The Nobody People by Bob Proehl (manga ereader TXT) 📕

rolls the sleeve back up to expose it, and Emmeline pulls her hand away. She’s very self-conscious about her burn scars even though Fahima has seen them. Fahima reaches out and takes Emmeline by the wrist. She lifts one of the pieces of carnelian to reveal the switch.

“I forgot,” says Emmeline.

“Don’t forget,” Fahima says. She turns the inhibitor on, trying not to notice Emmeline’s wince. It only hurts at the start, she tells herself. Emmeline said the second model wasn’t as uncomfortable as the first and didn’t bother her teeth the same way. This one should be better. Whether it’s actual discomfort or the memory of discomfort, the wince is there.

“It’s got a kinetic charging mechanism,” Fahima says. “It gets power from you moving it. But you need to check it before you go to bed.”

“Where do I check it?” Emmeline asks. Fahima lifts another carnelian, showing a small digital clock. She clicks the jewel back into place. “How do I know which one is which?”

Fahima points to the word carved into the carnelian. Three Arabic letters: nuun, miim, nuun. Nuuns like bowls with diamonds floating over them. Miim a sailboat, traversing the space between them.

“Zaman,” says Fahima. “It means ‘time.’ ”

Emmeline runs her fingers over the engraving, accepting the bracelet as part of her skin, a new scar.

Emmeline is helping Fahima reduce the overall entropy level of the lab when Fahima’s phone buzzes on one of the desks. SARAH, the screen reads.

“What’s up, boss lady?” Fahima asks.

“I need you up in the lobby right now,” Sarah says, then hangs up.

Fahima starts to tell Emmeline to wait for her here, but she knows the girl better than that. Emmeline drops the trash bag she’s holding, and the two of them run toward the elevator. They look like a gender-switched Batman and Robin from the old TV show, headed up an elevator instead of down a fire pole.

When the elevator reaches the lobby, the door is eclipsed by Shen’s extended back, a broad expanse of dark suit coat. Fahima has always wondered how Shen’s clothes expand and contract with him, even considering the possibility that they aren’t clothes but a part of Shen himself.

“Go back downstairs,” he says.

“Sarah called me up,” says Fahima.

Shen looks over his shoulder. “Sorry, Miz Deeb,” he says, stepping aside. Sarah stands in the middle of the lobby, staring down three government agents. Fahima can recognize feds by their cheap almost-matching suits. This was only a matter of time, she thinks.

“You FBI?” Fahima asks as she crosses the lobby.

“Homeland Security,” says the man in the middle. He’s older than the men flanking him, sliding softly into the warm pool of middle age. Growing pudgy and hasn’t shaved in a week. The other two are cookie-cutter white boys, crisp pleats in ill-fitting pants, fresh haircuts.

“You guys used to wear blue shirts,” Fahima says.

The older government man smiles nostalgically. “We haven’t worn those in ten years,” he says. “Only TSA wears the blues now.”

“I’m thinking farther back than that,” Fahima says. The men who took her uncle wore blue, like cartoon cops. These men were dressed more like the FBI agents who took her father. Maybe those departmental distinctions didn’t matter anymore.

“I called our lawyer,” says Sarah. As if summoned, a woman strides into the lobby, heels clacking on the tiles.

“Mom!” Emmeline shouts. She runs across the lobby toward her mother, and Fahima feels a tiny umbilical tug. She can’t tell if she’s pining for Emmeline or missing the feeling of having a mother to run to. She sees one of the Homeland agents’ hands twitch toward his gun. Another takes a step as if to restrain Emmeline, but the older one holds him back. Emmeline grabs her mother tightly around the waist, and her mother returns the hug, if not as enthusiastically.

“Hey, Leen,” Kay says. “It’s great to see you. I need to take care of this thing, okay?”

Emmeline releases her mother, who takes one step and regains her composure. By the second step, she is no longer the mom with the kid wrapped around her knees. She is a shark with a whiff of blood in her nostrils.

“Louis,” she says to the older agent as she marches toward him, “you’d better have the most impeccable warrant or you can hop a plane right back to Chicago.”

“Hello, Kay,” he says. “It’s nice to see you. We have evidence this school is harboring a known terror suspect.” He regards Kay coolly.

“I didn’t hear the word warrant in there,” Kay says.

“An anonymous informant told me Owen Curry was being held at this school,” he says. “He’s wanted in connection with two bombings. The church back home, Kay.” Kay flinches, and Fahima wonders how much Avi’s told her about Owen Curry. Then she wonders how much Avi’s been told about Owen Curry, and in that moment she knows the identity of the anonymous informant.

“Why would you think he’s here?” Sarah says, trying to step in.

“I was told. By someone I trust.” He never breaks eye contact with Kay, and Fahima’s suspicion is confirmed. Sarah looks at Fahima. She knows, too. She told Fahima about the incident with Avi in the lobby earlier in the week, trying to force his way in. That’s what Avi’s been doing since he met them. Sarah’s just the first one to literally shut the door on him.

“You’re not getting anywhere without a warrant,” Kay says, crossing her arms. “So you can pack up your goon squad and go find a judge that’ll take an anonymous informant as sufficient cause.”

“Fine, Kay. We were hoping the folks here would be willing to cooperate, is all.” He turns away from them to the loose knots of students hanging out in the lobby. “Owen Curry is responsible for the deaths of twenty-one people,” he announces. “He is a bad, scary man, and we have reason to believe your teachers are hiding him here at this school. We’re going to come back tomorrow. And every day after that until we find him.