Zia leaned forward, processing this information. “Are all the powers transferable?”
Her father took a bite of his food, considering the matter. “If they are, the government either doesn’t know about it or doesn’t give that sort of information to the public.”
“They must not be,” Charity said. “Otherwise, wouldn’t most Empowereds give away their abilities so they’re no longer hunted by the government?”
“Maybe not,” her father said. “I’ve never tried to give mine away. Perhaps it’s human nature to hold onto a superpower even if it puts you in danger. The benefits seem to outweigh the risks. Or perhaps transferring powers can’t be done unless one is dying. I haven’t tried that yet, either.”
Milo turned to the end of the sketchbook. The last square simply saidBen’s eyes. “What’s does the entry about Dad’s eyes mean?”
“It was just that,” their father said. “I saw a vision of my eyes looking startled. I’ve no idea what it means, but it’s the last vision on my timeline so far.”
Charity’s mother forced a smile and took the sketchbook from Milo. “It could mean anything, really. A surprise doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad is going to happen. Maybe it’s the last vision because we’ll be at New Salem after that, and we’ll be safe from everything.”
Gregor snorted. “Thatwouldbe a startling surprise.”
Charity turned to her father and pressed the point. “When you saw your face looking startled, did you seem happy or afraid?”
“It wasn’t my face, only an extreme close-up of one of my eyes. My eye widened, and my pupil suddenly dilated in surprise.”
Charity had never even considered what her pupils did when she was surprised. Why would the visions show her father that?
She knew her parents had meant to reassure the rest of the family by showing them the list of visions. But that last vision didn’t reassure her at all.
7
It was midday before Enzo reached the farm compound. He’d been dropped off a few miles down the road, far enough away that no one from the farm’s surveillance tower would see him get out of a car. He hiked the rest of the way.
His shoes looked sufficiently dusty, and his clothes were rumpled and sweaty. He carried a backpack with the sort of provisions one would expect from someone who’d struck out on their own from the city. Food. Cash. Clothes. Insect repellant. A solar charger for his phone. Some electronics he would claim he’d taken to barter with.
Headquarters had given him a master key that could unlock most doors or safes—tech that only the government had. That would be harder to explain. He’d hidden it inside a sandwich and hoped harvesters didn’t search people’s food that closely.
His watch had a phone function and tracker to let Schmitt know his location. Another tracker had been embedded under his skin near his armpit.
He was just here to gather intel, he kept telling himself. Shouldn’t be important enough to raise a psychic’s suspicions.
He rang the bell at the gate, and a humorless security guard asked what he wanted. When Enzo told him he was looking for harvesting work, the man did a quick and useless search of his things—really, whatever the farmer paid him was too much—and directed him to the first bunkhouse to speak with Ben Huntington, the co-op leader.
Enzo tromped that way, automatically making note of the row of rundown bunkhouses on the rise bordering the fields. They were made of weathered wood with tin roofs. A half a dozen small shacks were huddled close together—most likely the housing for married couples. Four much larger but still just as dilapidated buildings lined up next to those. That’s where the single workers slept, no doubt stacked one on top of each other in rickety bunk beds. Three cinderblock buildings broke up the line. Those would be the restrooms and a kitchen.
Animals grazed in a pasture behind the bunkhouses. Crops covered multiple fields. Melons, tomatoes, and peaches, headquarters had told him. A large storage shed faced the row of bunkhouses as though keeping watch on them. Several dented and scratched trucks lined a dirt road that ran in front of the bunkhouses. A few men and women in dirty work clothes wandered around the area, carrying boxes. They all appeared to be in their twenties. Music blared from an open doorway.
Two men working on a Jeep noticed him, got up, and ambled over to intercept him. Enzo recognized one from the pictures he’d seen in Schmitt’s office—the man who defeated the raiders at the market. A possible telekinetic. He wore a glove on his left hand, probably the hand that had been wounded. It wouldn’t be all the way healed yet.
The other man was taller and had a thinner build. A cowboy hat hid most of his dark blond hair, but the two men’s features were similar enough that they might be brothers.
The man from the market eyed Enzo. “Can I help you?”
Enzo smiled. “I hope so. I’m looking for work.”
The man’s gaze went over him again. “Harvester work?”
Did Enzo lookthatout of place? Wrong sort of shoes? He nodded. “Yes. The security guard said I should talk to Ben Huntington.”
The taller man spoke. “Today’s our last day here picking melons and peaches.”
Enzo adjusted his backpack. “Right. But the guard said you’d be moving on to another project, and I figured if you needed help there, I could go with you.”
The taller man cocked his head and checked behind Enzo. “We’ve already got twenty-six people on our crew, so we don’t have room for many more. Are you alone, or are you asking for some companions too?”