“Men are so stupid,” Becca says.

“What an ass,” Ramona adds before her eyes shoot over to me like she’s just remembered something. “Hey, wait, speaking of asses, what the hell was that, you running after that guy yesterday? That was whacko. And I mean for real. Like fucking nuts.”

“Yep, full-on psycho,” Becca says.

They are both looking at me like they want an actual explanation for my outburst.

“I didn’t believe what he was saying.” I shrug. “I wanted him to tell us the truth about why we’re here.”

“No offense,” Ramona says, crossing her arms and seeming more suspicious now, “but isn’t that the second time they had to drug you?”

“Yeah, didn’t you do the same kind of thing when they were bringing you here?” Becca asks. And it’s the opposite of the you-go-girl compliment it could be. “I heard you beat the crap out of the EMTs.”

They aren’t on my side anymore, at least not necessarily. There is still a line between crazy and crazy, and I might have thrown myself on the wrong side of it.

“Chanting ‘let us go’ is one thing,” Ramona says. “Attacking people is kind of another.”

This particular moment—when I have zero credibility—doesn’t seem like the best time to tell them about being Outliers and my dad’s research and all of it. But I have no choice. All I’ve done is wait.

But when I step forward out into the hallway, my foot knocks into something on the floor.

“What’s that?” Becca asks, pointing to something white and balled-up in my doorway.

I crouch down to look. It’s one of the scratchy, hospital-issue towels they’ve given us. When I put my hand on top, there’s something hard inside. Something bigger than my spread-fingered hand. I press down, trying to figure out what it is without taking the towel off. Already I have the most awful feeling I know.

“Why don’t you look?” Becca asks—a totally reasonable question. One that I can’t possibly answer.

“I . . .”

Instead, I scoop the towel up, bolt back inside my room, and slam the door. I can hear Ramona and Becca whispering on the other side for a minute. It sounds like they are debating whether one of them should go after me—it’s a “you do it,” “no, you do it,” kind of exchange. Finally, they decide against it altogether. Soon their voices are drifting away.

My ears are ringing as I step to the bed and rest down the towel and its mysterious cargo. I take one last deep breath before I tug hard on the towel like I’m performing a magic trick. I try to quickly close my eyes. But it’s too late. I’ve already seen what’s rolled out: a plastic baby, covered in red.