I see Whit. He is with the two soldier-like men who I saw him with when I fire-Read in his cave. They hulk over him, watching him write the note. They are making him find me for them, I think. My suspicion is confirmed. Whit’s being forced to act as their pawn.

I see him hesitate and pat the pocket of his jacket. He takes out a telephone. The two men wander off, leaving him alone as he talks into it. After a moment he puts his fingers to his lips to do the loud whistle I’ve seen him do a million times. And then, tying the note to the raven’s leg, he releases it and it takes flight.

My view becomes aerial. The bird looks down as it flies away, and I watch as Whit climbs into the driver’s seat of an army-green military-looking vehicle (the word “Jeep” is written in large letters across the back) while the two men jump into the passenger side and backseat. Whit waits until they close the doors and then drives off.

Stunned, I let go of the bird and our connection is broken. My blood feels like ice in my veins. Whit is no prisoner. Is he working with the men who took my clan? Or could they even be working for him? I am so shocked I don’t know what to think. Nothing makes sense anymore. The pain of the betrayal rushes back, and there is nothing I can do now to dull it.

Through the open tent flaps, I see Miles sit up. He rubs his hair back to front, causing it to stick up in all directions. Whit says I can’t trust him. That’s not exactly new information: Frankie already warned me he wasn’t trustworthy.

But it’s clear now that Miles isn’t the only one I have to watch out for. My father deceived me. My very own mentor is out to get me. I am the only person I can trust. I have never felt so alone.

24

MILES

WHEN I WAKE UP, SHE IS TALKING TO A BIRD.

That shouldn’t faze me, but I’m not quite awake yet, and a wave of alarm rocks me before I remember that hanging with a crazy person is a means to an end. The end being the look on my father’s face when I finally do something right.

I take my time crawling out of the tent, hoping that the reality fairy will wave her wand and things will suddenly be normal when I look back up. But no, when I stand, Juneau is staring at me, waiting, as if she’s waiting for me to say something ground shattering.

“What?” I ask.

“We have to go,” Juneau says. “Now.”

“No flame-broiled roadkill for breakfast?” I joke. She acts like she doesn’t hear and starts stuffing her pack with the cooking gear.

“Someone’s coming after us. We’ll eat on the road,” she says in that I’m-the-boss-of-you way that’s really starting to get under my skin.

“Ah,” I say, raising an eyebrow purely for my own sake, since she isn’t looking at me anymore. “Would these pursuers happen to be government agents? Or maybe aliens? No, wait. Angry rangers who keep tabs on the park’s bunny population.”

“You can take the tent down if you want to help,” she states simply. And although I really couldn’t be bothered to join in as a willing partner of her paranoia, the way that she says it—like it’s a challenge she doesn’t think I’m up to—makes me turn around and start yanking tent pins out of the ground.

“You might want to take the bedding out first,” she says.

“Yeah, I was about to do that,” I mutter, and pull out the blowup camping pillows and paper-thin thermal blankets. By the time I’ve figured out how to take the folding rods apart, she has everything packed and in the car and comes around to help me. “Have you ever camped before?” she asks, but not in the mean way I was expecting.

“No,” I admit as I shove the final rod into its bag. “Does it show?”

She looks up and gives me this quirky little lips-pressed-together smile, and I can’t help but smile back, which makes her laugh through her nose.

And for one second I am actually enjoying myself, even though my back is paralyzed from sleeping on the hard ground and I am standing in the middle of an illegal campsite, grinning at a paranoid schizophrenic. She actually seems halfway normal. Nice, even. The thought rockets through my mind and ricochets around once or twice before I catch it and twist the life out of it. This girl is a means to an end, I tell myself. All that should matter to you is getting her to California. And forcing the smile off my face, I start the car.

Juneau throws the tent bag in the back and jumps in beside me. With a squawk, the bird flies in too and settles on the backseat and stares at me, daring me to react.

“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing at the bird as Juneau pulls her door shut.

“The raven’s coming with us,” she says.

My eyes widen in disbelief, and I try to control my voice, reminding myself that she’s the crazy one, not me. “And why, may I ask, is the raven coming with us?”

“Because if the guy who sent him to spy on us calls him back, it won’t be very hard for them to find us.”

My brain starts hurting again. I stare at the bird incredulously. It just eyes me for a second and then casually begins picking something out of its wing. I look back at Juneau, and the star-decorated contact lens makes me shudder from its weirdness. I don’t think she even took it out last night.

I can’t believe I thought she was normal for even a second—I must have Stockholm syndrome or something. I put the car into gear, turn it around, and head back down the dirt road we drove in on.

“So where to?” I ask in what I hope is a calm tone as we pull up to the paved road. She has me trained now. I watch her check the position of the sun and glance up and down the road in both directions.

“This road runs north-south,” she says. “Do you think there’s a way for us to get onto something heading southeast?”

“Well, if you can jump-start my iPhone, I could use the GPS to find the way,” I say. She stares at me like I’m speaking Chinese. I remember the L.A. mix-up and ask, “What part of what I just said did you not understand?”

“Jump-start. iPhone. GPS,” she responds.

I pick one. “Global Positioning System,” I explain. She shakes her head. I can tell by this tiny muscle that clenches in her jaw that it’s costing her to admit she doesn’t know what something is. “Where are you from that doesn’t have GPS?” I ask, hoping she’ll say something about Alaska, or tell me more about who she is.

“No time to talk,” she says. “Take that road. I’ll explain on the way.”