She reminds me of the youngest cadets at the training base on Telnis—a whole generation of wide-eyed warriors-in-waiting. But those cadets never asked questions. They obeyed. Respected. Feared. She does none of those.
Shelikesme.
I can’t decide if that’s more terrifying than an ambush.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, hopping up. “Got a science test. But after that, I’m free. We can talk more about Earth spy culture and your weird accent.”
“My accent is fine.”
“No, it’s weird.”
She jogs away before I can respond, calling over her shoulder, “BYE, ALIEN MACGYVER!”
I watch her disappear behind the fence. And for the first time in what feels like lifetimes, I don’t feel the weight of exile pressing quite so hard on my back.
She’s ten. She thinks I’m suspicious.
But somehow, she makes this strange little world feel just a little more like a home.
CHAPTER 6
VANESSA
Of all the things that could go wrong before my first cup of coffee, the backyard deciding to reenact Old Faithful wasn’t on my bingo card.
It starts with a sputter. Then a hiss. And then all hell breaks loose.
One second I’m sipping instant coffee from a chipped “World’s Okayest Mom” mug, trying to remember if I paid the gas bill. The next, I hear a sound like a dragon snorting steam—followed by a sharppop—and a geyser erupts next to the fence. Water shoots straight up and sideways, catching the edge of the garage next door like it personally insulted my plumbing.
“Shit!”
I fly out the screen door in my paint-stained sweatpants and a tank top that’s definitely not rated for public appearances. My flip-flops slap against the wet patio stones as I scramble toward the shutoff valve, wrench in hand, dodging arcs of water like they’re enemy fire. The sprinkler’s gone rogue, spinning in chaotic bursts, and every time I get close, it swings back to douse me with righteous vengeance.
“I’m trying to fix you, you damn demon pipe!”
Sammy’s at the kitchen window, holding her tablet up to record. Of course she is.
“Mom! You’re trending in our neighborhood Facebook group already!”
“Oh, I’ll trend your butt right back inside?—!”
“Too late! Live-streaming!”
Another blast hits me square in the chest. Cold. Relentless. I shriek—half frustration, half hypothermia—and stumble back, soaked to the skin, dripping from my bangs to my waistband.
That’s when I hear him.
“Is this a local weather event,” a voice asks, deep and slow and perplexingly calm, “or have your defenses malfunctioned?”
I whip around.
And immediately forget every word I’ve ever learned.
He stands half in shadow, backlit by morning sun and a wall of glistening mist. Shirtless. Every inch of him sculpted like he was born from stone and war crimes. The man is mythic. Herculean. Wet. There’s water beading along the sharp cut of his collarbone and sliding down a chest that has absolutely no business being that firm outside of Marvel movies or Greek epics.
He’s holding what appears to be a garden rake modified with suspiciously not-garden attachments—metal tubing, maybe a laser rangefinder, something that looks like a tactical grip. It’s painted green to blend in. Poorly.
My brain blue-screens.
