Undivided

He knows what comes next. The edge of the forest, the edge of the world. But this time something’s different. A feeling begins to well up inside of him. A foreboding that’s way too familiar in his life, but unknown here, until now.

Something acrid wafts toward him now on the breeze. The stench of smoke. The soothing blue light around him is tainted to lavender then maroon. He turns behind him to see a forest fire that stretches like a blazing wall in the distance behind him. It’s still perhaps a mile away, but it’s consuming the trees with alarming speed.

The sounds of life become shrieks of warning and terror. Birds frantically take to the sky, but burst into flames before they can escape. Lev turns from the approaching firestorm, and leaps from branch to branch trying to outrun it. Branches appear before him exactly where he needs them to be, and he knows he could outrun whatever that fire is, were the forest canopy endless. But it’s not.

Far too soon he comes to the place where the forest ends at a cliff that drops off into bottomless oblivion, and in the sky before him, just out of reach it seems, is the moon.

Bring it down, Lev.

He knows he can do it! If he leaps high enough, he can dig his claws into it and pull it from the sky. And when it falls, the shock wave it will create shall blow out the blaze like the breath of God blowing out a candle.

Lev gathers his courage as searing heat blooms against his back. He must have faith. He must not fail. On fire now, he leaps to the sky, and to his amazement he grasps the moon . . . but his claws don’t dig deep enough to give him purchase.

It slips from his hands, and he falls, while behind him the fire consumes the last of the forest. He plummets from that world into an unfinished corner of the universe that not even dreams have reached.

•  •  •

Lev’s teeth chatter uncontrollably and he shivers with the force of convulsions.

“Playing the castanets tonight, little brother?” says a figure standing over him. In the moment before time and place settle in his mind, he thinks this is one of his older sisters, and that he’s home, a much younger, much more i

“If I could shut off the air conditioner I would, but like everything else in this lousy iMotel, it’s automated, and for some reason the thermostat thinks it’s ninety-two degrees.”

Lev’s too cold to speak yet. He clenches his teeth to stop from chattering, but is only partially successful.

Una grabs his blanket from where it has fallen on the floor, and covers him with it. Then she takes the bedspread and covers him with that as well.

“Thank you,” he’s finally able to squeak out.

“Is it just the cold, or do you have a fever?” she asks, then she feels his forehead. There’s been no one for almost two years to feel his forehead for a fever. It brings him a wave of unwanted emotion, yet he can’t be sure what that emotion is.

“Nope, no fever. You’re just cold.”

“Thanks again,” he tells her. “I’m better now.”

His chattering becomes intermittent, and eventually begins to fade, his body heat now held in by the covers. He marvels at how far his dream was from the real world, how the searing heat of the flames so quickly became the cold of a roadside motel room halfway between two nowheres. But then heat and cold are two sides of the same coin, aren’t they? Either extreme is lethal. Lev closes his eyes, and tries to get back to the business of sleep, knowing his body needs as much rest as it can get for the days ahead.

•  •  •

In the morning, he awakes to the sound of a door closing. He thinks Una must have left—but no, she’s been out and has just returned.

“Good morning,” she says.

He grunts, still not having mustered enough energy to speak. The room is still cold, but with double covers, he feels warm.

Una holds up a McDonald’s bag in either hand. “Your choice,” she says, “heart attack or stroke?”

He yawns and sits up. “Don’t tell me they were out of cancer . . .”

Una shakes her head. “Sorry, not served until after eleven thirty.”

He takes the bag in her left hand and finds inside an Egg McSomething that tastes too good to be anything but deadly. Well, if it wants to kill him, it’ll have to get in line behind the Juvenile Authority and the clappers and, of course, Nelson.

“What’s the plan, little brother?” Una asks.

Lev gobbles down the rest of his breakfast.

“How far are we from Mi

“About three hours.”

Lev reaches over and pulls out of his backpack the pictures of the two parts pirates they’re hunting. One is missing an ear, and the other is as ugly as a goat. “Do you need another look?”

“I’ve memorized every inch of those faces,” Una says not even trying to hide her disgust at the thought of them. “But I’m still not thinking it’ll make a difference. Mi

Lev offers her the faintest of grins. “Who says they don’t want to be found?”

Now Una sits on the bed next to his, regards him closely, and says again, “So what’s the plan, little brother?”

•  •  •

Chandler He

It was Wil Tashi’ne—the love of Una’s life—who saved them. He traded himself for Lev’s life and the lives of the others, a trade the pirates took because he had something that would fetch them a very high price. Wil had talent. Talent in his hands, and in the parts of his brain that had mastered the guitar like few others. They took him, leaving Lev to deal with the consequences. He was helpless to stop Wil from sacrificing himself, and yet the Arápache blamed him. Lev was an outsider, like the parts pirates. He was a refugee from the same broken world. Even Una’s feelings about him had a measure of ambivalence. “You’re the harbinger of doom,” she had told him. And she was right. Where Lev goes, terrible things always seem to follow. Yet still, he dreams he can break that pattern. It certainly would be easier than bringing down the moon.

Wil Tashi’ne’s unwinding left a wound in the Arápache people that Lev knows he ca

And then the Tribal Council will have to listen to him.

They will have to consider his plea to finally take a public stand against the Juvenile Authority.

Catching He

5 • Starkey

Mason Michael Starkey couldn’t care less about what some Chancefolk tribe does or doesn’t do. He doesn’t need their pathetic support because he’s taken his battle against unwinding right to the enemy, in the form of a gun muzzle rammed down the Juvenile Authority’s throat. As far as he’s concerned, anything less is for losers. Starkey knows he is poised for greatness. In fact, he’s already achieved it. Now it’s just a matter of degree.

“A little higher,” he says. “Yes, right there.”

He escaped with his storks from the Graveyard before the Juvies could capture them. He survived a plane crash. And now Starkey is a war hero. Never mind that no official war has been declared—he has declared it, and that’s all that matters. If others out there choose to behave like this isn’t a war, then they deserve what’s coming to them.