Hey guys! So I know I probably shouldn't be starting another story because I still have out all my other ones…but I couldn't help myself. I had this idea for a while, like two years ago or something. Anyways, this story is based off the book Unwind by Neal Shusterman. It's seriously a good book if you guys haven't read it already. Anyways, I just copied the entire book and changed the characters as you can see. I don't know if I'll be writing this story word for word from the book, but the first chapter is like that.

I do not own the book Unwind or Big Time Rush. The only ideas I have are combining the two together and adding in a few ideas of my own.

Anyway, I hope you all read and Enjoy! : )


Chapter One

"There are places you can go," Jo tells him, "and a guy as smart as you has a decent chance of surviving to eighteen."

Kendall isn't so sure, but looking into Jo's eyes makes his doubts go away, if only for a moment. Her eyes are sweet violet with streaks of grey. She's such a slave to fashion-always getting the newest pigment injection the second it's in style. Kendall was never into that. He's always kept his eyes the color they came in. Green. He never even got tattoos like so many kids get these days when they're little. The only color on his skin is the tan it takes during the summer, but now, in November, it has faded to a pasty pale. He tries not to think about the fact that he'll never see the summer again. At least not as Kendall Knight. He still can't believe his life is being stolen from him at sixteen.

Jo's violet eyes begin to shine as they fill with tears that flow down her cheeks when she blinks. "Kendall, I'm so sorry." She holds him, and for that moment it seems as if everything is okay, as if they are the only two people on Earth. For that instant, Kendall feels invincible; untouchable, but she let's go. The moment passes and the world around him returns. Once more, he can feel the freeway beneath them as cars pass by, not knowing or caring that he's here. Once more he is one of them, a week short from unwinding.

The soft hopeful things Jo tells him don't help now. He can barely hear her over the rush of traffic. This place where they hide from the world is one of those dangerous places that make adults shake their heads, grateful that their own kids aren't stupid enough to hangout on the ledge of a freeway over pass. For Kendall, it's not about stupidity, or even rebellion – it's about feeling life. Sitting on the ledge, hidden behind an exit sign is where he feels most comfortable. Sure, one false step and he's road kill. Yet for Kendall, life on the edge is home. There have been no other girls, or boys, he has brought here, although he hasn't told Jo that. He closes his eyes, feeling the vibration of the traffic as if it's pulsing through his veins, a part of him. This has always been a good place to get away from fights with his parents, or when he feels generally boiled. But now, Kendall's beyond boiled - beyond fighting with his mom and dad. There's nothing to fight about. His parents' signed the order – it's a done deal.

"We should run away," Jo says. "I'm fed up with everything, too. My family, school…everything. I could kick AWOL and never look back."

Kendall hangs his head in thought. The thought of kicking AWOL by himself terrifies him. He might put up a tough front, he might act like a bad boy at school – but running away on his own? He doesn't even know if he has the guts. But if Jo comes, that's different. That's not alone. "Do you meant it?"

Jo looks at him with her magical eyes. "Sure. Sure I do. I could leave here. If you asked me to."

Kendall knows this is major. Running away with an Unwind – that's commitment. The fact that she would do it moves him beyond words. He kisses her, and in spite of everything going on in his life, Kendall suddenly feels like the luckiest guy in the world. He holds her, maybe a little too tightly because she starts to squirm. It just makes him want to hold her even more tightly, but he fights the urge and lets go. She smiles at him.

"AWOL…" She says. "What does that mean, anyway?"

"It's an old military term or something," Kendall says. "It means 'absent without leave'."

Jo thinks about it and grins. "Hmm. More like 'alive without lectures'."

Kendall takes her hand, trying hard not to squeeze it tightly. She said she'll go if he asked her. Only now he realizes he hasn't actually asked yet.

"Will you come with me, Jo?"

Jo smiles and nods. "Sure," She says. "Sure I will."

Jo's parents never liked Kendall. "We always knew he'd be an Unwind," he can just hear them saying. "You should have stayed away from the Knight boy." He was never 'Kendall' to them; he was always 'that Knight boy.' They think that just because he's been in and out of disciplinary school they have a right to judge him. Still, when he walks her home that afternoon, he stops short of her door, hiding behind a tree as she goes inside. Before he heads home, he thinks how hiding is going to be a way of life for both of them.

Home.

Kendall wonders how he can call the place he lives home when he's about to be evicted – not just from the place he sleeps, but from the hearts of those who are supposed to love him.

His father sits on a chair, watching the news as Kendall enters.

"Hi, dad."

His father points to some random carnage on the news.

"Clappers again."

"What did they hit this time?"

"They blew up an Old Navy in the North Akron mall."

"Hmm," says Kendall. "You'd think they'd have better taste."

"I don't find that funny."

Kendall's parents don't know that Kendall knows he's being unwound. He wasn't supposed to find out, but Kendall has always been good at ferreting out secrets. Three weeks ago, while looking for a stapler in his dad's home office, he found airplane tickets to the Bahamas. They were going on a family vacation over Thanksgiving. One problem though; there were only three tickets. His mother, his father and his younger sister. No ticket for him. At first he just figured the ticket was somewhere else, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed wrong. So Kendall went looking a little deeper when his parents were out and found it. The Unwind order. It had been signed in old-fashioned triplicate. The white copy was already gone, off with the authorities. The yellow copy would accompany Kendall to his end and the pink would stay with his parents as evidence for what they had done. Perhaps they would frame it and hang it alongside his first-grade picture.

The date on the order was the day before the Bahamas trip. He was going off to be unwound and they were going on vacation to make themselves feel better about it. The unfairness of it had made Kendall want to break something, a lot of things – but he hadn't. For once, he had held his temper, he kept his emotions hidden. Everyone knew that an unwind order was irreversible, so screaming and fighting wouldn't change a thing. Besides, he found a certain power in knowing his parent's secret. Now the blows he could deal them were so much more effective. Like the day he brought flowers home for his mother and she cried for hours. Or the B plus he brought home on a science test. Best grade he ever got in science. He handed it to his father, who looked at it, the color draining from his face. "See dad, my grades are getting better. I could even bring my grade up to an A by the end of the semester." An hour later his father was still sitting in the chair, still clutching the test in his hand and staring at the wall blankly. Kendall's motivations were simple: Make them suffer. Let them know for the rest of their lives what a horrible mistake they made. But there was no sweetness to this revenge, and now, three weeks of rubbing it in their faces has made him feel no better. In spite of himself he's starting to feel bad for his parents and he hates himself to feel this way.

"Did I miss dinner?"

Mr. Knight doesn't look away from the TV. "Your mother left a plate for you."

Kendall head off towards the kitchen, but halfway there he hears:

"Kendall?"

He turns to see his father looking at him. Not just looking, but staring. He's going to tell me now, the blonde thinks. He's going to tell me they're unwinding me and then break down in tears about how sorry sorry sorry he is about it all. If he does, Kendall just might accept the apology. He might even forgive him, and then tell him that he doesn't plan to be here when the Juvey-cops come to take him away. But in the end, all Mr. Knight says is, "Did you lock the door when you came in?"

"I'll do it now." Kendall locks the door then goes to his room, no longer hungry for whatever it is his mother saved for him.

