She scratches the bottom of her right foot. "I'm not sure, but ever since I've been able to mess with the weather, it's always the same face that appears. I assume it's Loric."

"Yeah, probably. And here I thought it might be a crazy ex-boyfriend you've yet to get over."

"Because obviously I have a weakness for ninety-year-old men. You know me so well, John."

I shrug. Both of us smile.

That night I cook dinner on a rusty but serviceable grill left on the back patio. Or try to cook, I guess. Since I took home economics with Sarah in Paradise, I'm the only one who knows how to make anything remotely resembling a meal. Tonight: chicken breasts, potatoes, and a frozen pepperoni pizza.

We're sitting on the living-room carpet in a triangle. Under the blanket Six has draped over her head and body, she wears a black tank top, and her pendant hangs in full view. The sight of it returns my mind to the vision I had. I long for a normal dinner around a table and a normal night's sleep where I'm not tortured by my Loric past. Was that what it was like on Lorien before we left?

"Do you think about your parents a lot?" I ask Six. "Back on Lorien, I mean?"

"Not that much anymore. I can't even tell you what they look like, really. I remember how it felt being near them, though, if that makes any sense. I think about that feeling quite a bit, I guess. What about you?"

I pick at a burned slice of pizza. I resolve never to cook frozen pizza on the grill again. "I see them a lot in my dreams. Which is really great, but at the same time it tears me up inside. Reminds me that they're dead."

The blanket slides off the top of Six's head and rests on her shoulders. "What about you, Sam? Do you miss your parents right now?"

Sam opens his mouth and closes it. I can tell he's considering telling Six that he thinks his dad was taken by aliens, abducted when he went out for milk and bread. Finally he says, "I miss them both, my mom and dad, but I know that I'm better off here with you guys. Considering what I know about everything, I don't think I could be at home."

"You know too much," I say. I feel guilty he's eating my terrible meal on the floor of an abandoned house instead of feasting on his mother's food at a dining-room table.

"Sam, I'm sorry you got caught up in this with us," Six says. "But it's nice that you're here."

He blushes. "I don't know what it is, but I feel a weird connection to the whole situation. Can I ask you something? How far away is Mogadore from Earth?"

I think back to when Henri blew on the seven glass orbs, how they came to life. Soon we were looking at a floating replica of our solar system. "It's a lot closer than Lorien is, why?"

Sam stands. "How long would it take to get there?"

"A few months maybe," Six says. "Depends on what type of ship you're flying and what type of energy it uses."

Walking in circles, Sam says, "I think the U.S. government has to have a ship built somewhere that can handle that distance. I'm sure it's a prototype and top secret and hidden under a mountain that's hidden under another mountain, but I was just thinking about what would happen if we couldn't find your ship and needed to take the fight to them-go to Mogadore. We have to have a Plan B, right?"

"Sure. What's Plan A again?" I ask, biting my tongue. I can't fathom fighting the whole planet of Mogadore on their own turf.

"Getting my Chest," Six says. She pulls the blanket back over her head.

"And then what?"

"Training?"

"And then what?" I ask.

"We go find the others, I guess."

"It just sounds like a bunch of running and not much of anything else. I think Henri or Katarina would have us doing something more productive somehow. Like studying how to kill certain enemies. Do you know what a piken is?"

"Those are those huge beasts that destroyed the school," Six says.

"What about a kraul?"

"Those are the smaller animal things that attacked us in the gymnasium," she answers. "Why?"

"In the dream that I had in North Carolina, when you and Sam heard me speaking Mogadorian, those two names were mentioned, but I'd never heard of them before. Henri and I simply called them 'the beasts.'" I pause. "I had another dream earlier."

"Maybe you aren't having dreams," she says. "Maybe you're having visions again."

