He didn’t answer—he didn’t need to. She looked out at the wind rippling the nets of the tennis courts, and continued, feeling her way. “We’re dreaming something real … something that could be real.”

  After a moment he said, “So how are we supposed to stop the future?”

  She shook her head, intent. “We don’t know it’s the future. I think … it’s one future.” She visualized the probability equations from the dream. She’d looked them up in the morning and they were there in her textbook, exactly the same. “It’s a possible outcome. One of a number of outcomes. It’s Sample Space.” She knew she was babbling, but his eyes flickered with sudden interest.

  “Sample Space.”

  “A set of all possible outcomes,” she said, though she knew he’d already gotten it. “Maybe …,” she paused to grasp at a thought that was just out of reach, “Maybe we’re being shown for a reason. So we can make a different outcome.”

  His grin twisted. “Maybe you can. I’m dead, remember?”

  “No.” She said it so fiercely she saw him jump.

  “No,” she said more softly.

  He leaned forward and put his hand against her cheek, his forehead against hers, his hair falling against her face, and breathed her in.

  She walked to English in a dreamy daze, the touch of his hands and head running under her skin. She rounded a corner and ran into someone tall and hard.

  Darren’s fingers dug into her shoulders, his ice eyes shone down at her. Her first thought was that he had seen her with Tyler.

  “Watch it, cunt.” So casually malevolent.

  She looked at him steadily and saw the ice turn to rage. “Better watch those eyes, little girl,” he breathed. “Someone might put them out.”

  Anna took a sudden step forward, startling herself and him. He didn’t flinch, exactly, but his balance shifted, and he no longer seemed quite so tall. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said softly.

  Darren’s face was blank and still. He seemed to have gone someplace else altogether. Then his eyes focused again, and narrowed to slivers. “You should be, little one.”

  The screaming was louder. And the curling smoke.

  She was following feathers on the floor, past little piles of carnage: a head of a bird, twisted from its body. There were the glowing eyes of a cat, its organs spilled out all around it. Also a charred lump of something that was once a dog was at her feet.

  Oh God. Oh God … it was so much worse than she’d thought. It was years … years of madness … hidden from everyone. Who—What—could do that to an animal?

  She felt herself becoming hysterical, though she had no real concept of the state, and she forced herself to breathe in, to focus.

  Tyler. Must find Tyler.

  She started to run past spreading pools of blood on the floor. A shadow loomed up behind her. The two-headed thing stalked her in the halls. Anna bolted around a corner and drew up short with a gasp.

  Carrie stood under a cottonwood tree that had somehow sprung up in the upstairs hall of the B Building. She stared up at Anna—oversized head bobbing on her neck, lashless eyes blinking. She wore black-and-white-striped stockings and black shoes that curled up at the toes.

  “You’re playing with fire,” she intoned.

  “Where is it?” Anna gasped, only she wasn’t sure if she’d said Where? or Who?

  “You know,” said Carrie. Her legs curled, rolling up underneath her, then she disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  The winds blew trash across the blacktop as Anna ran past the scarred green picnic tables that lined the asphalt passage between the Vocational Arts building and the student parking lot. She’d overslept and missed her bus, consequently missing POD, but it was not quite first period yet and she still had time to get there and catch Tyler before class let out. She halted when she saw the cottonwood. There were more than one of the scraggly trees struggling defiantly up among the picnic tables, but the sight of this one hit her like lightning cracking through clear sky.

  Carrie sat beneath the tree at a picnic table. Her stumpy legs stuck out in front of her on the bench, her toes turned up. There was a bilious assortment of junk food spread out in front of her on the table—Cheetos, Snickers, Red Vines, Peppermint Patties.

  Anna walked slowly to the table and sat down opposite her. Carrie looked across at her, and they were both still, as perfectly alive and awake as in the dream.

  “You were there,” Anna said softly.

  “There where?” Carrie said. But her smile was knowing.

