“In an emergency only,” I respond. What did my dad say to me back in the lab? You have to give it permission. Were those his last words to me? I can’t even remember. Thoughts of that morning are shards of glass, too sharp to sift through.

Nick jumps up and spreads his small arms. “What the heck do you think this is?”

The kid slowly steps forward, beady eyes locked on mine, voice rising. “We’re stuck here on this island. All alone and surrounded by bloodthirsty sharks. Running out of food and water. Getting desperate. Something’s gotta give. I’m telling you, man. Our situation that we’re in here is dire. Very dire, Owen.”

He’s been reading the dictionary.

“Plus,” he says breathlessly, “every speed cuber knows that you got to think a bunch of moves ahead. Every move you make is part of a bigger series. Whether you know it or not. You got to be ready.”

The kid is right. If and when an emergency comes, I won’t have time to figure this out. There’s a lot you need to learn about yourself.

I tilt my head at Nick. “What’s your plan?”

Nick grows a little grin, hops off the porch. “Follow me,” he says.

We walk down the dirt path toward the fields. On the way, I catch myself glancing into Lucy’s backyard to see if she’s out there, maybe hanging laundry on the clothesline.

Nick catches me looking. Makes the inference immediately.

“Are you gonna ask her out?” he asks.

I shrug. Nick starts chattering in his matter-of-fact way, leading me past his empty front yard. Lucy, he says, is perfect for a guy like me. She’s pretty and smart. Has kind of a mean brother in Lyle. But Lucy herself, you got to remember, is really, really nice.

Nick says this word—“nice”—solemnly, as though it has deep meaning to him. I wonder how many nice people he knows.

“How did you end up living with her?” I ask.

Nick keeps walking as if I just asked him a regular question. The hollow timbre of his voice tells me it isn’t. “My folks were reggies,” he says. “They didn’t like it here. Not sure they really liked me much either. Anyway, Lucy took me in once they were gone.”

I slow down and follow the kid over to the fence. Give him some space for a minute. Finally, he turns and stands across from me like we’re about to play catch.

“Getting back to the point. You got a brain implant,” says Nick. “Switch must be in your head.” He taps his temple. “Can you feel it in there? Can you concentrate on it?”

I frown at Nick. He shrugs and continues. “Because sometimes … I can feel the cheese, sort of, pushing me. Like standing in a creek with the water flowing against your legs, you know?”

Yeah, I do know what he means. I know exactly. I’ve spent most of my life ignoring this feeling. Trying not to notice that a foreign object in my head is affecting every minute of my life.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll try.”

Nick puts his arms up, quietly cheering.

I close my eyes. Send my thoughts out like tentacles to wrap around the chunk of plastic cocooned in my neurons. I can almost feel it there, shuddering with every heartbeat. Fwish, fwish, fwish.

Now, I hear the soft roar of the ocean in a seashell.

The white noise grows louder, collapses into patterns, waves of sound lapping at my consciousness. Words? The implant is trying to speak to me. Sounds coming together, growing louder, more distinct. One word: Nick.

I open my eyes.

Nick is smiling at me when the rock hits him in the face. It’s a nasty little hunk of concrete. Smacks that crooked jack-o’-lantern grin right off his face. Leaves a ragged gash in Nick’s forehead that wells up with blood, turns to a pendulous red stripe before it starts streaming down his face.

On the other side of the fallen-down fence, a blond kid hoots. There are maybe three or four of them, hiding out there in the tall brown grass. I can hear their harsh adolescent laughter.

Nick doesn’t cry. Just puts one palm over his forehead. Squints at me sadly through the blood. A baby gargoyle. Clutches the Rubik’s cube in chubby fingers, finally still.

Pure anger dumps into my veins and throbs through my body. My concentration breaks as all the rage ignites at once like jet fuel. Before I know what’s happening, I’m striding toward the grass. Awkwardly pushing the wooden fence down, walking over it.

I climb the chain-link fence and hop it in one movement, limbs quaking from adrenaline. The field is mostly empty, save empty beer cans and trash. A ripped camping chair some spotlighter left behind. And three teenage boys.

“What’s your fucking problem?” I hear myself shouting. “Hey!”

The teenagers don’t run away like I half expect them to. Instead, they surround me quickly, naturally. Gathered around me, they take on a new form. Each of these kids might be okay on his own, but together they’re a hydra: one monster, three heads.

“Why’d you throw that?” I ask. “What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with you?” mimics a towheaded kid in falsetto. “What a retard.”

More laughter.

“Amp retard.”

I turn to see who said it, and a dirt clod catches me in the mouth, busts my lip, and explodes into dust. My eyes clench shut, trapping dirt behind my eyelids. I double over, blind and gasping in pain as tears cascade down my face.

“The fuck?” I sputter.

A burst of surprised laughter quickly turns raucous, takes on a vicious edge.

“Boom, baby!”

The first shove catches me in the lower back. I trip in the grass and fall to my knees. Another dirt clod catches me in the back of the head as I wipe my eyes.

My tears are turning the dirt to mud.

“Boys,” bellows a deep voice. The laughter dries up instantly. The flying dirt clods stop long enough for me to clear one eye. Squinting, I make out a big guy with a ratty little beard. He’s lumbering across the field with a can of beer in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

“Thanks,” I call, climbing to my feet. “These kids are out of control.”

“Shut the fuck up, amp,” says the man.

The words are like a hard slap across the face. The kind you don’t feel until later.

“Lucky I don’t shoot your ass, out here fucking around with my kids,” he adds, stomping toward me through the grass and getting in my face.

“Damn right, Gunnin’,” calls the blond kid.

“Shut your mouth,” orders the man.

“Sorry, Billy,” says the kid.

I’m backing away. The alcohol-fueled hostility from “Gunnin’ Billy” here is like a poisonous mist. Unlike the taunts from the kids, his words have a lethal momentum behind them. As I back away, he marches forward. Building up steam.

“These kids are citizens of the United States of America, amp. And you’re not shit. You get that?”

Billy shoves me in the chest. My head snaps forward and I’m staring at a mark on the web of his right thumb. A tattoo of two tiny block letters. It’s the EM symbol that I haven’t seen since the Pure Pride rally in Pittsburgh.

I blink at it.

Then a kick connects with my side. Pushes me off-balance as I try to step backward through the grass. More kicks come in from all around. Laughter. Another dirt clod. I fall to my knees, trying to wipe my eyes and fend off the soft-soled tennis shoes jolting me from random directions.

“So keep your worthless amp ass inside your rat hole,” says Billy.

I fall onto my stomach. I desperately try to clear my eyes while more dirt clods rain down. Climbing to my hands and knees, I hear sly laughter.

A wetness spreads over the back of my neck and I stagger to my feet in shock. With one arm shielding my eyes, I stumble back toward the trailers. More clods bounce off my back as I retreat.

“Don’t come back!” shouts Billy.

They don’t follow me past the other side of the fence.