Storm (Swipe Series)

resting mournfully on the sterile table before her. “In that case,” she said, “what about me?”
    Arianna looked at her sadly.
    “What about a cure ?” Erin specified.
    The doctor sighed deeply. For the first time, all the laughter within her went dead.
    “I never developed a cure,” Arianna said. “Those nanomeds you risked everything for have bought you a little bit of time. The medical equipment I have here at the SSC will buy you a little bit more. But none of that changes the bottom line: your fever will grow steadily worse . . . and then you will die.”
    5
    It was hard for Connor to focus the next day at school. The morning had passed, and so far he’d missed every last lesson point in meteorology, statistics, chemistry, political relations, and post-Unity history. This was a first for Connor Goody Two-Shoes, and yet he was powerless to snap out of it.
    Lahoma High was a small place—a converted house, in fact—no more than sixty students total across all four grades. Ninth and tenth grades were downstairs, each in its own room of about fifteen students, and eleventh and twelfth were up on the second floor, which Connor rarely saw.
    Connor’s year was a “boom year” with sixteen students, so his classroom had always been crowded, according to his teachers. He’d been attending class with these same fifteen students for his entire academic life. Each year was taught by a new teacher, and he or she covered all possible topics, which varied widely from grade to grade. Now that Connor was getting older, the curriculum was much more practical, and oriented toward a variety of possible careers at the weather mill. Currently, Connor was learning the general stuff, but beginning in eleventh grade, he’d have the opportunity to choose his area of greatest interest and focus personally on that for homework and independent studies. None of it much interested Connor, actually—he’d always been more eager to leave town for one of the great universities in New Chicago or Beacon as soon as he was old enough—but this had never stopped him from paying attention before.
    At the moment, he was sitting in the front of the class, center aisle, as always, staring straight ahead at the wallscreen, eyes wide and seeing his teacher’s every move. And yet somehow he still hadn’t managed to hear a single thing she’d said.
    “Isn’t that right, Connor?” Mrs. Stokewood asked.
    “Uh, yes, ma’am,” Connor said, having no idea what he was agreeing to.
    “Well then, why don’t you tell us about it, if you would.”
    “Um . . .”
    This was a nightmare. Legitimately. For Connor the student, this was a worst-case scenario.
    Connor cleared his throat. Good. Okay. That bought him about two seconds.
    He cleared it again, harder. Maybe this time he could buy himself another three or even four.
    Stop thinking about the stalling part! Connor thought. Think about the plan for after the stalling part! But this time the clearing of his throat actually managed to bring something up. So now he had to cough. Good! Yes, good! He coughed again. He hit his chest with his fist, eyes watering, his face a little red. That had bought him another six or seven seconds. Okay. Maybe she’d move on to someone else. Maybe, given the pause, she’d even repeat the question. Wishful thinking, perhaps—but possible!
    No. Instead, Mrs. Stokewood just waited. Politely.
    And Connor could practically see it, the crack forming along the armor of his perfect school record.
    Except! What was this? Could it be? Could today be Connor’s lucky day?
    Suddenly Lahoma’s all-school principal poked his head into the ninth-grade classroom. “Connor?” he asked.
    It was a miracle. Saved by the bell! Unless . . .
    Wait a minute , Connor thought. Could it be? Was he already in trouble for zoning out all morning? Had they realized? Did they know? Was that possible?
    No, Connor. That’s delusional. You’re not in trouble with Lahoma’s all-school principal just for daydreaming this morning. You’re not . That’s ridiculous.
    And yet, that look on the principal’s face . . .
    It sure seemed like he was in trouble . . . for something . . .
    “Connor, would you mind gathering your belongings and coming with me, please?”
    “Oh.” Connor coughed again. “But I was, uh, I was just about to answer Mrs. Stokewood’s question,” he said reflexively.
    Idiot! That was your one, perfect out! “Just about to answer this question I didn’t