  Anna took a breath. “What did you mean?”

  Carrie stared at her without blinking.

  “Last night. What did you mean?”

  Carrie’s eyes shifted craftily. She licked chocolate off her fingers, leaned across the table toward Anna. “Is it worse to be ugly inside or outside?”

  “Inside,” Anna said, and looked away.

  Carrie snorted, a phlegmy laugh. “Liar. Everybody lies.” She reached for another candy bar.

  Anna leaned forward urgently. “Carrie, where is he?” Only she didn’t know if she’d said “where” or “who.”

  “You know,” Carrie said, exactly as in the dream, and bit into the chocolate.

  Anna shook her head. “I don’t—”

  “Liar,” Carrie said again. “Why does everyone lie?”

  Anna swallowed. “Carrie, is it Darren?”

  Carrie laughed, and kept laughing, rocking back and forth on the bench. Anna grabbed her backpack from the table and fled.

  She got to POD just before the bell. Tyler was not in class. Nor was he at the planter in the quad. Darren watched Anna walk by, like a snake watching a mouse. Her heart was racing, her backpack clutched close to her chest. She held her head high and straight, not looking at him.

  Mr. Brooke was grading papers in his upstairs history classroom, decorated with maps from World War II battle campaigns, National Geographic history charts. Anna had had his American History last year as a sophomore and secretly adored him. Brooke was close to retirement, just a few wisps of hair left on his shiny head, but still as wiry and enthusiastic as a little boy. That enthusiasm and his off-the-wall humor had kept him a favorite through decades of students. True to form, he lit up when Anna walked in, springing from his chair and spreading his arms wide.

  “Sullivan, Sullivan, such a good Russian name. Splendid to see you.” He frowned, taking her in. “But you look disturbed. Nay, perturbed. Yes, a definite aura of perturbation. We can’t have that.” He waved grandly to the rows of empty desks. “Have a seat. Unburden yourself.”

  Anna opened her mouth, and to her chagrin felt tears just behind her eyes. Mr. Brooke saw, because his face lost its jolliness and reassembled itself into something so concerned and fatherly she very nearly broke down altogether. She swallowed through the ache in her throat.

  “I think I know something. Something bad is going to happen.” She knew she had to say more, but nothing would come. The words hung in the silent classroom.

  “Something bad?” Brooke said.

  She nodded. The silence deepened.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Appallingly, she started to cry, then.

  Brooke looked alarmed. “Sullivan, are you in danger? Are you being hurt, or threatened—”

  “No. No, no,” she choked out, took a shuddering breath. “It’s not about me—exactly. I don’t know what it is, exactly.”

  “To someone else? Is it a police thing? A family thing?”

  “No. No.” She tried to get hold of herself. “It’s a probability. Right now we’re in Sample Space, but the outcome—”

  Brooke looked confused. “Is that algebra? I never was much good at math.”

  “Not math.” She kept shaking her head, sobbing. “I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know.”

  Brooke came around to the front edge of his desk, in front of her—not too close, like Maitland, but just the right distance. She could feel his concern, like warmth rolling off him. He was wearing faded but neat khaki pants, and when he sat on the desk, the cuffs hiked up to reveal reindeer socks.

  Anna froze, staring at the reindeer. The legs under the desk. The blood …

  There was smoke in her nose, and screaming in her ears.

  Brooke was speaking, right into her eyes, and the tone of his voice brought her back.

  “Sullivan, you know a whole lot. You are so much stronger than you think you are. There is a world of good inside of you. You can trust yourself to do the right thing. I have no doubt.”

  The bell rang. Anna jumped up to leave, blinded by tears. “I have to go,” and he stood with her.

  “You come talk to me any time you’re ready. I’ll always be here.”

  But you won’t, she cried inside. And for a moment he had an odd look, but then it was gone.

  “Trust yourself,” he said.

  Probability (P) is the likelihood of the occurrence of an event (A).

