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searching “Counselor” comes back. What if that dead end wasn’t just bad luck? What if the Counselor is monitoring my computer? It might not want me to learn anything about mnemonic suppression.
    Maybe the old spacer wasn’t talking nonsense after all. Maybe he really does know some of their secrets.
    Two days ago my biggest problem was trying to convince Dad to send me to camp. Now I feel like there’s this hidden dimension around me—a parallel universe. In that world, something is wrong with me. It’s shaping the way Dad and Mark and the Counselor are acting. Maybe it’s ruining my chances of becoming a pilot.
    â€œAll right!” Mark hits a final switch and rolls his chair away from the console. He spins in it, triumphant. “Another nanosecond escape.”
    â€œListen, Mark. I have to see the Counselor again.”
    Mark jerks to a stop, looks at me sharp. “That’s funny. A message came in while we were busy. First thing tomorrow, the Counselor wants to see you.”

4
    MISSION TIME
    T minus 03:21:04
    WHEN it begins, I don’t even realize I’m in a version of the box dream. There’s a choking whiteness all around me that stinks of chemicals—crash foam! With a kind of running breaststroke, I move through it. The foam thins. Becomes a fizzing stream at my feet and … there’s the black shoe box.
    The tiny red door is ajar. The foam bubbles out of it. I glimpse a row of seats, upside down; somebody is in one of them, looking out, and I feel this urgent need to talk to him.
    But the old spacer picks up the box. The door swings shut. Hatred surges in me and I yell, “Give it to me, monkey arms!”
    He laughs. A bubble of alcohol breath engulfs me. I grab for the door handle—suddenly normal size. Heat like acid splashes across my palm.
    I recoil, fall …
    spacer and box rocket away in an explosion
    and fall and fall until I strain through the weave of cotton sheets to land back in myself in my bed.
    Wake up.
    I clutch my right hand to my chest. Curl my body protectively around it. Feels like a new burn cuts across my palm. I bury my face in the pillow. Groan out the pain.
    Can’t let Mark hear.
    He’ll tell the Counselor.
    The old scar throbs, forcing short breaths. I don’t dare look. Afraid I’ll find the palm burned red and raw.
    Sweat soaks the pillowcase. I press my burning hand against the moist coolness of the cloth. Ahhh … I lay my cheek over my hand. Try to take regular breaths. Draw into a tighter ball beneath the covers.
    I am Stewart Edward Hale. I’m four feet three and nine sixteenth inches tall. Short, like Mom. Margaret Jane Hale. Maggie to fellow spacers.
    My birthday is October 28. Today. In the year 2165. I’m thirteen.
    I live in the Singleton Apartments, New Canaveral, Florida, with my older brother, Mark, and my father, Theodore Vincent Hale, Ted. Before, we lived in New Frisco, California, in a house.
    There was an orchard
    and a tree
    and a toy ship …
    Even under the covers, I sense the change as a squiggly comes on, then the darkness explodes with light …
    I’m on the kitchen floor in the bright California sunshine; playing with my Lance Ramjet and watching Mom’s legs flash by me.
    Back and forth. Pantry … counter … fridge … stove.
    She’s mixing up blueberry waffles.
    Special food for my special day.
    â€œOops …” Splat. An egg hits the floor, startling me out of my spaceship dreams.
    Back under the sheets in the ordinary darkness of my bedroom, my lungs burn. I’ve been holding my breath. I gulp in fresh air, smell the yeasty smell of homemade blueberry waffles.
    â€œMom?” I fight out from under the covers. “Mom!”
    I run for the kitchen, pull up short in the doorway. Mark is at the counter, his back to me. Mom’s ancient waffle iron sits on the table, steaming. It’s shaped like a flying saucer, a