Fang

So… either I was hallucinating or there was a passage to hell underneath this tent. I had to admit I wasn’t quite ready to accept either option right now.

Frowning, I returned to our own tent, where I picked my way through a cozy tangle of bird kids. I crawled back in between Fang and Nudge, and took Fang’s hand again.

He blinked sleepily, awakening at the slight touch. “Everything okay?”

“Mmm,” I grunted. “Go back to sleep.”

I couldn’t lie to Fang.

13

PICTURE A SHANTYTOWN made of ragged nylon tents, like, for acres. Then picture making a left and finding yourself in front of the big top of the Big Apple Circus. That’s what Dr. G-H’s crib was like. It was an ornate, beautiful tent, complete with screened windows, a covered porch, and a strip of green carpet leading across the sand to the front entrance.

I glanced at Angel, and she gave me a weak smile. We were both still upset about what had happened yesterday, when I’d lost my cool. That morning Fang had told me not to pursue it, and part of me, I admit, just didn’t want to know. I was hoping it would all just go away, so for now, I’d decided to pretend it hadn’t happened.

The tent door was pulled aside by a… a guy in a white uniform who opens the tent door. What a job description.

Inside, netting-covered windows let in light, and electric fans kept the warm air circulating. The floor was covered by Oriental rugs, overlapping so there were no gaps. Our feet sank into soft plush, and I almost sighed.

The doctor came into the “room” from behind a screened-off portion of the space and welcomed us with open arms. “Come, sit,” he said, once again looking fashionable and elegant. “You must be hungry. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to finally make your acquaintance. I’ve been following your history avidly.”

After glancing around, memorizing exits, I sat down on a leather stool beside a low table. Angel sat across from me, not next to me. I tried (unsuccessfully) not to put too much meaning into that.

“Following our history? Do you know Jeb Batchelder?” I asked.

He looked at me blankly. “Ah, no – no, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Is he a friend of yours?”

“No.”

A servant came in with a silver tray piled high with food: pastries, a pitcher of fresh juice, sliced fruit, eggs, bacon! I thought of the mush the rest of the flock was eating, not to mention the mush that the entire refugee camp was faced with day after day, and tried (unsuccessfully) to feel guilty. “Please, help yourselves,” said Dr. G-H. “You probably require a great many calories, do you not?”

“I know I do.”

My head swiveled as Dylan came into the room. His dark honey hair was wet, and he looked clean and fresh, which put him two large steps ahead of Angel and me. I almost expected a photographer to leap through the tent flaps, telling Dylan to work it.

“Hello, Max, Angel,” Dylan said, sitting on another stool. “Wow, last night seemed like a dream. I couldn’t really believe that you existed. And now here you are. And I’m not alone.” His face was open and sincere, his expression as clear as his tanned skin. I felt my cheeks flush, no doubt from the first-class cup of joe I’d just gulped.

“Have some strawberries,” said the doctor, pushing a silver bowl toward me. He smiled. “There’s more where they came from, so don’t be shy.”

Not really something he needed to worry about, with us. I slathered butter onto a scone, piled orange marmalade on top of that, and took a bite so I wouldn’t have to say anything right away. But then I couldn’t stand the awkward silence.

“What lab are you from?” I asked Dylan abruptly, with my mouth half full. Miss Manners I am not.

Dylan’s perfect brow wrinkled. “Just some lab, up in Canada. I was – I was um, cloned, from another Dylan. Who died in a car wreck or something.” He took a bite of pain au chocolat.

I blinked. Most of the clones I’d seen were robotic. Like bad special effects in a movie. Which Dylan most certainly was not. “How old are you?”

“Um, about eight months, I think,” he said, looking to Dr. Gunther-Hagen for confirmation. The doctor nodded. “There’s been a lot to learn. Like, I suck at flying. I suck at a lot of stuff, actually.” He chuckled weakly and looked down at his plate sort of embarrassed-like. I kind of felt sorry for him.

And then felt angry and suspicious. We didn’t know him from Adam. This could all be part of an elaborate trap.

This isn’t a trap, Max.

I almost dropped my scone as my Voice suddenly spoke up for the first time in ages. Some people have a conscience. I have a Voice. An annoying, buttinsky, intrusive Voice -

Calm down, Max. Relax and enjoy this. This is a special occasion. You see, Dylan is for you. He was designed for you. He’s your perfect other half.