At two in the morning, Kendall dresses in black and fills a backpack with the things that really matter to him. He still has room for three changes of clothes. He finds it amazing, when it comes down to it, how few things are worth taking. Memories mostly. Reminders of a time before things went so wrong between him and his parents. Between him and the rest of the world.

Kendall peeks in on his sister, thinks about waking her up to say good-bye, but then decides it's not the best idea he has ever came up with. Instead, he slips into the room, creeping over to his sister's bed and brushes the hair out of her face. He feels his eyes water, but hold back the tears as he bends down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Don't worry too much about me baby sister, I'll be safe. Just be good for mom and dad so you don't end up like me," Kendall says, a silent tear rolling down his pale cheek. "I promise we'll see each other again, Katie. I promise." Kendall then places another kiss to Katie, hugging her quickly before slipping out of the room. He silently slips into the night. He can't take his bike because he installed an antitheft tracking device. Kendall never considered the he might be the one stealing it. Jo has bikes for the both of them though.

Jo's house is a twenty minute walk, if you take the conventional route. Suburban Minnesota neighborhoods never have streets that go in straight lines, so instead he takes the more direct route, through the woods and makes it there in ten. The lights in Jo's house are off. He expected this. It would have been suspicious if she stayed awake all night. Better to pretend she's sleeping so she won't alert any suspicions. He keeps his distance from the house. Jo's yard and front porch are equipped with motion-sensor lights that come on whenever anything moves into range. They're meant to scare off wild animals and criminals. Jo's parents are convinced that Kendall is both.

He pulls his phone out and dials the familiar number. From where he stands in the shadows at the edge of the backyard he can hear it ring in her room upstairs. Kendall disconnects quickly and ducks farther back into the shadows, for fear that Jo's parents might be looking out their windows. What is she thinking? Jo was supposed to leave her phone on vibrate! He makes a wide arc around the edge of the backyard, wide enough not to set off the lights, and although a light comes on when he steps onto the front porch, only Jo's bedroom faces that way. She comes to the door a few moments later, opening it not quite wide enough for her to come out or for him to go in.

"Hi, are you ready?" ask Kendall. Clearly she's not; she wears a robe over satin pajamas, blonde hair up in a messy bun. "You didn't forget, did you?"

"No, no, I didn't forget…"

"So hurry up! The sooner we get out of here, the more of a lead we'll get before anyone knows we're gone."

"Kendall," she says, "here's the thing…"

And the truth is right there in her voice, in the way it's such a strain for her to even say his name, the quiver of apology lingering in the air like an echo. She doesn't have to say anything after that, because he knows, but he lets her say it anyway. Because he sees how hard it is for here, and he wants it to be. He wants it to be the hardest thing she's ever done in her life.

"Kendall, I really want to go, I do…but it's just a really bad time for me. My sister's getting married, and you know she picked me to be the maid of honor. And then there's school."

"You hate school," Kendall hisses. "You said you'd be dropping out when you turn sixteen."

"Testing out," she corrects him. "There's a difference.

"…So y-you're not coming?"

"I want to. I really, really want to, Kendall…but I can't." Jo drops her head down to her chest, unable to meet Kendall's confused green eyes.

"S-so everything we talked about was just a bullshit lie?"

"No," Says Jo quickly, lifting up her head to stare Kendall in the eye. "It was a dream. Reality got in the way, that's all. And running away doesn't solve anything."

"Running away is the only way to save my life," Kendall snaps. "I'm about to be unwound, in case you forgot."

Jo gently touches his face, rubbing her thumb over his left cheek. "I know," she says softly. "But I'm not." Then she drops her hand just as a light comes on at the top of the stairs. Reflexively, Jo closes the door a few inches.

"Jo?" Kendall hears her mother say. "What is it? What are you doing at the door?"

Kendall backs up out of view, and Jo turns to look up the stairs. "Nothing, mom. I thought I saw a coyote from my window and I just wanted to make sure the cats weren't out."

"The cats are upstairs, honey. Close the door and go back to bed."

"So, I'm a coyote," Kendall speaks.

"Shush," says Jo, closing the door until there's just a tiny slit and all he can see is the edge of her face and a single violet eye. "You'll get away, I know you will. Call me once you're somewhere safe." Then she closes the door.

Kendall stands there for the longest time, until the motion sensor light goes out. Being alone had not been part of his plan, but he realizes it should have been. From the moment his parents signed those papers, Kendall was alone.

He can't take the train; he can't take a bus. Sure, he has enough money, but nothing's leaving until morning, and by then they'll be looking for him in all the obvious places. Unwinds on the run are so common these days, they have whole teams of Juvey-cops dedicated to finding them. The police have it down to an art. He knows he'd be able to disappear in a city, because there are so many faces, you never see the same one twice. He knows he can disappear in the country, where people are so few and far between; he could set up a house in an old barn and no one would think to look. But then, Kendall figures the police probably thought of that. They probably have every old barn set up to spring like a rat trap, snaring kids like him. Or maybe he's just being paranoid. No, Kendall knows his situation calls for justified caution – not just tonight, but for the next two years. Then once he turns eighteen, he's home free. After that, sure they can throw him in jails, they can put him on trial – but they can't unwind him. Surviving that long is the trick.

Down by the interstate there's a rest stop where truckers pull off the road for the night. This is where Kendall goes. The blonde figures he can slip in the back of an eighteen-wheeler, but he quickly learns that truckers keep their cargo locked. He curses himself for not having forethought enough to consider that. Thinking ahead has never been one of Kendall's strong points. If it was, he might not have gotten into the various situations that have plagued him over these past few years. Situations that got him labels like 'troubled' and 'at risk,' and this last one, 'unwind.'

There are about twenty parked trucks and a brightly lit diner where half a dozen truckers eat. It's 3:30 in the morning. Apparently truckers have their own biological clocks. Kendall watches and waits. Then, at about a quart to four, a police cruiser pulls silently into the truck stop. No lights, no siren. It slowly circles the lot like a shark. Kendall thinks he can hide, until he sees a second police car pulling in. There are too many lights over the lot for Kendall to hide in shadows, and he can't bolt without being seen in the bright moonlight. A patrol car comes around the far end of the lot. In a second, its headlights will be on him, so he rolls beneath a truck and prays the cops haven't seen him. He watches as the patrol car's wheels slowly roll past. On the other side of the eighteen-wheeler the second patrol car passes in the opposite direction. Maybe this is just a routine check, he thinks. Maybe they're not looking for me. The more he thinks about it, the more he convinces himself that's the case. They can't know he's gone yet. His father sleeps like a log and his mother never checks on Kendall during the night anymore.

Still, the police cars circle.

