Unwind (Unwind Dystology 1)

A school bus approaches from the other direction. The kids at the corner begin gathering their things. Now, at last, there's permission to run without looking out of place. Connor begins it, taking a few strides ahead of Risa and Lev, then turns back, calling with a calculated whine, "C'mon, you guys— we're gonna miss the bus again!"

The cop car's right beside them now. Connor keeps his back to it and doesn't turn to see if the officers inside are watching them. If they are, hopefully they'll just hear the conversation and assume this is normal morning mayhem, and not think twice. Lev's version of "acting natural" is walking with wide eyes and arms stiff by his side like he's crossing a minefield. So much for being inconspicuous. "Do you have to walk so slow?" Connor yells. "If I get another tardy, I'll get detention."

The squad car rolls past them. Up ahead, the bus nears the stop. Connor, Risa, and Lev hurry across the street toward it— all part of the charade, just in case the cops are watching them through their rearview mirror. Of course, thinks Connor, it could backfire on them, and the cops could cite them for jaywalking.

"Are we really going to get on the bus?" asks Lev.

"Of course not," says Risa.

Now Connor dares to glance at the cop car. Its blinker is on. It's going to turn the corner, and once it does, they'll be safe. . . . But then the school bus stops and turns on its blinking red lights as it opens its door—and anyone who's ever ridden a school bus knows that when those red lights start blinking, all traffic around them must stop and wait until the bus moves on.

The cop car comes to a halt a dozen yards short of the corner, waiting until the bus is finished loading. That means that the cop car will still be sitting right there when the bus pulls away. "We're screwed," Connor says. "Now we have to get on the bus."

It's as they reach the sidewalk that a sound which has been too faint and too low-priority to care about suddenly snares Connor's attention. The crying baby.

At the house in front of them, there's a bundle on the porch. The bundle is moving.

Connor instantly knows what this is. He's seen it before. He's seen a storked baby twice on his own doorstep. Even though it's not the same baby, he stops in his tracks as if it is.

"C'mon, Billy, you'll miss the bus!"

"Huh?"

It's Risa. She and Lev are a few yards ahead of him. She speaks to Connor through gritted teeth. "C'mon, 'Billy.' Don't be an idiot."

Kids have already started piling onto the bus. The police car sits motionless behind the blinking red lights.

Connor tries to make himself move, but can't. It's because of the baby. Because of the way it wails. This is not the same baby! Connor tells himself. Don't he stupid. Not now!

"Connor," whispers Risa, "what's wrong with you?"

Then the door of the house opens. There's a fat little kid at the door—six, maybe seven. He stares down at the baby. "Aw, no way!" Then he turns and calls back into the house, "Mom! We've been storked again!"

Most people have two emergency modes. Fight and Flight. But Connor always knew he had three: Fight, Flight, and Screw Up Royally. It was a dangerous mental short circuit. The same short circuit that made him race back toward armed Juvey-cops to rescue Lev instead of just saving himself. He could feel it kicking in again right now. He could feel his brain starting to fry. "We've been storked again," the fat kid had said. Why did he have to say "again"? Connor might have been all right if he hadn't said "again."

Don't do it! Connor tells himself. This is not the same baby!

But to some deep, unreasoning part of his brain, they're all the same baby.

Going against all sense of self-preservation, Connor bolts straight for the porch. He approaches the door so quickly, the kid looks up at him with terrified eyes and backs into his mother, an equally plump woman who has just arrived at the door. Her face wears an unwelcoming scowl. She stares at Connor, then spares a quick glance down at the crying baby, but she makes no move toward it.

"Who are you?" she demands. The little boy now hides behind her like a cub behind a mother grizzly. "Did you put this here? Answer me!" The baby continues to cry.

"No . . . No, I—"

"Don't lie to me!"

He doesn't know what he hoped to accomplish coming here. This is none of his business, not his problem. But now he's made it his problem.

And behind him the bus is still loading kids. The police car is still there, waiting. Connor could have very well just ended his life by coming to this house.

Then there's a voice behind him. "He didn't put it there. 1 did."

Connor turns to see Risa. Her face is stony. She won't even look at Connor. She just glares at the woman, whose beady eyes shift from Connor to Risa.

"You got caught in the act, little dearie," she says. The words "little dearie" come out like a curse. "The law might let you stork, but only if you don't get caught. So take your baby and go, before I call those cops over."

Connor tries desperately to unfry his brain. "But . . . but . . ."