Halim waited on the ground floor. “We’re behind schedule.”
And whose fault was that? I glanced at my phone and saw I’d missed another call from PRIVATE CALLER. We’d used up one of Ahmed’s hours.
“You finish here,” Halim told me, “and I’ll check the basement level.” He descended the crumbling stairs.
Stepping over a latticework of detonation cord, I ran my flashlight beam over the connections. A water leak had sprung up from somewhere—a pipe only recently turned off—and a shallow pool had collected in one corner, scummy with dust.
The Bobcat’s roar stopped. In the sudden silence, I heard the slow plink of water splashing metal, and something else.
The noise didn’t repeat itself. Rats usually flee buildings about to be demolished, driven by some fierce primordial instinct that tells them D-day is at hand, but maybe one had just gotten the message. I turned, sweeping my flashlight beam across the uneven floor.
A crumpled Styrofoam cup, boot prints stamped in the dust, a balled-up lump of rust-colored cotton splotched with paint. Light sparkled across a smooth surface. Glass. I frowned. All the glass had already been removed.
My walkie-talkie buzzed.
“Ready?” Halim’s voice.
I depressed the Talk button. “Just about.” I held up my flashlight, squinting into the shadows.
An empty bottle of Budweiser glinted back from the gloom beside a wall brace. Dust-free, it couldn’t have been there long. How had we missed the bottle last night? The broken brick lying beside it must have been the source of the noise I’d heard.
Footsteps echoed. Halim strode toward me. “Showtime.”
The crew gathered as Halim issued final instructions. There was confidence in his every gesture; his stance was easy yet authoritative. “Countdown in fifteen minutes.” He broke up the group with a clap of his hands.
A plastic bag skittered across the pavement. A uniformed police officer stood beside a small makeshift enclosure composed of sandbags. He nodded. “All yours.”
I dialed the prearranged number. “Stop the El,” I told the operator.
“I’ll tell them,” she answered.
Overhead, a police helicopter swept by, searching rooftops for hidden onlookers. Television crews clustered a safe distance away. A covey of birches stood on the northwest corner, swaddled in geotextile fabric and shivering in the gusting wind. The dust and debris could be carried for miles; all of Chicago could be affected. “Think we should hold off?” I asked Halim, uneasy.
“Just run the monitor afterward and make sure to download the readings.”
It had been my idea, a way to issue a preemptive strike against possible lawsuits. Running the air-sampling monitor wouldn’t stop the dust from spreading, but I didn’t argue. I was as eager as Halim to finish the job.
He picked up the blasting machine, a steel box with two buttons connected to the lead line, and held it out. Did he want me to hold it for him? He smiled, seeing my confusion. “This one’s yours,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”
I’d never initiated the blast. Never. Halim was the expert; I was the trainee. But there it was, the small box that signaled I had finally broken through the final barrier. Automatically, I folded my fingers around the machine and held it tight. Halim couldn’t pry it away from me now, even if he wanted to.
He held up his walkie-talkie. “All clear.”
A round of “Clear”s sounded from the crew bosses.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven.”
The police helicopter tipped and sailed away.
“Four, three.”
A flock of swallows shot up.
“Two, one. Fire! Fire!” I sucked in a breath, then punched the small red button.
Silence.
A thunderous blast shook the ground. I grabbed the sandbag wall for support. Halim pulled me toward him. Another explosion, another earthquake tremor, three swift eruptions, a firecracker flare near the foundation. The building held itself for an agonizing two seconds, then it swiveled and slammed south.
Tsunamis of dust boiled up, obliterating the sky. A seismic wave rushed toward me, an enormous riptide, a roller coaster without rails. I spun and ducked. Fine spray pelted my head and shoulders.
Crooking my elbow over my mouth and nose, I cracked my eyes open.
Two stories of rubble. Check. Adjacent buildings standing. Check. Trees erect, leaves attached. Check. Street cleaners starting their engines, push brooms and water hoses already beginning to clear away the sidewalks and walls. Check. Earth still rotating. Check. The jostling crowd, compelled despite themselves to cheer and whoop. Check.
