Free Still Point by Katie Kacvinsky Page A

design.”
    I wasn’t going to give up. “We can start small. One community at a time. My friends have designs in mind. They have lists of teachers willing to lead classes. It’s already in place, Dad. We could start a local university this fall.”
    He opened his mouth to comment but was interrupted by a call on his phone. He checked the screen and cleared his throat.
    â€œI’m going out of town this week,” he said. “When I get back, we’ll talk. I promise.” The ease of a smile curled on his lips. “You need to work on your patience. You’ve been home for barely a week.”
    I considered his offer. “You promise you’ll help us?”
    He thought about this. “Yes, Maddie. But sometimes help comes in ways you don’t expect. It can feel like a dead end. But maybe it’s just pushing you in a different direction?”
    I sighed. I felt like I was throwing words at my father like darts, hoping they would stick, but they always bounced off the surface. Or missed entirely.
    I passed him without saying goodbye and headed into the kitchen. I opened cupboards and slammed them. I lived inside a mansion and felt like I had the confinements of a crawlspace. My mom stood in the doorway. She knew I was still mentally fighting with my father.
    â€œHe’s in a difficult position right now, Maddie. We need to try to support him.”
    I turned to her. “But you’ve said yourself you don’t agree with what he’s doing.”
    â€œI don’t agree with where the system is headed, but I agree with what it’s founded on. Your father has the best of intentions.”
    â€œSo do psychopaths.”
    â€œMadeline Rose—”
    â€œI’m sorry.” I sat down at the table and raked my hands through my hair. I had only been home a week, and I was already sick from living in so much stillness. I was about to fly out of my skin.
    I watched my mom order groceries on our wall screen, lacing her fingers in the air to add products to her online shopping bag. There was something so elegant about the way her fingers moved and spun, like she was composing a song. Advertisements popped up all over the screen while she worked, featuring new products. The advertisements constantly changed depending on what she was ordering.
    â€œWill you lift your feet for a second?” she asked. “I need to clean the floors.”
    I kicked up my feet and rested them on top of the chair next to me. She flipped a switch above the sink. Small spray ducts in our floor lifted and shot a soft, warm mist across the fake wood. After a minute, a fan turned on, emitting a low purr along the floor panels and blowing the mist into tiny swirls. The water shut off and the fans turned on high, exuding a hot gust of air across the floor that sounded like the old-fashioned vacuum cleaner my mom used when I was little. A couple of seconds later the fans turned off and I set my feet down on a warm, shiny clean floor.
    â€œWhere’s Dad going?” I asked.
    â€œPortland,” my mom said. “More issues about the DC cases. They have to do a lot of the interviewing face-to-face, for legal reasons. That’s all he tells me.”
    I rubbed my thumb over the tiny spot on my wrist where the tracker hid.
Why would he take a plane to Portland? It’s barely an hour train ride.
I walked upstairs and changed into my running clothes. I passed my mom on the way down to the basement, and she smiled, no doubt happy that I was finally using my running machine.
    I ran until all the angry energy drifted out of my body, until all the hard heaviness in my mind melted and drifted out of my pores. I hadn’t run in months, but I had no problem finishing a seven-mile track. It’s easy to find the energy to run when you feel like you’re always being chased. I grabbed a towel off a stack in the workout room and wiped the sweat off my face and neck.
    Before I went