"It's just a month's worth. But you have to keep it on for three."

"Three months? Linda said the patch was for a week."

"She lied."

"Why? People will take them off early. Is that safe?"

"Their parents will tell them to keep them on. Don't worry. The patch is part of the treatment. It balances the side effects of the shot."

"Will kids get sick if they take them off?"

She sighs. "They won't take them off, Max. By tomorrow or the day after, they'll do whatever they're told."

I scratch my head and stare at the ceiling, trying to think of something to say. I hear Ally singing in the living room, "Aa"my name is Ally, my husband's name is Arnold, we live in Arkansas, and we sell apples!"

"You'll get a new patch in three months," Mom tells me. "Make sure you take it off and put the empty estrogen patch back on."

I nod at the ceiling.

"Then in six months, you'll get another shot," she tells me.

I look at her in surprise. "How many drugs are they giving us?"

"It's the same drug, just another dose."

"It wears off? So there's a chance for Xavier?"

She shrugs. "I think so. My patients get a slow-release shot that lasts two years, but Linda said they reduced the dosage for children."

"So Linda's coming back to drug my cla.s.s again in six months?"

Mom nods. "I'll try to be there for it."

I pick up two of Ally's dolls and hurl them at her. She's so surprised, she screams. Ally's song ends abruptly. "How about you don't?" I shout. "How about I find another school? How about you find another job?"

Mom picks up a doll and straightens out its clothes and hair. "I'm not taking you and Ally out of New Middletown if I can help it. This is the safest city on earth."

I walk over to the bed and lean into her face. "You came into my school and stuck people with something that makes them do whatever they're told. I don't feel very safe."

She lowers her head and pinches her bottom lip. "I'm sorry, Max. I want you to finish academic school. Your life will be so much easier if you do that. I can be there for your shots. No one will ever know."

"What about everyone else?"

"They'll be fine eventually. They'll become much more focused on their studies." She lays the doll down and sits up tall. "Everyone says it's for their own good. Maybe this new varianta""

"Don't even try it," I interrupt. "I've seen the results at the other schools. I don't want to be like that."

"Okay. I know. I don't want you to be like that either." She reaches out for my hand, but I back away from her. "You'll have to pretend you've been treated," she tells me. "It's not just that you have to work harder. You have to take school more seriously. You have to act like the others."

I remember Ally saying that outside her school weeks ago.

"I've already spoken to Ally," Mom says, as if she read my mind. "She's so well-behaved that no one noticed. But you, Max." She looks me in the eye and shrugs. "You have to be good."

"I have to be good?" I repeat. "Good?"

"You know what I mean. You have to be obedient. Your teachers will be watching you."

"So the teachers know what's going on?"

She looks at me like I'm a lost little boy. "Everyone knows, Max. This is school policy. They've been planning this for months. They'll increase the dosage for anyone who doesn't respond."

"Is that what you do at the old folks' home?"

She ignores me. "Tell Dallas not to fight with his brother. Arlington will be watching and Austin won't be treated for another week or two."

"They're doing the grade twelves?"

"They're doing all the grades, Max. Everyone."

"Everyone," I repeat, hating her.

Celeste comes over after supper with a box of face paints. She wears white woolen stockings and a tight blue sweater that hangs to her knees. She pulls back her hair and ties on a beige ap.r.o.n. "You're so much darker than the kids," she says as she smears Mom's cheek with makeup. "This is way too light for you. Your skin is gorgeous for your age."

"Thank you, dear. How's your brother?"

"Xavier? He's fine. He's actually sleeping. He fell asleep at the table, he's so tired. It's all that cross-country running."

Mom frowns and hunches. She's quiet while Celeste applies two darker tints. Her face takes on subtle stripes, like faded war paint. "I hope he's all right," she mutters.

"Xavier?" Celeste asks. "Sure, he's just tired." She cleans Mom's face with white cream. "Can I try tomorrow with other colors?"

"Yes, dear."

"Thanks." Celeste sways down the hall under the eye of the camera.

I stay up late watching a movie from Xavier's favorite site: 1984. It's about a poverty-stricken world where the government watches all the workers as they pretend to enjoy their reeking lives. They're all ugly, white and underfed. It's probably a metaphor.

Mom knocks on my bedroom door.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" I ask. "Don't you have to get up at three?"

She sits on the edge of my bed, wiping her eyes. I pause the movie. "Xavier could never fake being a zombie," I say. "He talks too much. They'd dose him again right away."

She sniffles and pats my hand. She's tired, her eyes baggy black, her lips stretched thin. Her hair is frizzy, and it's been too long since she had it cut. "Your hands are so young," she says. "They look brand-new."

