All Good Children - Catherine Austen [96]
“That’s why we’re leaving,” Mom says. “We don’t like what’s going on at home.”
The redhead laughs at her. “Took you a while.”
Dallas stands tall and clears his throat. “I quit my job because of it, years ago.” He looks indignant and ashamed at the same time, a disgusted doctor, man against society. “And now we’re leaving the country, risking everything we have, risking our children’s futures because we don’t want to be part of it anymore.”
The guard looks him up and down, sees a middle-aged rich bastard on the run.
“We don’t allow any companies, public or private, to test or prescribe medications on their employees or students or clients or soldiers or prisoners or anybody else without permission. Do you understand? This is not the world you’re used to, doctor. This is not the world that you belong in.”
At the car, the taller guard whistles. He’s holding open the blue pillowcase that was stuffed in Mom’s suitcase. He pulls out a handful of coins, gold chains and pearls dangling from his fist. The redhead whistles too. All three of them look at us like we’re filth, like we peeled these jewels from helpless old invalids before we experimented on them.
The tall guard puts the pillowcase to one side, closes Mom’s suitcase and sets it down with the others.
“Put that back in!” I shout.
“Max,” Mom whispers.
I look at her—she’s scared, cold, confused and guilty. I shake my head, turn back to the guard beside the car. “You can’t have that. My friend gave that to me to help us get away. I won’t let you take it.”
He laughs. “All right, kid. You can stop me.” He and his short buddy haul my tent in front of the car and start unrolling it.
“Put it back!” I shout.
The redhead chuckles, steps in front of me, his hand on his holster.
“You can’t take our stuff,” I tell him.
“Max, stop,” Mom says.
“No.” I step forward. The guard steps forward. We’re one foot apart, staring in each other’s eyes. He smiles like he can’t wait.
“You talk about my parents like you know who they are,” I say. “But here you three are in your own little world with no cameras watching you, and you think you can do whatever you want to us. I bet you look forward to people like us trying to cross, don’t you? You can take our stuff if you want to, call us names, lecture us, make us stand here in the cold while my little sister’s teeth chatter.”
He takes a step back, cocks his head, lets me finish.
“What do you know about our lives? Who are you to judge us?” I shout. “What is the difference between what you’re doing right now and what people in power have done where we’re coming from? What exactly is the difference? I want to know.”
He says nothing. He’s not smiling now, just looking at me, biting his tongue.
“You’re no different than any other adult I ever met in my life.”
He nods, raises his eyebrows, nods some more. “They sure didn’t drug you, did they?” He laughs out loud, one harsh snort, and nods some more until my adrenaline drains and I’m shaking with nerves and cold.
“Pick your coats up,” he says.
“Gavin!” the taller guard shouts from in front of the car.
“You’re never going to believe this!”
They’ve set my tent up in the road, the whole thing, poles up, flaps down. I don’t know how they did it so fast. They must be regular campers.
The spotlights blaze down on it. It’s gray and ugly on the damp cold road. WITHSTAND glares black and fierce across the wrinkled canvas walls, and all my people live safe inside it in the dark. All I can think is, Man, that is some magnificent work of art, some flash of brilliance passed through me when I made that.
The front flaps open and the short guard peeks out, holding a flashlight, smiling. “This is it,” he tells the redhead. “I think this is actually it.”
Mom helps Ally button her coat. She sniffs back her tears. “I don’t know what to do,” she says. She looks at Dallas. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know where to go.”
He shrugs. “There must be other places. Places where the id cards aren’t used yet.”
“We can go back to