From his spot beneath the truck Kendall sees the driver's door of another eighteen-wheeler open. No – it's not the driver's door, it's the door to the little bedroom behind the cab. A trucker emerges, stretches and heads toward the truckstop bathrooms, leaving the door ajar. In a hairbreadth of a moment, Kendall makes a decision and bolts from his hiding spot, racing across the lot to that truck. Loose gravel skids out from under his feet as he runs. He doesn't know where the cop cars are anymore, but it doesn't matter. He committed himself to this course of action and he has to see it through. As he nears the door he sees headlights arcing around, about to turn toward him. He pulls open the door to the truck's sleeper, hurls himself inside, and pulls the door closed behind him. He sits on a bed not much bigger than a cot, catching his breath. What's his next move? The trucker will be back. Kendall has about five minutes of he's lucky, one minute if he's not. He peers beneath the bed. There's space down there where he can hide, but it's blocked by two duffle bags full of clothes. The blonde could pull them out, squeeze in, and pull the duffle bags back in front of him. The trucker would never know he's there. But even before he can get the first duffle bag out, the door swings open. Kendall just stands there, unable to react as the trucker reaches in to grab his jacket and sees him.

"Whoa! Who are you? What the hell you doin' in my truck?"

A police car cruises slowly past behind him.

"Please," the green-eyed teen says, his voice squeaky like it was before his voice changed. "Please, don't tell anyone. I've got to get out of this place." He reaches into his backpack, fumbling, and pulls out a wad of bills from his wallet. "You want money? I've got money. I'll give you all I've got."

"I don't want your money," the trucker says.

"All right, then what?"

Even in the din light the trucker must see the panic in Kendall's emerald eyes, but he doesn't say a thing.

"Please," says the blonde again. "I'll do anything you want…"

The trucker looks at him in silence for a moment more. "Is that so?" he finally says. Then he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

Kendall closes his eyes, not daring to consider what he's gotten himself into.

The trucker sits beside him. "What's your name?"

"Kendall." Then he realizes a moment too late he should have given a fake name.

The trucker scratches his beard stubble and thinks for a moment. "Let me show you something, Kendall." He reaches over Kendall and grabs, of all things, a deck of cards from a little pouch hanging next to the bed. "Did ya ever see this?" The trucker takes the deck of cards in one hand and does a skillful one-handed shuffle. "Pretty good, huh?"

Kendall, not knowing what to say, just nods.

"How about this?" Then he takes a single card and with sleight of hand makes the card vanish into thin air. Then he reaches over and pulls the card right out of Kendall's red flannel shirt pocket. "You like that?"

Kendall lets out a nervous laugh.

"Well, those tricks you just saw?" The trucker says, "I didn't do 'em."

"I…don't know what you mean."

The trucker rolls up his sleeve to reveal that the arm, which had done the tricks, had been grafted on at the elbow. "Ten years ago I feel asleep at the wheel," the trucker tells him. "Big accident. I lost an arm, a kidney and a few other things. I got new ones, though, and I pulled through." He looks at his hands, and now Kendall can see that the trick-card hand is a little different from the other one. The trucker's other hand has thicker finger, and the skin is a bit more olive in tone.

"So," says Kendall, "you got dealt a new hand."

The trucker laughs at that, then he becomes quiet for a moment, looking at his replacement hand. "These fingers here knew things the rest of me didn't. Muscle memory, they call it. And there's not a day that goes by that I don't wonder what other incredible things that kid who owned this arm knew, before he was unwound…whoever he was."

The trucker stands up. "You're lucky you came to me," he says. "There are truckers out there who'll take whatever you offer then turn you in."

"And you're not like that?"

"No, I'm not." He puts out his hand – his other hand – and Kendall shakes it. "Gustavo Rocque," he introduces himself. "I'm heading north from here. You can ride with me till morning."

Kendall's relief is so great, it takes the wind right out of him. He can't even offer a thank-you.

"That bed there's not the most comfortable in the world, but does the job. Get yourself some rest. I just gotta go take a dump, and then we'll be on our way." Then he closes the door, and Kendall listens to his footsteps heading off towards the bathroom. Kendall finally lets his guard down and begins to feel his own exhaustion. The trucker didn't give him a destination, just a direction, and that's fine. North, south, east, west – it doesn't matter as long as it's far away from here. As for his next move, well, first he's got to get through this one before he can think about what comes next.

A minute later Kendall's already beginning to doze when he hears the shout from outside.

"We know you're in there! Come out now and you won't get hurt!"

Kendall's heart sinks. Gustavo Rocque has apparently pulled another sleight of hand. He's made Kendall appear for the police. Abracadabra. With his journey over before it even began, Kendall swings the door open to see three Juvey-cops aiming weapons.

But they're not aiming at him.

In fact, their backs are to him.

Across the way, the cab door swings open of the truck he had hidden under just a few minutes before, and a kid comes out from behind the empty driver's seat, his hands in the air. Kendall recognizes him right away. It's the kid he knows from school. Andy Jameson.

My God, is Andy being unwound too?

There's a look of fear on Andy's face, but beyond it is something worse. A look of utter defeat. That's when Kendall realizes his own folly. He'd been so surprised by this turn of events that he's still just standing there, exposed for anyone to see. Well, the policemen don't see him. But Andy does. He catches sight of the green-eyed teen, holds his gaze, only for a moment…

…and in that moment something remarkable happens.

The look of despair on Andy's face is suddenly replaced by a steely resolve bordering on triumph. He quickly looks away from Kendall and takes a few steps before the police grab him – steps away from Kendall, so that the police still have their backs to him. Andy had seen him and had not given him away! If Andy has nothing else after this day, at least he'll have this small victory. Kendall leans back into the shadows of the truck and slowly pulls the door closed. Outside, as the police take Andy away, Kendall lies back down and his tears com as sudden as a summer downpour. He's not sure who he's crying for – for Andy, for himself, for Jo – and not knowing makes his tears flow all the more. Instead of wiping the tears away he lets them dry on his face like he used to when he was a little boy and the things he cried about were so insignificant that they'd be forgotten by morning.

The trucker never comes to check on him. Instead, Kendall hears the engine start and feels the truck pulling out. The gentle motion of the road rocks him to sleep.

The ring of Kendall's cell phone wakes him out of a deep sleep. He fights consciousness. He wants to go back to the dream he was having. It was about a place he was sure he had been to, although he couldn't quite remember when. He was in a cabin on a beach with his parents, before his sister was born. Kendall's legs had fallen through a rotted board on the porch into spiderwebs so thick, they felt like cotton. Kendall had screamed and screamed from the pain and the fear of the giant spiders that he was convinced would eat his leg off. And yet, this was a good dream – a good memory – because his father was there to pull him free and carry him inside, where they bandaged his leg and sat him by the fire with some kind of coder so flavorful, he could still taste it when he thought about it. His father told him a story he can no longer remember, but that's all right. It wasn't the story but the tone of his voice that mattered, a gentle baritone rumble as calming as waves breaking on a shore. Little-boy-Kendall drank his cider and leaned back against his mother pretending to fall asleep, but what he was really doing was trying to dissolve into the moment and make it last forever. In the dream he did dissolve. His whole being flowed into the cider cup, and his parents placed it gently on the table, close enough to the fire to keep it warm forever and always.

Stupid dreams. Even the good one are bad, because they remind you how poorly reality measures up.

