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“You have five–thousand
in cash
sitting in our home?” asked Gwyn, crossing her arms over her chest.

Her mom nodded.

“God, you are
so
Chinese, Ma. Have you not heard of banks?”

“It’s for emergencies,” said Bridget.

“Yeah, well I had an emergency need for jeans last week, and you said we were broke.”

“That wasn’t an emergency,” snapped her mom.

“You’re crazy, Ma, you know that? Seriously, when exactly do you think you’re going to need that much money?” Gwyn shook her head.

“Today,” said Bridget, smiling smugly.

Gwyn opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. And then changed it again. “That was pretty smart of you, Ma.”

“We can’t take your money, Bridget,” I repeated.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows. “We can and we will. Dave’s truck is yours ‘til we can pay you back.”

Bridget nodded her approval.

“Excellent,” said Gwyn. “That’s worth what, thirty–thou’?”

No one responded.

Gwyn shook her head. “Am I the only one who’s seen Crazy Chuck’s Chevy Circus commercials?”

Sylvia turned, covering her mouth to hide her laughter.

“It will take me an hour and a half to get there and back,” said Bridget. “Longer, if you want me to pick up a battery.”

“I don’t like staying here that long,” said Sylvia. “All the roads out of here take us close to Merced or Fresno and the sooner we clear those areas, the better.”

“Not all roads,” said my dad.

“Tioga Pass is closed, Dave. It’s January. We have to go west to leave the area.”

“I know some back roads to the valley,” said my dad.

“I’m so sorry,” said Bridget. “I wasn’t thinking of how I’d boxed you in by saying what I did about hotels.”

“You were brilliant,” said Sylvia, smiling. “I could never have thought on my feet like that.”

“You may well have saved their lives,” said Christian. “Do not perspire upon things of small importance.”

Gwyn stared at him. “Did you mean to say, ‘don’t sweat the small stuff’? ‘Cause, dude, that was some creative use of English.”

Suddenly, I remembered something. “Christian, how long did it take you when you brought me back from Geneses two weeks ago?”

He drew his brows together. “Perhaps the half of one hour?”

“That’s what I thought!” I said smiling. “It took me over two hours. Pretty much what it would take speeding by car.”

“I am unusually swift when incorporeal,” said Christian.

“I’ll say!” I agreed. I turned to everyone else. “Christian can take Bridget to get the money and the battery. He can get there in less than a quarter of the time it would take by car.”

However, Christian point–blank refused to leave my side. (“I swore an oath to my father, and I will uphold my oath.”) So the three of us, Christian, Bridget and myself, rippled and traveled together. Christian explained that we’d all be able to move at his speed so long as we touched.

Following a crazy–fast zip through the foothills, we approached Las Abs. As we arrived, I caught an echo of an emotionally–charged thought that came from Bridget’s mind.

New car
.

Well, if anyone would recognize an unusual car in Las Abs, that person would be Bridget.

I looked both directions, curious what she’d seen. I found the new car, and my blood froze. Driving slowly along Main Street I spotted a small sports car that I knew very well. I’d ridden inside it last year.

It’s Hans!
I cried out to Christian.

WEIGHT OF THE ATLANTIC

·
WILL
·

“I think you should come back right away,” said my sister. Her voice, crackling over the connection, was plenty loud for both of us to hear.

“Are you unwell,
Mademoiselle
?” asked Sir Walter. “Are you in danger?”

“It’s not me,” said Mick. “It’s … those people we don’t like. They’re doing … things we don’t like. And you need to come look at it
now
.”

My heart hammered as I rippled back solid and grabbed the phone. “Mick? What is it? Is it—” My voice cracked. I couldn’t make myself ask about Sam by name.

“It’s not about
her
,” said my sister. “It’s something else. Can you come back, like,
now
?”

“Sure,” I said.

Before I’d hit “end,” Sir Walter had rippled away to hide the Styrofoam box once more. Then he came solid and reached for my arm. Together we vanished and raced like a silent wind back to the tiny house.

