“I don’t understand, Mama, sleeper genes, Dr. Deerman? The Resistance?”
“I’ll explain everything later. We have to go now.”
* * * *
Charlie Booker slid his left hand across the back seat of his father’s Chevy Gazelle (a ‘72 that he and his brother both hated) until his little finger was just touching his twin brother Elliott’s leg. Charlie then pressed his brother’s leg and stopped, pressed, stopped, one, two, three, four, five times. He didn’t dare say anything. They were both supposed to be listening to their father who was on a full-scale rant about their mother and little brother. She had lied to him—lied for years—and put his life, their lives, in imminent danger. They hang people in public for this, burn them at the goddamn stake. Or worse. She was a goddamn para, a God damned fai