His cell phone rings again, chasing away the last of the dream. Kendall almost answers it. The sleeper room of the truck is so dark, he doesn't realize at first that he's not in his own bed. The only thing that saves him is that he can't find his phone and he must turn on a light. When he finds a wall where his nightstand should be, he realizes that this isn't his room. The phone rings again. That's when it all comes back to him and he remembers where he is. Kendall finds his phone in his backpack. The phone ID says the call is from his father. So now his parent's know he's gone. Do they really think he'll answer his phone? He waits until voicemail takes the call, then he turns off the power. His watch says 7:30 a.m. He rubs the sleep out his eyes, trying to calculate how far they've come. The truck isn't moving anymore, but they must have traveled at least two hundred miles while he slept. It's a good start.

There's a knock on the door. "Come on out, kid. Your ride's over."

Kendall's not complaining – it was outrageously generous of this truck driver to do what he did. Kendall won't ask any more of him. He swings open the door and steps out to thank the man, but it's not Gustavo Rocque at the door. Rocque is a few yards away being handcuffed and in front of Kendall is a policeman: a Juvey-cop wearing a smile as big as all outdoors. Standing ten yards away is Kendall's father, still holding the cell phone he had just called from.

"It's over, son," Mr. Knight says.

It makes Kendall furious. I'm not your son! He wants to shout. I stopped being your son when you signed the unwind order! But the shock of the moment leaves him speechless. It had been so stupid of Kendall to leave his cell phone on – that's how they tracked him – and he wonders how many other kids are caught by their own blind trust of technology. Well, Kendall's not going the way Andy Jameson did. He quickly assesses the situation. The truck has been pulled over to the side of the interstate by two highway patrol cars and a Juvey-cop unit. Traffic barrels past at seventy miles per hour, oblivious to the little drama unfolding on the shoulder. Kendall makes a split-second decision and bolts, pushing the officer against the truck and racing across the busy highway. Would they shoot an unarmed kid in the back, he wonders, or would they shoot him in the legs and spare his vital organs? As he races onto the interstate, cars swerve around him, but he keeps going.

"Kendall, stop!" he hears Mr. Knight yell, then a gun fire.

He feels the impact, but not in his skin. The bullet embeds in his backpack. He doesn't look behind him. Then, as he reaches the highway median, he hears another gunshot and a small blue splotch appears on the center divider. They're firing tranquilizer bullets. They're not trying taking him out, they're trying to take him down – and they're much more likely to fire tranq bullets at will, than regular bullets.

Kendall climbs over the center divider and finds himself in a path of a Cadillac that's not stopping for anything. The car swerves to avoid him and by sheer luck Kendall's momentum takes him just a few inches out of the Caddy's path. Its side mirror smacks him painfully in the ribs before the car screeches to a halt, sending the acrid stench of burned rubber up his nostrils. Holding his aching side, Kendall sees someone looking at him from an open window of the backseat. It's another kid, dressed in all white. The kid is terrified.

With the police already reaching the center divider, Kendall looks into the eyes of this frightened kid and knows what he has to do. It's time for another split-second decision. He reaches through the window, pulls up the lock, and opens the door.


James paces the backstage, waiting for his turn at the piano. He knows he could plat the sonata in his sleep – in fact, he often does. So many nights he would wake up to feel his fingers playing on the bedsheets. He would hear the music in his head and it would play for a few moments after he awoke, but then it would dissolve into the night, leaving nothing but his fingers drumming against the covers. He has to know the Sonata. It has to come to him as easily as breathing.

"It's not a competition," Mrs. Wainwright always tells him. "There are no winners or losers at a recital."

Well, James knows better.

"James Diamond," the stage manager calls. "You're up."

He rolls his shoulders, smooth out his long chestnut hair, then he takes the stage. The applause from the audience is polite, nothing more. Some of it is genuine, for he does have friends out there, and teachers who want him to succeed. But mostly it's the obligatory applause from an audience waiting to be impressed.

Mrs. Wainwright is out there. She has been his piano teacher for five years. She's the closest thing James has to a parent. He's lucky. Not every kid at Minnesota State Home 23 has a teacher they can say that about. Most StaHo kids hate their teachers, because they see them as jailers. Ignoring the stiff formality of his recital dress pants, he sits at the piano; it's a concert Steinway as ebony as the night, and just as long.

Focus.

He keeps his eyes on the piano, forcing the audience to recede into darkness. The audience doesn't matter. All that matters is the piano and the glorious sounds he's about to charm out of it. He holds his fingers above the keys for a moment, then begins with perfect passion. Soon his fingers dance across the keys making the flawless seem facile. He makes the instrument sing…and then his left ring finger stumbles on a B-flat, slipping awkwardly onto B-natural.

A mistake.

It happens so quickly, it could go unnoticed – but not by James. He holds the wrong note in his mind and even as he continues playing, that note reverberates within him, growing to a crescendo, stealing his focus until he slips again, into a second wrong note and then, two minutes later, blow an entire chord. Tears begin to fill his hazel eyes and he can't see clearly.

You don't need to see, he tells himself. You just need to feel the music. He can still pull out of this nosedive, cant he? His mistakes, which sound so awful to him, are barely noticeable. "Relax," Mrs. Wainwright would tell him. "No one is judging you." Perhaps she truly believes that – but the, she can afford to believe it. She's not fifteen, and she's never been a ward of the state.

Five mistakes.

Every one of them is small, subtle, but that are mistakes nonetheless. It would have been fine if any of the other kids' performances were less than stellar, but the others shined. Still, Mrs. Wainwright is all smiles when she greets James at the reception. "You were marvelous!" the African-American woman exclaims. "I'm proud of you."

"I stunk up the stage." James' head is downcast, pout on his tan face.

"Nonsense! You chose one of Chopin's most difficult pieces. Professionals can't get through it without an error or two. You did justice, honey!"

"I need more than justice."

Mrs. Wainwright sighs, but she doesn't deny it. "You're coming along nicely. I look forward to the day I see those hands playing in Carnegie Hall." Her smile is warm and genuine, as are the congratulations from the other girls and few boys in his dorm. It's enough warmth to ease him to sleep that night and to give him hope that maybe, just maybe, he's making too much of it and being unnecessarily hard on himself. He falls asleep thinking of what he might choose to play next.

James was more on the feminine side. He had a body shaped like a goddess, the only thing missing was him having boobs. He had long, brown hair that stopped just around his shoulders. He had beautiful hazel eyes that were surrounded by long eyelashes. He had rosy cheeks that came naturally and would give him off as the shy type. His lips full and luxurious. When James was around ten, the officials had separated him from the boys (once they found out which gender he preferred), afraid their hormones would take over and something happened. James wasn't the only boy to be rooming with girls. Any boy who preferred their same gender and were more feminine would book a room with the girls, and any girl that would rather make babies with a girl would book a room with the boys. It was the only way to keep the State House safe from young teens having children.

One week later James is called into the headmaster's office. There are three people there. A tribunal, thinks James. Three adults sitting in judgment, like the three monkeys; hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil.

"Please sit down, James," says the headmaster.

The pretty boy tries to sit gracefully, but his knees, now unsteady, won't allow it. He slaps awkwardly down into a chair far too plush for an inquisition. James doesn't know the other two people sitting beside the headmaster, but they both look very official. Their demeanor is relaxed, as if this is business as usual for them. The woman to the headmaster's left identifies herself as the social worker assigned to James' 'case.' Until that moment, James didn't know he had a case. She says her name. Ms. Something-or-other. The name never even makes it into James' memory. She flips the pages of James' fifteen years of life as casually as if she were reading a newspaper.

