I let my hair hang over the nub on my temple and step inside my bank and wait in line. I can feel the stares like cigarette burns on my skin. A security guard watches me, his back to the wall, beefy hands resting on his belt. I look around without seeing anything, push my breaths in and out through my nose. The teller is cautious but she lets me withdraw everything in my account. She stuffs about eighteen hundred dollars into an envelope.

I walk out of the bank, forcing myself not to run. Keep walking. Thinking.

In a frigid fast-food restaurant, I take my phone out of my pocket and call Allderdice High School. The administrative assistant tells me that all amps, I mean implantees, have been placed on unpaid leave. And the police called to speak to me, again.

“Hey, buddy, let me see your temple,” calls a chubby guy a few seats over. He and his friend wear painter’s caps and overalls, eat burgers with stained fingers.

I ignore him, hang up my phone. Then, I methodically dial my friends. Nobody answers. Must be a busy morning.

“What’s the matter? You can’t hear me, buddy?” asks the painter.

It’s the Joseph Vaughns of the world who have given regular people license to act like this. Talking heads on television who have repeated the incendiary words again and again until the insane has become commonplace. This guy sitting here wearing his work clothes isn’t a monster, he probably has a wife and kids and—

“Hey!” he shouts.

The cashier walks over, shoes squeaking on tile. Puts a hand on my shoulder. “We don’t want trouble. You got to go,” he says quietly.

“I’ll go when I’m ready,” I say.

“Let’s see your temple, buddy,” calls the painter again.

I hang my head lower, studying the meaningless TV-fuzz design on the countertop. Looking for a pattern in noise. This day has been coming for years and I had front-row seats but I never let myself see. Samantha bounced around the courts, trying to find a legal ground for her own existence, but every time things took another turn for the worse, I convinced myself it was someone else’s problem. Well, it’s sure as hell my problem now.

“You a fucking amp or something?” asks the painter, voice rising.

The cashier puts his hands on his hips, motions with his head toward the door.

I get up and leave.

My friend Dwayne lives a few minutes from here. I’ve known him for a few years and he’s the kind of guy who can see things from another person’s perspective. I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and walk in his direction. Cars blow past me, scattering candy wrappers and damp paper cartons of iced tea. A crucifix of sweat stains my T-shirt by the time I trudge through Dwayne’s toy-strewn yard and knock on the door.

“You’re on TV, Owen. That sucks about your dad,” he says.

I swallow salty tears.

“But did you kill that girl?” he asks, half hiding behind the door.

“What?”

“News said the cops want to talk to you. They got your face up there with a bunch of other guys. Soldiers or terrorists or something.”

“She was a student—”

“That’s what they said on the news. She was a former student of yours. What was going on between you two, man? This is serious.”

I don’t even know how to respond. “I need a place to stay for a couple nights. My dad … I’ve got no place to go.”

“I don’t know. I think you need to get on the move, man. Let this all blow over.”

“Tomorrow.”

Dwayne orients his body to block the door. “Owen, man, I’ve got to think about Monica and the kids,” he whispers urgently. “Your face is on the news. I can’t let you in here.”

“How long have I known you, Dwayne?”

He pauses for a second, then answers, “No.”

“What?”

“No. I’m sorry, Owen. You have to find someplace else to go.”

Dwayne is standing there, chin set, blocking the doorway. I get the strange feeling that this is all a joke, that we’re together onstage and any minute he’s going to burst out laughing and welcome me inside.

“It’s a mistake. A mix-up,” I say, taking a step forward. “I’m still me.”

Dwayne doesn’t move, but his eyes get hard. The door swings open a little wider and I see he’s got a splintery wooden bat clenched in his other hand. The one he keeps in the umbrella stand by his front door.

“It’s my family. There’s a lot of bad shit going down—what am I supposed to do?” he asks.

I’ve got no answer to that question. Until now, the rules were written down on paper, neat and legible. But a judge tore the fucking paper to shreds. The rules are gone. All that’s left is the grass-stained baseball bat in Dwayne’s fist.

“I’m sorry,” says Dwayne.

I turn and hurry down the porch steps.

“What am I supposed to do?” he calls after me. “What can I do about it, Owen?”

CNN.com

Live Blog: Former Echo Squad Soldiers Suspected in Bombing Plot, One Suspect Killed

Report Timeline:

[Posted at 8:12 a.m. ET] A bomb blast has torn through the heart of Washington, D.C., destroying offices of the Pure Human Citizen’s Council. Local hospitals reported that three people were killed and eleven more injured seriously. As of now, no arrests have been made and no group has claimed responsibility for the attack.

[Updated at 6:06 p.m. ET] A spokesman for the Washington, D.C., metropolitan police department has announced that authorities believe an amp separatist organization called Astra is to blame for the bombing. The spokesman declined to comment on what evidence led police to this conclusion. “Our nation is officially under attack by the radical amp minority, just as I have long warned that it would be,” Senator Joseph Vaughn, head of the PHCC, said in a statement.

[Updated at 7:32 p.m. ET] A suspect detained near the site of the bombing has been shot and killed by police officers. Witnesses described a scene of panic as officers approached an onlooker who was exhibiting suspicious behavior. “The guy was moving weird. Like, too fast,” said a witness who asked not to be identified.

[Updated at 9:42 p.m. ET] The suspect killed earlier today has been identified as Lawrence Krambule, a former member of the infamous Echo Squad. The group of twelve Special Forces soldiers was disbanded ten years ago after it was determined they had been willingly and illegally implanted with classified, militarized Neural Autofocus implants.

Hitching west. I tell myself that there is no shame in running away. It doesn’t matter if fear fuels your flight. Just so long as you’re running toward something. There is a device in my head that my father paid for with his life and only one person who can tell me what it is: a stranger named Jim who lives in a damn trailer park.

I should have known this day was coming.

The pressure built silently, month after month. Court cases. Protests. The strain growing until it was unbearable, hidden in silent interactions between amps and regular people. I felt it in the burnt-eared shame of falling eye contact. In the rippling shift of elbows at the lunch table when an amp student sat down. By the end, the pressure was pushing in so hard that I wanted to pop my ears or scream or curl up and hide.

And then, boom. Pressure released. Enter free fall.

Every second now takes me away from the broken remains of my life. A job I’ve been effectively fired from, apartment I’ve been evicted from, and friends who’ve turned their backs on me. For the last twenty-four hours I’ve been running away from nothing—the life of a ghost.