“I’m sorry we were spying on you,” I say sheepishly, and I feel some of Dr. Bright’s anger fizzle out. “We shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Adam was just curious about the whole thing. And I guess … I guess I was too. I mean, even though it was a little scary, it’s kind of nice knowing that there are other people out there like me.”

Dr. Bright exhales and the black tar strengthens, squeezing my rib cage so hard that I worry it might crack. How does she live like this?

“I should have been more forthcoming with information about Atypicals.” She sighs. “It’s natural for you to be curious and I should have been more open to answering your questions. I was just…”

She trails off, rubbing her hands nervously, two things she never does, and my stomach clenches in fear. Suddenly the possibility of having more information seems like a terrible, terrifying prospect.

“I was trying to protect you,” she finishes, and the weight inside of me lightens a fraction.

“Protect me from what?” I demand. “You sound just like my parents. I know you guys had a conversation about all this when I first started seeing you and that they’re worried about people out there who might want to hurt me, but what has you all so freaked out? I can feel feelings, how much danger could I really be in?”

I’m working hard to make my voice sound casual, scoffing at the idea of some looming, villainous force, but I’m cold all over, heart pounding rapidly in an attempt to warm my blood. Dr. Bright looks at me, and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a diving board. Wobbling and jelly-legged, unable to jump and unable to walk back. It fits awkwardly in my body and I know it belongs to Dr. Bright. She’s uncertain. She’s never uncertain.

“There’s an organization,” she says finally, “called The Atypical Monitors.”

It’s like having six shots of espresso—fear races through my veins like simply saying the name has caused Dr. Bright to summon demons from hell. She’s afraid. She’s terrified. My body is full of emotions that I’ve never felt from her before, and I’m starting to shut down.

“Caleb?” she asks from above the mud I’m sinking into, “are you all right?”

“It’s—” I’m having a hard time speaking around the molasses. “It’s too much, I’m sorry. I can’t—can we talk about something else?”