Back Deadline
Chapters (51)
  1. Book 2 of The Newsflesh Trilogy
  2. MIRA GRANT
  3. BOOK I
  4. Point of Infection
  5. One
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. BOOK II
  11. Vectors and Victims
  12. Six
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. BOOK III
  18. The Mourning Edition
  19. Eleven
  20. Twelve
  21. Thirteen
  22. Fourteen
  23. Fifteen
  24. Sixteen
  25. Seventeen
  26. BOOK IV
  27. Immunological Memory
  28. Nineteen
  29. Twenty
  30. Twenty-one
  31. Twenty-two
  32. BOOK V
  33. The Rising
  34. Twenty-three
  35. Twenty-four
  36. Twenty-five
  37. Twenty-six
  38. Coda: Living for You
  39. Twenty-seven
  40. Acknowledgments
  41. extras
  42. meet the author
  43. introducing
  44. BOOK I
  45. From the Dead
  46. One
  47. Contents
  48. BY MIRA GRANT
  49. Praise for Feed
  50. Copyright

Shaun and I had one of those awkward talks today—the ones that hurt the most because they’re the ones you don’t want to have, ever, but have to have eventually. This one was about our birth parents. Who they were, why they gave us up, whether they survived the Rising, all those things they say adopted kids are supposed to ask. Whether they wanted us. That’s a big one for Shaun. He’s always been more forgiving of the Masons than I am, but for some reason, it’s really important to him that we were wanted before we wound up here.

I know what triggered it. I got the same e-mail he did, from a service promising to “reunite the orphans of the Rising with their families.” According to the e-mail, these people would—for a modest fee, of course—run blood and tissue samples through every public and military database in the country, looking for a genetic match. Satisfaction guaranteed; they were clear on that point. We Find Your Family, Or Your Money Back.

That sort of scam fascinates me, but I don’t want the answers that they’re offering. I’ve had my genes tested for every nasty recessive and surprise health hazard we can test for, and that’s most of them—anything they don’t have a chromosome type for is so damn rare that at least it would be interesting to write about as it killed me. I have no pressing need to find the family that created me. The one thing I have in this world, the one thing I’m not willing to risk losing, is Shaun. And if I went out and found another family, I’d run the risk of losing him.

Whether the Masons rescued us from certain death—like the press releases say—or stole us, or hell, bought us on the black market, I don’t care. The girl I would’ve been if I’d grown up with a mother with my nose and a father with my funny-looking toes never got the opportunity to exist. I did. I was the one who got to grow up, and I grew up with Shaun, and that’s all I give a damn about. We got lucky. If he doesn’t see it, well… I guess there’s no way to make him.

But I still know.

—From Postcards from the Wall, the unpublished files of Georgia Mason, originally posted May 13, 2034

image