Dallas ignores me for two days. I finally catch him in the cafeteria, sitting alone with a buffer of empty seats between him and the zombies. "We're visiting my cousin on Christmas Eve," I tell him. I don't whisper because that's suspicious. We've learned to hide our words in other words. "That's my birthday. I hope to do some shopping if the stores are open."

He plays with the turkey sandwich on his tray and doesn't respond. There's a tremor in his jaw and a twitch in one eye.

"It's the perfect place to shop because no one can find out what presents you're buying."

"It's a long way to go just to get out of town, Max."

"My cousin Rebecca went many years ago. She says the shopping is very good there."

He shakes his head. "I want to shop in Atlanta."

"It would be hard to find your parents a present in Atlanta."

He eats in silence while I list all the wonderful presents I want to buy.

"Christmas is two weeks away," he says at last. "I can't prepare myself in time."

"Yes, you can. And you know we deserve a break. You remember how Coach Emery said we did a good job cleaning the trailer."

"Yeah, buta"

I put down my spoon. "I thought you wanted to go Christmas shopping with us."

"It won't work, Max." He almost shouts the words.

A girl at the next table turns around and stares at us.

Dallas perfects his zombie face and says politely, "It's too sudden. I don't have enough money to go shopping with."

"Sudden? We've been saving up for six weeks."

He says nothing, sips his soda, moves his food around his plate.

The nosy girl turns back to her tray. Beside us, three ninth grade girls suck their soup in silence, eyes glued to their RIGs.

I sink into a whisper. "*How long do you think we can keep this up?' Those were your exact words three weeks ago.

This is not sudden."

"Thank you, Max," Dallas says loudly. "It's nice of your family to invite me shopping. It's good to be with your family at Christmas. My family would like to be with me too. It's sad to be with someone else's family at Christmas, especially when you obviously don't belong with them because you're different races and couldn't possibly be related." Anybody listening might think he was a recall, but they wouldn't suspect he was talking about fleeing the country.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Of course it's better to be with your family. But if you need to shop and your family can't take you, then my family would be happy to adopt you as my half-brother. I know you'd like to come with us because you've said so many times."

Washington sits down a few seats away with two other goons-turned-zombies. "h.e.l.lo, Max. h.e.l.lo, Dallas. How are you?" he says.

I'm p.i.s.sed off so I say, "We're fine, Washington. How's Tyler? Oh. I forgot. He's dead. You must be so sad."

He opens the lid of his sandwich box. "It's his memory that keeps me going."

Dallas looks down at his plate.

"You can't stay home while I go shopping," I say.

His jaw tightens and he sucks air through his straw.

I have to fight the urge to swat him. "Dallas, man, you're more desperate than I am," I whisper. "Once I'm gone there's nowhere you can relax. You won't make it."

The gurgle of the straw fades out with a sniffle. His jaw twitches and he blinks rapidly.

It's always a bad idea to needle your only friend until he cries in public, but it's especially bad when you're surrounded by zombie tattlers. Our escape from this sad school is so closea" it's exactly the time fate would kick us in the throat for fun.

"I'm sorry," I say at normal volume. "We should never pressure our friends to do what we want to do." Then I mumble, "Just keep it together. We're surrounded."

He takes a few breaths, then looks up in perfect zombie mode except for the twitch in his eye. "I'm not sure I want to go that far."

"You don't mean that."

"Now that Christmas is so close, I might stay home and buy my gifts locally."

"There's not much selection."

"I love this country," he whispers.

Washington stares at us while he chews his sandwich.

"I know your parents love it too," I tell Dallas loudly.

"I know they'd be very happy for you to shop locally for the rest of your life."

His head falls with the weight of that thought.

"How long can you last alone?" I whisper.

"I'm becoming good friends with Brennan. That's like trading up."

I nod to show I like his joke. "But what will you do when Brennan goes shopping? Think about it. My family would like to take you shopping with us and this may be your only chance."

"It's forever, Max," he whispers.

"This is forever," I say. "What do you think will happen to you? Look around."

Dallas turns his head slowly left and right. The zombies are staring at us curiously because we're the only people talking in the whole place.

I head to my hair appointment at 3:30.

"h.e.l.lo, handsome," Kim says. "Didn't I just see you at Thanksgiving? You don't usually get a Christmas cut. I was surprised when you called."

"We're visiting my cousin this year. Mom wants me to look premium."

"You always look premium. Come to the sink."

It's unsettling to lean my head back into the porcelain bowl where she spits her toothpaste every morning, but the hot water and scalp ma.s.sage feel glorious.

"Same as usual?" she asks as she towels me dry. "Not too short? Bit of a fade at the back?"

"Yes, please."

She sprays my hair with moisturizer. "You ready for Christmas?"

"No."