14

I INHALED AND ACCIDENTALLY sucked scone crumbs down the wrong way, setting off an apoplectic coughing fit that had the doctor patting my back hard, looking concerned.

Made for me? My perfect other half? Are you freaking insane? my mind screamed, even as my eyes watered and I coughed and coughed, unable to bear the awful tickle at the back of my throat.

“Here, drink this,” said Angel, handing me some juice. “Can you breathe?” the doctor asked. “Do you need the Heimlich maneuver?”

“Heimlich me and die,” I managed to choke out, trying to take a sip.

Dylan had frozen, a cluster of red grapes in his hand. His eyes were wide and watchful, as if he actually gave a crap about what happened to me.

I’d suspected the doctor had an agenda -’cause nothing was ever given to us just because we were swell. Now I knew that it was sitting across from me, looking like the cover of People magazine’s Sexiest People issue.

“Are you okay?” Dylan asked.

I nodded and took a deep breath. Time to make like a tree and leave. I got ready to stand up.

Max – don’t run away. Stick this out. Don’t be a coward.

I almost started choking again. Stupid Voice.

“Well, if you’re only eight months old,” said Angel, “it’ll take you a while to learn stuff.” She ladled some eggs onto her plate and tucked in. I gave thanks that she was remembering to use utensils.

Again Dylan focused his eyes, the color of the Caribbean, on me. I felt like it was about 110 degrees in there, and took a swig of cold juice. Maybe I had time for another croissant.

“Maybe you could teach me… some stuff,” said Dylan.

“Max is a good teacher,” Angel said with conviction. It made me feel worse about going off on her yesterday. She didn’t make up her pronouncements – just reported ’em.

“That’s an excellent idea!” said Dr. G-H. “Max would be the perfect person to teach you, Dylan.”

“Oh, well. I don’t know,” I said. “Like what?” Do not get yourself sucked into this, Max, I told myself.

“Could I see…” Dylan hesitated, then his face hardened with determination. “Could I see your wings? I’ve never seen anyone else’s.”

I thought about saying, You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, but I’d already seen his. I pushed a couple strawberries into my mouth and stood up. After making sure I had enough space – and I did, which shows you how big the Wonder Tent was – I shook my shoulders a little and unfolded my wings.

Both Dylan and Dr. G-H stared.

“They’re beautiful,” said Dylan, sounding kind of hoarse. “You really do have them… like me.”

I folded my wings and sat down, feeling weird but not knowing why. “Actually, Dyl, you have them like me. I’ve had mine for fourteen years. Or so.”

A smile played around Dylan’s symmetrical features. “Yes. I guess so. Either way, your wings are incredible. They’re perfect.”

Now I was really uncomfortable, and slathered some butter onto my fourth croissant. Suddenly I just wanted to get out of there, to get back to the others. I’d been sneaking food into my pockets, and my jacket probably weighed several pounds by now. I took one last bite and stood up again.

“Well, this has been fabulous,” I said, my mouth full. “But we better get going and perform more humanitarian aid.”

“Please, stay,” begged Dylan.

“Sorry, no can do,” I said briskly.

“Max, we have so much more to talk about,” said Dr. Seersucker pleasantly.

“Duty calls,” I said. “Ange?”

In a smooth movement, the doctor stepped between me and the tent’s entrance. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he whipped out a syringe. “Just a minute, Max. It’s not that simple.”

15

I SMILED MY EVIL itching-for-a-fight smile, wishing I hadn’t stuffed my pockets with bacon. This could get messy.

“Max – wait,” Angel said. “He doesn’t mean us harm.”

“And you know this beca -,” I began sarcastically, then realized that she probably did actually know that. Dylan had a familiar alertness, a tensing of muscles that made me wonder if he’d been trained for battle. I guessed I would find out.

“Angel is right,” said Dr. G-H quickly. “This is my clumsy way of demonstrating.”

“Demonstrating what?” I was barely able to keep a snarl out of my voice. “How to get yourself beat up in one easy step?”

“No,” said Dr. G-H. “Demonstrating the wonders of modern science. Watch.”

And with that he rolled up one sleeve and swiftly injected himself with the hypo. It was something new and different, to watch a scientist experiment on himself. I liked it.

Within moments the doctor gasped, wide-eyed, sucking in breath. He groaned and staggered a bit, holding his throat, then sank down into a chair.