I keep expecting to hear footsteps behind me, or gunshots, or at least a loud string of expletives. But nothing aside from the the sounds of night life of your typical forest meets my ears. I run, and the running turns into limping, and the limping turns into full-out hobbling. Finally, when my screaming ankle making me gasp for breath, I rest against a tree. After a few minutes of huffing, it's pretty clear that I'm not going to be running marathons any time soon. Actually, physical activity in general sounds pretty terrible. I opt for awkwardly shimmying down the tree, keeping the weight off my bad ankle.

The grass is already damp with dew. Startled, I glance upwards. No stars, but the moon is already descending in the sky. Early morning, then.

My ankle gives a particularly nasty pulse. I hiss, gingerly rolling down my sock to examine it. The bruising gets worse the more skin I expose. I wince, prodding the most swollen part of my ankle. It looks like somebody surgically implanted a tangerine under my skin. I could try to pop it back in place, but the odds are better I'll break something than fix it. Rolling the sock back up is agony.

I'm exhausted beyond all get-out, but I honestly dread falling asleep. Who knows what will happen in my screwed-up brain this time? And where on dear planet Earth is the Flock? It's been twenty-four hours, long enough to fly, drive, or, heck, swim out of state. The pessimistic scenarios I've been suppressing all day begin to run on spin cycle in my head.

Despite my greatest efforts, I get trapped by my thoughts. I don't even realize I'm asleep until it's too late.

"Faster!" Nudge squeals. I glance to the rear view mirror. Snow falls like some sort of ice volcano recently erupted, but the lack of heat in the car isn't what makes my blood cold. The headlights are steadily creeping closer to us. My foot slams down on the gas pedal. There's a heart-stopping lurch before the car accelerates.

I take a risk to check the dashboard again, and grit my teeth at what it's showing me. We're almost put of fuel, but telling the Flock as much is out of the question.

"Max!" I jerk the wheel to the side in just enough time to avoid a large pothole. The car rolls on two wheels for about a hundred yards before slamming back into place, jostling everyone inside the vehicle. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Iggy leans forward from his seat behind me to yell next to my ear. "Max, you suck!"

I roll my eyes. "Think you could do better?" I swerve to the right at a bend in the road. The snow starts falling faster, thicker. Fang switches the windshield wipers up for me, and they frantically attempt to clear the snow.

"Actually-"

"I'm rolling my eyes, Ig. And put your seat belt on!" Iggy lets out a huff and returns to his seat. Fang and I exchange looks. He knows it's only a matter of time before the Flock's getaway vehicle sputters to a stop.

"They're getting closer!"

"I know!" The pedal hits the floor, and the sound the car makes is something between a moan and a scream. I lean forward in my seat, like it will somehow make it easier to see out the windshield. When my breath fogs up the glass, I reach up the wipe it away with my palm.

Suddenly, the steering wheel jerks to the right. My cold hands scrabble to gain purchase on the leather. The tires skid on ice, and the car violently swerves off the road. I lose all control.

The left tires catch in a ditch, and the car begins rolling downhill.

Up, down.

Screaming behind me.

Up, down.

Metal crunching.

My stomach drops when the car somersaults off a cliff.

The windshield cracks when we hit the half-frozen body of water. We sink upside-down. Ice-cold water filters through the cracks in the windows, the missing sealer in the doors. Bullet holes. It kisses my hands, hanging over my head. It's so cold it burns. Frantically, I release my seat belt, expecting to fall into the roof of the car. Instead, I hang by my legs, both of them pinned beneath the crushed dashboard. With my adrenaline, I don't even feel it.

The screaming has stopped. I try to twist around to see behind me, but my legs don't allow much movement.

"Report!" No reply. I grab the mangled review mirror with numb hands and look behind me. My family hangs from their seat belts like puppets in storage. Unconscious.

The windshield starts to bow inwards with the water pressure.

The car jars as we hit the bottom of the—lake? Ocean? I don't even know. To my relief, the movement causes Fang's eyes to crack open. His gaze travels from my legs—or what's visible of them—to my face. The water steadily rises. Iggy's hair floats.

"Get them out!" Fang's face hardens. A nod.

He unlatches his seat belt just as the windshield implodes.

I wake up gasping for air like I've never breathed before. My shuddering knees draw up under my chin. As my breathing peters out into long, deep, shuddering breaths, I wipe the tears off my face with the heel of my hands.

I rest my forehead on my knees and manage a small smile. At least I didn't fall out of a tree again.

Mother Nature: 127

Maximum Ride: 1

I shakily rise to my feet. My ankle still throbs, but not enough to keep me from putting weight on it. I take a few tentative steps. I can still walk, at least. For now.

My head whips around. There's shouting in the distance. I pause, unsure of its direction...

Yep, it sounds like Dumb, Dull, and Dimwit are after me. I relax. They'll need more than a knife and a taser to bring a birdkid down from a couple hundred feet in the air. Resisting the urge to stick out my tongue, and invigorated by my half-hour of sleep, I unfurl my wings. Yeah, a good flight would—

BANG! My breathing hitches. I pause with my wings spread out half way.

BANG! poppoppop! My eyes widen a fraction, and before I know it, I'm running back towards the idiots.

I wouldn't risk it with the Flock. No way, we would shimmy our tail feathers right on out of there. Sketchy business does not bode well for us. But right now, it's just me, and I can totally deal with sketchy. I mean, I deal with Igs and Gazzy, don't I?

As I get closer, the shouts get louder. Flashlight beams, more powerful than the kind you buy at a dollar store, wave back and forth across the clearing. I hear a shot, followed by a curse, and one of the beams falls to forest-floor level, casting strange shadows on the tree trunks. As the holder picks it up, the light falls on figures that vary in size, shape, and gender, but wear identical sneers. And hold identical weapons. A mess of motion: knives glinting, lights swinging, guns popping. Dozens of people falling, fighting, ramming into one another.

As I get closer, I realize that almost half of the people ate lunch with me earlier ("ate" being a loose term here. I'm pretty sure I consumed most of their food after they left.) Reno and Ricky—er, Cody—are among a smaller cluster off to my left, trying to wrestle a gun out of the hand of a beefy guy with bad facial hair.

My eyes scan the fight for a familiar head of black hair. Nothing.

Then it hits me. I want to smack myself in the face. Jeesh, I know I'm tired and all, but really? I've seen plenty of the signs, but I guess my subconscious has refused to put two and two together. The oddly clingy group of friends, the way they treated each other, that weird conversation between Reno and Nick at the mall. The only thing that could make it more obvious is if they all wear snap-backs and shuffle like penguins because their pants sag past their knees.

The rival gangs hack at each other like wild animals. Hissing, grunting. I lunge behind a bush before somebody catches sight of me in order to assess the situation. Look at it from all of the angles. Work through numerous scenarios, plan for anything, expect the unexpected.

Nah, who am I kidding?

I sprint right into the middle of it.