My sister sat hunched over Sir Walter’s computer. When we solidified in the room, she waved us over. “Geneses is up to something. I mean, it all looks nice on the surface. They come out looking like saints, really, but I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”

Sir Walter and I read the news headlines about an outbreak of deadly plague within a small central African country. Volunteers connected to Geneses International had taken the point on trying to contain and cure the disease.

“Please tell me this group of volunteers doesn’t have a name related to heavenly beings,” I murmured.

“The media are calling them
Angel Corps
, you know, like Mercy Corps or Peace Corps,” replied my sister.

“Oh, no,” I said.

Sir Walter brought a hand across his face.

Between us, we caught Mickie up on what we’d discovered in Montpellier.

“If Helmann is using the
Angel Corps
to ‘help’ victims of disease,” said Mickie, “I think we can expect massive casualties.”

“Like the video,” I said.

“
Mademoiselle
, would you please search for other instances of this disease? In other locations?” Sir Walter’s right hand clenched and unclenched. I’d never seen him nervous, but maybe this was what it looked like.

My sister bounced around on several news sites, repeatedly closing pop–up notifications. The disease seemed to be contained within the one country for now. But I started thinking about California’s diverse population, just full of people–groups Helmann would like to eliminate.
Not Sam, not Sam, please, not Sam
…

“What does Geneses’ official site report?” asked Sir Walter.

Mickie opened a new window and we waited for the Geneses page to load. When it came up, there was just some crap about how proud the company was of its brave volunteers, and how the
Angel Corps
would have every advantage of immunological technology Geneses could provide.

A new pop–up covered part of the article, and my sister quickly closed it.

“Wait,” I said, “What was that? Something on central California?”

“Just an interest group on berry farming. It’s very active today. I’m part of a couple of groups that I thought might help me keep tabs on Sam and her family,” explained my sister.

“Oh,” I said, returning my attention to the article on Geneses’ home page.

Sir Walter tapped the screen. “Bring it back,” he said. “The notification.”

Mickie tapped her fingers across the keyboard. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Usually it’s just complaints about LA taking farm water or something.”

But when the chat group site opened, it was full of entries featuring the name “Dave Ruiz.” Sam’s dad.

“Oh, no,” murmured my sister. “How did you guess?”

“Our enemy rarely strikes upon only one front,” said Sir Walter.

As we read through the posts, I felt every one of those six–thousand miles between Sam and me.

“Everyone’s talking about Sam’s house!” cried my sister, reading faster than me. “It burned to the ground.”

The weight of that distance gathered and settled in my chest.

“Sam’s dad is big news in farming circles,” continued my sister. “His name comes up all the time on some of these chat sites.”

“Click upon the linking article,” said Sir Walter.

There it was, in the Fresno Bee. An article on berry–grower David Ruiz and the tragic blaze that left him homeless.

How much did all the water in the Atlantic weigh, I wondered? It rushed in behind the six–thousand miles, filling my lungs with a crushing load.

“Sit down,” murmured my sister.

I sank into the chair beside her.

My sister took my hand as she scanned the screen. “The former occupants are unavailable for comment, blah, blah, blah, several eyewitnesses
saw the family safely outside the house
while the fire department was there.” My sister gave my hand a quick squeeze.

I heard a pounding surf roaring in my ears.

Sam would be okay. She had to be okay.

“This news article is insufficient,” said Sir Walter. “Return to the chat forum, please,
Mademoiselle.
” His voice sounded thin.

My sister wiped her eyes with the back of one sleeve. “Here’s something,” she said. “Everyone wants to interview Dave Ruiz about the fire, but no one can find him or Sylvia. Or Sam. Here’s something else. Bridget Li’s name is popping up.” My sister ran a finger down the screen, reading silently.

I wanted to read, but my eyes kept going out of focus with tears: the wide Atlantic was leaking out of me.

“Bridget’s saying she doesn’t know anything.” My sister let out a short laugh. “Reporters are swarming Las ABC, and Gwyn’s telling them to buy a coffee or get the hell out of the café.”

