Free Radiant by Cynthia Hand Page A

“Friends.”
    I pass her the tomato. She slices it quickly, without looking at me. I remind myself that she’s a grown-up, and besides, we’re going to head back to the States in a few weeks and I’m sure there will be all kinds of smart, hot boys for her to keep it casual with at Stanford. Boys who have souls with colors.
    I open my mouth to tell her that.
    “Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t ruin this for me, C. Leave us alone. It will work itself out.”
    And so I don’t talk about what I saw in Phen that day on the top of St. Peter’s. I tell myself that it’s her life, and I stay out of it.
    It’s a decision that I will always regret.

 
    PROLOGUE
    The first thing I’m aware of is the dark. Like somebody just shut off the lights. I squint into the inky nothingness, straining to see something, anything, but my eyes don’t adjust. Tentatively I feel with my feet along the floor, which is oddly slanted, as if the room is being tilted downward. I take a step back and my leg strikes something hard. I stop. Try to regain my balance. Listen.
    There are voices, faint voices, from somewhere above.
    I don’t know what this vision is about yet, where I am or what I’m supposed to be doing or who I’m hiding from. But I do know this. I’m hiding.
    And something terrible has happened.
    It’s possible that I’m crying. My nose is running, but I don’t try to wipe at it. I don’t move. I’m scared. I could call the safety of glory, I think, but then they would find me. Instead I draw my hands into fists to stop the trembling. The darkness closes in, pressing and encasing me, and for a moment I fight the urge to call glory so hard that my fingernails break the surface of my palms.
    Be still , I tell myself. Be quiet.
    I let the darkness swallow me whole.

1
    WELCOME TO THE FARM
    “How you holding up, Clara?”
    I jolt back to myself in the middle of my bedroom, a pile of old magazines strewn all around my feet, which I must have dropped when the vision hit. My breath is still frozen in my lungs, my muscles tense, as if they are preparing me to run. The light streaming through the window hurts my eyes. I blink at Billy, who leans against the door frame of my bedroom and offers up an understanding smile.
    “What’s the matter, kid?” she asks when I don’t answer. “Vision got you down?”
    I gulp in a breath. “How did you know?”
    “I get them, too. Plus I’ve been hanging around people who have visions for most of my life. I recognize the post-vision face.” She takes me by the shoulders and sits down with me at the edge of my bed. We wait until my breathing quiets. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks then.
    “There’s not a lot to it yet,” I say. I’ve been having this vision all summer, since Italy with Angela. So far there hasn’t been much to go on but darkness, terror, an oddly slanted floor. “Should I tell you anyway?”
    Billy shakes her head. “You can if you want, if it would help you get things off your chest. But visions are personal, for you and you alone, in my opinion.”
    I’m relieved she’s so laid-back about it. “How do you do it?” I ask after a minute. “How do you go on living like normal when you know that something bad’s going to happen?”
    There’s pain in her smile. She puts her warm brown hand over mine. “You learn to find your happiness, kid,” she says. “You figure out those things that give your life meaning and you hold on to them. You try to stop worrying about the stuff you can’t control.”
    “Easier said than done.” I sigh.
    “It takes practice.” She jostles her shoulder into mine. “You all right now? Ready to come up swinging?”
    I conjure a weak smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “All right, then, get to work,” she says playfully. I resume packing, which is what I was doing before the vision clobbered me, and Billy grabs a tape gun and starts sealing up the finished boxes. “You know, I helped your mom pack for Stanford,