Sarah squeezed his leg, then took his hand. “I’m sure it’s nothing that a good bucket of greasy heart-attack food won’t cure.”

6

Michael stood outside the restaurant, taking long, deep breaths to calm his nerves while he waited for the others to use the bathroom. He’d barely spoken while they ate—chicken had been an excellent choice—he was just too wired thinking about Gabby, Kaine, the VNS, and how in the world he and his friends were supposed to make a difference at the World Summit. What he would give for a switch that could turn off his brain for a while.

A car was passing him in the parking lot, one of those new, fancy things with only three wheels. It had barely gone by when it slammed on its brakes, the back end swerving around until it came to a stop sideways. Michael took a step back, nervous. There were three people inside, but the sun reflecting off the windows prevented him from getting a good look at them.

The car sat there, its engine still running with a high-pitched whine of electricity. Michael turned back to the restaurant to see if any of his friends were coming out, but there was no sign of them. The line for the bathroom had been long—it was a popular place for travelers, and they’d hit it right at the peak of lunch hour. He looked back at the car again; nothing had changed.

Michael tried not to stare, but things were feeling weirder by the second. Had the driver had a heart attack or something? Done in by one too many grease-soaked drumsticks? The other two people in the car weren’t moving, either. Were they okay? Their heads were warped shadows behind the sparkling windows, totally still.

He almost jumped when all three windows started to go down. A man was driving, young and alive, and two women sat in the back. They looked to be about the same age as the driver, one blond and one brunette. All three of them stared at Michael, expressionless, their eyes glued to him.

He didn’t know what to do. A chill ran across his shoulders and he shivered. He glanced behind him to see if they could be looking at something else, but there was nothing unusual—just the restaurant. He turned back toward the car. Still they stared.

The door to the restaurant jangled and Bryson and Sarah came out, laughing about something. Michael saw them out of the corner of his eye, and he suddenly felt sheepish, like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Man,” Bryson said, swatting Michael on the back. “Some dude had a major disagreement with his fried chicken. Held up the bathroom for a solid ten minutes. I’ve been in porta-potties that smelled better.”

Sarah laughed again, and the sound made Michael feel better. Safer, actually.