Free Unwind by Neal Shusterman Page A

“Now we have to get on the bus.”
    It’s as they reach the sidewalk that a sound which has been too faint and too low-priority to care about suddenly snares Connor’s attention. The crying baby.
    At the house in front of them, there’s a bundle on the porch. The bundle is moving.
    Connor instantly knows what this is. He’s seen it before. He’s seen a storked baby twice on his own doorstep. Even though it’s not the same baby, he stops in his tracks as if it is.
    â€œC’mon, Billy, you’ll miss the bus!”
    â€œHuh?”
    It’s Risa. She and Lev are a few yards ahead of him. She speaks to Connor through gritted teeth. “C’mon, ‘Billy.’ Don’t be an idiot.”
    Kids have already started piling onto the bus. The policecar sits motionless behind the blinking red lights.
    Connor tries to make himself move, but can’t. It’s because of the baby. Because of the way it wails. This is not the same baby! Connor tells himself. Don’t be stupid. Not now!
    â€œConnor,” whispers Risa, “what’s wrong with you?”
    Then the door of the house opens. There’s a fat little kid at the door—six, maybe seven. He stares down at the baby. “Aw, no way!” Then he turns and calls back into the house, “Mom! We’ve been storked again!”
    Most people have two emergency modes. Fight and Flight. But Connor always knew he had three: Fight, Flight, and Screw Up Royally. It was a dangerous mental short circuit. The same short circuit that made him race back toward armed Juvey-cops to rescue Lev instead of just saving himself. He could feel it kicking in again right now. He could feel his brain starting to fry. “We’ve been storked again,” the fat kid had said. Why did he have to say “again”? Connor might have been all right if he hadn’t said “again.”
    Don’t do it! Connor tells himself. This is not the same baby!
    But to some deep, unreasoning part of his brain, they’re all the same baby.
    Going against all sense of self-preservation, Connor bolts straight for the porch. He approaches the door so quickly, the kid looks up at him with terrified eyes and backs into his mother, an equally plump woman who has just arrived at the door. Her face wears an unwelcoming scowl. She stares at Connor, then spares a quick glance down at the crying baby, but she makes no move toward it.
    â€œWho are you?” she demands. The little boy now hides behind her like a cub behind a mother grizzly. “Did you put this here? Answer me!” The baby continues to cry.
    â€œNo . . . No, I—”
    â€œDon’t lie to me!”
    He doesn’t know what he hoped to accomplish coming here. This is none of his business, not his problem. But now he’s made it his problem.
    And behind him the bus is still loading kids. The police car is still there, waiting. Connor could have very well just ended his life by coming to this house.
    Then there’s a voice behind him. “He didn’t put it there. I did.”
    Connor turns to see Risa. Her face is stony. She won’t even look at Connor. She just glares at the woman, whose beady eyes shift from Connor to Risa.
    â€œYou got caught in the act, little dearie,” she says. The words “little dearie” come out like a curse. “The law might let you stork, but only if you don’t get caught. So take your baby and go, before I call those cops over.”
    Connor tries desperately to unfry his brain. “But . . . but . . .”
    â€œJust shut up!” says Risa, her voice full of venom and accusation.
    This makes the woman at the door smile, but it’s not a pleasant thing. “Daddy here ruined it for you, didn’t he? He came back instead of just running away.” The woman spares a quick dismissive look at Connor. “First rule of motherhood, dearie: Men are screwups. Learn