Free Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) by David Estes Page B

Abruptly, the boy realizes that from the moment his father pushed him into the cold water so many years ago, this became his destiny.
    Grabbing a slippery rock with two hands, his webbed feet find purchase on a flat stone that extends from the shore. He reaches higher, climbing the bank with clumsy steps, regretting not removing the swimming shoes before he left the water. The pack tied to his waist feels like a bag full of bricks again. His feet slip and he loses his balance, his heart leaping in his chest, a gasp of air rushing from his mouth—he’s going down and he knows it, already anticipating the pounding the hard stones will give his body.
    Something grabs him under the arm, stops his fall, holds him up. His eyes lock on a boy with shadow-black hair, cut short, who’s wearing a devilish smile. “Need a hand?” the boy says. There’s something wrong with his eyes, like they’re too narrow to fit his eyeballs. He’s seen characters like that coming out of the holo-screen, but he never thought anyone real could look like that.
    He stares at him, forgetting that he’s still hanging precariously.
    “What are you waiting for—an invitation?” the black-haired boy says, pulling him up. Shadows cast by the giant light-speckled buildings fall over them.
    He doesn’t know how to answer the boy’s question, so he says nothing. A real, live boy , he thinks. Never in a million years did he think he’d be face to face with one.
    “Nice digs,” the boy says.
    It’s like he’s speaking another language, but then he notices the boy’s looking him up and down, checking out his rubber suit and floppy feet.
    “My fath—” He catches himself. He was about to say his father gave them to him, but his father’s words echo in his ears, stopping him. Don’t tell anyone where you came from. Who you really are.
    Saying the first thing that pops into his head, he blurts out, “I stole them.”
    “Really?” the boy says, strutting a circle around him, as if inspecting him. “Impressive. I didn’t peg you for a Picker. If I’m being honest, I was thinking you were more of a Grunk.” More strange words from this strange-looking boy. If he asks the boy what he means, he’ll know he’s nothing more than a fraud. “I couldn’t sleep so I came down to the river to watch the stars and make up stories about a life I’ll never live. I do that a lot. Watch the stars. Make up stories. Dream with my eyes open. Do you ever do that, kid?”
    It’s the first thing he’s said that the boy understands. “Yes,” he says.
    The narrow-eyed boy has a few centimeters of height on him, and is likely at least a year older, if not two. The boy’s skin is pale, like his, but without the freckles.
    “Name’s Checker,” the boy says, extending a hand, palm down. “But most of my friends call me Check.”
    He stares at Check’s hand, wondering if he’s supposed to do something with it. Clearly now would be the time to tell his own name…if he had one. He reaches out a tentative hand.
    “I won’t bite,” Check says, withdrawing his hand before the boy can touch it. “Well, unless you steal a Grunk I got my eye on.” He laughs to himself, and the boy wishes Janice had covered Grunks in her lessons.
    “I—I’m feeling a bit cold,” the boy says, which is half-true. The suit continues to keep him relatively warm—warmer than he’s used to being when he’s just come out of the water, anyway—but the wind has an edge to it, sending icicles through his exposed skin.
    “I should say so,” Check says. “I’ve got a place you can flop for the night. You got a name, kid?” It’s weird hearing Check call him ‘kid’ when he’s a kid, too. Everything about this boy is weird. He remembers the question, straightening up, fumbling for the right words in his mouth, how to explain that no, he doesn’t have a name. Unless you count ‘Son’ or ‘Child’.
    “Okay,” Check says. “I get it. Names are dangerous things