Free Scorpion Shards by Neal Shusterman

Dillon,” she said. “You know just what to say to make me feel better.”
    â€œBut you should feel better,” insisted Dillon, “because, I can see the pattern—and as long as you’re with me, none of those bad things can happen to you. I’ll push you out of the way of a speeding car, even before it comes around the bend. I’ll get you off a train before it derails. I won’t let you get on a plane that will crash. I’ll be like a good luck charm you wear around your neck! I promise.”
    Deanna knew there was truth in what Dillon said.
    â€œWe’re meant to do great things, Deanna—don’t you feel it?” he said, gripping her hand tightly. “And every day, we’re closer to knowing what those things are!”
    â€œAll of us, you mean?” asked Deanna. “Us and the others?” Deanna watched to see how Dillon would react to her bringing up The Others.
    Dillon shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “But you and me especially.”
    Deanna felt her eyelids getting heavy, and so she leaned back, letting Dillon put his arm around her. He did nothing more—just held her with a wonderful innocence as if they were two small children. He asked no more from her than her presence, and it made her feel safe.
    In the silence she listened as Dillon’s breathing slowed, and he fell asleep. She took comfort in the sound of his breathing, and soon matched the pace of her own breath to his. She imagined their hearts beating in time with each other as well, and wished that they could somehow be part of each other . . .
    Then she realized that in some strange and immeasurable way, they already were.

5. GHOST OF THE RAINBOW
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    A T A CAMPSITE IN THE WOODS WHERE THE M ISSISSIPPI AND Ohio Rivers meet, Tory Smythe tended to her aching face. She gently cleaned her cheeks, chin, and forehead with astringent alcohol, and three types of soaps—a ritual performed four times a day. It stung as if she had just wiped her face with battery acid, and although all these cleansers promised results, none of them helped. She put on some perfume, which didn’t do much either, then dabbed her scaling face with Clearasil, hoping beyond hope that someday it would work.
    â€œI want to head toward Nebraska,” she shouted to Winston, who was standing by the edge of the water. “Last year I read about this astronomer . . . in Omaha, I think. Anyway, he predicted a star was about to go supernova—and since that star seems to have something to do with us, maybe he knows something we don’t.”
    She turned to see that Winston wasn’t even listening. He was just looking out over the river.
    â€œWhat are you doing, praying again?”
    â€œI’m not praying,” said Winston. “I’m taking a whiz.”
    But Tory knew he was just using that as an excuse. Even this far away, she could tell that he was looking at that weird blue cloth again.
    W INSTON P ELL STOOD BY the water’s edge so Tory couldn’t see, fiddling with the torn piece of turquoise-blue satin that he had pulled from a trash can three days before. He felt troubled,unsure of his next move, and for some reason fiddling with that torn piece of cloth made him feel better, as if it were a tiny security blanket. He had one of those when he was little. It was just a quilt, but when he wrapped it around himself, he felt safe and secure. Now, as he stood by the edge of the water, he did say a little prayer; he wished for things to be like they once were, before his ma got paralyzed . . . before his dad died . . . . He wished for the days when an old blanket was the only protection he needed. Please, God, make it like it was, he prayed, as he often did. Make everything go back . . . .
    Maybe his old life hadn’t been the best in the world, but it was better than it had become in these past few