I watch Becca make her way over to one of the guards. Stalking more than walking, like some sinewy cat creature even in the unflattering sweat suit. The one guard looks delighted but not surprised that she has come over. Like he has beautiful girls seeking him out all the time, though he is short and balding and has a bit of a paunch. Becca props herself on the back of the couch nearby, one leg swinging back and forth like a metronome. I try to imagine her with a needle in her arm, and—oddly—I can, though I am not sure this makes the rumor any more true.

Even from all the way across the room, it’s obvious that this flirting is an act. You don’t need to be an Outlier to see that. Still, the guard is buying it completely. He leans in close to say something to her, his chin lifted in this absurd, cocky way.

“Hey, what’s your name?” comes a voice from behind me.

When I turn, there’s a petite girl swallowed by her big sweat suit and even bigger glasses. And she’s standing right next to me. She’s only a couple of inches too close, but those last inches are the most important ones. Maybe because of her nearness, the girl’s emotions wash hard, and unavoidably, over me, and they are a scattered mess. She’s a little scared and a bit worried. And a lot excited? Why is she excited? Am I even right about that? I feel dizzy trying to get a better fix on her. Her feelings are flashing at me like strobe lights, too bright and then gone. All I want to do is back up and close my eyes.

“Hello? What’s your name?” she asks again. Louder this time.

“Wylie.” I take a step back, hoping she doesn’t follow.

She looks skeptical. “What kind of name is that?”

“My grandfather’s,” I say, trying to stay polite. I can’t afford to offend people yet.

“I’m Teresa,” she says, then rolls her eyes. “You know, like Mother Teresa. My grandmother is super religious.” She stares at me for a minute longer, then smiles in a way that makes me queasy.

“Do you go to Newton Regional?” I ask, though I don’t recognize her. Anything to create some noise that might distract me from her the piercing static of her jumbled feelings.

“Oh no,” she says, like that is the most absurd suggestion ever. “I’m homeschooled. My grandmother used to be a high school science teacher, so she thought she could do a better job herself. She’s all over it.”

“How long have you been here?” I ask.