Chapter 1

           

“I don't see why I can't watch TV.” He pointed to the miniature pull-down television on the roof of the bed. The man in the front seat frowned.

“Because I'm driving.”

The boy thought for a minute. “Can I at least put on the radio?”

“No.”

They were sitting in a black 2011 Escalade, rented from a sleazy guy that worked at the airport who couldn't stop blowing his nose. “Then why didn't we get a cheaper car? I'm telling you, that guy robbed us.”

“Because we can't risk anything happening.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing.”

The boy switched on the TV.

“Milo!”

“Listen, I refuse to ride in a car that has a multimedia entertainment system and not be entertained.” Milo flipped through the shows until he found the weather channel. He had always liked the weather channel. It was magical, like predicting the future. And the weather-casters always looked so cheerful, so certain, so arrogant... They probably don't kidnap little girls and put them in the trunks of their cars, he thought grimly as he remembered why they had rented the overpriced “steal-mobile” in the first place.

“I don't care how much you refuse. Turn it off.”

“Fine.” Milo turned the volume all the way down so he could still see the pictures, and hoped that Jinx didn’t notice. “Why are you so worked up about this trip, anyway?”

“I want to get it right. No slip ups.”

“Like last time.” Milo pointed to the pallid line on his forehead. His scar.

The driver pointed to the TV. “Off.” Milo groaned and switched it off. He started tapping on the dashboard.

“That's it, I'm telling dad.”

“Ah, I understand now. You don't want to mess it up for Daddy?”

“Do you never shut up?”

“No.”

“Fine, turn on the TV. But keep the volume down.”

“Hooray! I have permission to entertain myself. Permission from Daddy's boy.” Milo turned the TV back on. He set the volume on low. The driver groaned, but looked too tired to argue. The TV reported a storm farther north.

“Oh, Jinx, look, I think that it'll hit the compound!”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Why? The weather channel says...”

“SHUT UP!” Milo went silent. “I don't give a crap what the weather channel says! My job is to take you and the cargo,” he pointed to the trunk, “home safely. And Dad sent you to make sure that I don't slip up. I don't give a damn what you do, but I'm not going to allow myself to be distracted by a lousy Exiguous like you! Now let me drive-”

The car hit a pothole and swerved to the side of the road. Jinx tried to start it. The car didn't comply.

They were quiet for a little bit.

“Well,” said Milo eventually, “at least you don't have to worry about crashing anymore.”

Jinx tried to punch him.

“Stupid little Exiguous...” Milo didn't know what exiguous meant, and he seriously doubted that it was the right part of speech. But Jinx liked new words. (He supposed that Dad did, too.) And whenever he learned a new word, he usually gave it as a nickname to Milo. He'd been called many things. Baloney, malnourished (little malnourished!), bad words in different languages, any words in different languages, and on one awkward occasion, meatball.

“Well,” Milo was jolted out of his daydream about words, “I hope you’re happy. You wanted to watch TV, now you can walk.”

“Hey, it wasn't my-”

“Yes it was.”

They got out of the car. Jinx shuffled towards the trunk. Milo remained standing.

“How much is this going to cost?”

“Nothing.”

“But, wait, can't they trace credit cards?”

Jinx grinned and held up a credit card. “This isn't ours. It's-” He squinted at the names. “-Jerry Hollander's.”

Milo was horrified. “But – but we're not thieves!”

Jinx shrugged. “We're what we have to be.” He proceeded to open the trunk. The girl inside gasped, and Jinx hit her over the head. Hard. She passed out. “I'll carry her, unless you think you can handle it, little Exiguous?” He grinned.

Milo thought back to the weather-caster. She could predict the weather. But she knew nothing, nothing at all... it was amazing how much you could know and still know nothing.

As they walked ahead, there were clear skies, even as they reached the compound. The storm, he supposed, had yet to pass.

 

“Sorry, Dad, I crashed the car.”

Jinx was in the house portion of the compound, the living part. There was a couch, and the walls were a nice beige color and not that nasty, blaring white. There was a fire going in the fireplace, which warmed the atmosphere. And there was no annoying little Exiguous to bother him. His father sighed.

“I'm sure you did, but that's no excuse, son. You should have gotten here on time. Cyrus is gone now, so poor little Milo is on his own to interrogate the prisoner.”

Jinx laughed. “You know, Dad, I could do it.”

“Son, I was being sarcastic. Do you know what sarcasm is? I think that you should.” Jinx flinched. “Milo can handle it.”

“Here, let me get him. Exiguous!”

Milo scampered into the room. He had been in the interview room before, about to examine the new victim—oops, he was thinking of her as a victim again… It was a long corridor, and on the way in, he tripped multiple times. He finally stepped into the room, standing across from his father.

“Oh, hello, Milo. Go interview the new victim.”

Milo looked at the room. It was bright, and long, and it had actual sofas. A fire was burning in the brick arch. Rugs lay scattered everywhere; animal rugs, a shaggy rug, Native American rugs, a Quaker rug. He had never seen this room before. So many colors...

“GO, BOY!”

Milo jumped up and ran. His dad frowned as he left. “We need to get him into the weight room.” Jinx laughed. As Milo sprinted down the hall, Jinx threw a sofa pillow at him. He missed.

“Son, don't mess up the pillows.” Jinx hung his head.

“Yes, Dad.”

The cushion skidded along until it hit a wall on the other side. Running as fast as he could, Jinx grabbed the pillow, jogged up next to Milo, and beaned him with it. Milo tripped. Jinx laughed. His father did not.

“STOP, BOTH OF YOU, YOU'RE COMPROMISING THE MISSION!”

“I'm sorry, sir,” they said in union.

“Then show me, Milo! You can run twice as fast as that! Son, get over here.” Jinx walked towards his father. Milo received cold glares from two relatives as he raced down the hall.

'Dad' closed his eyes for a moment, and relaxed. “Son, when you run your own Compound someday, you can't be doing these sorts of things. It takes self-control. Do you know what self-control is? I think that you should. When you order your workers to do something, you can't hinder their efforts. It slows production, you see.”

“I don't think it can get much slower than that,” He pointed at Milo, who just disappeared around the corridor. His father frowned. “Don't worry, Dad, I'll be fine.”

Smiling again, his father took his hand in a firm grasp. “Confidence, good. Good for running a compound.” The man closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. Drowning in stagnant silence, Jinx hesitantly took a seat. His eyes occasionally shifted to his father, but the man appeared wholly lost in thought.

Suddenly, the speaker in the walls started to vibrate. “Security!” Milo needed help. Jinx started to jog down the hall.

“'I'd better check up on the little Exiguous.”

“Son, don't use such long words. It isn't good for you.” A slightly deflated Jinx turned the corridor. On a thought, he turned around.

“I love you, Dad!”

“Hurry up!”

Jinx turned and sprinted as fast as he could the rest of the way.

He looked in the observation window at the Exiguous. Poor little fumbling boy, he thought. Milo will never be a true Sandoval. Never have the opportunity to own a compound. Poor, poor little Exiguous... Well, at least he can work for me.

As the victim walked in, Jinx winced. He stepped to the side, not wanting to see how badly his little brother was going to mess it up.

His Dad approved of him, the compound was clean, Milo was under control, Cyrus was gone, Dad approved of him... life was good.

Then why didn't he feel like it was?