Then I saw a train station: Thirty-third Street. The Institute’s building was on Thirty-first Street. In the darkness of the waking-dream subway tunnel, I saw a filthy rusted-over grate. I saw myself pulling the grate up. Fetid brown water gurgled below. Bleah—it was the sewer system, beneath the city.
Hello.
Beneath a rainbow . . .
Bingo, Max, said my Voice.
My eyes popped wide open. Fang was watching me with concern. “Now what?”
“I know what we have to do,” I said. “Wake everyone up.”
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“This way,” I said, walking in the darkness of the tunnels. It was as if a detailed map was imprinted on my retinas, so I could see it laid over reality, tracing the path we needed to follow. If this map effect was part of my life forever, I would go nuts, but right now it was dang useful.
One other thing I guess I should mention—I was really, really afraid now, more afraid than I’d ever been before, and I didn’t even know why. Maybe I didn’t want to know the truth. Also, my head was throbbing, and that had me a little crazy too. Was I approaching my expiration date? Was I going to die? Was I just going to fall over and be gone from the world and my friends?
“Did the Voice tell you about this, Max?” Nudge poked at me and asked.
“Kind of,” I answered.
“Great,” I heard Iggy mutter, but I ignored him. Every step was bringing us closer to the Institute—I could feel it. We were finally about to have our questions answered, and also possibly fight the worst fight of our lives. But our curiosity was so compelling: Who were we? How had they taken us from our parents? Who had grafted avian DNA into us and why? My mind shied away from the parent question. I really didn’t know if I could stand to find out. But everything in me burned to know the other whys and wherefores. I wanted names. I wanted to know who was accountable. I wanted to know where they lived.
“Okay, now the tunnel splits,” I said, “and we take the one with no tracks.”
Angel’s hand was in mine, small and trusting. The Gasman was still dopey with sleep, occasionally stumbling. Iggy had one finger in Fang’s belt loop.
We were looking for a rusted grate set in the floor. In my dream, I had seen it at the crossroads of two tunnels, so it had to be here. But I didn’t see it. I stopped, and the others stopped behind me.
“It has to be here,” I said under my breath, peering into the darkness.
Don’t think about what has to be, Max. Think about what is.
I set my jaw. Can’t you just tell me stuff straight out? I thought. Why did everything have to be like, “What is the sound of one hand clapping” and all?
But okay. What was here, then? I closed my eyes and just sensed where I was, consciously letting any impression at all come to me. I felt like such a total dweeb.
Then I just walked forward, eyes shut, trying to sense where we should go. Instinctively, I felt I should stop. So I stopped. I looked down.
There, at my feet, was the dim outline of a large rusted grate.
Well, aren’t you special, I told myself. “It’s over here,” I called.
The grate pulled up easily, its screws disintegrating into rusty powder as Fang, Iggy, and I pulled. It came loose, and we set it aside.
Below it was a manhole with rusted U-shaped handholds set into one side. I lowered myself over the edge and started climbing down into the sewer system of New York City.
What a destiny.
Finally, I had to ask the Voice a question. HAD TO ASK. Am I going to die? Is that what this is all about?
There was a pause, a long one, really agonizing, the worst.
Then the Voice decided to answer. Yes, Max, you are going to die. Just like everybody else.
Thank you, Confucious.
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