"Let's see…you've been a ward of the state from birth. It looks like your behavior has been exemplary. Your grades have been respectful, but not excellent." Then the social worker looks up and smiles. "I saw your performance the other night. You were very good."

Good, thinks James, but not excellent.

Ms. Something-or-other leafs through the folder for a few more seconds, but James can tell she's not really looking. Whatever's going on here was decided long before James walked through the door.

"Why am I here?" James suddenly questions, catching the three adults off guard.

Ms. Something-or-other closes his folder and glances at the headmaster and the man beside him in an expensive suit. The suit nods, and the social worker turns back to James with a warm smile. "We feel you've reached your potential here," she says. "Headmaster Thomas and Mr. Paulson are in agreement with me."

James glances at the suit, eye narrowing. "Who's Mr. Paulson?"

The suit clears his throat and says, almost as an apology, "I'm the school's legal counsel."

"A lawyer? Why is there a lawyer here?"

"Just procedure," Headmaster Thomas tells him. He puts a finger to his collar, stretching it, as if his tie has suddenly become a noose. "It's school policy to have a lawyer present at these kinds of proceedings."

"And what kind of proceeding is this?" James asks slowly.

The three look at one another, none of them wanting to take the lead. Finally Ms. Something-or-other speaks up. "You must know that space in the state homes is at a premium these days, and with budget cuts, every StaHo is impacted – ours included."

James holds cold eye contact with her. "Wards of the state are guaranteed a place in state homes."

"Very true – but the guarantee only holds until thirteen."

Then all of a sudden everyone has something to say.

"The money only stretches so far," says the headmaster.

"Educational standards could be compromised," says the lawyer.

"We only want what's best for you, and all the other children here," finally the social worker.

And back and forth is goes like a three-way Ping-Pong match. James says noting, only listens.

"You're a good musician, but…"

"As I said, you've reached your potential."

"As far as you can go."

"Perhaps if you had chosen a less competitive course of study"

"Well, that's all water under the bridge."

"Our hands are tied."

"There are unwanted babies born every day – and not all of them get storked."

"We're obliged to take the ones that don't."

"We have to make room for every new ward."

"Which means cutting 5 percent of our teenage population."

"You understand, don't you?"

James can't listen anymore, so he shuts them up by saying what they don't have the courage to say themselves. "I'm being unwound?"

Silence. It's more of an answer than if they had said 'yes.'

The social worker reaches over to take James' hand, but James pulls it back before she can. "It's all right to be frightened. Change is always scary."

"Change?" James yells, "What do you mean 'change'? Dying is a little bit more than a 'change.'"

Headmaster Thomas' tie turns into a noose again, preventing blood from getting to his face. The lawyer opens his briefcase. "Please, Mr. Diamond. It's not dying, and I'm sure everyone here would be more comfortable if you didn't suggest something so blatantly inflammatory. The fact is, 100 percent of you will still be alive, just in a divided state." Then he reaches into his briefcase and hands James a colorful pamphlet. "This is a brochure from Twin Lakes Harvest Camp."

"It's a fine place," the headmaster says. "It's our facility of choice for all our Unwinds. In fact, my own nephew was unwound there."

"Goody for him." James says sarcastically.

"Change," repeated the social worker, ignoring James' attitude, "that's all. The way ice becomes water, the way water becomes clouds. You will live, James. Only in a different form."

But James is not hearing anymore. Panic has already started to set in. "I don't have to be a musician. I can do something else!"

Headmaster Thomas sadly shakes his head. "Too late for that, I'm afraid."

"No, it's not! I-I could work out! And join the military. I can become a boeuf!" James tries to argue.

The lawyer sighs in exasperation and looks at his watch. The social worker leans forward. "James, please. It takes years of training before joining the military and I'm afraid you have ran out of time for that."

"Don't I have a choice in this?" But when he looks behind him, the answer is clear. There are two guards waiting to make sure that he has no choice at all. And as they lead him away, he thinks of Mrs. Wainwright. With a bitter laugh, James realizes that she may get her wish after all. Someday she may see his hands playing in Carnegie Hall. Unfortunately, the rest of James won't be there.

He is not allowed to return to his dormitory. He will take nothing with him, because there's nothing he needs. That's the way it is with unwinds. Just a handful of his friends sneak down to the school's transportation center, stealing quick hugs and shedding quick tears, all the while looking over their shoulder, afraid of getting caught. Mrs. Wainwright does not come. This hurts James most of all.

The brunette beauty sleeps in a guest room in the home's welcome center, then, at dawn, he's loaded onto a bus full of kids being transferred from the huge StaHo complex to other places. He recognizes some faces, but doesn't actually know any of his travel companions. Across the aisle, a fairly nice-looking boy – a military boeuf by the look of him – gives James a smile.

"Hey," he says, flirting in a way only boeufs can.

"Hey," James says back, batting his eyelashes.

"I'm being transferred to the state naval academy," he says proudly, wide smile on his face as he looks over the beautiful boy before him. "How about you?"

"Oh, me?" James' cheeks go red as he quickly sifts through the air for something impressive. "Miss…Marple's Academy for the-the…Highly Gift-ed." James gives the black haired boy a charming smile, trying to ease away his confusion.

"He's lying," says a scrawny, pale boy sitting on James' other side. "He's an Unwind."

Suddenly the boeuf boy leans away, as of unwinding is contagious. His grey eyes widen as they scan around James. "Oh!" he says. "Well…uh…that's too bad. See ya!" And then he leaves to sit with some other boeufs in the back.

"Thanks." James snaps at the scrawny kid, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

The kid just shrugs. "It doesn't matter anyway." Then he holds up his hand to shake. "I'm Samson," he introduces himself. "I'm an Unwind too."

James almost laughs. Samson. Such a strong name for such a mealy boy. He doesn't shake his hand, still annoyed at having been exposed to the handsome boeuf.

"So what did you do to get yourself unwound?" James asks. Hey, he might as well make conversation seeing as he doesn't have anything else to do.

"It's not what I did, it's what I didn't do," Samson says and James just stares at him confused.

"What didn't you do?"

"Anything," Samson answers.

It makes no sense to James. Not doing anything is an easy path to unwinding.

"I was never going to amount to much anyway," Samson continues, "but now, statistically speaking, there's a better chance that some part of me will go on to greatness somewhere in the world. I'd rather be partly great than entirely useless."

The fact that his twisted logic almost makes sense just makes him angrier. "Hope you enjoy harvest camp, Samson." His says his name like it's venom, then leaves to find another seat.

"Please sit down!" Calls the chaperone from the front, but no one's listening to her. The bus if full of kids moving from seat to seat, trying to find kindred spirits or trying to escape them. James finds himself a window seat, with no one beside him.

