Swiveling my head around to look for more figures, I tiptoed toward the front. Still silence. There was nothing to do but stride right in, striking my best martial-arts pose as I whipped through the tent flap.
It was empty inside.
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 —