Nighttime. I happened to glance out the window just as the last of the sun's glow disappeared from the horizon, as surely as if someone had pulled the plug. It was already almost 9:00, which meant that it was almost time for the latest in the series of tests that we'd been forced to undergo. I, of course, had no idea why they did the tests in the nighttime—where they trying to see if one of us was half owl? —and it was little conciliation that the workers were probably kept in the dark as much as I was. More in the dark, actually—I have excellent night vision. But all humor aside, I was sick to death of being tethered all the time like a dog on a leash. Sick of running through mazes and jumping through hoops to suit their every whim. Sick of being tortured when I refused. But most of all, I was sick of being alive.

Let's just get this out of the way right now: I'm not sure if I believe in a God or not. I mean, for one, I've never really had a chance to explore my spiritual side. And despite all of our education, I'm not really sure what religion is about. But here's what I do know: whether or not there was some higher power watching over the world, the six of us—Me, Fang, Iggy, Nudge, Gazzy, and Angel—had been dealt a pretty crappy hand. And yes, killing yourself may be the ultimate sin, but don't think it hadn't come to mind in the past. You try living in hell surrounded by Scientists who only keep you alive so they can test you in some other completely torturous way. Try subsisting on five hours of sleep for every twenty-four that pass, and those that you get not even necessarily at night or in a row. Try having to run for two hours straight on a treadmill in the middle of a nice, sunny, freaking hot August afternoon for fear of being electrocuted and/or starved if you fail, and as a reward for making it, getting only a cup of water along with thirty minutes of rest. And then doing it again. See, I wasn't kidding about the hell part.

Oh, and one more thing guaranteed to make a kid miserable if the horrible living standards and inexhaustible supply of messed up scientists doesn't do it first? Try having wings.

"Wings," I hear you say, "Cool! I want wings!" No, my sadly mistaken friend, you do not. Yes, all six of us can fly (hence we call ourselves, 'The Flock'), and the view is damn great from up high, but would you like to know the downside of having wings? For one, it gives the scientists further ideas for potential horrible tests. Have you ever tried keeping yourself aloft with only one wing? No, I don't suppose you would have, but I'll give you some advice in case you ever pick up a pair of wings at Wal-Mart: don't even think about it. It hurt like hell, and I could only stay up for five minutes before crashing painfully back to earth. To add insult to injury, Fang, who is my junior by four months, beat me by two minutes. I hate losing, especially to a boy, and Fang felt obliged to rub it in since I usually beat him. Nothing like a bit of friendly in-flock competition to keep you going when it's four in the afternoon and you've been flying for eight hours straight with no food of water! But that's off topic.

Thanks to the fact that I'm part bird, I'm scrutinized by every scientist who sees me (Yes, I have wings; you made me that way), treated like I'm part animal (Do you sleep in a dog crate? My money's on 'no'), and my metabolism is way sped up. I admit this comes in handy when I get hurt, because I have incredibly fast recovery. But I need more food than the average human person does by about 1,000 calories a day and they feed me like I'm on a diet.

And the number one reason why being a half avian and having wings is bad? Because if I ever try to leave The School, I'll be killed.