“This Heightened Emotional Perception could have exacerbated your anxiety, certainly. It’s possible that in some instances you have mistaken the emotions of others for your own. However, I’d say that it is highly unlikely that being an Outlier is the explanation for all your anxiety. Let me ask you this. Do you feel anxious now?”

I tried to pull in some air. It wasn’t easy. And there was that cold heaviness in my stomach for sure. “Yes, definitely.”

Though my anxiety did feel a little more separate now that I could pick out its peculiar chill. More like a backpack I was wearing than one of my internal organs.

“I can at least assure you that the anxiety you are feeling right now is yours, not mine, Wylie. Bottom line: I think the answer is yes, you are anxious, and, yes, you have this Heightened Emotional Perception. Where the line is will be something for you to figure out.”

But that was the problem. In those first hours after Jasper and I escaped, still reeling from what had happened to Cassie, being an Outlier felt like it might be the answer to everything that had ever been wrong with me. The secret to my freedom. But so quickly “being an Outlier” turned into a bottomless box filled with questions and more questions. So far I had decided to close the lid and lock it up tight. Knowing that I alone reserved the right to use the key.

Not yet, though. I had politely declined to engage in any of my dad’s “follow-up testing” and had taken a pass on him teaching me to “do more” with my Heightened Emotional Perception or “reading” ability. I’d even intentionally avoided learning where my dad’s research was headed. I knew only his two main questions: the “scope” of the Outlier ability (what could we do if we practiced) and the “source” of the Outlier ability (where did it come from).

After he had accidentally discovered the three original Outliers—me and the other two girls—my dad had done additional “exploratory” studies using a handful of volunteers, but nothing that could have been published. It was during these exploratory studies that he had noticed the Outliers were all girls, and only teenagers. All of that was before what had happened up at the camp. Now, my dad had been spending most of his time on applications and proposals to get the money he needed for a proper, peer-reviewed study that would prove the existence of the Outliers. Then, and only then, would he be able to move on to the more complex issues of source and scope. For now, as far as the scientific community was concerned, it was like nothing had even happened.

“And what if I don’t want to be an Outlier,” I said to Dr. Shepard, my throat pinching unexpectedly tight.