Free Dangerous by Shannon Hale

dresser or in the closet or—”
    “Mi-sun,” Jacques said, as if afraid to hear any more.
    “Or in the bathroom. One time I found him with our
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    stuffed animals. He must have sneaked out of his room when
    we were asleep and taken them. He had them in the ba-bathtub,
    pushing them under the water, and . . . and I don’t want to go
    home.”
    “What does he say?” Wilder asked. “When he grumbles.”
    “ Herma, harma, herma ,” Mi-sun said in a scratchy low imi-
    tation of her father. “ Herma arrgh toast soup. Toast soup crunchy
    toast eat it. ”
    Jacques and Ruth laughed. Mi-sun’s pale cheeks turned
    bright with a pleased blush.
    Wilder rubbed the back of his head.
    “You’ve got a headache too,” I said.
    “Feels like there’s a rat with steel claws trapped in there,” he
    said, touching the top of his neck, “trying to dig free.”
    That was exactly what it felt like, except the rat was clawing
    at my forehead. I laughed a little, and Wilder smiled, then we
    both laughed because what else are you supposed to do when
    you’re orbiting the Earth and alien technology is making your
    head feel like a cage for violent vermin?
    I couldn’t keep laughing for long. By the time I climbed
    back into the pod, I could barely see for the pain.
    “Wait,” I said as Dragon harnessed me in. “What if we are
    the advance force of an alien army sent to destroy Earth—”
    “You’re nobody’s puppet, Brown,” he said, patting my head.
    “And if I’m wrong, I’ll take you out myself and save the world.”
    I couldn’t focus on his expression through the pain, but I
    was almost sure he was kidding.
    We started the long descent, and I could feel force again
    as my shoulders pressed against the harness. Jacques was say-
    ing, “Oh bleep , oh bleep , oh bleep . . .” Apparently for his fear of 68
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    heights, going down was worse than going up. I barely registered
    the planet enlarging outside my slit window. Pain screamed in
    my brain.
    Suddenly space was gone, and we were in a barely blue sky,
    early in the morning. The pod stopped with a sigh followed by
    a snap. The door hushed open, and warm, humid air gushed in.
    I climbed onto the ocean platform, gravity a giant’s hand
    pushing down. My arms were like logs, my neck felt too weak
    to hold my head.
    Ruth shoved past me, announcing to all of Earth that she
    was starving.
    A breeze tickled the hairs on my face and hand and seemed
    to tie the world together—rough morning sun, swishing air, salty
    scent, and huge spaces of quiet. I gazed at the sliding color of the
    sky while my feet pressed hard against the ground and almost said,
    “Where do I belong?” Aloud, the question would have sounded
    cheesy and immature. But quiet in my head, it was small and
    hard and perfect, like a seashell. Where do I belong ?
    Ruth sat on the pocked metal floor and ripped open a bag
    of potato chips.
    As soon as we were back in Texas on the shuttle van to
    HAL, I asked to borrow Howell’s phone.
    “Flapping mouths will prove dangerous,” she said. “You’ll
    be able to contact your parents shortly, but first, let’s figure out
    as much as we can.”
    I hugged my chest and stared out the window. The world
    pulsed with pain.
    We spent the rest of the day in a large lab examined by
    Howell’s MDs and PhDs. Pain meds did nothing. One bonus of
    the crippling headache was that I barely noticed the spinal tap.
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    When the doctors sent us to bed, I flailed through sleep,
    the headache riding with me into dreams and out again. It was
    easier to just give up trying.
    All my stuff had been moved into my cozy room, so I
    tossed aside the boot camp jumpsuit and dressed in my Normal
    Maisie uniform: hightop sneakers, jeans, peach cotton blouse, a
    clay bead necklace and silver hoop earrings. I brushed my hair
    back into my usual ponytail.
    I had a sudden conviction that Wilder was leaving his
    room. I squeaked open my door, and there he