The roller coaster rolled to a stop.
“Not bad, huh?” Halim said.
We stared at each other, the steel box cradled between us, then grinned. The shoot had gone off perfectly.
Trucks rumbled around the dusty lot. Lightning forked in the distance as men shouted and shovels scraped. Halim had already conducted two on-air interviews. Down to Earth Implosion would be splashed all over the news tonight; our phone would be ringing off the hook the next morning. We might even have to turn away work. So what if Halim had cleaned out our bank account? By tomorrow, it would be fat again.
Halim stood in the middle of the debris field, Ahmed beside him. They were discussing something that had them both gesturing wildly. Ahmed was shaking his head.
One of the dump truck drivers strode across the lot toward me. I accepted the clipboard he extended and signed the form. “You know where to take it?” I asked him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A loud volley of shouting, the backhoe driver leaning out his window and waving. Ahmed started jogging across the site. He’d better watch his step. That was where the elevator shaft had been located.
I handed back the clipboard. The man jerked his chin. “Looks like something’s up.”
The trucks sat frozen, their engines switched off. Their drivers were sliding down out of the cabs and trotting toward where Ahmed now stood. Halim was running among them, heedless of where he placed his feet, sidestepping boulders and heaps of bricks.
It couldn’t be asbestos. I’d supervised its removal personally, so what on earth could the driver have seen that was making everyone run toward him like that? A long-buried pipe, maybe. Something hidden in the walls, exposed now that they’d broken apart.
My phone jittered against my hip. I answered without thinking, walking toward Halim. “Yes?”
“Is this Dana Carlson?” A girl’s voice.
“Speaking.”
“You don’t know me, but I’m your niece. I’m Peyton. Peyton Kelleher.”
The world slowly canted sideways. I stopped walking.
“I’m sorry to call you like this. It’s about my mom.”
“Julie?” The name hiccupped out of me. It had been so long since I’d last spoken it.
“My mom’s sick.” The young voice was relentless. Ahmed gestured toward Halim. “She’s got kidney disease. My dad’s not a match. She’s on the waiting list, but I was wondering . . .” The girl’s voice wobbled, then trailed off.
What was I to do with this? None of it made any sense. Distracted, I asked, “Are you calling from Black Bear?”
“Yes.”
As if to keep himself from falling, Halim grasped Ahmed’s sleeve, his face twisted with horror. My stomach contracted. What was he looking at? “Let me call you back.”
A few steps and I was there, too. Ahmed stretched out a hand to stop me, but I jerked away, staring at the ground.
There, among the shattered slabs of stone, lay a soft grubby hand, its fingers curled hopefully toward the sky, fingernails rimed with dirt. Not just a hand, but an arm dressed in thick red cotton. Farther down, a worn canvas sneaker protruded, the white ankle bare and vulnerable above the rubble.
Trembling, I bent. I pressed my fingertips to feel between bone and sinew, searching for the pulse of life but finding only cold unyielding flesh. My heart hammered hard for
both of us, for this stranger lying beneath the building, and for me, the one who brought the building down.
Raindrops splattered the dust. Halim was watching, his eyes narrowed in thought. Already, he was trying to figure out how to let me take the blame.
TWO
[PEYTON]
A SINGLE OCEAN FLOWS AROUND THE EARTH, DIVIDED into five bodies of water, each subject to currents and the pull of the moon. Everything is constantly changing. The Pacific Ocean is shrinking, while the Atlantic Ocean is young and growing. In a hundred million years, it will all look completely different.
The ocean accounts for seventy-one percent of the earth’s surface, and represents ninety-seven percent of the world’s living space. Man has explored less than five percent of it. Scientists estimate that only one percent of all marine life has been identified. Millions of species remain undiscovered. The tiniest creatures on earth live in the ocean, as do the largest. Creatures within the same species look different. They have different behaviors, depending on which region in the ocean they inhabit.
No one really knows how or why life began in the ocean. They only know that it did.
