I’m feeling sorry for her again. She really believes this crap. I have an overwhelming urge to hold her hand and tell her that it’s okay. That she’s been brainwashed, and the longer she’s away from the hippie cult the more normal she’ll get.

“Well then, maybe you’re blocking your own connection to the Yara,” I offer, feeling slightly proud of myself for making sense out of her cult gibberish. “Maybe now that you’re away from the influence of Whit and your dad, you’re beginning to doubt the things they taught you. Which would totally make sense, seeing that they lied about World War III and all.” I am only trying to draw logical conclusions from her completely illogical beliefs, but she looks like I just slapped her.

“Or maybe it’s not that at all,” I offer weakly. “Maybe the farther you get from your land, the less of a connection with the Yara you have?”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head in a how-could-you-possibly-know-anything-about-it gesture. “The Yara isn’t just in Alaska. It’s everywhere.”

She stands and, wrapping her arms around her waist, paces slowly back and forth beside the fire. “What you said about doubting,” she says finally. “That does make sense. It was after I found out that Whit was working with the people who abducted my clan that my Reading was affected. His blatant spying on me confirmed my suspicions of him . . . if I needed further confirmation.” She rubs her fingers distractedly across her forehead. “I guess I can pin it to that instant that I definitely lost all trust in him. And yes, I suppose I’m questioning what he taught me as well.”

“Did they have children’s books in your commune?” I ask. Juneau looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “I swear this is relevant,” I promise.

“Yes, we had a small collection of children’s books.”

“Did you have Peter Pan?” I ask.

She nods and furrows her brow, trying to guess what I’m getting at.

“What you’re saying is kind of like Wendy and her brothers flying with fairy dust. They had to believe it or they couldn’t fly.”

She nods pensively but still has that hurt look on her face. “You might be right,” she admits. She sighs loudly and turns to head for the woods. Looking back at me, she says, “Thanks for dinner. I’m going to go for a walk and think about things.” The bird sees her going and flaps over to land on her shoulder like a freaking trained monkey.

As for me, I sit watching the fire and think about how she seems like a really nice person. How I’m actually starting to like her. Why else would I have put off calling Dad whenever I’ve had access to a phone? Because, for once, I feel like I’m enjoying myself. Having fun.

It’s just sad how messed up Juneau was raised. Like a cult member. Totally brainwashed. Totally delusional. It almost makes me want to help her. If saving my own skin wasn’t of utmost importance, I would be tempted to try.

31

JUNEAU

I WALK INTO THE WOODS HOLDING POE ON MY arm, feeling as disoriented as if I had stepped through a door into an alternate universe. For the second time in a month. I’m losing my faith, so I’m losing my skills—that must be the answer. And if that happens, there’s no way I’m going to be able to save my clan, much less find them. But with all the lies I’ve been fed, how can I believe anything I’ve been taught? How do I separate truth from fiction?

Poe flies off and perches far above in a tree as I head straight for a clump of giant holly bushes, letting them scratch my arms as I pass. The pricks from their spines reassure me that I’m not sleepwalking.

I get to the water’s edge and begin circling the lake.

I need to figure out what, if anything, I have left. I pull my opal from under my shirt, loop it over my head, and press it to the ground. “Dad,” I say, and focus on Reading his emotions. A chorus of crickets launches into their night song on the far side of the lake, and a thick fog levitates inches above the water’s surface. I wait. Somewhere out in the lake, a fish jumps, splashing as it breaks the water’s surface. I wait. Nothing happens.

I loop the cord back over my head and tuck my opal under my shirt. Then, squatting, I place my bare hand against the moist, cold earth and try again. I get nothing. Not even the slightest tingle of connection.

The sky is pitch black and the temperature has dropped. I continue my walk around the lake, rubbing my hands up and down my arms to warm myself, but I resolve not to return to camp until I figure this out.

I ran through my entire repertoire of Reading skills today, and none worked except the simplest stone-throw Readings. In which I confirmed things that I already knew: like my parents were still far away and Whit was still trying to reach me.

If Miles’s off-the-cuff theory has any bit of truth to it, then it’s a vicious cycle—the more I disbelieve in the Yara, the less it will work. I can’t just pick and choose what to believe.

Yes, you can! I reassure myself. Surely not everything my clan told me was lies. I have seen the Yara work. I have manipulated it myself.

But I also know that much of what I was taught was lies.

I feel my belief flicker like a flame in wind. I know the Yara exists, I insist, and imagine myself cupping my hands around the flame to protect it.

I whistle toward the woods and click my tongue, and Poe flaps down from a nearby tree to stand next to me on the pebble beach. Crouching, I comb my fingers over his ebony feathers, formulate what I’m going to do in my mind, touch my opal, and try to connect to the Yara.

I believe, I think, and I try my hardest to push all doubts, all feelings of betrayal, as far from me as possible. Nothing happens. Not even a tingle.

I exhale deeply and imagine my tiny flame of faith expanding to the size of a forest fire, and after a second I feel the slightest of buzzes in my fingertips. Yes! I think excitedly, and try to center myself.

I look at Poe and then picture my father in my mind. Poe, can you find my father for me? I think. I imagine the desert setting and try to pass the image to Poe.

Poe stares at me and then shuffles away and starts pecking at some pebbles as if to say he couldn’t care less. Okay, I’ll try something easier then. I grasp my opal and place my hand on Poe once more, this time picturing Miles in my mind. Where is he? I think. Take me to Miles.

Poe cocks his head to one side, as if saying, You know as well as I do where Miles is. But he fluffs his wings and takes off, heading toward the camp. Adrenaline percolates through my veins, and I set off at a run, following Poe through the woods. When we get to the clearing, Poe circles the car once and then lands on the roof. He squawks and, his job complete, begins picking something from his wing with his beak.