I immediately regret eating so much food.

It sits inside my stomach like a pile of bricks, and I feel like I’m going to vomit after just a few blocks of jogging. Over my shoulder, I see that the officer is keeping up with me. When I duck into an alleyway, I hear his footsteps turn into a run somewhere behind me.

Go, go, go, I shout at myself in my head. And I’m running as best I can through the alleys and across a side street and behind a huge building and past some fences, and then . . .

The alleyway dead-ends, and I’m screwed.

Or at least, I will be screwed if I don’t figure out this new flying thing. It’s not like I know how to make it happen. I stare up at the roof ten stories above me. I have to get up there. And so I clench all my muscles and envision myself floating up, and suddenly I’m not just floating, but shooting up into the air. I go way past the top of the building as my heart pounds, and for a moment I can see out over the ocean for what looks like forever. Then I try to calm down and gently float back to the top of the roof. I land with a bit of a thud, but it’s not bad for my second conscious attempt at getting out of the sky. Certainly better than crash-landing onto the beach.

I’m basically an alien superhero.

I peek over the edge of the building. The cop is standing in the alleyway, looking puzzled. Two more people soon join him there, though only one of them is in uniform. The other’s just wearing a suit, from what I can tell. They’re too far away to make out any specifics. After looking around for a while, they disappear.

I sink down and lean against the waist-high bricks at the edge of the roof. I can sleep here tonight. The air is cool, and I doubt anyone will bother me.

I pull the leftover money from my pocket and count it. It’s not much, but it’ll get me through the next few days while I figure out what to do next. Then I’m weirdly relieved to find the old red rubber ball in my pocket as well. I stare at the stars while I roll it over the backs of my knuckles.

It’s kind of strange that they’re the same stars as the ones I used to see from the island. When I look at the sky, it’s almost like I never left. For the millionth time in my life, I wonder if any of the stars I’m seeing are Lorien’s sun.

When we were on the run, moving through Canada after that Mog found us outside of Montreal, we always slept in shifts. That’s what we called them, at least. In actuality Rey would stay most of the night watching over me. My shift would just be the few minutes in the morning while Rey showered or went to get us food or something. Even in our shack, I think sometimes he’d stay up half the night by the door if he had a feeling or hunch that something would happen. I’d always kind of laughed it off as paranoia, but now, alone on the rooftop of a building in a town I’ve never been in, I wish more than anything that I had someone to look out for me.

CHAPTER SIX

I MAKE A HOME FOR MYSELF IN SOUTH BEACH.

I don’t have a roof over my head or anything, but I get familiar enough with the little area that it starts to feel like I know it, at least. Clubs, restaurants, and hotels line the beaches, and from the sidewalks I can see inside, into other worlds that seem so detached from what I grew up with that they’re completely alien to me. There are flashing lights and bands and dancers that spill out into the street. In Martinique I’d seen carnivals and festivals that had dancers but never anything quite like this—Rey had always made sure I was kept inside after dark. But now, alone, I’m free to wander.

I think about heading up towards Canada, but I’m still weak from the voyage. Besides, I need to practice the hell out of flying before I even begin to think of flying all the way there, which seems like the easiest way to avoid any issues with border patrol or police.

At first it’s hard for me to fly—without a rush of adrenaline or a near-death experience, I can’t seem to figure out where the power comes from. But over the course of a week or two I get better. Levitating just a few inches off the ground at first, then rising into the air as high as I can before I get freaked out and come falling back to the ground. Sometimes when it’s extra dark, I fly over the ocean, low enough that no one will see me, darting between buoys. I’m getting good at it.

The rooftops serve as my bed at night. They feel safer than sleeping on the beach or in alleys. During the daytime, I get really good at picking pockets with my telekinesis. I stop feeling bad about it after the second or third time. I’m surviving. If I’m going to make it to Canada—or anywhere else—I’m going to need plenty of cash and supplies. And there are countless targets walking in droves in and out of expensive-looking shops all over the island. I buy a new set of clothes—jeans to cover the scars of One and Two on my ankle—and keep a few other fresh shirts in my bag. In my clean T-shirt and with a wad of cash in my pocket, I’m just another kid in Miami whose parents have given him too much allowance.

I stay careful when it comes to my powers. They could easily give me away. That and my bulky, heavy Chest, which I carry with me everywhere I go.

I think about the Garde quite a bit at first. About maybe seeking them out and trying to find them. But how would I even go about doing that? Post “Missing” ads or something? For all I know they could be in shacks in Africa or Indonesia or Antarctica. And if they’re not—if they’re banding together . . . well, no one ever came to find me.

So I think of them less and less. Every time I discover something new about the city, part of me curses Rey. We could have been doing this all the time instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere. I spend my days exploring or playing in arcades or reading books on the beach—doing all the things I didn’t get a chance to do on our island where there were no bookstores or electrical outlets. I feel like I could probably play video games or watch movies forever. I eat up all the stories. I wish I could create them myself.