“We have to go,” I said. With the ocean roaring in my ears, the words sounded small and far away, like someone else had spoken them.

“Indeed,” said Sir Walter. “I would be willing to gamble that
Madame
Li knows the truth of their location. And when we are closer to Chrétien, I shall be able to communicate with him from within our minds,” he said.

Mick looked up. “Really?”

Sir Walter nodded. “Let us prepare to leave.”

“Thanks, man,” I choked out.

As Sir Walter turned, I saw a face so pinched with grief that I forgot about the weight of the ocean upon my chest. I’m not much of a hugger, but I threw my arms around the old man.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” I said. Only I wasn’t sure of anything.

We rippled to travel back to Nice, at my sister’s suggestion. I felt grateful to her, knowing how rippling made her feel sick. From Nice, Sir Walter chartered a private jet to get us to California.

The worst part of it all was how we couldn’t communicate with Sam. Her home phone number wasn’t working, for obvious reasons, and Sir Walter wouldn’t try her cell.

“If she has been … detained by our enemies, I do not wish to alert them as to her connection with us,” he said.

Mickie reached over to take my hand.

“I’m fine,” I lied, closing my eyes, wishing I could sleep to pass the time faster. But I had too much adrenaline pumping through me. I tried to get comfortable. The leather seat felt slippery and cold and too big, like no matter how I sat, I couldn’t anchor myself to it properly.

I looked out the window; the vast ocean looked immeasurable. Staring at it made me feel like we weren’t really moving at all, like we’d never reach the next continent.

Mile after slow mile, the engines droned, until the noise started making me a little crazy. At some point, Sir Walter offered me special headphones. But then it was too quiet. I threw the headphones down and let the engine–noise fill my head.

Chapter Thirty–One

APOCALYPSE

·
SAM
·

You are certain it is Hans?
Christian asked from inside my head.

I’m sure,
I replied.
I rode in that car with him last fall.

As we watched, Hans pulled his car into a sharp reverse, in the middle of Main Street, and peeled out, leaving dark stripes upon grayed asphalt as he drove out of town.

I caught another thought from Bridget Li
. Tourist.
Meant as the worst variety of insult.

He appears to have departed
, said Christian.

I guess,
I said.
Let’s just go forward with our plan. I’ll keep my, uh, ears open for any sign of him returning.

We passed through Bridget’s rock wall, which startled her, and then the three of us materialized within her kitchen.

“I’m not dreaming this, am I?” murmured Bridget to herself. She gave her head one good shake and then crossed to a stack of cleaning rags. Moving these out of the way, she uncovered a small fire–safe. It looked like one in my dad’s office. I wondered briefly what he’d kept in ours, what had survived the fire.

Bridget fumbled with the lock and opened the safe. Quickly, she passed us the money. “I’m going to stay here,” she said. “So I can keep an eye on things around town.”

I told her the identity of the rude tourist.

She nodded. “If he comes back, I’ll hear about it.”

“Be careful around him,” I warned.

She grinned. “I survived the Cultural Revolution in China. Well, I was a baby, but I survived, didn’t I? The Li family has always been fortunate.”

Bridget made a call to have a car battery delivered directly to the bakery. “Joe’s Auto owes me,” she said.

Once we had the battery, Christian and I said goodbye to Bridget and returned to Midpines.

Gwyn and Sylvia were talking quietly when we arrived and came solid again. I took the battery, which was just crazy–heavy for such a small object. Crunching noisily through a thick layer of digger and sugar pine needles, I carried it out to my dad. He was fiddling under the hood of the truck. He pulled an old transistor radio from his pocket and turned it off, removing his earbuds.

“You can have my old iPod, you know,” I said as he wrapped the earwires carefully around the piece of ancient technology.

He shrugged. “I like the radio.”

“You hear anything interesting?” I asked.

He took the battery from me. “Boy, you’re getting strong, kiddo, just like your mom was.”

I smiled.

“I always told her she was strong enough to be a farmer,” he said, heaving the battery into place.

“And she laughed at you,” I said, remembering their banter, “And said you were stubborn enough to be an artist.”