I nod. "It's hard to tell the difference at this point. I mean, these dreams felt the same as the visions I had of Lorien, but I wasn't on Lorien during these two," I say. "Henri once said that when I have visions it's because they hold some sort of personal significance to me. And that's always been true-the past visions were always of things that had already happened. But I think what I witnessed in my dream this morning . . . I don't know. It's like I was seeing it as it was actually happening."

"Wicked," Sam says. "You're like a TV."

Six crumples her paper towel and tosses it up in the air above her head. Without thinking I set it on fire, and it wilts into nothing before landing on the carpet. Then Six says, "It's not impossible, John. Some of the Loric have been known to do it. That's what Katarina said, anyway."

"But the thing is, I think I was on Mogadore, which, by the way, is just as disgusting as I imagined it would be. The air was so thick it made my eyes water. Everything was desolate and gray. But, how did I get there? And how could this one huge dude on Mogadore seem to sense when I was there?"

"How huge?" Sam asks.

"Huge, like more than double the size of the soldiers I saw, twenty feet tall, maybe more, far more intelligent and powerful. I can tell just by looking at him. He was definitely a leader of some sort. I've seen him twice now. The first time I was overhearing information relayed to him by some little peon, and it was all about us and what had happened at the school. This second time I saw him as he was preparing to board a ship; but before he was on it, one of the others ran up and handed him something. I didn't know what it was at first, but just before the ship's door closed, he turned towards me to make sure I could see exactly what it was."

"What was it?" Sam asks.

I shake my head, ball up my paper towel, and burn it on the palm of my hand. I look out the back door at the setting sun, a blaze of orange and hot pink like the Florida sunsets Henri and I watched from our elevated porch. I wish he was still here to help make sense of all this now.

"John? What was it? What did he have?" Six asks.

I lift my hand and grab my pendant.

"This. These. He had pendants. Three of them. The Mogadorians must have taken them after each kill. And this massive leader guy, or whoever he is, he put them around his neck like Olympic medals, and then he stood there just long enough so I could see. Each one was glowing bright blue, and when I woke up, mine was too."

"So are you saying it's a premonition, like you just saw your fate? Or could you have just had a weird dream because of how stressed out you are?" Sam asks.

I shake my head. "I think Six is right and these are all visions. And I think they're all happening right now. But the thing that scares me the most is that when that guy got on that ship, there's a good chance he was headed this way. And, if Six is right about how fast a ship can travel, it won't be very long until he's here."

Chapter Eleven.

THE THINGS I REMEMBER ABOUT COMING TO SANTA Teresa are mostly just snippets of a long journey I thought would never end. I remember an empty stomach and sore feet and being impossibly tired most of the time. I remember Adelina begging for change, for food; remember the seasickness and the vomiting it caused. I remember disgusted looks from passersby. I remember every time we changed names. And I remember the Chest, as cumbersome as it was, that Adelina refused to part ways with no matter how dire our situation became. On the day we finally knocked at the door Sister Lucia answered, I remember it being on the ground tucked snug between Adelina's feet. I know she stowed it away in the shadows of some obscure corner of the orphanage. My days of searching have turned up nothing, but I still keep looking.

On Sunday, one week after Ella arrived, we sit together in the back pew during Mass. It's her first, and it holds her attention about as well as it holds mine: not at all. Aside from class, she's pretty much been by my side since the morning I helped her make her bed. We walk to and from school together, eat breakfast and dinner together, say our nightly prayers together. I've grown very attached to her, and by the way she follows me around, I can tell she's grown attached to me as well.

Father Marco has droned on for a good forty-five minutes, and finally I close my eyes, thinking of the cave and debating whether I should bring Ella along with me today. There are several problems with it. First, there's zero light inside, and there's no way Ella will be able to see through the dark in the way that I can. Second, the snow has yet to melt, and I'm not sure she'd be able to make the trek through it. But most of all, I worry that bringing her would be putting her in harm's way. The Mogadorians could arrive at any moment, and Ella would be defenseless. But even with these obstacles and concerns, I'm eager to take her along anyway. I want to show her my paintings.