First thing in the morning, the sidewalks cool and misty, the pale sun fingering through the trees. Peyton had no right making phone calls to strangers. Her mom would freak. But her mom was in the hospital, wasn’t she, which was the whole point of making the phone calls to begin with. Now that Peyton had dared to dial her aunt’s number, she couldn’t stop. By seven-thirty, she’d tried four times, growing bolder each time, letting the phone ring and the message play out all the way, even waiting for the little beep at the end, before disconnecting without saying a word. The first time she heard her aunt’s voice recite the message, her heart gave a funny leap. Her mother’s voice. Her aunt sounded just like her mother.
The light at the intersection glowed red. A car buzzed by. Peyton stopped and set down her bookbag, reaching for her phone. She’d try one more time before school began. If she still had no luck, she’d try between classes. She’d just keep calling until her aunt finally answered. Maybe she’d borrow Eric’s phone and unblock the number. Maybe her aunt was the kind who’d be tempted to answer a mysterious call from Minnesota. But if that were true, then wouldn’t she have phoned or stopped by before? Wouldn’t she be curious about her only family?
“Hey, PEYTON!”
Guiltily, she whirled around. LT Stahlberg puffed toward her on his bike, his doughy body sagging from side to side as he pumped his fat knees. “HI, PEYTON!” He let go of the handle-bars to wave, which was stupid. He could see she was looking right at him.
Just what she needed today. Her heart sank. Her mom had told her a million times that LT wasn’t dangerous; he was just confused. But her mom still thought of LT as the neighbor kid she used to hang out with. He wasn’t like that around Peyton. Around her, LT always let his weirdo out. Don’t walk on the sidewalk when the streetlights are on. Don’t use the microwave. It’ll get inside your head. LT was a kid trapped in a big guy’s body, a kid who had thought it would be cool to set the hardware store on fire, with Mr. Stem’s poodle trapped inside. Peyton’s dad had had to run inside and rescue her, while the rest of them stood on the sidewalk like idiots. Peyton’s mom had been really pissed about that. You could’ve gotten hurt, she’d said, furiously grabbing his arm and not letting go. But Peyton had seen the way she’d pressed her face against his shoulder, had watched her father’s hand come up and cup her mother’s head.
LT rolled to a stop and grinned at her. “I’m glad I found you.”
Like they were playing hide-and-seek? “What is it?” she asked impatiently. “I don’t have time for games today, LT. I have to get to school.”
His eyes were so pale, as if all the blue had leached away, leaving behind only the memory of color. He licked his red lips and she winced. “I just wanted to know how your mom’s doing.”
How do you think she is, moron? Peyton bit down hard and shoved the words deep inside. Her mom would be disappointed if she was mean to LT. Her mom would want Peyton to be kind. “She’s still in the hospital. The doctor thinks she’ll be getting out soon.”
His fat face collapsed with relief. “Okay. That’s good. That’s GOOD.”
Not that good. “It’ll be a while before she goes back to work, you know. You better find another nurse.” She’d heard her parents talking. She’d heard them say how specific the judge had been about that. It wouldn’t be at all cool if LT wasn’t staying on top of his medication, just because her mom wasn’t there to make sure he did.
He hunched a shoulder. “Amy’s mean.” He stuck his lower lip out in a pout. “Amy’s not like your mom.”
Like he’d know the least thing about her mom. Only Peyton did, and her dad. Her mom belonged to them, not this weird boyman. The light flared green and Peyton hoisted her bookbag into her arms. She was done taking care of him. “See you,” she said.
“BYE, Peyton!”
When she reached the other side of the street, she couldn’t help it. She had to glance back.
Sure enough, LT was still standing there, holding on to his bike, looking up and down the street, as if bewildered about which way to go. Reluctant sympathy washed over her. She knew exactly how that felt.
The other students swarmed past Peyton in the corridor, their arms filled with books, talking and texting, rushing to get to class before the next bell sounded. Peyton leaned against the wall, pushing the phone closer to her ear, keeping an eye out in case she got caught using her cell. She couldn’t afford to be kept after school.