The bus trip will only be the first leg of his journey. They explained to him – to all the kids after they boarded the bus – that they would first be taken to a central transportation center, where kids from dozen of state homes would be sorted onto buses that would take them to wherever they were going. James' next bus would be a bus full of Samsons. Wonderful. He had already considered the possibility of sneaking onto another bus, but the bar codes on their waistbands make that impossibility. It's all perfectly organized, and fullproof. Still, James occupies his mind with all the scenarios that could lead to escape. That's when he sees the commotion out of his window. It's farther up the road. Squad cars are on the other side of the freeway, and as the bus changes lanes, he sees two figures in the road: two kids racing across the traffic. One kid, the blonde one, has the other in a chokehold and is practically dragging him. And both of them are running right in front of the bus.

James' head is slammed against the window as the bus suddenly pulls to the right to avoid the two kids. The bus fills with gasps and screams and James is thrown forward, down the aisle, as the bus comes to a sudden, jarring stop. His hip is hurt, but not bad. It's just a bruise. He gets up, quickly taking stock of the situation. The bus leans sideways. It's off the road, in a ditch. The windshield is smashed and cover with blood. Lots of it. Kids around him all check themselves. Like him, no one is badly hurt, although some are making more of a fuss than others. The chaperon tries to calm down one girl who's hysterical. And in the chaos, James has a sudden realization.

This is not part of the plan.

The system might have a million contingencies for state wards trying to screw with thins, but they don't have a plan of action for dealing with an accident. For the next few seconds, all bets are off. James fixes hazel eyes on the front door of the bus, holds his breath, and races towards that door.


The party is big, the party is expensive, the party has been planned for years.

There are at least two hundred people in the country club's grand ballroom. Logan got to pick the band, he got to choose the food – he even for to select the color of the linens: red and white – for the Cincinnati Reds – and his name, Hortense Logan Mitchel, is stamped in gold on the silk napkins for people to take home as a remembrance. The party is all for him. It's all about him. And he's determined to have the best time of his life. The adults at the party are relative, friends of the family, his parents' business associate – but at least eighty of the guests are Logan's friends. There are kids from school, from church and from the various sports teams he's been on. Some of his friends had felt funny about coming of course.

"I don't know, Logan," they had said, "it's kind of weird. I mean, what kind of present am I supposed to bring?"

"You don't have to bring anything," Logan had told them. "There are no presents at a tithing party. Just come and have a good time. I know I will."

And he does.

He asks every girl he invited to dance, and not a single one turns him down. He even has people lift him up in a chair and dance with him around the room, because he had seen them do that at a Jewish friend's bar mitzvah. True, this is a very different kind of party, but it's also a celebration of him turning thirteen, so he deserves to get lifted up in a chair too, doesn't he?

Logan finds that the dinner is served far too soon. He looks at his watch to see that two hours have already gone by. How could it have gone so quickly? Soon people grab the microphone and, holding up glasses of champagne, they start making toasts to Logan. His parents give a toast. His grandmother gives a toast. An uncle he doesn't even know gives a toast.

"To Logan: It's been a joy to watch you grow up into the fine young man you are, and I know in my heart that you'll do great things for everyone you touch in this world."

It feels wonderful and weird for so many people to say so many kind things about him. It's all too much, but in some strange way, it's not enough. There's got to be more. More food. More dancing. More time. They're already bringing out the birthday cake. Everyone knows the party ends once the cake is served. Why are they bringing out the cake? Can it really be three hours into the party? Then comes one more toast. It's the toast that almost ruins the evening.

Of Logan's many brothers and sisters, Marcus has been the quietest all evening. It's unlike him. Logan should have known something was going to happen. Logan, at thirteen, is the youngest of ten. Marcus, at twenty-eight, it the oldest. He flew halfway across the country to be here at Logan's tithing party, and yet he's barely danced, or spoken or been a part of any of the festivities. He's also drunk. Logan has never seen Marcus drunk.

It happens after the formal toasts are given, when Logan's cake is being cut and distributed. It doesn't start as a toast; it starts as just a moment between brothers.

"Congrats, little bro," Marcus says, giving him a powerful hug. Logan can smell the alcohol on Marcus' breath. "Today you're a man, sort of."

Their father, sitting at the head of the table just a few feet away lets out a nervous chuckle.

"Thanks…sort of." Logan responds, a dimpled smile on his pale face. He glances at his parents. His father waits to see what's coming next. His mother's pinched expression makes Logan drop his smile. He feels tense.

Marcus stares at Logan with a smile that doesn't hold any of the emotion a smile usually comes with. "What do you think of all this?" he asks Logan.

"It's great."

"Of course it is! All these people here for you? It's an amazing night. Amazing!"

"Yeah," says Logan. He's not sure what's going on but he knows it's going somewhere. "I'm having the time of my life."

"Damn right! The time of your life! Gotta wrap up all those life events, all those parties, into one – birthdays, wedding, funeral." Then he turns to their father. "Very efficient, right , Dad?"

"That's enough," their father says quietly, but that only makes Marcus get louder.

"What? I'm not allowed to talk about it? Oh, that's rights – this is a celebration I almost forgot."

Logan wants Marcus to stop, but at the same time, he doesn't.

Mrs. Mitchel stands up and says in a voice more forceful than her husband's, "Marcus, sit down. You're embarrassing yourself."

By now, everyone in the banquet hall has stopped whatever they were doing and are turned in to the unfolding family drama. Marcus, seeing he has the room's attention, picks up someone's half-empty glass of champagne, and holds it high. "Here's to my brother, Logan," Marcus says. "and to our parents! Who have always done the right thing. The appropriate thing. Who have always given generously to charity. Who have always given 10 percent of everything to our church. Hey, Mom – we're lucky you have ten kids instead of five, otherwise we'd end up having to cut Logan off at the waist!"

Gasps from all those assembled. People shaking their heads. Such disappointing behavior from an eldest son. Now Mr. Mitchel comes up and grabs Marcus' arm tightly.

"You're done!" He says through gritted teeth. "Sit. Down."

Marcus shakes off his dad. "Oh, I'll do better than sit down." Now there are tears in Marcus's eyes as he turns to Logan. "I love you, bro…and I know this is your special day. But I can't be part of this." He hurls the champagne glass against the wall, where it shatters, spraying fragments of crystal all over the buffet table. Them he turns and storms out with such steady confidence in his stride that Logan realizes he's not drunk at all.

Logan's father signals the band and they kick into a dance number even before Marcus is gone from the huge room. People begin to fill the void of the dance floor, doing their best to make the awkward moment go away.

"I'm sorry about that, Logan." Mr. Mitchel tells him. "Why don't you…why don't you go dance?"

But Logan finds he doesn't want to dance anymore. The desire he had to be the center of attention left along with his bother. "I'd like to talk to Pastor Reginald, if that's alright."

"Of course it is."

Pastor Reginald has been a family friends since before Logan was born, and he has always been much easier to talk to than his parents about any subject that required patience and wisdom.

The banquet ball is too loud, too crowded, so they go outside to the patio overlooking the country club's golf course.

"Are you getting scared?" Pastor Reginald asks. He's always able to figure out that's on Logan's mind.

Logan nods. "I thought I was ready. I thought I was prepared."

"It's natural. Don't worry about it."

