I wake up with my cheeks pillowed on a nice bed of dirt. Nothing new, but still totally uncomfortable. Why didn't I sleep in the tree again?

Wait. When did I fall asleep?

I open my eyes to a well-lit backdrop of green foliage. Sunlight sneaks down to the forest floor in dusty shafts. What time is it, anyways? Why didn't Fang wake me up before sunrise?

Speaking of which, where is he? I groggily climb to my feet to look around. The fire must have burned down to absolutely nothing; a small patch of dirt is the only proof there ever even was one. Although, didn't we choose to light the fire there because of the dirt? Anyways, Fang's probably out getting firewood. It's usually Gazzy's job, but the last few days have been kind of rough, and, knowing Fang, he's probably letting everyone sleep in.

I can fix that.

Recognizing the tree the Flock spent the night in, I knock on the bark a few times (note to self: don't do that again) and half-yell, "Hey, you guys up?"

There's no response. Typical.

I roll my eyes and haul myself onto the lowest branch. "Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacey. Actually, Iggy, what's for breakfast?" Trust the blind kid to be able to make a squirrel edible. My stomach growls in agreement. "I'm starving where I stand." Still nothing. I huff, pulling myself up the last couple feet to the branch he slept in. "Don't make me pull your feathery butt out of . . . this tree?"

He's not there.

Huh, guess he got up on his own. Uncommon, but not unheard of. Maybe he's catching breakfast.

Gazzy would know. "Hey, Gaz, do you know. . ." He's not on his branch, either. He, um, went with Iggy? A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I shimmy to the highest branches that will support weight, where Nudge and Angel usually perch. I don't even have to make it all the way up; it's pretty clear I'm the only birdkid in the tree when the branches snapping under my shoes doesn't cause anyone to spring into action.

I return to the clearing by myself, without even the charred remains of a campfire to prove I'm not alone. What I wouldn't give for Fang to sneak up behind me, smirking at how I fell asleep while keeping watch. He wouldn't be wrong.

I automatically expect the worse. My own body is unscathed, but that doesn't mean the Flock got so lucky. Great. All I need is to chase the Flock across the country because some more wacko Erasers…

I have to slam on my mental brakes. There's no way I would sleep through an ambush. Besides, there are no signs of a scuffle, no drug-induced lethargy, and the obvious fact that I'm still here. Unless, of course, the School took a GIANT leap in technology, hired assassin-ninjas to kidnap the Flock, and they somehow missed the very obvious winged-bird-kid completely knocked out and right next to another—captured-experiment. And although Erasers have proved themselves ridiculous numerous times, that scenario is just a little too far-fetched.

Instead, I have to think rationally. The Flock probably…just got hungry. Yeah, hunger; a typical adjective associated with mutants. We saw a town not three quarters of a mile away just before we landed; towns are usually full of food. Food, once digested, gets rid of hunger. Therefore, the Flock probably went to town. To get food. Because they were hungry.

And they left me here.

I am close to smacking myself in the forehead. Once again, my ideas prove a bit dubious. Better than my first theory, but still unbelievable.

I stand akimbo where the fire used to be, take a long look at the place where my Flock is not, and make a decision. If they're in trouble, I've got to help them. But first, I'll check the town. Maybe they really did just drop in.

So, with a final survey of my surroundings, I whip my wings open and take off towards civilization.

~xXx~

Twelve garbage bins, eight restaurants, and sixteen street corners later, I slink into an alley between a deli and antique furniture store and begin to pick scraps of junk out of my hair. Unless they're playing put-put or raiding someone's kitchen, they've somehow managed to get into the mall. Read: I've got to make myself look decent enough that other teenagers will accept me as "normal."

So I brush dirt and dust off my jeans and windbreaker, flip my hair, and practice my normal-teenager smile. Here goes nothing.

The size of the Ridgehelm mall is proportionate with the size of the town. From the outside, I find thirty-six windows, five doors, and a skylight. From the inside, I find three fast food joints, a handful of stores, and a couple beauty salons. The amount of people? Minimum. Honestly, I'm confused at first. Not only is it a half-empty mall, but the Flock is pretty smart when it comes to getting food, and when it comes to food, malls are not the best option. In fact, shopping malls are pretty much an avoid-at-all-cost scenario. Bird kids and security don't mix.

Nevertheless, without anywhere else to search for my missing feathery friends, I decide to look around a little more.

The first store I pass is filled to the brim with baubles, gadgets, and miscellaneous junk. I walk by without a second glance. The second smells like someone cleaned the carpets with cologne. Loud music blasts from the entrance. I start to walk away, but hesitate. If I don't find the Flock here, who's to say that I won't have to search elsewhere? A disguise could come in handy. I won't walk around with a trench coat and fedora or as a clown, but, as Ella taught me, a touch of that evil gloop called makeup, some over-priced designer clothing, and a bit of sparkly jewelry goes a long way. Especially when your normal clothing consists of what's practical and comfortable.

I go in.

The music and smell bombard my senses, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. I find myself staring at a pair of pre-ripped jeans, wondering why anyone would pay money for jeans that wouldn't last as long. I smirk. My own jeans could pass as designer.

A familiar feeling prickles the back of my neck. Somebody is watching me. I whip around and find that I'm standing nose-to-nose with a face I see frequently.

"Fang." The boy standing almost uncomfortably close to me (if I didn't spend the first fourteen years of my life how I did, that is) stares, not saying anything. I would have at least expected a smirk. Instead, Fang gives a full-blown, totally surprising smile, teeth and all.

"Hey. You new in town?"

"Fang? I've—" I cut myself off and drag him away from a cluster of teenagers "discreetly" whispering and pointing in our direction. I study them as I talk under my breath. "I've been looking for you all day. Where are the kids?" He stares at me, the hand gripping his arm, and the space between us.

"Sorry. Did you say something?" I huff in exasperation and raise my voice.

"Very funny, Fa—" Suddenly small details—shorter hair, cleaner skin, a definite lack of the scent associated with living on the run–snap into focus. He pulls his arm from my grasp. But his look of 'this-girl-is-wacko' swiftly melts into an expression foreign to me.

"Like I was saying earlier, my friends and I are heading to the food court. I was wondering if you would care to join us?" Another flashy smile. He gestures to the gaggle of adolescents I pulled him away from earlier.

"I…uh…" What? The snarky, quick-witted Maximum Ride: speechless.

"It's on me." The boy with dark hair pats his pocket, full of wallet. Well, I can't pass on free food, can I? And, implausible as it may seem, maybe this Fang clone can tell me what on dear planet Earth is going on. So I plaster on what I hope is an easy, maybe flirtatious smile, and lie through my teeth.

"Sounds like fun."

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