I can't smile at her, but I squeeze her fingers. "Thanks, Mom."

"For what, honey?"

"For saving me and Dallas."

"Oh, baby." She leans her head and shoulder into me. "I should have taken you home."

I shudder at the memory of her wheeling the tray into cla.s.s. "When you walked into detention, I thought it was some kind of punishment. For the way I am."

"I thought you'd know why I was there. I couldn't lose you, Max."

"You wouldn't lose me. I'd just be a zombie."

She smiles. "That's a funny thing to call them. Zombies are corpses that crawl out of their graves and eat people's brains."

"No way."

She laughs. "Yes. They eat people alive. They're not calm at all."

"That's crazy."

"You should call them something else."

"What do you call your patients?"

She stiffens and pulls her hand away.

I don't take it back. I don't want to make it easy for her. "We could call them robots," I say. "Or mindless slaves."

"It's not like that, Max."

"Yes it is." I unpause the movie and watch skinny people in shapeless uniforms hide from giant cameras. "What if they do everyone? The whole country?"

"Don't be silly," Mom says.

"Remember that airport guard who frisked me? I bet she was a zombie. I bet they'll do the nurses eventually. One day you'll come home from work and you'll be one of them."

"Who would even notice?"

I want to smack her face for asking that. "I would."

She leans into me again. Her hair is dry and stale as dust.

"I love you, Mom," I whisper.

"I love you too, Max."

Tyler Wilkins stops on the sidewalk where I linger outside Ally's old school watching the zombies. "h.e.l.lo, Maxwell. Aren't you going to cla.s.s?" He looks at the schoolyard and frowns. "There's something strange about that. We spoke of it before." He winces and holds a hand to his chest. "I'm getting a cold." He smiles at me without malice.

"You don't seem yourself," I say.

"I don't feel right," he admits. He checks his watch. "We should be going." There's something in his eyes, some rule-following gleam, that makes me keep up.

I don't talk much the rest of the way. He asks strange questions like, "How's your family?" and "Did you have a healthy breakfast?" He rubs his forehead and chest every few minutes, stumbles more than once, doesn't smoke or swear. He ditches me on the school grounds and heads inside.

Dallas pulls me to the fence and whispers, "My dad interrogated me last night! Mom said he'd been waiting since he heard I had detention. He checked my blood pressure and reflexes." He stops talking when Bay walks near, doesn't make eye contact, doesn't wave. After Bay moves on, he continues in a whisper. "He gave me a list of rules to memorize. I made a joke and he recorded it. Then he said, *You're going to do so well from now on, son.'" He shakes his head, leans in close. "Like he's proud of me now that I'm a zombie."

I nod. "They all know about it."

"Why? Why would they turn us into zombies?"

"I don't know. But Mom says zombies are actually undead creatures like werewolves who hunger for people's brains, so we should call them something else."

"Werewolves aren't undead," Dallas says. "They're just cursed."

"Well, zombies are undead. They crawl out of their graves half-rotted and go looking for brains to eat."

"No way. I thought they were hypnotized people who did some evil guy's bidding."

"Zombies don't do anybody's bidding. They drag around after brains."

Dallas snorts. "So what are we supposed to call them?"

I shrug.

"Let's still call them zombies," he says. "It's a good word."

I agree.

"What would you rather be killed by?" he asks. "A zombie or a werewolf?"

"Werewolf."

"Me too."

I take out my RIG. "Let's record people before they're all brain-eaters. Have you seen Pepper?"

"No. But get the Scorpions."

We tell our teammates we're composing a message for the Devils. They growl and roar, gesture rudely at my RIG, shout, "We're coming for you, ladies!" The bell rings too soon. Montgomery is yards away, teaching a dance routine to the cheerleaders. I raise my RIG high, hoping to record a few moves, but I'm too late. He picks up his coat, hangs it over his back with one hooked finger and heads inside.

His casual happiness lays me low. I'm limp and heavy suddenly, while all these lives bustle by me. Their voices and expressions are so distinct. They strike me down with their joy and bewilderment and l.u.s.t and fury. I need to collect them in my RIG, but there's no time.

"Get a grip on yourself!" Dallas hisses as he yanks me toward the doors. "What do you think Graham will do to us if you walk in crying?"

"Sorry. It must be the estrogen."

He shoots me a look that shuts me up.

Mr. Ames keeps the cla.s.s in for shots at lunch. He walks the aisles and highlights the absences: Pepper, Brennan and Xavier are all home sick. "You're not on the list, Maxwell." He points his finger at me. "You must have had detention yesterday."

"Yes sir."