Read Clay for Free Online Page B

refrigerator. “Pray for them.”
    Megan holds out her hand. Cali takes it, bows her head.
    “Dear Lord,” Megan says, “watch over Your sheep that are lost in darkness and guide them to Your Almighty wisdom, that they may walk the pure and untainted path that leads to Heaven. Amen.”
    “Amen.”
    They remain still. The words resonate in Cali, attach to her like angels of hope that they will find her brother and take root, that he’ll join her on the farm, where he’ll be safe.
    Because she knows he’s in Seattle.
    Megan leaves with a quick goodbye. Cali stands at the sink watching the young lady texting on her way to the truck. Cali peels the Band-Aid off, throws it in the trash. The finger is healed.
     
     
     
     

6
     
    The duffel bag feels like a sack of rocks.
    Nix lets it fall on the hotel carpet. He avoids the king-sized bed. If he lies down, he won’t get up. There’ll be time for sleeping later.
    He grinds his eyes with the heels of his palms. Death still lingers in his nostrils. He pulls the sliding door open, lets the winter wind into the room. Gulls cry somewhere above the patio. The moon hangs just above the bay. He opens his mind to nearby chatter, eavesdropping on newsfeeds. The tranquility is broken with a thousand voices.
     
    Marcus Anderson has taken control of the warehouse.
    The government is raping our civil liberties.
    Marcus Anderson should crawl back into the hole where he’s been hiding or be arrested for treason.
    M0ther is an enemy of the state.
     
    Nothing will change and Marcus and his bricks will do what they want in the warehouse, digesting the evidence like ants cleaning a corpse. There’ll be nothing left.
    And no one can stop them.
    That’s why Nix can’t sleep. Not yet.
    There’s information in there, Nix knows it. He can feel it. Years ago, it was so easy to network with other halfskins. But M0ther has systematically cut them up, severed ties, and traced down the outlaws. Nix is alone.
    He goes to the bathroom, splashes water on his face. He dabs his cheeks with a towel. An old man with dark eyes rimmed red looks back. His nose is thick, his lips thin and wrinkled. The bushy eyebrows are speckled white. He doesn’t just look like an old man. Today, he feels like one.
    He hates the way his body feels. It feels like someone else, like staring at the world through eyeholes. But he never changes it. Not even standing in a hotel bathroom all alone. He’s committed to being William Nelson until he finds a fabricator. If Nix Richards’s original face were ever caught by facial recognition, he wouldn’t last long.
    He cups another handful of cold water to his face, pushes his fingers through thinning hair and retreats to the bed. He lays back but never feels the mattress. It’s like he falls through it, his body dropping through the floor, building speed as it plummets downward, the solidity of his body falling away a particle at a time.
    A green breeze brushes his cheeks, a trace of smoke on the wind.
    Dreamland.
    Verdant hills slope to a clear lake confined by the peaks of distant mountains. Fishing boats have already shoved across the glassy surface from the village along the shores where a market is vibrant with fruit and vegetables, cured meats and smoked fish.
    He lifts his hands and studies the skin of a thirty-nine year old. Only in Dreamland does he look like his true self, the real Nix Richards.
    Raine sits at the far end of the slanted porch. Her baggy pants are rolled to her knees with a white tank top exposing her dark brown shoulders. She cradles a mug on her lap, green eyes gazing over the bannister.
    “I think you’re foolish,” she says.
    “I know.”
    “You’re not invincible.”
    Nix steps off the porch where the ground is worn to dust. Further out, the grass sways near his knees, clumps shifting in the wind. Scrubby trees dot the landscape. He looks back at the prairie home, the old porch wrapping around both sides.
    Dreamland started as a mental