Nanobots, Murder, and Other Family Problems

I take a last look at the picture of Mom, now standing in one corner of my desk, then step toward the door of my cell. The panel of wood and steel is all that stands between me and my new school. I’ve never been great with new social situations. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming my nerves like Mom taught me. Breathe, calm, breathe. I can do this. I try not to think about how much I miss her, how alone I feel. I turn the doorknob and pull.

The clean, white walls of the dorm corridor are broken every dozen feet with another door like mine. The one right across from me reads “Marc.” I glance at a couple of others and don’t see any last names, or even last initials. I guess the student body here at the Butler Institute must be small enough that they don’t have a lot of repeat first names.

I don’t see anyone else in the hallway. The squeaks of my shoes echo down the corridor. Ahead, I hear the murmur of many voices. I force my feet to carry me forward with all the confidence I can muster. I’m so confident that my hands are shaking and my mind is screaming at me to get back into my cell and hide until someone forcibly pulls me out. I ignore my impulses for self-preservation and continue walking until I turn the corner into the enormous common room. The quiet roar of voices goes suddenly silent. I feel the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes staring at me.

The other students run the whole spectrum from near my age down to elementary school. I feel like I somehow stepped into one of those stupid college recruiting brochures where all the pictures are perfect models of diversity, and everyone is looking at you and smiling. Why are they all smiling at me? And why do they all seem vaguely familiar in a way I can’t quite place?

The smart part of my brain with the social skills in it tells me to smile back, wave, and introduce myself, but the lizard part in charge of self-preservation screams again and tries to push me back to my room. The smart part of me doesn’t stand a chance of taking control, but at least it stops me from running. That wouldn’t do any good now—they know I’m here.

One of them steps toward me, a guy nearly as tall as I am with short blond hair styled in a carefully messy way. He looks like he’s about my age, maybe a little younger, but he’s built like a football player. He swaggers like one too. Must be the captain of the team, or the student body president, or whatever the top of the food chain is in this weird little school. The rest of the kids hang back, their eyes still fixed on me like I’m a new, exotic, and maybe dangerous exhibit at the zoo.

“Noah Kimball?” he asks, his smile showing a mouth full of bright white teeth. I know I’ve never met him before, but I could swear that I’ve seen his face somewhere. He extends a hand. I’m supposed to shake it, but my fight-or-flight instincts are still grappling for control and all I can do is look at it, then look back up at his face. One of the younger kids off to one side whispers something I can’t catch and the guy’s smile fades.

“Noah?” he says again, more like a real question this time. I force myself to give a nod in response. He pastes the smile back on his face, but it looks forced now. “I’m Chad Butler. Welcome to the Butler Institute.”

Chad Butler? As in, the son of the institute’s founder? No wonder this guy has an entitled look to him. Wait. That would make him my father’s son. My brother. No, that can’t be right. I don’t have a brother. I would definitely know if I had a brother. Mom wouldn’t have kept me in the dark about that.

I’m still processing when he seems to decide that he’s given me enough of a chance to shake his hand. He steps closer to give me a too-familiar pat on the shoulder instead. “I heard you’ve had a rough few weeks,” he says quietly. “I’m sure you’ll come around.” He turns away. “Come on everyone, clear out. Let’s give the new guy a little space.”