On Tuesday, minutes before we were to depart for school, I had found Ella hunched over on her bed. Still chewing on a breakfast biscuit, I looked over her shoulder to see her furiously shading a perfect drawing of our sleeping quarters. The details, the technical accuracy of each crack in the wall, her ability to capture the faintest of squares of sunrays that dropped through the windows in the morning, was astounding. It was as if I was looking at a black-and-white photograph.

"Ella!" I had blurted.

She had flipped the paper over, trapping it against her schoolbook with her tiny smudged hands. She knew it was me but didn't turn around.

"Where did you learn how to do that?" I'd whispered. "How did you learn to draw so well?"

"My father," she whispered back, keeping the drawing turned over. "He was an artist. So was my mother."

I'd sat down on her bed. "And here I thought I was a pretty good painter."

"My father was an incredible painter," she'd said plainly. Before I could ask her more questions, we had been interrupted and then ushered out of the room by Sister Carmela. That night I'd found Ella's drawing under my pillow. It's the best present I've ever received.

Sitting in Mass, I think that maybe she can help me with my cave paintings. Surely I can find a flashlight or lantern somewhere here to take with us. And then my thoughts are interrupted by a fit of giggles beside me.

I open my eyes and look over. Ella's found a red-and-black furry caterpillar that's in the process of crawling up her arm. I bring my finger to my lips in a sign of silence. It stops her for a brief moment, but then the caterpillar climbs higher and she begins giggling again. Her face turns red while trying not to laugh, but the fact that she's trying to stifle it only makes it that much harder. And then she can't help herself and a string of laughs escape. Every head snaps around to see what's happening, and Father Marco stops his sermon in midsentence. I snatch the caterpillar from Ella's arm and sit upright, staring back at those staring at us. Ella stops laughing. Slowly the heads turn back around and Father Marco, clearly flustered at having lost his spot, resumes his sermon.

I sit with my hand around the caterpillar. It tries wriggling free. After a minute I open my fist, and the sudden movement causes the furry little thing to curl into a ball. Ella raises her eyebrows and cups her hands together, and I place the caterpillar in them. She sits there smiling down at it.

I scan the front row. I'm not at all surprised to see Sister Dora glaring sternly in my direction. She shakes her head before turning back to Father Marco.

I lean over to Ella.

"When prayer ends," I whisper into her ear, "we have to get out of here as fast as we can. And keep away from Sister Dora."

Before Mass I'd fixed Ella's hair into a tight braid; and now, gazing up at me with her big, brown eyes, it looks as though the heavy braid is weighing her head back.

"Am I in trouble?"

"We should be okay," I tell her. "But just in case, we'll rush out of here before Sister Dora can catch up to us. Got it?"

"Got it," she says.

But we don't get the chance. When there are just a few minutes left, Sister Dora stands and casually strolls to the back, and then stands waiting at the door a few steps away. When my eyes reopen as the final prayer ends with the sign of the cross, Sister Dora places a hand on my left shoulder.

"Come with me, please," she says to Ella, reaching across me to grab her by the wrist.

"What are you doing?" I say.

Sister Dora pulls Ella past me. "It's none of your business, Marina."

"Marina," Ella pleads. As she's being dragged away, Ella looks back at me with scared eyes. I panic and rush to the front of the church where Adelina is standing, talking with a lady from town.

"Sister Dora just grabbed Ella and pulled her away," I quickly say, interrupting her. "You have to make her stop, Adelina!"

She looks incredulously at me. "I will do no such thing. And it's Sister Adelina. If you'll excuse me, Marina, I was in the middle of a conversation," she says.

I shake my head at her. Tears form in my eyes. Adelina doesn't remember what it feels like to ask for help and not receive it.

