’Cause I’m going to die “first” and “soon.”

I could string that sinister little mind-reading Shirley Temple up by her pinafores for her total lack of elaboration. Except Max about beat me to it.

I’m lucky. Somehow I got the “unable to visually emote” genetic modification. Because inside, when Angel said that, my blood froze and my bird bones ached.

So what’s her prediction worth anyway? Where does it come from? From a Voice, like Max’s? Doesn’t mean it’s right. We only assume it’s always going to be right, because it has the power to invade her brain and be so FLIPPING CREEPY. But creepy doesn’t mean all-powerful.

It’s like I’m trying to talk myself out of this. Of course we’re going to die. And it’s probably going to be sooner rather than later. And it’s not going to be fun. Look at the life we lead.

Twelve hours ago were we not being shot at by crazy guys on camels with semiautomatic weapons?

That’s what I thought.

Crap.

Sigh.

Fly on,

Fang

I’m Not Telling, Colorado

The Day Before Our Birthday O’clock

So, we have on The Gift List:

Iggy—Gory, gooey, blood-spattering audiobook on CD. CHECK

Nudge—584,395,004,981 fashion magazines. CHECK

Gazzy—Illustrated history of blowing crap up for eons. CHECK CHECK

Angel—Angel? A camera, a great gift for a smart, creative kid. CHECK

Max—…

Max—… Roses? They die. LAME

Max—… Poetry? And she beats me up…. OW

Max—… Jewelry?… Pretty?… Can’t be used (easily) as a weapon?

What could possibly be right for Max? That girl is fiercer than a rattlesnake. Pft. In fact, the first few times we kissed, I thought she was one. That girl was a regular old teeth-banger. (And they call me Fang.) Thank goodness she was genetically engineered to have good teeth. If she had braces, my gums would have been ground beef. But I wouldn’t care if she was the worst teeth-banger in a pool of every high school student on the planet. In fact, I like her more because of it.

Man, I don’t know. I’m really not sure. The secret to gifts is… ? Right, ask me, the fifteen-year-old (tomorrow) bird man. I know everything about gift giving. I learned in charm school.

I think the secret to a great gift is that it should be personal. It has to prove that you know and care about someone enough to know what she’d love. And I’m so dead.

I hope I made the right choice. That ring, I want it to mean something.

She’s going to think I’m the corniest guy on the planet.

Fly on,

Fang

Las Vegas, Nevada

We Won the Jackpot—If by Jackpot You Mean You’re Willing to Deal with Exile—O’clock