Free Stolen by John Wilson

Chapter One
    Warrnambool! What kind of name is that for a place? And what am I doing here?
    Well, I know the answer to the second question. I’m here because of Dad—Mom and Dad, really. If Mom hadn’t decided to change her name to Acacia and go searching for the space to “find herself,” my parents wouldn’t have split up. Dad wouldn’t have accepted a job in Australia, and I’d be back struggling through grade eleven at Dover Bay Secondary.
    Not that that would be a bunch of fun. It’d be a gray, rainy January on Vancouver Island, and I’d be fighting to pull myself up to a B in math while trying to handle all the usual garbage that being sixteen in a big high school throws at you. But I’d be with my friends. I’m not a real outgoing person. It takes me a long time to build up a few good friends. Now they’re at the other end of the earth, and I’m walking along a beach at Warrnambool, worrying about starting at a fancy private school in Adelaide in a couple of weeks—we have to wear uniforms! And I’ll have to begin the find-friends routine all over again. At least it’s not cold and rainy here—the weatherman’s calling for thirty-eight degrees this afternoon. But hot weather doesn’t do anything for loneliness.
    I kick an old piece of black driftwood ahead of me. I’m walking along the edge of a line of grass-covered sand dunes. To my left, the featureless beach stretches down to where the ocean waves roll in, foaming and crashing as if angry that they can’t climb higher toward me. Beyond that, there’s nothing until you reach Antarctica. At least there’s somewhere more boring than Warrnambool.
    I catch up with the piece of driftwood and give it another kick. That’s when I hear the counting—“3.141592653589793…” Well, it’s not really counting, because the numbers aren’t in any sequence I can spot.
    I look around. The voice must be coming from behind the dunes. As far as I can see in either direction along the beach, there’s only one old guy and his dog. Neither of them is counting.
    I stumble through the soft sand up the dune face. Normally, I wouldn’t go looking for someone talking to themselves, but the numbers are so weird. They’re still going on and making no more sense—“…238462643383279…”
    At the top of the dune, I see the girl. She’s not tough to spot. Bright red hair like hers would stand out a mile away. She’s sitting cross-legged in the hollow between my dune and the next one. She is wearing green cargo pants and a loose, long-sleeved khaki shirt. There’s a tattered blue backpack beside her. Her eyes are closed and she is still listing numbers—“…5028841971…” Have I stumbled upon a lunatic escaped from a local asylum? Maybe she’s part of a coven, and she’s chanting a mystical formula to raise the devil. I’m about to return to the beach when the girl stops counting, opens her eyes and stares up at me.
    â€œHello,” she says, without a hint of embarrassment.
    â€œHello,” I reply. Then my throat and brain dry up. Like I said, I’m not an outgoing person. Fortunately, the girl is.
    â€œI was just sitting here reciting Pi,” she says, standing, brushing sand off her pants and picking up her backpack.
    â€œPie?” I ask.
    â€œSure,” she says, coming up the dune toward me. “You know—Pi, the basis of everything.”
    â€œOh, you mean Pi, the mathematical number.”
    The girl smiles, and I feel my cheeks flush. “My name’s Annabel.” She arrives at my side and holds out a hand.
    I shake it. “I’m Sam.” Up close, she is striking. Her hair falls straight halfway down her back and almost glows in the low sun. Her eyes are an odd gray color and stare at me confidently. Her mouth curls up on one side, making it look as if she