That afternoon Risa says her good-bye, and Audrey insists on stocking Risa up with supplies and money and a sturdy new backpack that has neither hearts nor pandas.

“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you,” Audrey says, just before she leaves.

“Tell me what?”

“It was just on the news. They announced that your friend Connor is still alive.”

It’s the best news Risa’s gotten in a long time . . . but then she quickly comes to realize the announcement is not a good thing at all. Now that the Juvenile Authority knows he’s alive, they’ll be beating every bush for him.

“Do they have any idea where he is?” Risa asks.

Audrey shakes her head. “No clue. In fact, they think he’s with you.”

If only that were true. But even when Connor shows up in her dreams, he’s not with her. He’s running. He’s always running.

29 • Cam

Lunch with the general and the senator is in the dark recesses of the Wrangler’s Club—perhaps the most expensive, most exclusive restaurant in Washington, DC. Secluded leather booths, each in its own pool of light, and a complete lack of windows gives the illusion that time has been stopped by the importance of one’s conversation. The outside world doesn’t exist when one dines in the Wrangler’s Club.

As Cam and Roberta are walked in by the hostess, he spots faces he thinks he recognizes. Senators or congressmen, perhaps. People he’s seen at the various high-profile galas he’s attended. Or maybe it’s just his imagination. These self-important folk, wheeling and dealing, all begin to look alike after a while. He suspects that the ones he doesn’t recognize are the real power brokers. That’s the way it always is. Lobbyists for surreptitious special interests he couldn’t begin to guess at. Proactive Citizenry does not have a monopoly on secret influence.

“Best foot forward,” Roberta tells Cam as they are led to their booth.

“And which one is that?” he asks. “You’d know better than me.”

She doesn’t respond to his barb. “Just remember that what happens today could define your future.”

“And yours,” Cam points out.

Roberta sighs. “Yes. And mine.”

General Bodeker and Senator Cobb are already at the table. The general rises to meet them, and the senator also tries to slide out of the booth, but he’s foiled by his copious gut.

“Please, don’t get up,” says Roberta.

He gives up. “The burgers win every time,” he says.

They all settle in, share obligatory handshakes and obsequious niceties. They discuss the unpredictable weather, raining one minute, sunny the next. The senator sings the praises of the pan-seared scallops, which is today’s special.

“Anaphylactic,” Cam blurts out. “That is, I mean, I’m allergic to scallops. At least my shoulders and upper arms are. I get the worst rash.”

The general is intrigued. “Really. But just there?”

“And I’ll bet he can’t do any brown-nosing on account of his nose is allergic to chocolate,” says Senator Cobb, and guffaws so loudly it rattles the water glasses.

They order, and once the appetizers arrive, the two men finally get down to the business at hand.

“We see you as a military man, Cam,” says the general, “and Proactive Citizenry agrees.”

Cam moves his fork around in his endive salad. “You want to make me into a boeuf.”

General Bodeker bristles. “That’s an unfair characterization of young people who are military minded.”

Senator Cobb waves his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, we all know the official military opinion of the word—but that’s not what we’re saying Cam. You’d bypass traditional training and go straight into the officer program—and on the fast track, to boot!”

“I can offer you any branch of the military you like,” Bodeker says.

“Let it be the Marines,” Roberta says, and when Cam looks at her, she says, “Well, I know you had that in mind—and they have the crispest uniforms.”

The senator puts out his hand, as if chopping wood. “The point is, you would float through the program, learn what you need to learn lickety-split, and emerge as an official spokesperson for the military, with all the perks that come with it.”

“You’d be a model for young people everywhere,” adds Bodeker.

“And for your kind,” adds Cobb.

Cam looks up at that. “I don’t have a ‘kind,’ ” he tells them, which makes the two men look to Roberta.

She puts down her fork and composes her response carefully. “You once described yourself as a ‘concept car,’ Cam. Well, what the good senator and general are saying is that they like the concept.”

“I see.”

The main course arrives. Cam ordered the prime rib—a favorite of someone or another in his head. The first taste brings him back to a sister’s wedding. He has no idea where, or who the sister is. She had blond hair, but her face did not make the cut into his brain. He wonders if that kid—if any kid inside him—would have ever been offered a crisp uniform. He knows the answer is no, and he feels insulted for them.

Brakes in the rain. He must apply them slowly, so as not to set this meeting fishtailing out of control. “It’s a very generous offer,” Cam says. “And I’m honored to be considered.” He clears his throat. “And I know you all have my best interests at heart.” He meets eyes with the general, then with the senator. “But it’s not something I want to do at this”—he searches for a suitably Washingtonian word—“at this juncture.”

