Nick is gone. There’s a spatter of blood where he stood. Tree branches swaying quietly overhead.

“Nick?” I call.

Just the seesaw buzz of cicadas in the trees.

I reach back and touch my neck where it’s wet, smell my fingers. Piss. Those kids pissed on me while I was wallowing in the dirt like a helpless baby. Like an amp retard. That’s what they called me. A worthless freak.

I wipe my hand on my pants and then freeze. Lucy has come around the corner of her trailer. Watching me. She’s in blue jeans and in the morning sunlight I can see she’s got a smattering of freckles beneath serious eyes. She’s even more beautiful in the light.

“Nick is okay,” she says. “I cleaned him up and gave him a Band-Aid. What about you? Do you need help?”

Me? Well, I’ve got a cold ball of shame wedged tight under my rib cage. Hot piss drying on the back of my neck.

Lucy steps toward me and I put on an unconvincing smile, try to speak—to tell her it was just a stupid thing that I’m laughing off. No big deal. But the words dig their heels into my throat and refuse to come out.

An aftershock of anger rolls through me, and I tuck my hands on my hips to hide their shaking. I want to smash skulls, gouge eyes, and—hell, I don’t know—cry. Instead, I drop the trembling, not-fooling-anybody attempt at a smile and turn my back on Lucy.

“Owen,” she calls, walking closer. “It’s okay.”

Pity is in her voice, twisting like a knife between my shoulder blades.

“I’m fine,” I say.

She puts a hand on my shoulder and touches the warm urine, and now I know that I have got to get the fuck out of here immediately. I shrug my shoulder and she hangs on.

“Owen—” she’s trying to say.

I wrench away from her. “Leave me the fuck alone!” I shout. “Damn.”

“What is the matter with you?” she asks, plaintive, wiping her hand on her dress.

Oh my God. Anything. Anything to get away from this shame. I’m walking fast, away, away, away.

“Nothing,” I call over my shoulder. “I don’t need help. I’m not another stray for you to take in.” Immediately, I flush scalp to spine with hot regret. I break into a trot until I can’t hear her. Along the way, I yank my piss-soaked shirt over my head, ball it up, and hurl it lamely into the grass.

Back in Jim’s trailer, I slam the flimsy broken door shut behind me. The sink piddles a weak stream of warm water and I let it pool in my dirt-caked fingers. Splash it on my face and let it carry away the snot and tears and dirt.

In the fart-smelling freezer, I find a plastic tray of shallow ice cubes. I twist the cracked tray and let the slivers of ice fall on the counter. Wrap them in a napkin and push the mass against my swollen lip.

Would things be easier if I were a reggie? Yeah, they damn well would be. I wouldn’t stink like urine and humiliation. I could sit in my nice apartment and feel sorry for all those poor amps out there, instead of taking my own lashes here in this trailer park.

The reality of this new world is settling in. Spotlighters watching the fringes of town every night. Protesters outside the job site every day. Hiding here with nobody to talk to. “Head down, antennae up,” as Jim says. And now, my ass handed to me by a bunch of teenagers. With poor Nicky there to watch.

And so much for Lucy Crosby. I guess I fucked that up pretty good.

I open the freezer again, more slowly this time. There’s a bottle of cheap vodka wedged in the back, bearded in frost. Three-fourths full. I pull it out and set it down on the counter and let it sweat.

I slide open the silverware drawer. Pick up an ice pick with a worn wooden handle. Turn it back and forth in my hands.

Nick told me I was going to do something here in Eden. At this moment, nothing very good comes to mind. But if I’m here because of this goddamn thing in my head, then I think I’m ready to go face-to-face with it. Turn it on and find out what it is, one way or another.

I’m going to see what all the fuss is about.

FDA U.S. Food and Drug Administration

Neural Autofocus MK-4^® Brain Implant National Recall

RecallClass: Class I (reasonable probability of adverse consequences)

At the bequest of the FDA and the United States Senate, General Biologics recently sent an urgent medical device recall letter to all documented customers. The recall notice explained the issue, identified the affected products, required distributors to cease further distribution and use of the product, and requested the return of unused product.

IntendedUse: The Neural Autofocus^® brain implant is intended to improve brain function in a variety of serious conditions, including forms of epilepsy, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder.

ReasonforRecall: Complaints of behavioral side effects have been received. This type of failure may result in mood swings, depression, or manic episodes. These effects are poorly understood and unpredictable. In some cases, emergency surgery has been necessary to remove the implant. However, effects of the implant remain after removal due to the continuous training effect presented on neural pathways during use of the device.

Patients with implanted devices are advised to consult the list of government-approved clinicians included in Appendix A of this document. Unapproved physicians are not authorized to maintain the device.

General Biologics Corporation is advising customers immediately discontinue use of any affected product and return all unused products.

I’ve been flopping back and forth on the trailer’s linoleum floor like a fish on a boat for most of the night, and now I’m trying to draw breath between clenched teeth and wondering if I’ve got myself a fresh traumatic brain injury or if I’m just going crazy.

In a daze, I can hear myself grunting and, well, kind of squealing with my mouth closed. My calls for help sound more like somebody left a dog tied up for too long. Only I’m the animal and I did this to myself.

The latest seizure is over. Meaning the next one is due any minute. I don’t see any end to it. Jim is still gone doing his traveling-doctor thing and the only people I know in Eden must think I’m a pathetic coward. Last night, with alcohol-fueled bravery, I decided to try and turn on my Zenith. Tried to find myself. But what I found out was who I am with a broken implant. A spastic invalid.

On top of that, I’m hungover.

A nasty goose egg throbs on my shin in time with my heart. I got it when my leg slammed into the almost empty vodka bottle, shooting it across the room and under the couch. The pain in my shin joins the dull aching cramp in my jaw and neck and the rest of my skinned-up body. That bottle hurt me a lot more than I hurt it.

The plastic doorknob rattles.

For an instant I hallucinate a vision of Lucy. She’s blond and lithe and gliding through the front door to check in on me. Only there is a soft darkness outside. Her face is indistinct, lost in black smoke. She can’t get inside. Her thin fingers rake the doorframe. But she falls out into the darkness. Gone.

I try to call out, and a rope of drool drops sluglike from my lips. My stomach cramps and my cheek slides across the floor, smearing my face into the spit and old sticky footprints on the linoleum.

The trailer comes back in focus.

I roll my eyes back in my head and catch sight of the wood-paneled door shaking on its hinges. A gust of cool air hits my face as the recently repaired door is ripped open with a sound like masking tape coming off a new paint job.