Struck by Jennifer Bosworth Page B

the tent. No … not unconscious. His eyes were open, but twitching, as though he was experiencing some sort of waking REM sleep.
    “What happened to him?” My voice clawed its way through my throat. Tears continued to seep from my stinging eyes.
    Jeremy shrugged and looked away. “Maybe he’s epileptic.”
    “That’s convenient.” Before I had time to fully express my suspicion that Jeremy had done something to the guard,Rosemary shot from the Dealer’s tent and charged into the crowd.
    “Doggy!” a little boy with a severely runny nose shouted. His mother pulled him out of Rosemary’s path just in time to avoid his getting rammed.
    The growing crowd surrounded us.
    “We should probably run now,” Jeremy said.
    “Definitely,” I agreed.
    We took off through the path the rottweiler had cut and didn’t stop until Tentville was behind us.

10
    AS SOON AS we stopped running, I started crying. I couldn’t help it.
    I had failed. I didn’t get Mom’s meds, and now my only black market connection might be dead.
    Dead. Because of me.
    At least my tears cleared the remnants of pepper spray from my eyes.
    About a block from my house, I was able to get control of myself. I sniffed and wiped at my face and avoided Jeremy’s eyes. He was so quiet I finally had to say something to break the silence. I didn’t really feel like talking, but I figured it might help me get my mind off the fact that I was probably directly responsible for a man’s death.
    I had so many questions for Jeremy; I didn’t know where to begin. But when I opened my mouth, what came out was more of a statement. “You’re not actually enrolled at Skyline, are you.”
    He took his time deciding on an answer. “No.”
    “And you weren’t there for aid.”
    “No.”
    “So what were you doing there?”
    He glanced at me, but for once his eyes were unreadable.
    I decided to switch to a different line of questioning. Or accusing. “You’ve been hanging around my house.”
    Jeremy staggered a little and looked alarmed. “You saw me?” The blood disappeared from his face.
    “No, my mom saw you. And Militiaman Brent saw you after school today. He thinks you’re a stalker.”
    Jeremy looked confused for a second, and then strangely relieved. “Outside,” he muttered to himself. “They saw me outside.” He took a breath and let it out. “I’m not a—Who’s Militiaman Brent?”
    “One of the neighborhood militia guys. His name is Brent. He likes his Taser a lot, so you might want to steer clear of him.”
    Jeremy nodded, and the anger gathered in his eyes again. “I remember him. If he hadn’t run me off, I could have—” He stopped.
    “You could have what?”
    He ignored my question. “So you never saw me … at your house? Not that you remember?”
    “You I would have remembered,” I said, and then felt heat fill my cheeks. “I mean, because you don’t look like one of the Displaced, so you would have stood out to me. Not because of any other reason. Just … never mind.”
    Jeremy wrinkled his brow at me as though I were some foreign language he was trying to translate.
    We moved aside as a band of the Displaced approached on the sidewalk. They looked at us with pleading eyes. They all had the same hollow cheeks, and their eyeballs seemed loose in the sockets. Several of them had the raw, seeping sores around their lips and nostrils that came with earthquake fever.
    “Can you spare a few dollars?” asked a woman with ashes in her hair, holding the hand of a little girl sucking her fingers, like they might provide some sustenance.
    A few dollars wouldn’t even buy this woman a loaf of Wonder Bread anymore.
    Parker gave away enough money to the Displaced for both of us, so I said, “I’m sorry, I—”
    The woman cut me off. She spoke quickly, trying to get the words out before I could escape. “We’re so hungry. If we can’t get food today, we’ll have to go to the White Tent, and I don’t want to take my daughter