She holds up her scissors and smiles in the mirror. "I found my son an old set of tools, almost antique, so even if he already has enough wrenches, it's still a nice conversation piece." Like she needs more of those. "Old cars have different parts than the new ones, so old tools probably work better anyway," she adds.

"Who does he work for?" I ask.

She's surprised to hear me ask a question, since I usually don't even answer them. "He works for himself," she says with a mixture of pride and shame because her son has initiative but he's broke.

"Does he sell cars?"

She laughs. "Everyone sells cars out where I live."

"I mean cars that work. Cars you can drive across the state."

She shrugs. "He mostly takes them apart to make more living s.p.a.ce. Once in a while he fixes an engine. Not a lot of people drive the old cars because the gas and permits are so expensive." She selects a section of my hair with her fingers.

"Permits?"

She nods. "You need a permit to drive them because they pollute so much."

I swear.

She cuts my hair in silence for a minute. "What's up with you, kid?"

I catch her eye in the mirror and she straightens up, her scissors held high. "My cousin lives far away," I say. "We have to drive to her house, and I thought maybe we could find an old car."

"Why don't you rent a car?"

I don't say anything.

"How far are you planning on driving?"

"Far."

She squints. "Will anyone be staying in your apartment while you're gone?"

I shake my head, pulling the hair out from between her fingers.

She finds that section again, looks back at the mirror, and asks, "How long will your place be empty? A few days? A few weeks? Months?"

I shrug.

"How big is it?"

"Two bedrooms, a big living room, a small kitchen." I try to think of a selling point. "It has a nice view."

She laughs and repeats, "It has a nice view. Well, that's good to know. How many months are paid in advance?"

"Whatever's required, I guess."

"Most places need a six-month deposit. That's why I live in a car."

"Then I guess the next six months are paid for."

Her eyes go dreamy in the mirror. "You're sure about this? You're not kidding? I know you're a joker. Don't joke about this, okay?"

"I'm not joking."

"In that case, I'm sure I can find you a car that works." She smiles and snips my hair faster than I've ever seen. "We'll find you a very nice car with a full tank of gasoline. I'll throw in an air freshener. And one of those little dogs on the dashboard that wags its head when you brake." She laughs a big hearty laugh. She pats my shoulder and repeats, "We'll find you a very nice car."

"I'll need it before Christmas Eve."

"That won't be a problem."

I take a detour to Pepper's old house on my way home.

My heart is gone from her doorstep. But I'm still carrying her keys.

It's unsettling inside, dark and hollow. I walk straight to her bedroom and close the door. I stare at the nail where my painting used to hang. I turn around and catch my dim reflection in a mirror: gray clothes and a black face. I could be anybody. I could be a zombie. With nice hair.

I don't know what I'm doing here. I rummage through her closet but find nothing new. I look under her bed and behind the dresser. I sniff the clothes in her hamper, bury my face in a jacket that smells like the chemistry lab. There's an earpiece in one pocket, a storage chip in the other. I plug it into my RIG.

I can't access the doc.u.ments without a pa.s.sword, but photos scroll freely before my eyes. I moan out loud to see myself with tomato sauce on my chin, smiling. The next photo shows Dallas holding my pizza out of my reach. There are almost fifty shots of usa"in the skate park, on the school grounds, on the football field. There's even a recording of our game against the Devilsa"not the one where I screamed but before that, when Dallas went wicked. I can't look at that.

There's a recording of Pepper's dance rehearsal, so premium it hurts to watch. She's so beautiful, the motion of her hips, the concentration on her face. She looks away and smiles, shining like a sun. The camera pans to the doorway where I stand with my eyes glued to her, grinning like a recall.

All the time I'd thought I was playing it cool. Yet there I am on camera with my eyes soft and dreamy and my tongue hanging out. There's no way she couldn't have known how I felt about her.

It's cold in her empty house. I pull my arms out of my sleeves and hug my naked chest. When the recording ends, I watch it again. I project it onto my hand as if I'm holding her, but that just makes me sad. "Goodbye, Pepper," I whisper.

I crack open the door of her bedroom, half expecting an ambush of cops and nurses in the hallway. But there's no one in the house or on the street. I lock the door behind me and drop the keys in the mailbox. I won't be coming back here.

Mom's crying when I get home. Ally's at the kitchen table coloring, and Mom's sobbing on the couch. I sit beside her, but not too close because it unnerves me when she cries. I break into her sadness as gently as I can. "Hey, Mom, I found us a car. From Kim, my hairdresser. Her son fixes cars. Supreme, huh?"

She looks at me and nods. Her eyes are red and her face looks ten years older than yesterday. "That's great news, honey." She tries to smile, but it's contorted with her sadness so it just looks pained. I recoil, and a sob bursts out of her. She puts her face in her hands and rocks back and forth.

"Did someone else die?" I ask. "Is Xavier okay?"

"He's fine."