Free The Fugitive by Pittacus Lore

given what’s going on. The future in general is too much to think about, too far away and unknowable.
    We might not even be able to save the future, or the world. GUARD and I are stuck going through data that’s weeks old. What if things have gotten so bad that we can’t stop the Mogs?
    I try to center myself. In Paradise, after everything went down at the school, I had Sarah to talk to, to keep me sane. And so after my shooting break, I go back inside and email her for the millionth time, knowingby now not to expect an answer.
    Sarah—
    I don’t know why I keep sending these emails. Part of me hopes that you’re reading them, using them to help the Loric, and can’t reply for your own safety. Another part of me worries that you aren’t even out there, that you’re gone. I refuse to believe that but . . .
    I need to hear from you.
    I start to write about Walker, but think better of it. Even if she was a Mog henchwoman in Paradise, she let me go in Dulce. She’s working against them now. And if somehow the Mogs are intercepting my emails to Sarah, I don’t want to blow Walker’s cover if the aliens haven’t completely labeled her a traitor. So instead, I’m kind of vague about my whole trip out into the desert.
    I thought I had a lead on you in New Mexico. All I found there was a deserted military base. It looked like a major battle went down. Way bigger and nastier than what happened in Paradise. I hope you guys got out safe. I hope like hell I’m not the only one left to fight these assholes. That would suck.
    A friend of mine set up a safe house for me. Way off the grid. A place where we can work on exposing those pale freaks to the world. If you can get in touch, I’ll find a wayto send you the coordinates. We’re on to something big. Something international. I don’t even know what to do with it.
    If you’re reading these, if you’re still in contact with John, now would be a really good time to show up. I need your help.
    —Mark
    I’m surprised my heart doesn’t explode when my email dings later that day and I see that she’s finally replied. Nothing long—just a note saying she’s sorry she hasn’t contacted me and that she’s with John, and where the hell am I, anyway?
    I type faster than I ever have in my life. I’m about to send her an email detailing exactly how she can get to me . . .
    And then I stop.
    I think again about how careful I’ve been not to give away too much about where I’ve been or what I’ve been up to since I left Paradise in the middle of the night. GUARD’s got my IP address completely blocked, but that doesn’t matter if I’m giving my location away in an email. My JOLLYROGER182 address at They Walk Among Us is on a secure server that GUARD himself designed, but my personal one is just a free email service. So is Sarah’s. The Mogs or FBI could be tapping them. The same thing goes for the phone: if she hasn’tbeen careful with burners, telling her where I am might be the same as calling up the FBI or the Mogs and giving them my address.
    There’s another possibility too. One I don’t even want to consider. What if it’s not even Sarah at all?
    Think, Mark. Don’t get lured into a trap again.
    I email her back.
    I’m okay. I was just about to make a pizza. What do you want on your half?
    —Mark
    The question is the first way I can think of to figure out if I’m talking to the real Sarah Hart. When we were dating, we had a standard order at the pizza place back in Paradise’s downtown square. Every Saturday night we’d slide into a booth together and order the same thing.
    I wait, staring at my in-box, hardly breathing as I will a new message to show up on the screen. Finally, it does.
    Mark,
    Things have been crazy here, but it sounds like it hasn’t been easy for you either.
    Veg for me, please. Don’t let any of your gross all-meat side cross the line. WHERE ARE YOU?
    Sarah
    It’s her. That’s our order. One medium half veggie, half meat.