I jolted upright in bed, gasping, my hand over my heart.

I couldn’t help checking my nightgown. No red laser dot. No bullet holes. I fell back on my bed, limp with relief.

Geez, I hated that dream. It was always the same: running away from the School, being chased by Erasers and dogs, me falling off a cliff, then suddenly whoosh, wings, flying, escaping. I always woke up feeling a second away from death.

Note to self: Give subconscious a pep talk re: better dreams.

It was chilly, but I forced myself out of my cozy bed. I threw on clean sweats-amazingly, Nudge had put the laundry away.

Everyone else was still asleep: I could have a few minutes of peace and quiet, get a jump on the day.

I glanced out the hall windows on the way to the kitchen. I loved this view: the morning sunlight breaking over the crest of the mountains, the clear sky, the deep shadows, the fact that I could see no sign of any other people.

We were high on a mountain, safe, just me and my family.

Our house was shaped like a letter E turned on its side. The bars of the E were cantilevered on stilts out over a steep canyon, so if I looked out a window, I felt like I was floating. On a “cool” scale from one to ten, this house was an easy fifteen.

Here, my family and I could be ourselves. Here, we could live free. I mean literally free, as in, not in cages.

Long story. More on that later.

And of course here’s the best part: no grown-ups. When we first moved here, Jeb Batchelder had taken care of us, like a dad. He’d saved us. None of us had parents, but Jeb had come as close as possible.

Two years ago, he’d disappeared. I knew he was dead, we all did, but we didn’t talk about it. Now we were on our own.

Yep, no one telling us what to do, what to eat, when to go to bed. Well, except me. I’m the oldest, so I try to keep things running as best I can. It’s a hard, thankless job, but someone has to do it.

We don’t go to school, either, so thank God for the Internet, because otherwise we wouldn’t know nothin‘. But no schools, no doctors, no social workers knocking on our door. It’s simple: If no one knows about us, we stay alive.

I was rustling around for food in the kitchen when I heard sleepy shuffling behind me.

“Mornin‘, Max.”

“Morning, Gazzy,” I said as the heavy-lidded eight-year-old slumped at the table. I rubbed his back and dropped a kiss on his head. He’d been the Gasman ever since he was a baby. What can I say? The child has something funky with his digestive system. A word to the wise: Stay upwind.

The Gasman blinked up at me, his gorgeous blue eyes round and trusting. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked, sitting up. His fine blond hair stuck up all over his head, reminding me of a fledgling’s downy feathers.

“Um, it’s a surprise,” 1 said, since I had no idea.

“I’ll pour juice,” the Gasman offered, and my heart swelled. He was a sweet, sweet kid, and so was his little sister. He and six-year-old Angel were the only blood siblings among us, but we were all a family anyway.

Soon Iggy, tall and pale, slouched into the kitchen. Eyes closed, he fell onto our beat-up couch with perfect aim. The only time he has trouble being blind is when one of us forgets and moves furniture or someth

“Hey, Ig, rise and shine,” I said.

“Bite me,” he mumbled sleepily.

“Fine,” I said. “Miss breakfast.”

I was looking in the fridge with naive hope-maybe the food fairies had come-when the back of my neck prickled. I straightened quickly and spun around.

“Will you quit that?” I said.

Fang always appeared silently like that, out of nowhere, like a dark shadow come to life. He regarded me calmly, dressed and alert, his dark, overlong hair brushed back. He was four months younger than me but already four inches taller. “Quit what?” he asked calmly. “Breathing?”

I rolled my eyes. “You know what.”

With a grunt, Iggy staggered upright. “I’ll make eggs,” he announced. I guess if I were more of a fembot, it would bother me that a blind guy six months younger than I am could cook better than I could.

But I’m not. So it didn’t.

I surveyed the kitchen. Breakfast was well under way. “Fang? You set the table. I’ll go get Nudge and Angel.”

The two girls shared the last small bedroom. I pushed the door open to find eleven-year-old Nudge asleep, tangled up in her covers. She was barely recognizable with her mouth shut, I thought wryly. When she was awake, we called it the Nudge Channel: all Nudge, all the time.

“Hey, sweetie, up and at ‘em,” I said, gently shaking her shoulder. “Breakfast in ten.”

Nudge blinked, her brown eyes struggling to focus on me. “Wha‘?” she mumbled.

“Another day,” 1 said. “Get up and face it.”

Groaning, Nudge levered herself into a crumpled but technically upright position.

Across the room, a thin curtain concealed one corner. Angel always liked small cozy spaces. Her bed, tucked behind the curtain, was like a nest-full of stuffed animals, books, most of her clothes. I smiled and pulled the curtain back.

“Hey, you’re already dressed,” I said, leaning over to hug her.

“Hi, Max,” Angel said, tugging her blond curls out of her collar. “Can you do my buttons?”

“Yep.” I turned her around and started doing her up.

I’d never told the others, but I just loved, loved, loved Angel. Maybe because I’d been taking care of her practically since she was a baby. Maybe because she was just so incredibly sweet and loving herself.

“Maybe because I’m like your little girl,” said Angel, turning around to look at me. “But don’t worry, Max. I won’t tell anybody. Besides, I love you best too.” She threw her skinny arms around my neck and planted a somewhat sticky kiss on my cheek. I hugged her back, hard. Oh, yeah-that’s another special thing about Angel.

She can read minds.

“I want to go pick strawberries today,” Angel said firmly, scooping up a forkful of scrambled eggs. “They’re ripe now.”

“Okay, Angel, I’ll go with you,” said the Gasman. Just then he let rip one of his unfortunate occurrences and giggled.

“Oh, jeez, Gazzy,” I said disapprovingly.

“Gas… mask!” Iggy choked out, grasping his neck and pretending to asphyxiate.

“I’m done,” Fang said, getting up quickly and taking his plate to the sink.

“Sorry,” the Gasman said automatically, but he kept eating.

“Yeah, Angel,” said Nudge. “I think the fresh air would do us all good. I’ll go too.”

“We’ll all go,” I said.

Outside, it was beautiful, clear and cloudless, with the first real heat of May. We carried buckets and baskets as Angel led us to a huge patch of wild strawberries.

She held my hand. “If you make cake, I can make strawberry shortcakes,” she said happily.

“Yeah, that’ll be the day, when Max makes a cake,” I heard Iggy say. “I’ll make it, Angel.”

I whirled. “Oh, thank you!” I exclaimed. “Okay, I’m not a fabulous cook. But I can still kick your butt, and don’t you forget it!”

Iggy was laughing, holding up his hands in denial. Nudge was trying not to laugh, even Fang was grinning, and the Gasman looked… mischievous.

“Was that you?” I asked Gazzy.

He grinned and shrugged, trying not to look too pleased with himself. The Gasman had been about three when I realized he could mimic just about any sound or voice. I’d lost count of how many times Iggy and Fang had almost come to blows over stuff Gazzy had said in their voices. It was a dark gift, and he wielded it happily.

It was just another weird ability-most of us had them. Whatever they were, they sure made life more interesting.