his most charming smile. “You know I’ll convince you. Why don’t you give in now and make this go a lot faster?”
Event: The Infiltration
Date: Oct. 9 (Mon.)
Ishmael spent several minutes encouraging me to drive to Oswald’s camp. I refused for two reasons:
1. Learner’s permits only allow one to drive with a licensed passenger age twenty-one or older.
2. One practice session was not nearly enough for me to be comfortable behind the wheel. At all.
So Ishmael drove, giving me helpful tips along the way. Such as, “If you hit a yellow light, it’s best to gun it” and “No one really pays attention to turn signals.”
It was late when we neared Oswald’s field, which was how I’d come to think of it. Based only on the power of his presence, he’d claimed the field as his own.
“We should walk the rest of the way,” Ishmael said, maneuvering the Jeep down an unpaved side road.
“I didn’t exactly wear appropriate footwear,” I complained.
Ishmael shook his head. “Everyone says you’re the smart one. But look at which of us came prepared.”
“It’s not so much that I didn’t prepare. It’s more that, even during the drive over here, I wasn’t convinced we were actually going through with this.”
My brother gave me a sad look. “Come on, dude. You know me better than that.”
Ishmael got out of the Jeep and I followed. We entered the woods together, my shoes immediately sinking into the muddy ground. A moment later, my foot caught on a tree root and I stumbled.
“Shhh,” Ishmael hissed.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I whispered back.
We crept up on the outskirts of Oswald’s camp. I’d expected a livelier scene. When I passed the Seekers’ camps at night, it always seemed like a party was going on. Campfires lit, people wandering and talking, music playing. What else were you going to do when living in a field with limited resources?
But Oswald’s camp felt military. Everything was neat and tidy and arranged with precision. There was no music. There were no campfires. The only people wandering around looked to be on the way from one task to another.
“Are they all out somewhere?” Ishmael asked.
“I think they’re just…weird.”
“At least you know other people in Lansburg go to bed as early as you.”
I ignored my brother’s jab and scanned the field in front of us. I nodded toward the enormous camper in the middle. “That’s Oswald’s.”
Ishmael snorted. “You think you need to tell me that?”
“What’s the plan?” I asked.
“We try to see inside.”
That seemed like an exceptionally bad idea. But there wasn’t time to tell Ishmael that. He began weaving through tents, not being particularly stealthy about it.
Not to mention, he wore one of his Hawaiian shirts—its primary color was hot pink. If he hadn’t already crossed half of the field, I would’ve asked if he still wanted to brag about being prepared.
When Ishmael reached Oswald’s RV, he turned back and pressed a finger to his lips for quiet, as if I might announce our presence with a trumpet. Then he peeked into a window, the bottom of which was level with his eyes. Feeling undignified, I stood on my tiptoes to peer inside as well.
The curtains were sheer enough to see through. The tastefully understated track lighting bathed the interior in a warm glow.
“This camper is nicer than our house,” Ishmael whispered.
Our house was built a century ago and sparingly updated. It wasn’t exactly challenging to find nicer dwellings.
Inside the RV, Oswald had his back to us. He raised a hand and tilted his head back, taking a long swig of a drink.
I watched eagerly. I wanted to see after-hours Oswald, inebriated enough to drop the charade.
He turned slightly and revealed the bottle in his hand.
Not alcohol, but a myTality™ Shake It Up. Anger welled up inside of me. Did the man ever stop performing?
Oswald wandered around the camper, looking around absently, like he was waiting. Nothing was out of place. Not a scrap of paper, not a discarded water bottle. It was pristine, even by my standards.
I rested back on my heels, annoyed and disappointed. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. Maybe I thought we’d catch Oswald filling bottles marked “alien juice” from gallons of distilled water. Reading How to Win Friends and Influence People. Something. Anything.
“Oh shit,” Ishmael said, reaching over and tugging on my sleeve.
I immediately boosted myself back onto my toes and peered into the window.
Oswald wasn’t alone. A girl had emerged from what I assumed to be the bedroom area of the