  If all outcomes are equally likely, then:

  P(A) = Number of outcomes in event A

  Number of outcomes in the sample space

  Blood bloomed over Anna’s algebra paper, drenching it with crimson.

  She stood from her desk, awash in red and the cloying stench. She was alone in the Algebra classroom, Maitland’s headless body at her feet.

  She looked around. No, not alone. There were others, slumped at desks, holes in their heads and chests.

  Smoke and blood were everywhere.

  Behind her, the shadow skittered. Fast, so fast … .

  She ducked down beneath the desk, and crouched there, her ears filled with the thudding of her own heart and the faraway pulse of the alarms. She peered through the smoke toward the hall. Nothing moving. She took a breath and crawled along the edge of the fiberglass dividing curtain to the wall-less back of the Algebra classroom.

  More smoke in the corridor and more fallen students. She felt movement, turned her head to see a figure almost obscured by the smoke. She caught a glimpse of legs in jeans and snakeskin boots, a rifle at thigh level … and the shadow on the wall, its two heads bobbing.

  A dull boom rocked the building, jolting Anna onto her hands and knees. Around her there was screaming and screaming and screaming, and then the crackle of flames.

  The smoke surrounded her, hot and intimate and oppressive.

  Anna crawled along the wall, eyes streaming. The screaming was louder all around, and the curling smoke. Pools of blood spread on the carpet. She followed the trail of feathers on the floor—past the head of a bird, twisted from its body. The glowing eyes of a cat with its organs spilled out all around it … a charred lump of something that was once a dog. Small fires were lit everywhere.

  She strained to see through the thickening smoke and gasped.

  Tyler sat against the wall, slumped and still. He was drenched in blood, head down, long hair falling around his face.

  No, God, oh no, no … .

  Heart in her mouth, she crawled to him, now oblivious of the shadow creature. She reached Tyler, touched him frantically. Blood was everywhere, but she could find no wounds. She looked over his chest, down his legs and froze—seeing his snakeskin boots.

  Tyler stirred.

  Behind him, the two-headed shadow slithered on the wall. It lifted its two heads as he lifted his.

  Tyler opened his eyes and found Anna’s gaze. She saw recognition, longing … relief. He shuddered, and she held him harder.

  “Help me,” he whispered. His two-headed shadow was motionless on the wall.

  Anna’s eyes swam with tears. His hand moved beside her leg, then touched her fingers. He picked up her hand and clasped his fingers around hers. She felt something cold and heavy and hard in her palm.

  “No—” she said.

  He looked into her face—his eyes as green as the sea. “Help me,” he whispered. He closed his hand around her fingers and put his mouth around the barrel of the gun.

  She closed her eyes, and he squeezed her hand.

  She woke with her ears still ringing. She did not move for minutes, felt no desire to move ever again. Her chest felt as empty and hollow as a tomb.

  After a time her hands moved at her sides and she wiped the blood onto the sheets.

  The quad was buzzing with rumors like wildfire, like the Santa Anas rippling through the palms around the courtyard. Cheerleaders were sobbing, freshmen looking scared and disoriented.

  One of the water polo guys was speaking with dazed incomprehension. “Tyler shot himself. His old man came into his room in the morning and found his brains all over the wall.”

  Anna walked by them without turning her head.

  She sat in Algebra II with her test paper in front of her and no thoughts in her mind but the numbers in front of her. The numbers were a relief. If only she’d never have to think again.

  Probability is the likelihood of the occurrence of an event.

  For any event A, O≤P(A)≤1

  P (impossible event) = 0

  Maitland’s hairy legs moved in front of her. Anna looked up from her test paper. His eyes glittered down at her, wet red mouth working.

  Anna stared into his face. In her mind she saw his head explode in blood.

  Maitland’s eyes widened and he stumbled back in shock. Around them, the class turned to look, curious.

  Maitland moved quickly away from her, mumbling, “Good work, looks fine.”

