Free The Search for Sam by Pittacus Lore Page B

highways.
     We spend weeks—months?—like this. I begin to lose track of time.
    When we’re in remote fields, far from roads and houses, we train. Malcolm has no experience
     with Legacies, but then neither do I. Brute force with my newfound power is no problem:
     I was able to nearly decimate Ashwood Estates—quite literally—in my sleep. But my
     precision and control need work. So we focus on that.
    In today’s training session Malcolm takes a position on the other side of a field.
     I stand, getting ready to wield my power. When we’re both ready, we signal each other
     with our arms. Training time.
    I stare across the field at Malcolm, mentally mapping the distance between us. Malcolm
     has set pebbles on top of the fence posts running the distance between us; for every
     pebble I knock off its post, he will deduct a few points. It’s easy to send out my
     seismic force in an indiscriminate wave, knocking everything in its path, but he wants
     me to hit the area right beneath him, and only that area. He says this practice will increase my precision.
    I focus hard on where he is, until everything else disappears. Then I unleash my power.
    There are days when I can’t even reach Malcolm, when the farthest I can send my power
     is ten yards in front of me. There are other days when distance comes too easy, and
     I wildly overshoot, felling trees fifty yards past Malcolm’s position. Sometimes I
     hit him with pinpoint accuracy, and the ground trembles delicately below him. When
     this happens he calls out, telling me to sustain that gentle force. But sometimes
     the intensity of my seismic power slips outside of my control, and the ground will
     erupt beneath him, sending him ten feet in the air.
    He’s always patient, gracious, and kind about my misfires. Which only makes me happier
     when I manage a perfect score at this game we’ve created, rumbling the earth immediately
     beneath his feet without sending him flying. It takes extraordinary control, and so
     much mental effort I usually wind up with a minor migraine, but it’s worth it to see
     his proud face.
    My parents disowned me. I don’t think my father ever loved me. I was never going to have the kind of unconditional love from a parent
     I saw on television or read about in human literature.
    During the three years I spent in One’s mind, I saw her close relationship with Hilde,
     and I was jealous. They fought all the time, but on some deep level they trusted and
     loved each other. Hilde trained and cultivated One’s talents, encouraged her when
     she succeeded. Ever since I witnessed that, I’ve craved something like it. A mentor.
     And now I have one.
    One promised me I wouldn’t be alone. She was right.
    Our route through the country becomes a zigzagging path, designed to escape Mogadorian
     detection. It’s so roundabout that I never even consider we’re heading somewhere specific,
     that Malcolm has a destination in mind.
    I enjoy the aimlessness. I feel safer off the grid, like I did back at the aid camp.
     But I know that eventually we’re going to need a plan, some way to reconnect with
     the scattered Garde. I may cringe at bloodshed, and I may fear that they will reject
     me for being a Mogadorian, but I can’t help being excited by the prospect of meeting
     my new allies.
    After a long night’s trek, we camp out in a small grove at the edge of the woods in
     rural Ohio. Malcolm devotes so much time and energy to training me that I’ve been
     repaying the favor, usually as we’re settling down for a day’s sleep.
    I train him . I ask him questions about his past, trying to jog his memory. I know his patchy
     memory is frustrating, but he will never recover his memories unless he works at it.
     So I grill him, pressing him for details.
    “What happened before the darkness?” I ask tonight.
    He’s clearing some brush on the ground, making a smooth surface to sleep on. “I hate
     this.”
    “I know,” I say. We’re both