It’s Grace, with her keen head for strategy, who gives them food for thought. “Of course, if you ask me, which you didn’t,” she says, “what ya gotta do is find someone connected in a wireless sort of way.”

“A viral grassroots media kind of thing?”

“More like fertilizer to get those roots growing in a healthy kinda way,” says Grace.

It immediately gets Connor thinking about Hayden. He’d be the first to call his “Radio Free Hayden” broadcasts fertilizer. After all, the range of his “station” never got beyond the boundaries of the airplane graveyard, but his little manifesto upon his arrest has become an iconic meme among the disenfranchised. If he broadcast now—or even shouted from the top of a building—people would listen. Unfortunately Connor has no idea where he is, or if he’s even still alive.

When they bring the question of their next move with the organ printer to Sonia, she has the same advice every day.

“Sleep on it,” Sonia tells them—and it’s infuriating. Could it be that she’s just as terrified as the rest of them about this powder keg on which they sit?

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Connor fixed the broken basement TV on his second day there. Beau insists it be tuned only to entertainment, and never the news.

“We know what’s going on out there, and none of it’s good,” says Beau. “Better we should all laugh and try to forget for a little while.”

Well, screw that. It’s the one time when Connor flexes his muscles and refuses to get with the program. Beau is wise enough not to fight. Instead he permits it, using it to show what a magnanimous leader he is.

The news doesn’t make anyone feel good—but as far as Connor is concerned, that’s how it should be. When you’re a prisoner of society, you shouldn’t play at escape. At least until you really can escape it.

It’s September now. Less than two months to election day, and the politicians who traditionally waffle on the unwinding issues are beginning to take sides that transcend all party lines, for the parties are divided. Connor watches a congressman on a Washington talk show speak of “the sociological necessity of unwinding undesirables.”

Although the basement is warm, Connor notices that Risa crosses her arms as she watches, rubbing them like she’s shielding herself from the wind. “I’ll never understand how they’re able to spin murder into social consciousness.”

“It’s not murder, didn’t you know?” says Connor, and convincingly mimics the wholesome voice of a trustworthy announcer. “ ‘It’s the kindest thing we can do for troubled youth with biosystemic disunification disorder.’ ”

Grace, who seems to hear everything between him and Risa, just stares at him. “You’re kidding. Right?”

If it were anyone else, Connor wouldn’t justify the question with a response, but for Grace he winks, and she laughs in relief.

“We need to move on this,” Connor says. They should be out of here seeking out the people who can actually use the printer—or at least trying to find out if it even works. He’s taken the lead, but has yet to take action. It’s not like him, and he wishes he knew what was holding him back.

“Move on what,” Beau asks, adding his nose into the conversation. They’ve told none of the kids down in the basement about the printer because trust among AWOLs must be earned. There’s no telling where these kids will ultimately end up and what bargains they’ll strike to save their own lives.

“Lunch,” says Connor. “Are you cooking today?”

Beau knows he’s lying, but also doesn’t push, probably because he also knows he won’t get any information from Connor that Connor does not want to give. Better to avoid pushing than to push and fail. Beau chooses his battles well: only the ones he stands a good chance of winning. Connor actually finds that admirable; the kid doesn’t waste his time in futile pursuits. He could actually be a decent leader if he ever gets over himself.

When Sonia comes down to deliver cold cuts and fairly stale bread for supper that night, Connor manages to talk to her alone, while Beau and the other kids are occupied scarfing down their sandwiches.

“You do realize that we need to get our hands on some of those stem cells you were talking about, and make sure the printer still works before we go public.”

“Fine,” says Sonia, glaring at him. “I’ll pick some up at Walmart tomorrow.” And when Connor doesn’t back down, Sonia sighs. “You’re right. But it won’t be easy. There are only a few research universities in the Midwest that still do that sort of research. Major organizations won’t fund it, because people think stem cell research has something to do with embryos, and people are terrified it might reignite Heartland War issues. Even the mention of it brings protests and negative publicity. Of course, adult pluripotent stem cells have nothing to do with embryonic stem cells, but facts never prevent the ignorant from jerking their knees into the groin of science.”

Connor grins. “Well, once we get this thing to work, and into the right hands, we can redirect that knee, hitting the Juvenile Authority and Proactive Citizenry where it counts!”

“I hope I live to see that day,” Sonia says, and pats him on the cheek like a grandmother might. Connor, usually a bit of a touch-me-not, finds it curiously comforting. “I’ll find us a place that has a supply of cells,” she tells him. “The tricky part will be getting them.”

•  •  •

“What the hell are you doing? Stop that! Do you have any idea what those are?”

Sonia has left the trapdoor open a bit longer than usual to help air out the basement, which has gotten noticeably rank. Connor, who takes every chance available to escape the cage, has come upstairs to find Grace at the old steamer trunk. She’s opened it and envelopes are spilling out everywhere.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it!” Grace frantically tries to put them back in, but the trunk is so full, they just topple out again. It’s like trying to get toothpaste back in the tube.

Connor immediately regrets having yelled at her. He kneels down beside her. “Calm down, Grace.”

“I just wanted to see what was inside, and they all started falling out. I didn’t mean it!”

“I know you didn’t. It’s all right. Go downstairs, and I’ll take care of it.”

Grace doesn’t need a second invitation. “I gotta stop touching things. Curiosity killed the cat. I gotta stop touching things.”

Grace bounds down the stairs away from the situation, leaving Connor once again alone with the trunk, only this time Pandora’s box is wide open. He has no idea where Sonia is, and what she’d say if she saw it like this.