Free A Better World by Marcus Sakey Page B

a cough. “I’m just not sure why we should make it formal.”
    “Because we need to organize. Let’s say, God forbid, Violet gets sick. You think if you call an ambulance, it’ll be here two minutes later?” Jack shook his head. “But Barry is a doctor. Or say that Lou is right”—nodding to Political Correctness—“and somebad characters come up here to rob your house. If we’re organized, everybody on the block will show up to help.”
    “Bad characters?” Ethan cocked an eyebrow.
    “You know what I mean.”
    “I’m not sure I do. How do I tell if someone is a bad character? If I don’t recognize them? If they look poor? If they’re hungry?”
    “What’s your problem, guy?” Lou was short but barrel-chested, with a coiled-spring tension.
    “It’s okay, Lou.” Jack smiled, held his hands out, palms. “He’s right to ask. And we should be able to answer. We’re not a street gang.”
    That was smooth,
Ethan thought. Jack had disarmed the tension without insulting anyone, and his use of “we” drew them all together on a subconscious level. The term
alpha male
had taken on a knuckle-dragging context, but in truth, it described a subtler and more powerful attribute than physical superiority. The desire to organize was ingrained in DNA; groups fared better than individuals, and so,
a priori
, the individuals around whom groups naturally formed tended to be very attractive. A survival advantage reinforced evolutionarily.
    Gee, thanks, Professor.
Ethan mentally slapped himself, then tuned back in to what Jack was saying.
    “—is having a tough time. I think we all understand that. But if someone is trying to rob one of you, then to my mind that makes him a bad guy, and you should be able to protect yourself. And I’ll have your back.” Jack turned to look at Ethan. “Is that a definition you can live with?”
    A glance around the room told Ethan that the twenty or so men looking back were already united into a tribe.
Let it go. No harm indulging the fantasy.
“Sure.”
    “One idea,” an engineer named Kurt said, “we should set up a group on our cell phones, so we can send one text and it goes to all of us. Our own local 911.”
    “Great thinking.”
    “I’ve got an idea,” Lou said. “We got a lot to organize, right? Let’s put Ranjeet in charge of that. He’s an abnorm, he’ll be better at it.”
    An awkward silence fell. Ethan glanced at Jack, hoping the man would have a quick save, but his neighbor said nothing.
    After a moment Ranjeet said, “I am an abnorm, Lou, but my gift is high-digit numerosity.”
    “What’s the hell’s that—”
    “It means,” Ethan said, “that he can instantly estimate high-digit systems. Leaves on a tree, matchsticks dumped on the floor, people in a stadium.”
    “I’m murder at county fairs,” Ranjeet said. “That jar where you have to guess how many jelly beans? Whoo-eee.” He flashed a smile, the white of his teeth dazzling against his dark skin.
    Jack snorted a laugh, and it broke the tension.
    They spent the next hour divvying up responsibilities. Talents were volunteered—who was a fair carpenter, who had first aid training—and cell numbers were exchanged. Then, as the windows darkened, men started to drift away. Most of them waved a generalized good-bye to the group; all of them took the time to shake Jack’s hand. Ethan waited until he saw Ranjeet putting on his coat before he said good-bye to their host.
    “Thanks for coming,” Jack said.
    “Sure.”
    Jack held the handshake, said, “Hey, how’s Violet doing on that milk?”
    Is that your way of reminding me I owe you one?
“Great, thank you.”
    “Let me know if you need more.”
    “We’ll be all right. Thanks, though.”
    The air outside was crisp and fresh after the humidity of the crowded living room. Ethan took a deep breath, let it fill his lungs. Twilight was surrendering to night, the sky a deep indigo smeared with charcoal clouds. He held the storm door for