The senator just stares at him, all jovialness gone from his voice. “Not something you want to do at this juncture . . . ,” he repeats.

And, predictable as clockwork, Roberta leaps in with, “What Cam means to say is he needs time to consider it.”

“I thought you said this would be a slam dunk, Roberta.”

“Well, maybe if you were a little more elegant in your approach—”

Then General Bodeker puts up his hand to silence them.

“Perhaps you don’t understand,” the general says with calm control. “Let me explain it to you.” He waits until Cam puts down his fork, then proceeds. “Until last week you were the property of Proactive Citizenry. But they have sold their interest in you for a sizeable sum. You are now the property of the United States military.”

“Property?” says Cam. “What do you mean, ‘Property’?”

“Now, Cam,” says Roberta, working her best damage control. “It’s only a word.”

“It’s more than a word!” insists Cam. “It’s an idea—an idea that, according to the history expert somewhere in my left brain, was abolished in 1865.”

The senator starts to bluster, but the general keeps his cool. “That applies to individuals, which you are not. You are a collection of very specific parts, each one with a distinct monetary value. We’ve paid more than one hundred times that value for the unique manner those parts have been organized, but in the end, Mr. Comprix . . . parts is parts.”

“So there you have it,” says the senator bitterly. “You wanna leave? Then go on; git outta here. Just as long as you leave all those parts of yours behind.”

Cam’s breathing is out of control. Dozens of separate tempers inside of him join and flare all at once. He wants to dump the table. Hurl the plates at their heads.

Property!

They see him as property!

His worst fear is realized; even the people who venerate him see him as a commodity. A thing.

Roberta, seeing that look in his eyes, grabs his hand. “Look at me, Cam!” she orders.

He does, knowing deep down that making a scene will be the worst thing he can do for himself. He needs her to talk him down.

“Thirty pieces of silver!” he shouts. “Brutus! Rosenbergs!”

“I am not a traitor! I am true to you, Cam. This deal was made without my knowledge. I’m as furious as you, but we both must make the best of it.”

His head is swimming. “Grassy knoll!”

“It’s not a conspiracy either! Yes, I knew about it when I brought you here—but I also knew that telling you would be a mistake.” She throws an angry glare at the two men. “Because if it were your choice, the technical issue of ownership need never have come up.”

“Out of the bag.” Cam forces his breathing to slow and his flaring temper to drop into a smolder. “Close the barn door. The horses are gone.”

“What the hell is he babbling about?” snaps the senator.

“Quiet!” Roberta orders. “Both of you!” The fact that Roberta can quiet a senator and a general with a single word feels like some sort of victory. Regardless of who and what they own, they are not in charge here. At least not at this juncture.

Cam knows that anything out of his mouth will be just another spark of metaphorical language—the way he spoke when he was first rewound, but he doesn’t care.

“Lemon,” he says.

The two men glance around the table in search of a lemon. “No.” Cam takes a bite of prime rib, forcing himself to calm down enough to better translate his thoughts. “What I mean is that no matter what you paid for me, you’ve thrown away your money if I don’t perform.”

The senator is still perplexed, but General Bodeker nods. “You’re saying that we bought ourselves a lemon.”

Cam takes another bite. “Gold star for you.”

The two men look to each other, shifting uncomfortably. Good. That’s exactly what he wants.

“But if I do perform, then everybody gets what they want.”

“So we’re back where we started,” says Bodeker, with waning patience.

“But at least now we understand each other.” Cam considers the situation. Considers Roberta, who is all but wringing her hands with anxiety now. Then he turns to the two men. “Tear up your contract with Proactive Citizenry,” he says. “Void it. And then I’ll sign my own contract that commits me to whatever you want me to do. So that it’s my decision rather than a purchase.”

That seems to baffle all three of them.

“Is that possible?” asks the senator.

“Technically he’s still a minor,” Roberta says.

“Technically I don’t exist,” Cam reminds her. “Isn’t that right?”

No one answers.

“So,” says Cam. “Make me exist on paper. And on that same paper, I’ll sign over my life to you. Because I choose to.”

The general looks to the senator, but the senator just shrugs. So General Bodeker turns to Cam and says:

“We’ll consider it and get back to you.”

• • •

Cam stands in his room in his DC residence, staring at the back of the closed door.

This town house is the place he comes back to after the various speaking trips. Roberta calls it “going home.” To Cam this does not feel like home. The mansion in Molokai is home, and yet he hasn’t been back there for months. He suspects he may never be allowed to go back again. After all, it was more a nursery than a residence for him. It was where he was rewound. It was where he was taught who he was—what he was—and learned how to coordinate his diverse “internal community.”