Sneak (Swipe Series)

dozen different directions.
    Logan was alone again. And it was in that moment that he heard the scariest thing of all: Erin.
    Erin was yelling in the woods behind him.
    When Logan did, finally, reach the stream at the edge of the farm, he could not find the raft. He could not find the Dust. And behind him Erin was running, shouting, horribly, to the DOME agents trailing half an acre behind her.
    “He’s here!” she yelled. “I’ve got him right here!”
    Logan was cornered.
    And for some reason all of these things together simply broke Logan’s heart. He realized, right then, that he did have something left to lose—the hope that Erin, somehow, somewhere, was still on his side.
    He’d lost that now too.
    “You were my best friend in the world,” Logan said once Erin made it close.
    Erin tried to speak and failed several times. What came out were short breaths and stutters. “Yes,” she said finally. “But Logan . . . listen to me. This . . . it’s—it’s not what you think—”
    “In what way, Erin? Huh? You’ve killed me, is what I think. You have killed me!”
    “Logan, please— just hear me out !”
    In front of him, the broad stream was dark and freezing, with a filmy coating of ice over the shallower areas. Even standing at its edge he could feel the rush of cold sucking his body heat into its surging water. Logan guessed he’d have maybe twenty minutes to float, tops, before hypothermia killed him. If he hadn’t drowned by then anyway.
    How?
    How has it come to this?
    He jumped into the water.
    He didn’t feel a thing.

FIVE

THE AFTERMATH
    1
    T HE MORNING ON WRIGHT STREET WAS QUIET and still. In the house where Logan grew up, Mr. and Mrs. Langly were eating breakfast, which today was toast, orange juice, and cereal.
    But Mrs. Langly hadn’t touched her plate.
    “Not hungry?” her husband asked.
    Mrs. Langly shook her head.
    “Maybe today’s the day. You know? We’re bound to hear something eventually.”
    Mrs. Langly just shrugged.
    “So how’s, uh, . . . how’s the research?”
    Earlier in life, Charlotte Langly had been a meteorologist. Before Lily failed her Pledge, Charlotte would spend hours up in her study on the top floor of the house, tracking weather patterns, charting storms, following cold fronts, heat waves, natural disasters . . . she’d studied all of it at great length. She’d written op-eds on the aftermath of the earthquake that destroyed the West Coast, published articles about the changing weather patterns and the disruption that it would (and then did) bring, lobbied Parliament for environmental action, led seminars in New Chicago, organized volunteer “nature cleanup” days in Spokie . . .
    But the interest dried up when Lily didn’t return. All of it just went away, right along with Charlotte’s daughter.
    Then, about a month ago, Logan went in for his Pledge, and once again the Langlys had a DOME visitor by supper.
    “Security tapes show your son attacking his nurse,” the agent told them. “You can see him here, also threatening his Marker.”
    The Langlys stood at their doorstep, watching the video feed on the man’s tablet. Watching their own son assault an innocent nurse. Mrs. Langly watched with her hand over her mouth. Mr. Langly watched poker-faced. Both of them were silent.
    “Fortunately, as you can see, your son’s Marker was able to talk him down from his hysteria.” The man pointed to the screen on his tablet. “And look at this. You see these four men arriving to take your son for questioning?” He shut the tablet off now and tucked it under his arm, looking Mr. Langly in the eyes as he spoke. “Six minutes later your son managed to escape.”
    “Escape?” Mr. Langly repeated.
    “We lost him, I’m afraid. He . . . managed to evade our guards and somehow sneak off. We have our best people on it,” the man quickly assured them. “But for the time being, your son is missing.”
    “Is he in trouble?” Mr. Langly asked.
    “No trouble,” the agent said. “We’d just like to find him, is all. So please—if you see or hear anything . . . if he happens to come home . . . do let us know. Immediately, if you would.”
    Mrs. Langly had already excused herself from the conversation. Mr. Langly looked back, noticing her absence, but she was nowhere in sight.
    “We’ll let you know,” Mr. Langly told the agent. “And . . . likewise . . . were you to find him first . . . you’d, uh, you’d let us—”
    “Of course. Right