Max

“I want to explain to you that you must immediately sever your ties to the Coalition to Stop the Madness,” the man said, looking intently into my eyes.

That couldn’t be all. “And?” I prompted.

“You do not know what they are really up to,” he went on. “They are just using you to promote their own agenda.”

“They’re paying us in doughnuts,” I felt compelled to point out.

“I represent a group of very powerful, very wealthy businessmen from around the world,” said Mr. Chu.

“Of course you do,” I said soothingly, trying to look for an exit without being too obvious.

“We are the only ones who really know what is going on.”

“Of course you are.”

There was a tiny skylight. Could I – oh. Max no fly. Bummer.

“There is an apocalypse coming,” said Mr. Chu, seeming to grow more and more agitated.

“You’re not the first person who’s told me that.”

“It is true! My group will survive the apocalypse. We are the only ones who will not become extinct after the world leaders succeed in their quest to destroy one another.”

“Kinda makes you wish you were a world leader yourself, huh,” I said sympathetically.

Smack!

My lightning-fast reflexes had let me whip my head to one side as he lunged forward, but he still gave me a good clip on the cheek. Slowly I straightened, feeling my cheek burn, my rage growing.

“You stupid, arrogant girl.” He almost spit. “If you and your flock will join our group, then you will not be hunted down and destroyed. We can use you on our team. But if you keep up with the wisecracks and your stupidity, you will soon be eliminated. There will be no room for you in the new world.”

“Again, not new information,” I snarled, my fists clenched at my side. “The flock and I aren’t for sale, Chuey. So all I can say is, Bring it!”

I braced for all of them to leap on me, steel-hard fists adding to Mr. Chu’s unconvincing argument. Instead, the man leaned closer. He smelled of cigarettes.

“I am sorry that you and the flock will be dead soon. But my scientists will enjoy taking you apart to find out what makes you tick.”

“If your scientists take me apart,” I said solemnly, “clearly, I won’t be ticking anymore.”

Mr. Chu was practically steaming with anger, but he stuck to his script. “You may think I am dreaming, but I am not. What I say is true. It is as real as the pain in your wing and on your face. And speaking of pain, Maximum… you should know that we are experts in the art of persuasion.”

“Pain fades,” I said slowly. “But being a nutcase seems to stick around. Guess who got the better deal here?”

The last thing I remember is Mr. Chu’s face blazing with fury.

15

I AM A BONA FIDE, kick-butt warrior, so it was pretty humiliating to be shoved out of a fast-moving car about half a mile from the safe house. I landed on my hurt wing, of course, and winced as I rolled to a crumpled stop.

My hands were bound behind my back. I got to my knees as soon as I could, then to my feet, feeling shaky and ill. My wing was streaked with clotted blood. I was light-headed and starving. My face hurt, and my cheek was swollen and warm.

The flock and I all have an acute, i

This whole sucky episode ended with my having to actually ring the doorbell at the front of the house with my shoulder. Total even barked like a real dog. A curtain twitched, and then my mom opened the door, her brown eyes wide.

My mom is a veterinarian, an animal doctor, so let’s all put our hands together for the irony there. She patched my wing while she and Jeb tried unsuccessfully to find out what had happened. I wanted to mull things over for a while, maybe do some research on the Chu-ster, so I just mumbled something about getting hit by a stray bullet in a freak accident.

“You shouldn’t fly for at least a week,” my mom said firmly.

I instantly interpreted that to mean three days.

“And I really mean a week,” she went on, looking stern. “Not three days.”

She was getting to know me.

Later that day, the CSM moved us to another house, this time in the Yucatan, which is a jungley part of Mexico. There weren’t as many people there, and the air was much more breathable, with less texture.

But what did the air quality matter, anyway? I couldn’t fly.

Me being unable to fly is not only my worst nightmare, but everyone else’s too, because I turn into such a cranky witch. By the afternoon of the first day, the flock was staying out of my way. They went out and did flocklike things. Total was practicing his takeoffs and landings, both of which he still sucked at.

I warned them to be careful, to be on guard, not to stay out too long. They were fine. Had no problems. Did not get shot at. Did not get kidnapped and taken to see a short, angry Asian man.

I stayed home and was forced to heal.

“Jeb,” I said, speaking to him voluntarily for the first time in ages. He smiled and raised his eyebrows at me. “Have you ever heard of a Mr. Chu?”

The blood seemed to drain from his face, and I saw him struggle to keep a calm expression. “No,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “Can’t say that I have. Where did you hear that name?”

I shrugged and walked away. He’d given me all the answer I needed.

Later I watched my flock fly away without me, off to have loads of bird-kid fun.

“Max.”

“What?” I snarled, turning from the window.

My mom stood there. I felt a little bad about snarling.

“Come on. I’m going to show you how to make Puchero Yucateco.” She gently pulled me away from the window.

Please don’t let this be a craft, I prayed silently. If she pulls out yarn, I’ll -

As it turns out, Puchero Yucateco is a stew made with three kinds of meat.

Me, my mom, and Ella spent all afternoon in the kitchen, chopping up things, stirring, mixing. My mom showed us how to tell when onions had cooked enough to be sweet, and how to tell when meat was done (usually I just try to wait for it to stop moving). We cut up habanero peppers, and despite all her warnings, I managed to brush my finger against my nose, so my nose burned and ran, and my eyes watered, and I staggered around the kitchen going “Uh, uh, uh!” while Ella collapsed with laughter.

Typical family stuff. With a nonflock family.

“Huh – why is Max in the kitchen?” Gazzy asked as he walked in. His face was flushed, hair permanently tousled from the wind. Clearly he’d been having a glorious, exhilarating time, coasting high above the world. And wasn’t that special for him.

“We’re cooking,” said my mom.

“She’s just keeping you company, right?” he asked nervously as my eyes narrowed. Nudge, Fang, Iggy, Angel, and Total all crammed into the kitchen and stared at the wooden spoon in my hand.

“No,” my mom replied, trying to keep a straight face. “She’s cooking.”

Quick, alarmed glances were exchanged among the flock.

“Cooking… food?” Nudge asked. I heard someone murmur something about ordering a pizza.

“Yes, I’m cooking food, and it’s great, and you’re going to eat it, you twerps!” I snapped.

And that was how I spent my three days of forced rest. The flock saw all the Mayan wonders of the Yucatan, and I learned how to cook something besides cold cereal.

So there was much amazement all around.

But my wing healed, and soon it was time to leave. I was thinking of maybe going to South America.