Taken (Erin Bowman)

“Sure. Or maybe that’s just your story. Besides, running to us because you were going to be executed proves nothing other than the fact that you only care about your own hide.”
    “He’s Owen’s son,” Bree says. “If he’s anything like his father, we just might end up happy we have him. And his brother, too, if he ever wakes up.”
    “Maybe,” Hal says. “Or maybe he’s a Forgery. It’s a crapshoot with these flaky acquisitions.”
    “Excuse me folks, but I think I’ll determine if he’s a Forgery.” There’s a middle-aged man standing behind Hal and Polly and staring at me. He’s wearing an odd sweater that lacks arms and struggles to hold an otherwise bland shirt in place. I know who he is. Those eyes, those dark, dark eyes.
    “Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” he continues, “but I need to borrow Gray here. Turns out, Fallyn convinced Ryder it would do good to run a few tests to be sure.”
    “To be sure of what?” I ask.
    “That you’re who you say you are. That you’re not a Forgery.” He smiles, and it fills out the otherwise hollow coves of his cheeks. His eyes even brighten a little. He is so plain in person, so feeble. I wonder why Frank wants him back so badly—and alive, no less—if he isn’t actually responsible for the Laicos Project.
    “Oh, go on already,” Bree grumbles, elbowing me in the side. “Harvey couldn’t hurt a fly.”
    Harvey chuckles lightly and lifts a hand from his pocket. “How foolish of me, not introducing myself. I’m Harvey Maldoon. I head up all technological operations here in Crevice Valley.”
    “Gray Weathersby,” I say, shaking his hand. He has a weak grip and even softer fingers.
    “Well, that is what we are about to confirm. That you are indeed Gray Weathersby.” He smiles again, waving an arm in a sweeping motion. “Shall we?”
    He leads me from the table and down yet another darkened passageway as Bree and her friends stare on with interest.

TWENTY-FIVE
    IN A WINDOWLESS ROOM, HIDDEN among Crevice Valley’s innumerable folds, Harvey hooks me up to an odd-looking machine. He tells me to not worry, that nothing will hurt, but it’s hard to believe him. The machine has needles and levers and knobs that he twists to his liking after attaching various cords to my arms and temples. I’m certain pain is going to jolt through me at any moment, but when Harvey says we are ready to begin, the pain never comes.
    “State your name,” he says.
    “Gray Weathersby.”
    Harvey makes a mark on a piece of paper feeding through the unit.
    “Your age.”
    “Eighteen. Only . . . I thought I was seventeen until a few weeks ago.”
    Harvey looks up at me over the rim of his glasses as he marks the paper again.
    “And why’s that?”
    “My family lied to me. Told me I was a year younger—told everyone, actually—to see if I would be Heisted with Blaine.”
    “I see.” Another mark. “And who is Blaine?”
    “My brother.”
    “Where is he now?”
    “To the best of my knowledge, he’s in your hospital. They tell me he’s in a coma.”
    It goes on like this for far too long. Question after question about my past, my time in Taem, my journey through the Great Forest and into Crevice Valley. Eventually, when Harvey seems to be wrapping up, a voice cuts into the room, amplified through an unseen device.
    “Ask him something more personal,” it demands. Fallyn.
    “He’s done well enough,” Harvey says, giving me a reassuring smile before whispering, “She likes to overdo things.”
    “I mean it, Harvey. Ask something the Order wouldn’t know.”
    Harvey looks at a mirror lining the wall and I get the feeling Fallyn is somehow watching from behind it.
    “Just humor her,” a second voice says. This one belongs to Ryder.
    “I’ll need a little help with the questions.” Harvey sighs in frustration.
    My father speaks next. “What toy did I leave you and your brother before my Heist?”
    “A wooden duck on wheels.”
    “How many paces is it to the top of the Council stairs?”
    “Thirty-six.”
    “Why did Emma follow you over the Wall?”
    I pause for a second. This question is harder. “She wanted answers. Like I did.”
    “Who on earth is Emma and why does she matter?” Fallyn asks irritably.
    I’m annoyed by this comment. Furious, even. “She matters because I am responsible for her being in Frank’s jail right now. She is amazing and sweet and strong willed, and I ran from her. I love her and yet I ran so that I