Again we were treading close to personal ground, and I was feeling all self-protecty, but I answered. “Yes. The flying part is wonderful. Better than anything.” Growing up in dog crates, being subjected to horrible experiments, being chased and attacked every time we turned around: not so much.

“I wish —,” said Brigid. She stopped and shook her head.

“What?”

She looked embarrassed. “I’m a wildlife specialist, like Paul. I’m here to learn about South Polar animals. The scientist in me is dying to ask you questions, to learn what it’s like to be such a different form of human. But I know how awful that must seem to you.”

I bit my lip so I wouldn’t say something snide, like, “Why don’t you ask Fang?”

“You’re human, with intelligence, courage, feelings, impressions,” Brigid went on. “I can’t ask a bird how it feels to fly. I can ask you. But your very ability to tell me means that asking you such a thing would be horribly intrusive and insensitive on my part. I’m sorry.” She gave a little smile. “I’ll try to keep a lid on the scientist in me.”

“Good luck with that,” said Paul, chuckling. “Being a scientist isn’t what you do. It’s what you are.”

Brigid nodded, looking troubled.

These people were unlike most other humans I’d ever dealt with. They were just as curious, but they were actually respecting our personal boundaries — for now. Most other scientists were content to trap us, slap us into cages, and start sticking needles into us. It was weird. I wondered how long it would last.

“I’m going to turn in,” I said abruptly, and headed toward the aft stairs. (Aft means “rear” on a boat. See how I’m throwing the lingo around?)

I had just started down the narrow, steeply pitched steps when I realized Fang was waiting for me at the bottom.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “Why’d you take off like that?”

Oh, like I would tell him.

“Wanted some air,” I said, trying to brush past him. But he took my arms to hold me in place, and because I didn’t feel like having this escalate into a knockdown fistfight, I let him.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he said again, his face very close to mine.

“Nothing.” I’m nothing if not stubborn.

“Max, if you would just talk to me —”

“About what? You and me? There is no you and me. Especially when you keep throwing yourself at everything in a skirt!” Okay, now, that was so, so stupid. Fang’s eyes widened — I’d given far too much away. Plus, Brigid Dwyer wasn’t wearing a skirt.

I wrenched my arms away from him, feeling as if my cheeks were on fire. I was confused and miserable — two of my least favorite things.