But it doesn't ease the disappointment Logan feels in himself. He's had his entire life to prepare for this – it should have been enough. He knew he was a tithe from the time he was little. "You're special," his parents had always told him. "Your life will be to serve God, and mankind." He doesn't remember how old he was when he found out exactly what that meant for him.

"Have kids in school been giving you a hard time?"

"No more than usual," Logan tells him, chocolate eye staring straight ahead at the setting sun. It's true. All his life he's had to deal with kids who resented him, because grown-ups treated him as if he was special. There were kids who were kind, and kids who were cruel. That was life. It did bother him, though, when kids called him things like 'dirty Unwind.' As if he was like those other kids, whose parents signed the unwind order to get rid of them. That couldn't be further from the truth for Logan. He is his family's pride and joy. Straight As in school, MVP in little league. Just because he's to be unwound does NOT mean he's an Unwind. There are, of course, a few other tithes at his school, but they're all from other religions, so Logan has never felt a real sense of camaraderie with them. The huge turnout at tonight's party testifies to how many friends Logan has – but they're not like him: Their lives will be lived in an undivided state. Their bodies and their futures are their own. Logan has always felt closer to God than to his friends, or even his family. He often wonders if being chosen always leaves a person so isolate. Or is there something wrong with him?

"I've been having lots of wrong thoughts," Logan confesses to Pastor Reginald, turning to face the pudgy man, looking him in the eye.

"There are no wrong thoughts, only thoughts that need to be worked through and overcome."

"Well…I've just been feeling jealous of my brothers and sisters. I keep thinking how the baseball team is going to miss me. I know it's an honor and a blessing to be a tithe, but I can't stop wondering why it has to be me."

Pastor Reginald, who was always so good at looking people in the eye, now looks away. "It was decided before you were born. It's not anything you did, or didn't do."

"The thing is, I know tons of people with big families…"

Pastor Reginald nodded. "Yes, it's very common these days."

"But lots of those people don't tithe at all. Even families in our church, and nobody blames them."

"There are also people who tither their first, second, or third child. Every family must take the decision for itself. Your parents waited a long time before making the decision to have you."

Logan reluctantly nods, knowing it's true. He was a 'true tithe.' With five natural siblings, plus one adopted and three that arrived 'by stork,' Logan was exactly one-tenth. His parents had always told him that made him all the more special.

"I'll tell you something, Logan," Pastor Reginald says, finally meeting his eyes. Like Marcus, his eyes are moist, just one step short of tears. "I've watched all your brother and sisters grow and, although I don't like playing favorites, I think you are the finest of all of them in so many ways, I wouldn't even know where to start. That's what God asks for, you know. Not first fruits but best fruits."

"Thank you, sir." Pastor Reginald always knows what to say to make Logan feel better. "I'm ready for this," and saying it makes him realize that, in spite of his fears and misgivings, he truly is ready. This is everything he has lived for. Even so, his tithing party ends much too soon.

In the morning the Mitchels have to eat breakfast in the dining room, with all the leaves in the table. All of Logan's brothers and sisters are there. Only a few of them still live at him, but today they've all come over for breakfast. All of them, that is, except for Marcus. Yet, for such a large family it's unusually quiet, and the clatter of silverware on china makes the lack of conversation even more conspicuous. Logan, dressed in silk tithing white, eats carefully, so as not to leave any stains on his clothes. After breakfast, the good-byes are long, full of hugs and kisses. It's the worst part. Logan wishes they would all just let him go and get the good-byes over with. Pastor Reginald arrives – he's come at Logan's request – and once he's there, the good-byes move more quickly. Nobody wants to waste the pastor's valuable time. Logan is the first one out in his father's Cadillac, and although he tries not to look back as Mr. Mitchel starts the car and drives away, he can't help it. He watches as his home disappears behind them. I will never see that home again, he thinks, but he pushes the thought out of his mind. It's unproductive, unhelpful, selfish. He looks at Pastor Reginald, who sits beside him in the backseat watching him, and the pastor smiles.

"It's alright, Logan," he says. Just hearing him say it makes it so.

"How far is the harvest camp?" Logan asks to whoever cares to answer.

"It's about an hour from here," his mom says.

"And…will they do it right away?"

His parents look to each other. I'm sure there'll be an orientation," says his father.

The short answer makes it clear to Logan that they don't know any more than he does. As they pull onto the interstate, Logan rolls down the window to feel the wind on his face and closes his eyes to prepare himself. This is what I was born for. It's what I've lived my life for. I am chosen. I am blessed. And I am happy.

Suddenly Mr. Mitchel slams on the brakes. With his eyes closed, Logan doesn't see the reason for their unexpected stop. He just feels the sharp deceleration of the Cadillac and the pull of the seat belt on his shoulder. He opens his eyes to see they have stopped on the interstate. Police lights flash and – was that a gunshot he just heard?

"What's going on?"

Then, just outside his window is another kid with blonde hair and looks to be a few years older than him. He looks scared. He looks dangerous. Logan reaches over to quickly put up his window, but before he can this kid reaches in, pulls up the lock on the door, and tugs the door open. Logan is frozen. He doesn't know what to do.

"Mom? Dad?" he calls.

The boy with murder in his crazy green eyes tugs on Logan's white silk shirt, trying to pull him out of the car, but the seat belt holds him tight.

"What are you doing? Leave me alone!"

Logan's mom screams for her husband to do something, but he's fumbling with his own seat belt. The maniac reaches over and in one swift motion unclips Logan's seat belt. Pastor Reginald grabs at the intruder, who responds with a quick powerful punch – a jab right at Pastor Reginald's chubby jaw. The shock of seeing such violence distracts Logan at a crucial moment. The maniac tugs him once again, and this time Logan falls out of the car, hitting his head on the pavement. When he looks up he sees his father finally getting out of the car, but the crazy blonde kid swings the car door against him, sending him flying.

"Dad!" His father lands in the path of an oncoming car. The car swerves and, thank God, it misses him – but it cuts off another car, hitting it, that car spins out of control and the sound of crashes fills the air. Logan is pulled to his feet again by the blonde, who grabs Logan's arm and drags him off. Logan is small for his age. This kid is a couple years older, and much bigger. Logan can't break free.

"Stop!" The pale brunette yells. "You can have whatever you want. Take my wallet," he says even though he has no wallet. "Take the car. Just don't hurt anyone."

The kid considers the car, but only for an instant. Bullets now fly past them On the southbound roadway are policemen who have finally stopped traffic on their side of the interstate, and have made it to the median dividing the north and southbound lanes. The closest officer fires again. A tranq bullet hits the Cadillac and splatters. The crazy kid now puts Logan into a choke hold, holding Logan between himself and the officers. Logan realizes that he doesn't want a car, or money: He wants a hostage.

"Stop struggling – I've got a gun!" And Logan feels the kid poke him in the side. Logan knows it's not a gun, he knows it's just the kid's fingers, but this is clearly an unstable individual and he doesn't want to set him off.

"I'm worthless as a human shield," Logan tries to reason with him. "Those are tranq bullets they're shooting which means the cops don't care if they hit me. They'll just knock me out."

"Better you than me."

Bullets fly past them as they wind around swerving traffic. "Please, you don't understand! You can't take me now, I'm being tithed. I'll miss my harvest! You'll ruin everything!"

