“We have some exciting news,” a silver-haired man said. “We’ve been allocated the funds to create a special school for you. The location hasn’t been decided yet. Nor has it been decided whether you will be mainstreamed with other children.” He beamed as if he’d just told us we’d won the lottery.

“Uh-huh,” I said warily.

“I’m still unclear why the children can’t just live in peace somewhere, in hiding,” said my mom. Way to go, Mom!

“Well, you see, Ms. Martinez —,” a woman began.

“Doctor,” said my mom. “Dr. Martinez.”

“Ah, yes. Dr. Martinez,” the woman said.

“Like in the witness protection program,” my mom went on. “The government spends millions of dollars, so much time and energy, protecting witnesses who are often criminals themselves. Why can’t you make the same effort to protect innocent children?”

Nudge squeezed my hand. All of us had wanted real parents our whole life, and after a couple of disastrous false alarms, I’d actually found mine. And my mom was the best mom in the whole world, ever.

Though even I thought she was going a little far, calling us “innocent.” Maybe she didn’t know about the string of stolen cars or the vandalism of empty vacation homes.

But I digress.

An older woman in a navy suit leaned forward. “The witness protection program is limited in its scope and not intended to create a suitable environment for children. Which is why we were thinking more of a boarding-school situation, with appropriate guardians and teachers.” She smiled somewhat frostily. “It will be a most desirable situation, I assure you.”

“We’re not convinced that you understand the nature of these children,” said Jeb, speaking up for the first time. “We’re not sure why you believe yourselves to be the best judges of what would be best for them.”

“None of us have been associated, however peripherally, with Itex or its various research branches,” said a dark-haired woman. I thought Jeb flushed a little at that. “But we’ve made an extensive study of the situation, of the children, and of various rehabilitation systems that might be applicable here. Many of us are parents ourselves.”

“But you’re not their parents,” said my mom.

“With all due respect, Dr. Martinez, neither are you, nor is Jeb Batchelder,” said an older man wearing glasses. “We understand the genetic component, as it’s been explained to us. But the fact remains that these children have essentially grown up without any adult who could realistically be called a parental figure.”

Again Jeb flushed, and I wondered how guilty he felt about letting the flock down. I hoped it was a lot. I felt my mom tense beside me, and all of a sudden I’d had enough.

Max, I hate this. Can we get out of here?