It’s living that’s cursed. —Jim Jones, leader of Peoples Temple Fingers curl around mine and I’m vaguely aware of someone standing beside the bed. It must be morning. I barely slept but now I’m reluctant to wake up; my eyes feel crusted over. “Wake up, Little Owl.” The voice isn’t my mothsout om’s. It’s Pioneer’s. I force my eyes open. It’s his hand on mine. He’s smiling down at me, but his forehead is all creased. I count the lines there—three lines. This probably means that he’s mad but not ballistic. I relax my shoulders and lean back on the pillow again. My accident hasn’t completely sent him over the edge … at least not yet. I rub at my face and try not to look at Pioneer again, but I can feel him watching me. Cody spent the better part of our hour together last night showing me Internet clips from the disasters I told him about. Some of the footage was familiar, but the dates the disasters occurred weren’t. It was exactly how Cody said.