And finally, a hint of humanity comes to those bottled green eyes. "You're an Unwind?"

There are a million more things to be furious about, but Logan finds himself incensed by what he's just been called. "I'm a tithe!"

A blaring horn, and Logan turns to see a bus bearing down on them. Before either of them has a chance to scream, the bus careens off the road to avoid them, and smashes head-on against the fat trunk of a huge oak, stopping the bus cold. There's blood all over the smashed windshield. It's the bus driver's blood. He hangs halfway through, and he's not moving.

"Oh shit!" Says they maniac, a creepy whine in his voice.

A brunette boy has just stepped out of the bus. The crazy kid looks at him and Logan realizes now, while he's distracted, is the last chance he's going to have to get away. This kid is an animal. The only way to deal with him is for Logan to become an animal himself. So Logan grabs the arm that's locked around his neck and sinks his teeth in with the full force of his jaw until he taste blood. The kid screams, letting go and Logan bolts away, racing towards his father's car. As he nears it, a black door opens. It's Pastor Reginald opening the door to receive him, yet the expression on the man's face is anything but happy.

With his face already swelling from the crazy kid's brutal punch, Pastor Reginald says with a hiss and strange warble to his voice, "Run, Logan!"

Logan was not expecting this. "What?"

"Run! Run as fast as you can and as far as you can. RUN!"

Logan stands there, impotent, unable to move, unable to process this. Why is Pastor Reginald telling him to run? Then comes a sudden pain in his shoulder, and everything starts spinning round and round and down a drain into darkness.

The pain in Kendall's arm is unbearable. That little monster actually bit him – practically took a chunk out of his forearm. Another car slams the brakes to avoid hitting him, and gets rear-ended. The tranq bullets have stopped flying, but he knows that's temporary. The accidents have gotten the Juvey-cops momentarily distracted, but they won't stay that way for long. Just then, he makes eye contact with the brunette boy who got off the bus. He thinks he's going to go stumbling toward all the people who are running from their cars to help, but instead he turns and runs into the woods. Has the whole world gone insane? Still holding his stinging, bleeding arm, Kendall turns to run into the woods as well, but stops. The blonde turns back to see the kid in white just reaching his car. Kendall doesn't know where the Juvey-cops are. They're lurking, no doubt, somewhere in the tangle of vehicles. That's when Kendall makes a split-second decision. He knows it's a stupid decision, but he can't help himself. All he knows it that he's caused death today. The bus driver's, maybe even more. Even if it risks everything, he's got to balance it somehow. He's got to do something decent, something good to make up for the awful consequences of his kicking-AWOL. And so, battling his own instinct for self-preservation, he races toward the kid in white who was so happily going to his own unwinding. It's as Kendall gets close that he sees the cop twenty yards away, raising his weapon and firing. He shouldn't have risked this! He should have gotten away when he could. Kendall waits for the telltale sting of the tranq bullet but it never comes, because the moment the bullet is fired, the boy in white steps back and he's hit in the shoulder. Two seconds, and his knees buckle. The kid hits the ground, out cold, unwittingly taking the bullet meant for Kendall.

Kendall wastes no time. He picks the kid up off the ground and flips him over his shoulder. Tranq bullets fly, but no other connect. In a few seconds, Kendall's past the bus, where a gaggle of shell-shocked teens are getting off. He pushes past them and into the woods. The woods are dense, not just with trees but with tall shrubs and vines, yet there's already a path of broken branches and parted shrubs made by the boy who ran from the bus. They might as well have arrows pointing the police in their direction. He sees the boy up ahead and call out to him. "Stop!" The tan male turns, only for an instant, then renews his battle with the dense growth all around him.

Kendall gently puts down the boy in white and hurries forward, catching up with the brunette boy. He grabs his arm gently, yet firmly enough so that he can't pull away. "Whatever you're running from, you won't get away unless we work together," he tells the brunette beauty. Kendall glances behind him to make sure that no Juvey-cops are in sight yet. They aren't. He looks back into the slightly shorter boy's eyes. "Please – we don't have much time."

The tan male stops fighting the bushes and looks at him. "What do you have in mind?" And Kendall smiles a wicked grin.


Officer J. T. Nelson has spent twelve years working Juvenile. He knows AWOL Unwinds will not give up as long as there's an ounce of consciousness left in them. They are high on adrenaline, and often high on illegal substances as well. Nicotine, caffeine, or worse. He wishes his bullets were the real thing. He wishes he could truly take these wastes-of-life out rather than just taking them down. Maybe then they wouldn't be so quick to run – and if they did, well, no great loss.

The officer follows the path made through the woods by the AWOL Unwind, until he comes to a lump on the ground. It's the hostage, just dumped in the path, his white clothes smudged green from the foliage, and brown from the muddy earth. Good, thinks the officer. It was a good thing this boy took that bullet after all. Being unconscious probably saves the kid's life. No telling where the Unwind would have taken him, or what he'd have done to him.

"Help me!" Says a voice just ahead of him. The voice sounds deep, but also high pitched. Almost like the voice of a young boy going through puberty. The officer places a hand on his tranq gun, not sure if this is the AWOL Unwind or not.

"Help me, please, I'm hurt!"

Deeper in the woods a brunette boy sits up against a tree, holding his arm, grimacing in pain. The officer relaxes as seeing this is not the AWOL Unwind. He drops his hand from his tranquilizer gun, looking at the boy before him confused. He doesn't have time for this, but 'Protect and Serve' is more than just a motto to him. He sometimes wishes he didn't have such moral integrity.

He goes over to the boy. "What are you doing here?"

"I-I was on the bus. I got off and ran away because I-I was scared it would explode. I think m-my arm is broken."

He looks from the boy's innocent hazel eyes to his arm. It's not even bruised. This should be his first clue, but his mind is already too far ahead of him to catch on. "Stay here, I'll be right back." He turns, ready to pick up his pursuit, when something drops on him from above. Not something, someone. The AWOL Unwind! The officer is knocked to the ground, and suddenly there are two figures attacking him – the Unwind and the brunette boy. They're in this together. How could he have been so stupid? He reaches for his tranq pistol, but it's not there. Instead he feels its muzzle against his left thigh, and he sees triumph in the Unwinds dark green, vicious eyes.

"Nighty-night," the Unwind mocks.

A sharp pain in the officer's leg, and the world does away.


So there's the first chapter for you all. It took me two days to write this out. James' character is originally a girl so I had to take my time writing out his scene so I didn't write her for him. Also, I know I promised a new chapter for TBO but I'm having major and I mean MAJOR writers block for this next chapter. I have everything planned out and what I want to happen in that chapter, but I can't seem to put it into words or in a get order. I have at least ten different drafts for that chapter. I'm sorry for everyone who is wanting me to update that story, I'm trying. I promise as soon as I figure everything out I'll update. Until then, tell me what you think of this story. If you want me to continue review and tell me your thoughts.

~Kaylah : )

P.S. if any of you have any ideas for the next chapter of TBO please PM and let me know. Or if you would just like to help me out with this next chapter. It'll be really beneficial and make me happy! : )