Нил Шустерман - Unwind

The sleepy woman tries to get her brain up to speed with "Didi," airhead for the homeless. The woman can't get a word in edgewise because Didi talks way too fast. If Risa had had a piece of chewing gum, she would have popped a bubble somewhere in there to add more authenticity.

"Please-please-pretty-please? I'm, like, in second place right now?"

The woman at the door sighs, resigned to the fact that "Didi" isn't going away empty-handed, and sometimes the best way to get rid of girls like this is just to give them something. "I'll be right back," the woman says.

Three minutes later, Risa walks away from the house with a bag full of clothes and canned food.

"That was amazing," says Connor, who had been watching with Lev from the edge of the woods.

"What can I say? I'm an artist," she says. "It's like playing the piano; you just have to know which keys to strike in people."

Connor smiles. "You're right, this is way better than stealing."

"Actually," says Lev, "scamming IS stealing."

Risa feels a bit prickly and uncomfortable at the thought, but tries not to show it.

"Maybe so," says Connor, "but it's stealing with style."

The woods have ended at a tract community. Manicured lawns have turned yellow along with the leaves. Autumn has truly taken hold. The homes here are almost identical, but not quite, full of people almost identical, but not quite. It's a world Risa knows about only through magazines and TV. To her, suburbia is a magical kingdom. Perhaps that's why Risa was the one who had the nerve to approach the house and pretend to be Didi. The neighborhood drew her like the smell of fresh bread baking in the industrial ovens of Ohio State Home 23.

Back in the woods where they can't be seen from anyone's window, they check their goody bag, as if it's full of Halloween candy.

There's a pair of pants and a blue button-down shirt that fits Connor.

There's a jacket that fits Lev. There are no clothes for Risa, but that's okay. She can play Didi again at a different house.

"I still don't know how changing our clothes is going to make a difference." Connor asks.

"Don't you ever watch TV?" says Risa. "On the cop shows they always describe what perps were last wearing when they put out an APB."

"We're not perps," says Connor, "we're AWOLs."

"We're felons," says Lev. "Because what you're doing—I mean, what we're doing—is a federal crime."

"What, stealing clothes?" asks Connor.

"No, stealing ourselves. Once the unwind orders were signed, we all became government property. Kicking-AWOL makes us federal criminals."

It doesn't sit well with Risa, or for that matter with Connor, but they both shake it off.

This excursion into a populated area is dangerous but necessary. Perhaps as the morning goes on they can find a library where they can download maps and find themselves a wilderness large enough to get lost in for good. There are rumors of hidden communities of AWOL Unwinds. Maybe they can find one.

As they move cautiously through the neighborhood, a woman approaches them—just a girl, really, maybe nineteen or twenty. She walks fast, but she's walking funny, like she's got some injury or is recovering from one. Risa's certain she's going to see them and recognize them, but the girl passes without even making eye contact and hurries around a corner.

Exposed.Vulnerable. Connor wishes they could have stayed in the woods, but there are only so many acorns and berries he can eat. They'll find food in town. Food, and information.

"This is the best time not to be noticed," Connor tells the others. "Everyone's in a hurry in the morning. Late to work, or whatever."

Connor finds a newspaper in the bushes, misthrown by a delivery boy.

"Look at this!" says Lev. "A newspaper. How retro is that?"

"Does it talk about us?" asks Lev. He says it like it's a good thing. The three of them scan the front page. The war in Australia, King politicians—the same old stuff. Connor turns the page clumsily. Its pages are large and awkward. They tear easily and catch the breeze like a kite, making it hard to read.

No mention of them on page two, or page three.

"Maybe it's an old newspaper," suggests Risa.

Connor checks the date on top. "No, it's today's." He fights against the breeze to turn the page. "Ah—there it is."

The headline reads, PILEUP ON INTERSTATE. It's a very small article. A morning car accident, blah-blah-blah, traffic snarled for hours, blah-blah-blah.

The article mentions the dead bus driver, the fact that the road was closed for three hours. But nothing about them. Connor reads the last line of the article aloud.

"It is believed that police activity in the area may have distracted drivers, leading to the accident."

They're all dumbfounded. For Connor, there's a sense of relief—a sense of having gotten away with something huge.

"That can't be right," says Lev, "I was kidnapped, or . . . uh . . . at least they think I was. That should be in the news."

"Lev's right," says Risa. "They always have incidents with Unwinds in the news. If we're not in there, there's a reason."

Connor can't believe these two are looking this gift horse in the mouth! He speaks slowly as if to idiots. "No news report means no pictures—and that means people won't recognize us. I don't see why that's a problem."

Risa folds her arms. "Why are there no pictures?"

"I don't know—maybe the police are keeping it quiet because they don't want people to know they screwed up."

Risa shakes her head. "It doesn't feel right. . . ."

"Who cares how it feels!"

"Keep your voice down!" Risa says in an angry whisper. Connor fights to keep his temper under control. He doesn't say anything for fear he's going to start yelling again and draw attention to them. He can see Risa puzzling over the situation and Lev looking back and forth between the two of them. Risa's not stupid, thinks Connor. She's going to figure out that this is a good thing, and that she's worrying for nothing.

But instead, Risa says, "If we're never in the news, then who's going to know if we live or die? See—if it's all over the news that they're tracking us, then when they find us, they have to take us down with tranquilizer bullets and take us to be harvested, right?"

Connor has no idea why she's stating the obvious. "So, what's your point?"

"What if they don't want to take us to be unwound. What if they want us dead?"

Connor opens his mouth to tell her how stupid that is, but stops himself.

Because it's not stupid at all.

"Lev," says Risa, "your family's pretty rich, right?"

Lev shrugs modestly. "I guess."

"What if they paid off the police to get you back by killing the kidnappers . . . and to do it quietly, so no one ever knew it happened?"

Connor looks to Lev, hoping the kid will laugh at the very suggestion, telling them that his parents would never, ever do such a terrible thing. Lev, however, is curiously silent about it as he considers the possibility.

And at that moment two things happen. A police car turns onto the street, and somewhere very close by, a baby begins to cry.

Run!

This is the first thought in Connor's mind, his first instinct, but Risa grabs his arm tightly the moment she sees the police car, and it makes him hesitate.

Connor knows hesitation can mean the difference between life and death in dire situations. But not today. Today it gives him enough time to do something Connor rarely does in an emergency. He goes beyond his first thought, and processes his second thought: Running will attract attention.

He forces his feet to stay in one place, and takes a quick moment to assess their surroundings. Cars are starting in driveways as people head off to work.