My stomach clenches at the memory. It’s still fresh in my mind, as vivid as when it happened. Those girls deserved it, but I hate thinking about that day. It’s one of those moments that make me wish I didn’t have a perfect memory. “No.”

She gives me a smile, which I can tell is fake. I’ve seen that kind of smile before on social workers, teachers, and foster parents. The smile they put on when they’re trying to be patient with a kid who doesn’t want to cooperate. “Do you like to fight?”

“No,” I say again. “But I will if I have to.”

“Good, good.” She seems pleased with my answer, which sets off little warning bells in my head. But before I can question that, she continues. “We’d like to make you an offer to join our program.”

I sit up straighter and hope floods my veins like a drug, but I try not to show anything on my face. I don’t want her to know how desperate I am. “What do I have to do?”

“We’re recruiting a small group of extraordinary teens to participate in a short research project, which will take place tomorrow at one of our facilities near here. We’ll pick you up in the morning and bring you home in the evening, so you’ll only miss one day of school. The project is confidential, so I’m afraid I can’t disclose any other details at this time.” Her smile widens, her teeth perfect and white. “What I can tell you is that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you will be greatly rewarded for participating.”

Her offer is tempting, so very tempting. But I don’t like going into anything blind. I study Lynne’s expensive clothes and her fancy nails, trying to imagine what kind of “research project” Aether Corp could be doing with foster kids. From her questions, I’m guessing it’s some sort of focus group. Watching movies, answering surveys, that sort of thing. Or maybe they’re doing a study about “gifted” teens and want to ask us questions, have us solve puzzles, stuff like that. But then, why was she so pleased to hear I could fight? And why are the details confidential?

“We’ve already obtained permission from your legal guardians.” She slides forward a stack of papers, the top one signed by my foster mom and some government authorities. Below it, there’s a blank line with my name under it. Waiting for my signature. “Please read over the contract and let me know if you have any questions.”