I turn and run from the room and up the winding staircase to the church offices. To the left, at the end of the hall, the only door closed is the one leading to Sister Lucia's office. I race towards it, trying to decide what I should do. Should I knock? Should I kick straight through it? But I don't get the chance to do either. When I'm within reaching distance of the knob, I hear the crack of the paddle, followed instantly by a scream. I'm frozen in shock. Ella cries on the other side of the door and a second later the door is opened by Sister Dora.

"What are you doing here?" she snaps at me.

"I came to see Sister Lucia," I lie.

"She's not here, and you're due in the kitchen. Go on," she says, shooing me the way I came. "I'm headed there myself."

"Is she okay?"

"Marina, it's none of your concern," she says, and then grabs me by the bicep, spins me around, and gives me a shove.

"Go!" she orders.

I move away from the office, hating the fear that runs through me every time confrontation stares me in the face. It's always been that way-with the Sisters, with Gabriela Garcia, with Bonita on the dock-I get the same feeling, the same nervousness that quickly segues to dread, that always causes me to walk away.

"Walk faster!" Sister Dora barks, following me down the staircase and towards the kitchen where El Festin duties await.

"I have to use the restroom," I say before we reach the kitchen, which is a lie; I want to make sure Ella's okay.

"Fine. But you better make it fast. I'm timing you."

"I will."

I duck around the corner and wait thirty seconds to make sure she's gone. Then I rush back the way we came, up the staircase, down the hall. The office door is slightly ajar and I walk through it. The interior is dark, somber. A layer of dust covers the shelves that line the walls, upon which sit ancient books. The only light enters through a dirty stained glass window.

"Ella?" I say, for some reason thinking she might be hiding. No answer. I walk away and poke my head in the rooms situated off the main hallway, all of which are empty. I call her name as I go. At the hall's opposite end is the Sisters' sleeping quarters. There's no sign of her in there either. I go back down the stairs. The crowd has made its way to the cafeteria. I walk to the nave looking around for Ella. She's not in there, nor is she in either of the two sleeping rooms, nor the computer room, nor any of the storage rooms. By the time I've looked in most places I can think to check, a half hour has passed and I know I'll be in trouble if I go to the cafeteria.

Instead I hurry out of my Sunday clothes, pull my coat off its hook, swipe the blanket from my bed, and dash outside. I trudge through the snow away from town, unable to push the sound of the paddle's crack and Ella's scream from my mind. I'm also unable to forgive Adelina's scorn towards me. My whole body tense, I focus my energy on some of the large rocks I pass, using telekinesis to lift and hurl them against the mountainside. It's a great way to blow off steam. The snow's surface has hardened, creating a thin layer of ice that crunches underfoot, but it doesn't keep the rocks from skidding downhill. I'm so mad I could let them go, careening towards town. But I stop them in their tracks. My gripe isn't with the town but rather its namesake, and those who live within it.

I pass the camel's back-half a kilometer to go. The sun is warm on my face, situated high in the sky and slanted towards the east, which means I have at least five hours before I'm due back. I haven't had this much free time in a great while; and with the bright sun and crisp, fresh wind pulling me from my dismal mood, I hardly care that I'll be in trouble when I get back. I turn to see how effective my blanket cape is at hiding my prints in the hardened snow, and I'm afraid to see that it hasn't worked at all today.

Nevertheless, I push forward until I spot the rounded shrub sticking up over the snow, then I race towards it, at first not noticing the very thing my eyes should be attuned to: that the snow at the base of the cave is tossed up and pushed around. But as soon as I reach the cave's entrance, I know immediately that something is horribly off.

Approaching from the south, a single set of boot prints, double the size of my own, dot the mountainside, a perfect straight line cut into the snow leading from town to the cave. They seem to tromp around its opening, as though circling it. I'm flustered, certain there's something else here I'm missing. And then it dawns on me. The prints-they lead into the cave, but they don't lead back out.

Whoever they belong to is still inside.

Chapter Twelve.