come back tomorrow night. It’s the best I can do.
Baekjul boolgool
, right?”
“Right,” I mumble.
He says something to James I can’t hear, then he’s gone.
“What’s that mean?
Baekjul boolgool?
” James asks.
“Indomitable spirit. Some crap I learned in tae kwon do.”
“You do martial arts?”
“Not anymore.” Not since Mom died.
“Well, I’ve got something that’ll make you as right as rain,” he says with sarcastic cheer. He sits and waves the MRE packet at me. “Beef ravioli. Yum.”
MREs (meal, ready to eat), stocked in dragon shelters and army depots across the world, come in multiple varieties. The best ones taste like cardboard, the worst like wet cardboard. The beef ravioli’s on the soggy end of the spectrum, but I am hungry.
“How’s Preston?” I ask between bites.
“He cracked his head pretty good when Syren made a sharp about-face to avoid a missile.” He smiles. “He’s already embellishing. Listen to him tell it, and Syren was doing loop-to-loops.”
“Syren’s his dragon?”
“Or Preston’s her human,” James says with a little laugh. “They’re not horses, Melissa.”
“No, they’re definitely not.”
“They’re not monsters either.”
“That’s what my mother thought. Look how that turned out.” I take a couple of deep breaths. “Maybe they’re not the evil monsters the media makes them out to be, but they are dangerous.”
James regards my wounded shoulder with an exaggeratedeyebrow raise. “They’re not the only ones. If you talk to them, you’ll understand.”
“Can all of you talk to dragons?”
He looks down. “I’m one of the few left in our group anymore.”
He’s thinking of his mother, I suppose.
“My mom?” I ask, hoping I’m wrong.
“Yeah . . . she taught me a lot.”
Welcome to the cave, Melissa. Your dad broke his neck and your mother was an insurgent. P.S. She didn’t just ride dragons when she was away on fake army missions, she also talked to them.
I look over James’s shoulder, toward the mouth of the cave. The scarlet glow obscures most of the stars, but the brightest shine through. I find Sirius.
Why didn’t she tell me? Sam was the one who wanted to exterminate the dragons, not me. I never hated them until they killed her. I would have understood.
Maybe she knew I wouldn’t. Not really. When she sent me her first protest picture—from a march around the Pentagon to protest the government’s research methods—it brightened my week. I was sharing a secret with her. But later, when I understood more, I begged her to stop. I was worried about her job, but I was more worried about myself. What would everyone at school think if it got out that mymom was a sign-carrying, dragon-loving nutjob?
She made her choice; now I have to make mine. I can hide away, build up thicker walls, pretend that everything’s going to be okay, or
I lose it completely, dissolving into heaves and sobs. Keith holds me, rocks me, whispers words of comfort that don’t make a damn bit of difference. At some point, the crate door opens. Somebody enters, but I can’t make out anything more than a fuzzy silhouette.
When I’m too tired to cry anymore, Keith lets me go with a kiss to the forehead. Over his shoulder, I see James in the corner of the crate, looking anywhere but at me. He’s carrying a glass of water and an MRE packet. I can think of only one reason why he brought me dinner.
I wipe my eyes and glare at Keith. “You’re leaving?”
“I need to head back to Fort Riley for a debrief,” Keith says. “James—”
“Take me with you,” I say. “I have to see Dad. Please.”
“It’s too dangerous. You need to lay low until things settle down. I’ll let you know how he’s doing when I come back tomorrow night. It’s the best I can do.
Baekjul boolgool
, right?”
“Right,” I mumble.
He says something to James I can’t hear, then he’s gone.
“What’s that mean?
Baekjul boolgool?
” James asks.
“Indomitable spirit. Some crap I learned in tae kwon do.”
“You do martial arts?”
“Not anymore.” Not since Mom died.
“Well, I’ve got something that’ll make you as right as rain,” he says with sarcastic cheer. He sits and waves the MRE packet at me. “Beef ravioli. Yum.”
MREs (meal, ready to eat), stocked in dragon shelters and army depots across the world, come in multiple varieties. The best ones taste like cardboard, the worst like wet cardboard. The beef ravioli’s on the soggy end of the spectrum, but I am hungry.
“How’s Preston?” I ask between bites.
“He cracked his head pretty good when Syren made a sharp about-face to avoid a missile.” He smiles. “He’s already embellishing. Listen to him tell it, and Syren was doing loop-to-loops.”
“Syren’s his dragon?”
“Or Preston’s her human,” James says with a little laugh. “They’re not horses, Melissa.”
“No, they’re definitely not.”
“They’re not monsters either.”
“That’s what my mother thought. Look how that turned out.” I take a couple of deep breaths. “Maybe they’re not the evil monsters the media makes them out to be, but they are dangerous.”
James regards my wounded shoulder with an exaggeratedeyebrow raise. “They’re not the only ones. If you talk to them, you’ll understand.”
“Can all of you talk to dragons?”
He looks down. “I’m one of the few left in our group anymore.”
He’s thinking of his mother, I suppose.
“My mom?” I ask, hoping I’m wrong.
“Yeah . . . she taught me a lot.”
Welcome to the cave, Melissa. Your dad broke his neck and your mother was an insurgent. P.S. She didn’t just ride dragons when she was away on fake army missions, she also talked to them.
I look over James’s shoulder, toward the mouth of the cave. The scarlet glow obscures most of the stars, but the brightest shine through. I find Sirius.
Why didn’t she tell me? Sam was the one who wanted to exterminate the dragons, not me. I never hated them until they killed her. I would have understood.
Maybe she knew I wouldn’t. Not really. When she sent me her first protest picture—from a march around the Pentagon to protest the government’s research methods—it brightened my week. I was sharing a secret with her. But later, when I understood more, I begged her to stop. I was worried about her job, but I was more worried about myself. What would everyone at school think if it got out that mymom was a sign-carrying, dragon-loving nutjob?
She made her choice; now I have to make mine. I can hide away, build up thicker walls, pretend that everything’s going to be okay, or
Similar Books
