She was still silent, and I waited a few seconds before hanging up the phone. I took a couple shaky breaths before picking it up again and dialing Laurence.
It went to voicemail, which was no surprise. Laurence rarely answered his phone for people he knew, much less a strange number.
“Hey,” I said after the beep. “It’s me. I just wanted to let you know that I made it to Atlanta. And I wanted to say, um, thanks. For . . . you know, tackling Dad.” I laughed softly. “I don’t have a phone, but I’ll try to email you if I make it. And I’m going to put you as my emergency contact, which means you get my ashes if I die. You can do whatever you want with them. Just don’t take them back to Texas.” A group of people behind me burst out laughing, and I cupped my hand around the phone. “Anyway, that’s it. Thanks again.” I hung up the phone, letting my hand linger on it for a second.
There wasn’t anything more I could do for Mom. She’d had the opportunity to leave Dad—so many times—and she never took it. She wasn’t stuck, especially now that both her kids were gone. She had family in Mexico and a few friends in Dallas who would be willing to help. We’d both made our choices, and I wasn’t responsible for hers.
I knew this, but still, the panic lingered. I could bury it deep down, but it was always there, a tiny reminder that part of me was always dreading the day that Dad killed her.
But I’d lived with a tiny bit of panic my whole life. It wasn’t so bad.
We’d been instructed to pick up our welcome packets before the session this morning, so I followed the signs that said RECRUITS. Two long tables were set up on either side of the large room, one with the sign LAST NAMES A–M and the other for the rest of the alphabet. I walked to the latter table. A harried woman sat surrounded by boxes, tipping her head back as she drained a huge cup of coffee.
“Name,” she said, slapping the cup down.
“Clara Pratt.”
“P . . . P . . .” She stood, shifting boxes with her foot as she searched for the right letter. “Oh, P! There it is.” She grabbed the box and plunked it on the table. “Sorry. We’re not organized yet.” She dug around and whipped out a blue folder with my name on it. “The schedule is in there, along with all the info you need about the program if you’re selected.”
I opened it and glanced at the schedule, hoping to find something about a meal. But it wasn’t much of a schedule at all:
Day One
9am–10am—Welcome Session
11am–6pm—Tryouts
Day Two
10am–3pm—Tryouts *no lunch break
Day Three
8am—Team Announcements—BE READY TO LEAVE IMMEDIATELY
“Are there any meals?” I asked without looking up from my folder.
“Yeah, you’ll get a lunch break. You can bring something or buy food at the hotel.”
My heart sank. I snapped the folder closed.
“They told you meals would be on your own for tryouts, didn’t they?” the woman asked, alarmed. “It should have been in the first email you got.”
That sounded familiar, now that she mentioned it. I’d skipped over it while reading about bringing snacks for the bus. I hadn’t considered how many days that would be without food.
“Oh, yeah, they told me,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I was just wondering, since it’s not on the schedule.” I didn’t want her pity, and I could go a few days without food. Humans could survive, like, two or three weeks without food. I could do a couple days.
She didn’t appear totally convinced, so I turned on my heel and quickly walked out of the room.
I hid in my room until eight thirty. It took about ten minutes to read through the information in the folder (which could be summed up as YOU’RE PROBABLY GOING TO DIE, AND WHEN YOU DO, IT’S NOT OUR FAULT), and I spent the rest of the time flipping through the television channels, doing my best to pretend that my stomach wasn’t growling. I would have savored that peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich Patrick gave me on the bus if I’d known it was going to be my last meal.
Patrick was waiting for me outside, like we’d planned. A short boy with dark wavy hair and glasses stood next to him. He held a blue folder, label facing out. It said Noah Cohen.
Behind them, a digital billboard changed from an ad for a sports drink to a picture of a man in a suit standing in front of the American flag. Words were printed next to his face:
The Monster Defense Group
Professional
Safe
American
“Clara!” Patrick waved when he spotted me. “This is Noah, my roommate.”
Noah extended his hand to me. He had an unremarkable face, the kind that didn’t provoke much of a reaction either way. Thin and a bit pale, he was the sort of boy I’d expect to be at home playing Call of Duty, not joining a scrab hunting squad.
“Patrick was nice enough to let me go over with you guys since I’m awkward and alone,” Noah said. His smile was big and friendly, and I thought that he was probably never alone for long. I could see why he and Patrick hit it off.
“Plus, I told him that you’d protect us on the way over,” Patrick said.
“I heard you tackle thieves in a single bound,” said Noah.
“Only the really inept ones.”
“Yeah, he wasn’t the greatest thief, was he?” Patrick said as we started walking.
“He was great at the actual stealing part, it’s his getaway that could use some work,” I said.
Noah filled me in on his life as we walked to the other hotel, gesturing wildly when he got excited (eighteen years old, from Asheville, North Carolina, his parents thought it was great that he was joining). He cut off suddenly in the