The hall was emptying, the last locker slamming shut, the last door wheezing closed. Three rings, four. Any minute now, voicemail would pick up. Peyton decided she wouldn’t leave a message; she couldn’t take the chance it wouldn’t get returned.
Overhead, the bell blared, making her jump. She started to slide her cellphone closed when she heard the distant, tinny Yes?
She pressed the phone to her mouth. “Is this Dana Carlson?” Her heart was thudding. She hated the way her voice sounded, plaintive, almost pleading.
“Speaking.”
Peyton cleared her throat. “You don’t know me, but I’m your niece.” That was lame. Why hadn’t she rehearsed this? “I’m Peyton,” she bullied on. “Peyton Kelleher.”
“Peyton?”
Yeah. That’s right. The niece you’ve never bothered to meet. “I’m sorry to call you like this.” Again, that pleading tone. What was her problem? “It’s about my mom . . .”
“Julie?”
There was the slightest tendril of interest in Dana’s voice. Relief washed through Peyton. “My mom’s sick. She’s got kidney disease. My dad’s not a match. She’s on the waiting list, but I was wondering . . .” She paused to let Dana rush in with questions and reassurances, saving Peyton from having to say it out loud, but the other end of the line was heavy with silence. “She needs you,” she said, simply.
They all needed her. And if Dana didn’t get it—well, then there’d been no hope to begin with.
“Are you calling from Black Bear?”
Where else would she be? She felt the squeeze of panic. If her aunt didn’t even know something so basic as where they were living, how hopeless was it? “Yes.”
“Let me call you back.”
Cold and sharp. Then Dana hung up.
Everyone looked over as Peyton pushed open the classroom door. Mr. Connolly did, too, but he didn’t say anything, letting her slip herself off the hook once again. She hated that he did that just as much as she was grateful for it. His gaze lingered on her a moment, appraising. When she didn’t burst into tears or walk into a wall, he turned back to the board.
“RNA polymerase helps drag free-floating nucleotides to the DNA template to build the complementary mRNA strands.”
As Peyton slid into her seat, Brenna narrowed her eyes. Brenna wore cutoffs way higher than the regulation five inches. But no one would say anything. She wore a skinny black shirt that sa
id You Know You Want To. No one would say anything to her about that, either. Bending over her paper and pretending to take notes, she whispered, “Did you finish the DNA extraction lab?”
Peyton dug out her notebook from the bottom of her bookbag. “Sort of.” As in, she hadn’t picked up a single colored pencil, written a single answer.
“It’s due Friday.” Brenna shook her hair out of her eyes, glancing over at Mr. Connolly to see if maybe he noticed how cute she looked doing that. “We’d better get together after school. I have practice until five-thirty. We’ll meet after that.”
“Sorry. Can’t make it.” Like Peyton didn’t have plans of her own. She was heading straight to the hospital the minute the dismissal bell rang. Besides, it wasn’t as if Brenna would actually do anything. She’d just sit there and text while Peyton calculated and drew organelles and wrote up the discussion on how to extract DNA from a strawberry.
“The mRNA then leaves the nucleus through the nucleic pores and floats through the cytoplasm until a ribosome clasps onto it.”
Brenna frowned. “When, then?”
“I’ll look at it tonight.” Maybe, while she was at the hospital with her mom, she could get some homework done. She didn’t even know why she was here in this classroom while her mom lay alone in that horrible room filled with machines and fake cheerfulness.
Nothing’s going to happen, her dad had said, handing her the box of Pop-Tarts for breakfast that morning. Your mom will worry if you don’t go to school.
They couldn’t pile any additional worry onto her mom. She had to concentrate on getting better. Peyton worked hard to keep everything normal and happy for her. That was why she kept going to school, why she hadn’t even mentioned the D she was getting in social studies. Nothing about Eric. Not a word about Googling Dana and discovering that her aunt wasn’t a doctor the way her mom always said she was, but worked for some demo company. Everything had to be normal. Peyton could do it. It was just a matter of deciding.
“What is the stop codon that tells the ribosome to release the protein? Does anyone know why it does this?”