Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(53)

“Hi.” My gaze drifts to the screen and the protestors congregating in front of the White House. An anti-Agency group waves posters and shouts at the anti-carrier group. The anti-carrier group outnumbers the anti-Agency group. Police patrol on horseback, trying to prevent rioting in the clogged streets.

I grab a soda from the fridge. “Isn’t there anything else on television?”

He flips the channel to a local station. Instead of its regular television show, a reporter stands outside Oak Run, a faith-based summer camp in Kerrville where kids learn the Bible alongside how to rock climb. A few of my friends went there. I never did. Mom always sent me to music camps and voice programs throughout the summer instead.

The reporter tells us that the government has requisitioned the camp for carriers. With housing for six hundred campers, staff not included, it’s an ideal setup for all carriers in South and Central Texas. I assume it’s where I’ll be going whenever they get around to collecting me.

I lean on the counter and study the fortified fences with winding ropes of barbed wire at the top. Guards with guns man the front gate and roam the fence line. Several red-colored buildings dot the background, nestled in the hills among thick trees.

It is just one of many new internment camps popping up across the country overnight, rushing to meet the demand. Staring at the screen, I feel my throat closing up.

Mom strolls into the kitchen. “What do ya’ll want for dinner tonight?” She looks at me. “Davy, you could make your delicious French toast?”

I blink at her, hating how she’s acting as though everything is fine. Normal. When it’s so . . . not. “I don’t feel like cooking.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her hands, and I feel wretched. I don’t know how much time I have here. I’d rather spend what’s left getting along. I walk over and kiss her on the cheek.

“Let’s order Chinese,” I suggest, wrapping an arm around her. She relaxes, softening against me.

Her lips curve in a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That sounds good.” I scan her face, trying to memorize it, realizing I don’t know when I’ll see her again—after they take me. The gray is starting to appear at her temples and I realize she’s behind on coloring her hair. She’s usually so on top of stuff like that.

“It will be okay, Mom.”

She nods, and I realize this is as much as we’ll ever discuss about it—about me. Her daughter with HTS.

And that’s okay.

I don’t expect her to save me. I don’t expect anyone to do that. I’m alone in this. Just like Sean said. Whatever happens, I don’t have anyone. I have to learn to live with that.


The knock at the door finally arrives.

Only it’s not Pollock. It’s a woman. Dressed in a sleek pantsuit, her dark hair pulled back into an equally sleek ponytail, she looks like what I imagined a government agent would look like.

With a flash of identification and murmured words I can’t hear from where I lurk in the living room, Mom ushers her inside.

“Davy, this is Ms. Stiles.”

“Agent Stiles,” the woman corrects.

Mitchell enters the room and his entire demeanor changes. He pulls back his shoulders as though bracing for a punch. I notice the way his eyes follow the agent.

She smiles at me. “And you must be Davina.”

“Davy.”

Her smile stays in place. “Davy. Yes. I’ve heard a lot about you. Or read, rather.”

“Really? What have you read?”

“Oh, this and that. You’re an accomplished young lady.” Young lady? Not carrier? Not killer? “Your college essay was particularly good. You have a way with words. I even saw your recording for Juilliard.” She nods in approval. “Very impressive.”

She had access to my college essay? My audition tape? What else did she know about me?

“Can I offer you a drink, Agent Stiles?” My mother, ever polite.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I have several more houses to visit in the area today. I’ll be quick.”

Other carriers? My pulse quickens, wondering if she’s going to call on anyone I know. Any of the carriers from Keller. Sean. Gil.

She opens her satchel and pulls out a few sheets of paper. “This is a contract for Davy to attend a government-managed training school.”

She hesitates, looks at me, then Mom. Like she wants this to sink in before she continues.

“You mean Davy doesn’t have to go to one of those detention camps on TV?” Mitchell gets to the point.

Mom’s face creases in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. . . . How is it different?”

“In lieu of entering into a detention camp, Davy can receive specialized training. Only a select number of carriers are receiving invitations to this program.”

Mom takes the papers, hope starting to wash away her confusion. “What kind of special training?”

“For how long?” Mitchell cuts in.

“Instructors will train Davy and other carriers between the ages of twelve and eighteen to better . . . channel their destructive tendencies. They’ll be given the tools to not only function in society but to serve their communities . . . their countries.”

I can only stare. My heart races. It’s too good to be true. I could be part of the world again. I could belong . . . and serve a purpose. Be more than a dishwasher. More than someone it is okay to abuse.