Chapter 1: The Quickening (Rewritten)

  South of France. Late Summer.

  I passed an electric pole with a paper flapping against it in the warm breeze.

  Missing: Sanrod Bricada. 16 years old.

  If you have seen him, contact 571-893-723.

  I tore the notice off and stared at the picture. Green eyes, messy brown hair, a half-smile on a young, tired face.

  It was me.

  I laughed — not because it was funny, but because it was ridiculous. I had walked all the way to the south of France and still couldn’t outrun the shadow of who I was. But I wasn’t safe yet. No, not until I crossed the border and carried on with the plan.

  I kept walking. Two hours later, just outside a small village, a squeaky old cart pulled up beside me. The driver was a pretty blonde girl, probably just a few years older than me. She looked at me, curious but not afraid.

  "You look half-dead," she said. "Need a lift?"

  "I wouldn't say no," I replied, tossing my worn-out bag into the back.

  She gestured to the passenger bench. "Name?"

  "Edward Bricknose," I lied with a smile.

  She snorted. "Seriously?"

  "Dead serious."

  She gave me a side glance. “Nately.”

  “Where you headed, Nately?”

  “To the coast, near Spain. Visiting family. Escaping family. It’s complicated.”

  She talked a lot—about her parents, her ex, her dreams of living on a boat. I nodded, half-listening, half-dozing. When she asked where I was going, I gave her a made-up story about being a champion swimmer on my way to compete in the Olympics. Told her I was twenty-six. She believed me. The mustache probably helped.

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  Eventually, she stopped the cart near a dusty cliffside overlooking a bay.

  "This is as far as I go," she said.

  I thanked her and jumped down. In two more days, I reached the sea. Thirty-four boats lay moored in the bay. My eyes fell on one — a sleek blue schooner named Ecstasy. She was beautiful. Double-masted, wooden, about thirty meters long. And she looked abandoned.

  I dropped my bag and leather coat on the sand and swam out to her. The water was cold and clear. There was no easy way up — only a rope ladder too high to reach from the water.

  So I swam back to shore, found an old fishing boat with a small anchor, and lugged it through the waves to the schooner. It was just enough weight to hook myself up over the side. With effort, I pulled myself onto the deck. The boat creaked gently beneath me. She was in perfect shape — smooth wooden floors, polished rails, no leaks. Below deck, I found a simple engine, which I quickly dismantled and tossed overboard. I wouldn’t need it. I was going to sail her old-school.

  She had twelve bunks, a full galley, two jibs, a mainsail. I could feel it: this boat was built for speed.

  I swam back for my gear, bundled it above my head, and climbed aboard. I stayed low, hoping no one had seen me. But even if they had — in less than an hour, I’d be gone.

  I needed supplies.

  The small town nearby had a general store and a police station. I found a sturdy wooden club first — just in case. Then I walked into the store.

  “Excuse me, where’s the police station?”

  The storekeeper pointed left. "Four minutes that way. You can’t miss it. You just visiting?"

  “Actually,” I said, grinning, “I’m here to rob you.”

  He blinked. I pulled the club out and knocked him unconscious with a single swing.

  I grabbed a basket, threw in canned food, dried goods, bottled water, anything that looked useful. Then I ran outside and waited by an alley near the police station.

  Within minutes, the storekeeper came stumbling in. A few officers ran past me in a panic toward the shop.

  I slipped inside the police station behind them, club at the ready. I took one officer down before he even turned around, grabbed his gun, found another in a drawer. Ammunition taped underneath. Smart, but not smart enough.

  I walked out, collected my stolen goods, and made my way to the shore.

  There was a fisherman preparing to row out.

  “Mind if I join you?” I asked.

  “Where to?”

  "Just out in the bay. That blue schooner over there — beautiful, isn’t she?"

  He shrugged. “Sure. But we don’t touch anything, alright?”

  “Scout’s honor,” I lied again.

  Halfway there, I pointed overboard. “Hey, what’s that in the water?”

  He leaned over.

  I shoved him hard.

  He splashed into the sea, sputtering curses.

  I grabbed my basket, climbed up, cut his boat loose, and released Ecstasy from her mooring.

  As I sailed away, he floated behind, yelling obscenities and threats.

  I set the sails with shaking hands.

  Free at last