Free Delirium: The Complete Collection by Lauren Oliver Page A

percent wrong thing to do, and I stand up for dinner feeling clean and weightless and happy, like the first time you feel healthy after a long fever.
    But at dinner my curiosity—and with it, my doubts—return. I can barely follow the conversation. All I can think is: Go? Don’t go? Go? Don’t go? At one point my uncle is telling a story about one of his customers, and I notice everyone is laughing so I laugh too, but a little too loud and long. Everyone turns to look at me, even Gracie, who puckers her nose and tilts her head like a dog sniffing at something new.
    “Are you okay, Lena?” my uncle asks, adjusting his glasses as though hoping to bring me into clearer focus. “You seem a little strange.”
    “I’m fine.” I push around some ravioli on my plate. Normally I can put away half a box myself, especially after a long run (and still have room for dessert), but I’ve barely managed to choke down a few bites. “Just stressed.”
    “Leave her alone,” my aunt says. “She’s upset about the evaluations. They didn’t exactly turn out as planned.”
    She lifts her eyes to my uncle, and they exchange a quick glance. I feel a rush of excitement. It’s rare for my aunt and uncle to look at each other like that, a wordless glance, full of meaning. Most of the time their interactions are limited to the usual thing—my uncle tells stories about work, my aunt tells stories about the neighbors. What’s for dinner? There’s a leak in the roof. Blah blah blah . I think that for once they’re going to mention the Wilds, and the Invalids. But then my uncle gives a minute shake of his head.
    “These kinds of mix-ups happen all the time,” he says, staking a ravioli with his fork. “Just the other day, I asked Andrew to reorder three cases of Vik’s orange juice. But he goes and gets the codes wrong and guess what shows up? Three cases of baby formula. I said to him, I said, ‘Andrew . . .’”
    I tune the conversation out again, grateful that my uncle is a talker, and happy that my aunt has taken my side. The one good thing about being kind of shy is that nobody bugs you when you want to be left alone. I lean forward and sneak a glance at the clock in the kitchen. Seven thirty, and we haven’t even finished eating. And afterward I’ll have to help clear and wash the dishes, which always takes forever; the dishwasher uses up too much electricity, so we have to do them by hand.
    Outside, the sun is streaked with filaments of gold and pink. It looks like the candy that gets spun at the Sugar Shack downtown, all gloss and stretch and color. It will be a beautiful sunset tonight. In that moment the urge to go is so strong, I have to squeeze the sides of my chair to keep from suddenly springing up and running out the door.
    Finally I decide to stop stressing and leave it to luck, or fate, or whatever you want to call it. If we finish eating and I’m done cleaning up the dishes in time to make it to Back Cove, I’ll go. If not, I’ll stay. I feel a million times better once I’ve made the decision, and even manage to shovel down a few more bites of ravioli before Jenny (miracle of miracles) has a sudden late burst of speed and cleans her plate, and my aunt announces I can clear the dishes whenever I’m ready.
    I stand up and start stacking everyone’s plates. It’s almost eight o’clock. Even if I can wash all the dishes in fifteen minutes—and that’s a stretch—it will still be difficult to get to the beach by eight thirty. And forget about making it back by nine o’clock, when the city has a mandated curfew for uncureds.
    And if I got caught on the streets after curfew . . .
    The truth is, I don’t know what would happen. I’ve never broken curfew.
    Just as I’ve finally accepted that there’s no way to get to Back Cove and back in time, my aunt does the unthinkable. As I’m reaching forward to take her plate, she stops me. “You don’t have to clean the dishes tonight, Lena. I’ll do