Chapter 28

"J, time for dinner!" Enya called from the hall.

"I'm not hungry," he growled.

"You sound hangry," she joked.

Hologram Nessa searched Jamison's face.

"Hangry?" She whispered.

"A mix of the words hungry and angry," he said, lowering his voice as he offered the hasty explanation.

"It's breakfast for dinner," Enya coaxed.

Nessa watched Jamison as he plodded down the hallway to where it widened into the main home. Sweat lubricated Nessa's palms, so she rubbed them together.

Jamison flopped into a seat and grunted at the empty table.

"Your dad will be home any minute," Enya announced. "We'll tell him what you told me."

Her voice trailed off, and Jamison hurried to fill in the silence.

"No, Mama! No!" He pleaded.

Enya lifted her eyebrows and drew back.

"I was going to say whenever you're ready," she said, "but I've been thinking—he needs to know. He's your father. He won't be upset."

Jamison tapped a beat into the dining platform and said, "He was upset when I teleported to Area 51. He kept asking why and how."

He stopped tapping. Instead, he rubbed circular patterns into the platform.

"I kind of wonder if he knows I'm friends with Nessa now, and he knows the telepathic and empathetic connection—and he doesn't like it."

Enya pursed her lips and tilted her head while shaking it. She opened her mouth and uttered a syllable that faded into a sudden clamor. The door opened and then shut. Trevon kicked his shoes off.

"I'm home!" He announced.

"So you are," Enya said. "Food is in the insulator."

She excused herself to the kitchen. Trevon and Jamison were left. Trevon chose a seat and folded his hands on the platform.

"How was school, bud?"

Jamison answered with a shrug before blurting out, "I didn't go, okay?"

Enya set dishes and food on the empty platform.

"And why not?" Trevon interrogated.

"Because. Because I learned most of it when I was 350. Except for the language, and I know that now."

Trevon stabbed a waffle. His face was pale.

"You really need to hang out with kids your own age," he scolded.

"There aren't 500-year-olds, Dad," Jamison retorted, "unless the Hightower nestmates are here somewhere."

Trevon abandoned his fork on his plate before a helpless--

"The what?"