  Anna watched him without moving as he fumbled his way back behind his desk and dropped into his chair. He shuffled papers in front of him with shaking hands.

  Anna dropped her gaze to her paper. She scratched out the equation she’d written and wrote instead:

  Probability does not equal Possibility

  She put down her pencil, stood, and walked out of the classroom, out of the building … into the wind.

  IN VINO, VERITAS

  by PETER SPIESELMAN

  I walk down the hall and turn the corner, and there’s that smell—something burnt and metallic, like after a lightning strike. Then the headache comes, and the sweats. So right away I know someone’s been lying.

  Van Zelk, at the Institute, explained it to me once—a long blah, blah, blah about micro-pheromones and anaphylaxis and a lot of organic chemistry. The upshot is that liars stink, and lucky me, I can smell ‘em. It’s these weird little compounds people squeeze off when they lie, just a few molecules at a time, but somehow I pick ’em up. That’s my knack.

  Van Zelk says I’m allergic to the things, which is why the headaches and the rest. Tenth grade trip to D.C., I was three nights in the hospital, blotchy, gasping, and my tongue swollen up like bad sausage. That was before I knew about the wine. Something in the tannins cuts the symptoms—the way the procyanidins react with the pheromones, according to Van Zelk. Whatever. All I know is, without the wine I can’t get within ten paces of most people without my throat closing off.

  I drank a bottle of Pinot at breakfast—an upright California label—so it’s all good for now. I’ve got a decent buzz on, until I see Magpie.

  He’s waiting by the interrogation room, looking through the one-way glass. He jabs a finger at the wall clock and then at me. “Don’t you know what urgent means?” he says. His arms are like fireplugs, and I can practically see the veins popping through the blue and red stripes on his uni. His pecs are jumping around and the big MP on his chest—for Magnus Prime—is quivering.

  “It’s why I took the express bus,” I say, and his face gets as red as his cape. I look through the window. Dr. Etro looks like roadkill strapped in the chair. His head is bobbing on his chest and I hear him muttering to himself through the speaker. Magpie grabs my arm.

  “It’s all still a big joke with you,” he says. His voice is low and stony. “Do you have any idea what we’re up against? Etro has a device out there, and the clock is ticking.”

  I jerk my arm loose and smooth the sleeve of my trench coat. “What kind of device?”

  “We don’t know what it is, or where it is, or when it’s set to blow. We’ve gone at this guy with everything we’ve got, but he won’t make a peep.”

  “Looks like everything included rubber hoses and a water-board. You turn this place into Gitmo since I’ve been gone?”

  He squints behind his blue mask. “Never mind what we’ve done. The point is, I need information from him, and you’re going to help me get it.”

  “Still a sweet-talker, eh, Magpie?”

  His hand’s like a python around my throat. “That’s not my name, Victor, and I’m not going to remind you again. The fact that I called you should tell you how desperate I am. So don’t—”

  I bat his arm away. “You called because you do what Keira wants, and I came because I do, too. So how about we get this done quick, and get the hell out of each other’s lives again?”

  Magpie steps back when I say his wife’s name, like I slapped him. His big hands clench but stay at his side. “She called you?”

  “Right after you did,” I say. I can still hear her raspy voice in my head, like a shot of grappa. Which makes me think of pale eyes, and ash-blond hair—how it shines when she peels off her cowl. I haven’t seen her in a year, and the thought of bumping into her in the hallway makes me nervous.

  Magpie’s snort brings me back. “I told her it was a waste of time—that you’re too erratic and unreliable, but she insisted.”

  “She can be that way,” I say. “Insistent.”

  Magpie’s face stiffens for a second, then he fingers my lapel. “You couldn’t be bothered to suit up?”

  “The mask was all I could find.”

  “You look like you just robbed a bank,” he says, and glances at the bag I’m holding, and the two wine bottles inside. “Or a liquor store.”