No Passengers Beyond This Point(36)

Laird sees the bird. His eyes scan the road. “Well, India, what are you going to do now?” he asks when our feather taxi appears.

Mouse has a fistful of the fringe from India’s vest, which is under her welcomer clothing. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Laird’s blue eyes. He tracks us as we pile into Chuck’s taxi. He’s still watching as we drive away.





CHAPTER 20

PASSENGER TIME

Why are we back with this Chuck dude in his pinky cab? That welcomer job was so cool. I even liked the blue tunic! Laird picked me for the job. He thinks I have talent. Maddy was going to come too.

Now all I have is a blinding headache and a wrist screen with a mind of its own. If only I could figure out how to turn it on. I have to think the right thoughts for it to switch on, but what are the right thoughts?

I tilt the screen away from Mouse. I don’t want her to see. But I can’t get it to turn on, no matter what I do. Ahh! I am so totally frustrated. I just barely keep from tossing the screen out the window.

The Chuck dude glances in the rearview mirror and asks in his chipper voice, “So where to?”

We’re pulling out of Falling Bird—out onto the open highway. But my head is still inside the screen. I barely register the question.

“We have to find the black box. Isn’t that right, Finn? Isn’t it?” Mouse chirps.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Look,” said Mouse. “We have the clocks just like you said, Finn. And now we’re going to play the game with the black box.” Mouse runs her hand over the clock imbedded in the back of the front seat. That’s the one new thing about the feather taxi. Each of us has a clock facing us. They’re four inches across and they look like old-fashioned pocket watches, except they’re digital. The covers have our names engraved in Falling Bird font. But here’s the weird part: The clocks aren’t keeping time, they’re counting down.

“How come Finn has less time?” Mouse asks.

“That’s the arrangement he made,” Chuck says.

“What arrangement?” I ask.

“You’ll have to ask Finn about that, but the clocks tell you when you’ve become a citizen,” Chuck explains.

“What arrangement?” I ask, leaning forward to make eye contact with Finn, who is on the other side of Mouse.

He shrugs. “I traded time for information.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about? Why would you want to be a citizen?” Finn counters.

“It’s a privilege,” Chuck replies in his chipper voice.

“Exactly,” I add.

“So if we’re not citizens, what are we?” Finn wants to know.

“Passengers,” Chuck says.

“Passengers in the car,” Mouse adds.

“That’s right,” Chuck says. “Most passengers decide to stay in Falling Bird and become citizens.”

“Oh, no,” Mouse says. “We want to go home. Don’t we, Finn? We have to find the dog and the box and go home, right, Finn? Right?” Mouse asks.

“Mouse, just be quiet and let Chuck talk,” I say.

“Actually, India, she knows as much about it as I do,” Chuck says.

“Oh, that’s comforting,” I say.

“Why wouldn’t you know?” Finn asks as the cab picks up speed. “This is your job . . . you must have done this before.”

“You’re the first passengers I’ve had who wanted to go back. Most of them are content to become citizens by now. To be honest, I bent the rules a bit to get this far,” Chuck says.

“How’d you bend the rules?” I ask.

Chuck glances in the rearview mirror. His eyes find mine. “The bird didn’t fit together quite right, India. One of the pieces was broken.”

“But it flew,” Mouse offers.

“Yes,” Chuck agrees. “But not very well. India’s piece was damaged and . . .”

“Wait, India! Listen!” Mouse bonks me with her good arm. “Bing says your cell is ringing. C’mon India! Quick! Answer it!” she shouts in my ear.

Just to humor her, I wiggle the cell out of my pocket and click it open. For a second it flashes on. 139 missed calls it says before it dies again.

Mouse is freaking. “Bing says it was Uncle Red calling. Bing says he’s trying to get through. Mom and Uncle Red are calling and calling and calling.”

Chuck is rubbernecking from the front seat trying to see what’s happening.

Mouse squeezes my arm so tightly she’s totally cutting the circulation off. “Try again!” she cries.

All of us are huddled over my cell as I click the on button. The thought that my cell could work, that I could actually talk to my mom, makes my skin prickle in a way that feels either irritating or nice, I don’t know which.